New territory for me! This is my first attempt at a Season Four story. Please keep in mind, I’ve only seen a total of four episodes (yes, I’m horribly deprived!), one of which was Starsky vs. Hutch. Had an idea pop into my head shortly after watching it, and needed to get it out of my system! This short ficlet takes place approximately two weeks after the end of that episode.
Thanks to Theresa for the excellent beta (any remaining mistakes are mine) and to Kass for maintaining such a great web-site. Hope you enjoy the tale!
Shattered Trust
By Kate (CMT)
“Well?” Starsky drummed his fingers on the rim of the steering wheel, frowning impatiently.
“Give me a minute.” Hutch squinted in the glare of overly bright light slanting through the windshield, wishing he hadn’t left his sunglasses in his apartment. 6:15 P.M. and, like clockwork, he had a headache, his mood souring as usual by the end of the day. Each morning he told himself it was going to be different, and each evening he relented to a familiar stifling misery he couldn’t explain.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. The blunder he’d made with Kira had a lot to do with it, not to mention his suddenly precarious relationship with Starsky. As much as they’d attempted to put their friendship back on stable ground after a brief falling out, something was missing. Something profoundly key and elemental, its grating absence turning the man beside him into a relative stranger.
The stuffy air inside the Torino wasn’t helping. Why Starsky didn’t ditch the showy car and get something sensible with a working a/c unit, he’d never understand. A sticky film of sweat clung to his cheeks and collected in the ends of his long hair, adding to his simmering irritation.
Doing his best not to get overly flustered, Hutch dug in both pockets of his black canvas jacket, pulling out a handful of crumpled dollar bills, three paperclips, a smattering of spare change and a wilted stick of peppermint gum, the foil wrapper splitting apart at the seams. “Just give me a minute,” he snapped. Inwardly he cringed, immediately regretting his sharpness. It wasn’t Starsky’s fault he was constantly depressed. Shoving everything back into his jacket, he searched the front pockets of his jeans. “I know they’re here somewhere. I remember seeing them on the kitchen table.”
“Sure you did.”
So he’d misplaced the tickets. Big ******* deal! Having Starsky breathe down his neck about it wasn’t helping. It wasn’t like he’d done it intentionally. There was a day that much would have been obvious to his normally supportive partner, but that was no longer the case. Not after the fiasco of one female blond sergeant and a thirty-four year-old Midwestern idiot who’d been thinking with the wrong part of his anatomy.
“Look, Starsk - - they must be in my apartment. Just give me a minute, and I’ll go grab them.”
“Sure.” Starsky huffed out a resigned breath and slumped back against the seat.
Hutch frowned. Perturbed, he popped the door handle and shoved from the car. It was almost as if Starsky expected him to screw up . . . as if he waited, deadly certain there would be another glaring blunder just around the corner. And why not? He’d committed the ultimate sin when he’d slept with Kira. True, he and Starsky were talking again, trying to repair the damage, but their relationship felt awkward, skewed painfully off-key.
The wrestling match should have helped, except he’d misplaced the tickets their friend Eddie Bell had sent. Now a certified star on the professional wrestling circuit, the Omaha Tiger was returning to Bay City for an exhibition match. He’d generously arranged front row seats for their benefit, along with locker room passes. They’d both been looking forward to the chance to unwind, the much-needed entertainment like the cooling relief at the end of a long, hot summer. But at the rate Hutch was progressing in finding the tickets, he knew he and Starsky were sure to be late. Just another reason for his friend to grow annoyed.
Looks like I screwed up again, Starsk. Predictable as hell, huh?
Stalking through the apartment he went immediately to the kitchen table. Except for a few scribbled sheets of half-completed songs he’d been trying to compose, it was annoyingly bare.
That’s just great.
Agitated, he smoothed a hand over his mustache, trying to reason where he might have stashed the tickets. Deciding the junk drawer by the sink was a likely choice, he yanked it open and hastily rummaged through the contents. Pens, pencils, paperclips, rubberbands, coupons, packets of plant food, a few stray screwdrivers, picture hangers and extra car keys all clung together in a jumbled mess. Someday he was really going to have to sort through the clutter instead of letting it accumulate.
