What Comes After

A missing scene for The Psychic. The immediate aftermath of Joanna’s rescue.

A/N: Answer to a 20 minute fic challenge to use the words: Crush, Dump. Posted 29 Oct 2022

Starsky stands with one hand on the Torino’s roof while Hutch soothes Joanna Haymes, still crying, but calmer than she had been, listening to Hutch’s every gentle word. He lets Hutch do it because Hutch is good at these things, at hiding the fear, the anger.

He looks back over his shoulder at the machine that came so close to crushing Joanna. The operator stands still, staring up at his machine—thinking perhaps of how he could have killed someone without knowing.

Starsky turns his attention back to Joanna, but most of all, to Hutch. Hutch’s face is paler than it should be. And the hell with it, when the ambulance comes and the black and whites, he’s going to insist that Hutch go to the hospital too.

He’ll drive carefully behind. No need for siren or speed. He doesn’t think he could take either now that he’s coming down from the adrenaline. He looks down at Hutch’s shining hair, still golden even after…after…

Starsky doesn’t want to think of that moment or the moment he acted without thinking. He’s not ashamed, but he’s not proud either.

Hutch looks up at him, blue eyes shadowed with fatigue now that Joanna is safe, that they are together and things are slotting back the way they should be. Starsky’s breath skips and skitters until he remembers the rhythm—in, out, in out.

The rush of love he feels for Hutch is so overwhelming, his knees wobble. Hutch’s lips part just a little—as if he’s going to speak, but then they close, and Starsky wonders what is left unsaid. It must be the same words whirling in his own head, he decides, because that’s the way they roll. That’s who they are.

But first, the hospital, where he’s going to dump all the fear, the worry, the somewhat vague guilt, into the compartment he built a long time ago, and then home—Hutch’s, his, it doesn’t matter.

He’ll undress Hutch, carefully kiss every bruise and whisper healing across every inch of Hutch’s skin. Maybe they will make love, maybe they won’t. It doesn’t matter what happens then.

What matters is now—Hutch’s eyes shining up at him, Hutch alive, his knee resting against Starsky’s even as he sits holding Joanna. Starsky smiles, reaches down, and puts his hand on Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch turns his head, rests his cheek on Starsky’s hand, and, for now, all is right. All is well.