Fishing aside a handful of coupons - - most for vitamin supplements he’d stopped taking ages ago - - he inadvertently sent a heavy black marker rolling across the floor. Irked when the tickets did not magically appear, he slammed the drawer and crossed to the end table by the couch. Another thirty seconds passed while he rifled through unopened mail, utility bills, newspaper clippings and a handful of loose receipts.
In the street a horn blew loudly, and he winced. Yeah, yeah, Starsky, I’m coming. Fumbling, he dropped a folded slip of paper on the floor. His eyes tracked the movement, latching onto two loose tickets peeking from beneath the table. Realizing he’d probably dropped them earlier, Hutch exhaled in grateful appreciation.
The horn blew again, longer this time.
Snatching up the tickets and the paper he’d dropped, he shoved everything into his pocket and sprinted for the door.
Tonight might just be salvageable after all.
+++++
The arena was packed, bustling with activity. Crowds mingled in the aisles and on the throughway, creating a congestion of noise, laughter and explosive sound. The combined odors of buttered popcorn, rotisserie hotdogs and bubbling pizza hung heavily on the air, adding to the hungry rush at the concession stands. Overhead, loudspeakers blared a continual update of competitors, statistics, wins, and (given the nature of the sport) the hottest feuds brewing between opposing wrestlers. Favorites included the Omaha Tiger, Rex Chain: Man of Iron and the Mighty Thor. Crowns for worst villain were split between Madman Joe, the Cryptmaker, Stone and Heywood the Dog. The theatrics of professional wrestling were a far cry from the ordered collegiate matches Hutch remembered from so long ago, but he was glad to see Starsky enjoying himself. The highly charged atmosphere of the upcoming match engaged a side of his partner that had been missing for too long - - the easily excitable friend who got caught up in basic pleasures.
“Hey, you want a beer? How ‘bout a hot dog?” Starsky nudged his arm as they neared the concession stands located outside the main arena.
Hutch gave a distracted nod. A bearded man with a Heywood the Dog tee-shirt shouldered past, balancing a tray of jumbo-sized sodas in bright red cups. Two young boys trailed just behind him, loudly arguing over who had the best pile-driver, the Tiger or Thor.
“Sure, Starsk. Whatever you want.” Hutch eyed the long line doubtfully. “You want me to help you carry stuff back, or you want me to go grab our seats?”
“Get the seats, but some money would be nice.” Starsky batted his arm again, holding out his hand.
There was a spark of the old familiarity between them, heightened by a hint of laughter in Starsky’s dark blue eyes. It felt good to hear, to see - - a welcome reprieve after a wretchedly long dry spell. Hutch grinned almost shyly, uncertain what he’d done to deserve it. He dug in his jacket pocket and pulled out the wad of crumpled dollar bills. “Go hog wild, buddy. And get me a popcorn while you’re at it, okay?”
He passed Starsky the cash, realizing the slip of paper he’d taken from the end table had entwined itself with the crumpled mess. “Wait a minute - -” Pulling it free, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. With a nod for the gate leading to their seats, he directed his friend’s attention to the opening. “We’re through there. Don’t be too long or you’ll miss the start of the match.”
“Eddie’ll be at the end anyway,” Starsky said, but he gave a quick nod and another grin.
It had the same wondrously uplifting effect on Hutch as the first one. Amazingly, his headache had vanished despite the squawk and blaring fanfare of the arena. He watched Starsky sprint for the concession stand then started for the main gate, moving with the crowd of people clustered around him. The congestion slowed his pace, the huge mass thinning toward a funnel at the narrow opening. Height gave him the advantage of sight, and he realized it would probably be a few minutes before he even reached the gate. Killing time, he pulled the scrap of paper from his pocket and flipped it open, curious what oddball receipt or hastily scribbled note he’d once jammed in the drawer of his end table. Like being punched in the gut, the words jumped out at him, sending a jolt to the base of his spine.
Dearest Hutch,
To you I entrust Ollie and Dave. Please love them both and don’t let either one ever change.
Terri
The blood drained from his face with a suddenness that left him reeling. It was like being thrust backward in time. The paper had faded but the ink had not, as clear as the day it was first written. He had a sudden vivid memory of sitting on the floor in Starsky’s kitchen, reading the note through tear-blurred eyes.
Please love them both . . .
The clamor around him grew abruptly muddled, hollow and distant as if the world was being sucked into a bottomless black hole. His hands shook. Inside his chest, his heart thundered wildly, pumping hot blood and morbidly cold fear into his ears - - the fear of failure.
She’d asked for his promise - - such a simple thing he should have been able to give forever. Starsky was his soulmate, had always been his soulmate. Terri had known that from the first moment she’d seen them together. She hadn’t asked him to protect Starsky, to watch over him or keep him from harm, but simply to love him, something he should have been able to do without conscious thought or effort.
“I entrust Ollie and Dave. Please love them both . . .”
Oh, ****.
It was too hard to function, to think. The bottom dropped from his world, leaving him stripped and naked, his soul exposed to the unforgivably ugly thing he’d done . . . how miserably he’d failed.
“Hey, buddy, you gonna move it or what?”
Hutch blinked, realizing he’d come to a complete standstill, one hand convulsively clutching the note at his side. He blinked rapidly, shooting a stray glance to a heavy-set man with thinning brown hair.
“Well?” the stranger prodded, clearly annoyed.
Hutch bolted for the exit, running without thought, knowing only he needed to escape . . . that he couldn’t face Starsky, might never be able to face him again. Shaken to the point of recklessness he barreled into the parking lot, blindly sprinting across the lined macadam.
The screeching blare of a horn and the squealing shriek of tires jarred him to a confused halt. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of metallic blue paint, glass and chrome. Something slammed into his hip, tossing him like a boneless rag-doll to end dazed and sprawled on the unforgiving asphalt.
Blinking stupidly, he stared up at the sky, uncertain what had happened. It reeled above him in a dizzying mesh of robin’s egg blue and fractured white, broken here and there by crisscrossing wires and protruding rooflines. A car door slammed, followed by the frantic rush of pounding feet, multiple voices raised in a burble of alarm. He moved sluggishly, trying to lift his head. Pain danced in a thorny race from his hip to knee, the clotted scent of hot rubber and blood playing havoc with his suddenly roiling stomach. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words.
The ground upended into the sky, and he tumbled with it, dragged into the gray paste of oblivion.
+++++
Starsky turned, catching a glint of long blond hair hastily disappearing through the main exit. He frowned, moving a step forward in the long concession line. His partner’s hair had deepened in color over the last year as Hutch spent more of his time indoors, forsaking his usual hikes and beach walks in favor of shutting himself inside, nursing his growing dissatisfaction over life in general, their jobs specifically. His back hadn’t helped his disposition, giving out at the most inopportune times, restricting what he could and couldn’t do. Starsky supposed it was the price many athletes paid, but Hutch’s failure to accept his limitations only added to his often depressed mood.
The tall man racing through the exit might not be crowned with the same sun-bleached strands of a few years ago, but there was no mistaking Hutch’s long-legged run. Even older, a little slower, hindered by a back that often gave him grief, he still moved with the inborn speed of a runner.
Scowling, Starsky shot a glance at his watch. The plan was not for Hutch to take off to the parking lot, but to secure their seats. Why was it that lately his stubborn, moody friend only seemed to think of himself?
Like he did with Kira.
He shoved the thought away, trying to reason why Hutch had suddenly bolted for the parking lot. Before he could think it through, a commotion erupted at the exit.
“Call an ambulance,” a frantic-looking woman yelled, bursting through the main doors. “Someone just got hit by a car in the parking lot.”
Starsky felt a stab of fear. Not Hutch. Of course it wasn’t Hutch. The timing was merely coincidence. Yet even his repeated reassurance couldn’t calm his jumpy nerves. Frazzled, he darted from the line and shoved his way through the crowd, racing into the parking lot without a second thought for the concessions or their seats in the main arena. A throng had gathered outside, clustered around a metallic blue Nova, its rear end jacked up on mag wheels. Starsky plowed through, his worst nightmare confirmed when he saw Hutch sprawled on the ground, his clothes torn, blood veined down the side of his face. For a moment it felt like the world had come to a grating halt.
“Hutch!” Bodily thrusting through a ring of curious onlookers, Starsky slumped to his knees at his partner’s side. “Hutch, can you hear me?” Uncertain of the nature and extent of his friend’s injuries, he carefully ran his hands along Hutch’s neck and jaw. A rapid but thready pulse thrummed beneath his fingertips, bringing a slender measure of relief. “Call an ambulance,” he said sharply, turning to address the handful of people clustered behind him.
“Hey, man . . .” A worried-looking teenager elbowed his way to the front of the crowd, his face pinched and chalky. Visibly trembling, he tugged nervously at a tightly curled mat of walnut-brown hair. “The guy ran out in front of my car without even looking. You gotta believe me, man . . . I was just comin’ down the lane and this idiot- -”
“He’s a cop,” Starsky said sharply. “So am I. Now do what I said and get an ambulance.”
“Oh, ****! Oh ****, man! You mean, I hit a cop?”
“Hutch.” Curtly, dismissing the teen’s hysteria, Starsky looked back to his friend. The blond detective blinked groggily, dragged near consciousness by the activity around him. More people were gathering, talking and whispering in the background like a flock of busily squawking birds. Traffic had stopped and even the congestion in front of the main arena seemed to be shifting. Throngs of onlookers moved back toward the parking lot, hoping to catch a glimpse of what had transpired to attract so much attention.
Blocking the distractions from his mind, Starsky feathered both thumbs down the sides of his friend’s jaw and spoke firmly. “Hutch, can you hear me? Hutch?”
He was rewarded with a groan, followed by a lethargic attempt at movement. Hutch’s brows crimped down in a grimace, his face twisting as pain pushed him toward the threshold of clarity. “S-Starsk?” He moaned softly, the sound a pathetic mixture of acute discomfort and bewilderment.
A second later, Starsky was staring into his friend’s dazed blue eyes, Hutch’s anxiety as obvious as if he’d spoken aloud. “Hey, pal.” Starsky smiled gently, trying to soothe the cloud of confusion he saw in his friend’s anxious gaze. With one hand, he continued the steady stroke of his thumb across a blood-splattered cheek. “Just take it easy, buddy. You wandered out in front of a car. Ambulance is on the way.”
Hutch licked his lips, a flicker of comprehension crossing his face. “I-I wasn’t looking,” he stammered. “Wasn’t . . . wasn’t the driver’s fault.”
Behind Starsky, the teenager slumped to the macadam in weak-kneed appreciation. “Thank God! Man, I toldja . . . man, if I can do anything to help - - ”
A siren wailed in the distance, indication someone had followed through and phoned for medical assistance. Starsky spared a quick glance for the overly grateful teen. “See that ambulance makes it back here,” he ordered sharply.
With a quick bob of his head, the young driver sprinted clear, nearly tripping in his haste to be useful. Starsky’s attention immediately returned to his fair-haired friend. Hutch’s face had paled beneath twin streamers of blood seeping unchecked from a cut above his right eye. Digging into the front pocket of his jeans, Starsky dragged a handkerchief free and blotted it against the wound. He felt oddly unbalanced, worried, but angry at the same time. What kind of (to use the driver’s word) - - idiot - - ran into a parking lot without looking where he was going? As much as Starsky wanted to comfort his partner, another part of him wanted to launch into a blistering lecture.
The conflict showed on his face.
Sensing his irritation, Hutch flinched and tried to pull away. “ ‘M okay . . .”
Rather than snap a cutting reply, Starsky bit silent the retort dancing on the edge of his tongue. They’d traded too many harsh words lately until the snappish remarks had become almost routine, each sharper than the last. Tonight, away from their jobs and the memory of Kira, they’d hoped to change that. Instead the evening had nosedived into another, bleaker kind of contention. The last thing Starsky wanted to do was cause Hutch more grief when he was already in such visible pain. “What hurts?”
“ ‘M okay,” Hutch protested again, parting with a quick shake of his head. He swallowed hard, his face streaked with sweat, and made an effort to get his hands under him. The movement wrenched an unexpected cry from his lips, leaving him white-faced and trembling. Wrapping an arm over his stomach, he folded back against the macadam. “Ughnn . . . Starsk . . . I-I don’t feel too good.” He blinked sluggishly, almost as though trying to stabilize his vision. His head listed to the side. Dragging his right leg forward, he made a feeble attempt to bend it at the knee, but aborted the wobbly movement halfway through. His face knotted in a reflex grimace of pain.
“Take it easy,” Starsky repeated. He felt along the outside of Hutch’s thigh, carefully contouring the curve of his hip.
Hutch hissed in a startled breath and roughly knocked his hand aside. “Don’t . .gonna be sick. . .”
Behind Starsky the ambulance drew closer, its siren scattering the ring of onlookers to a more respectful distance. He was suddenly aware of a police officer loudly ordering the crowd back, the opening and closing of steel doors, the noisy pound of swiftly approaching footsteps. Biting his lip, he watched Hutch’s face. His friend’s pupils were too large, dilated beyond normal for the bright wash of early evening light. Fearing a traumatic head injury, Starsky tried not to let his fear overshadow the importance of remaining calm. Hutch needed him. “Buddy, you still with me?”
Hutch made a half vocal sound. Before Starsky could react, he rolled his head to the side and vomited weakly onto the asphalt.
Oh, ****!
“Hutch - -”
Someone shouldered him aside. “Sir . . . Sir, if you’d get back now, please.”
An apple-cheeked paramedic tried to appear reassuring even as he elbowed Starsky clear and took up his place at Hutch’s side. He didn’t seem old enough to be treating a man with a bleeding head wound and banged up leg, his face still dewy with the flush of youth. Starsky contrasted his open, congenial features to the sunken hollows of his partner’s cheeks . . . the unforgiving lines that made Hutch appear tired and worn even on a good day. When had they gotten so old, so beaten down and abused by life? What had happened to the idealistic friend with the ethereal countenance, and Camelot-like belief there was good buried in all men?
Dazed, Starsky let himself be pulled backward by the uniformed officer.
“It’s all right, Sir. Your friend will be fine. Just let the paramedics do their job.”
Except their job wouldn’t repair the damage done by too many years in a burnout profession. It wouldn’t restore the passion and idealism of a young, fair-haired Midwesterner who’d enrolled in the Academy with the pivotal belief he was going to make a difference. Time had chipped and tarnished that image, leaving Hutch disgruntled and uncertain of his future. It made the two of them struggle just to hang onto the remnants of their relationship, tattered so severely after Hutch’s selfish fling with Kira.
Scuffing a hand through his hair, Starsky paced a few steps away. He thought about identifying himself as a police officer, but didn’t have the energy. From the corner of his eye he saw another officer talking to the driver of the Nova, taking down the teen’s statement. Hutch had pretty much admitted to running out in front of the car, a mistake he wouldn’t have made in a clear frame of mind. So what had distracted him enough to make him race from the arena and blindly dart into the path of an oncoming vehicle?
He heard Hutch moan, the sound knifing through him like barbed steel. Even with the ups-and-downs of their recently rocky friendship, the thought of his partner in pain had the uncanny ability to kick his protective streak into high gear. Worried, he paced closer, craning his neck to see what was happening. “Hutch?”
The uniformed officer was back in his face, gently trying to steer him away. “Sir, I think you should - -”
“I’m a cop,” Starsky snapped. “Metro Division.” He pulled his badge, shoving it under the patrolman’s nose. “And so is he.” He gave a quick nod of his head to indicate Hutch. “I know the drill, so don’t patronize me. I wanna see how my partner’s doin’.”
Without waiting for acknowledgement, Starsky shoved past the officer. “Hutch - -” Squatting on his haunches, he curled one hand around his friend’s limp left arm. The paramedic spared a glance, but otherwise didn’t object. “You did a number on yourself, buddy.” One thumb tracked over the inside of Hutch’s wrist, gently smoothing up and down beneath the cuff of his black jacket. The thin bones of his wrist felt far too prominent, yet another sign of recent neglect.
Starsky couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Hutch take a vitamin supplement or swallow some disgusting health-food concoction. His partner had not only shed the few extra pounds he’d packed on months earlier, but had let his lean frame tend toward gauntness. Maybe it was the addition of his longer, brassier hair and mustache, but Hutch appeared to have aged five years in the last ten months. It left Starsky feeling sad and unbalanced, more than a little frightened by the changes. Even before Kira, there’d been a strained undercurrent to their friendship.
“How’s your head?”
Hutch closed his eyes. “ . . . hurts.”
“I know, buddy.” Worried, Starsky reached forward to lightly stroke Hutch’s cheek. His partner flinched from the contact, quickly averting his face. Stunned, Starsky stared speechlessly, his hand held motionless in mid air.
“Sir, we really need some room here now.” The paramedic was speaking to him again, but the sound got lost in the sharp haze of lingering rejection. He blinked stupidly, lowering his hand with a curious glance for the fingertips, expecting to find them diseased. Why would Hutch knowingly shy from him?
“Uh, yeah . . . okay.” He shoved to his feet, worried when Hutch wouldn’t look at him.
Is he that messed up, that sick?
The next thing Starsky knew they were loading his friend into the back of the ambulance. He stood by, watching dumbly, trying to make sense of where he fit into the abruptly bewildering world. Any other time he would have insisted on accompanying Hutch to the hospital, but his welcome felt unexpectedly tenuous, tolerated rather than desired. Instead of clinging to Hutch’s side, he followed the ambulance in his Torino, pacing off his nervousness in the ER waiting room when they finally reached the hospital.
Hutch was wheeled off for a detailed examination, leaving him to calm his jittery nerves with a cup of vending-machine coffee, as appallingly acidic as it was nauseatingly strong. Three hours later a heavy-set nurse took pity on his frazzled and endless fidgeting and informed him his partner had been transferred to a room for an overnight stay.
Starsky managed a shaky smile, thanked the woman and went in search of room 811.
+++++
Hutch blinked hazily, all too aware of the mind-deadening effects of a strong narcotic. He’d been dazed with pain when the ER nurse had injected him with the drug, too disoriented to protest. An IV was taped to the inside crook of his left elbow, pumping something alien and unwelcome into his veins. His body felt weighted and numb, strangely detached from the low-level discomfort scampering up and down his entire right side. He vaguely remembered getting hit there, tossed and battered against the asphalt by the blunt force of a metallic blue Nova. Even as he tried to piece the disjointed memories together, his mind tripped over the fragments, moving with the alacrity of a snail. He moaned softly, scared by the thought of the sedative and the effect it had on his reasoning ability. Even after all this time, narcotics left him feeling vulnerable. If Starsky had been with him, his friend would have insisted the drugs be kept to a minimum. But Starsky hadn’t ridden in the ambulance, and Starsky hadn’t been seen since stumbling over him in the parking lot.
Why should he care?
Hutch desperately wanted the compassion of his friend, but knew he’d forfeited that right when he’d slept with Kira. He and Starsky had never really talked about his blunder - - hell, he’d never even apologized for the sordid betrayal- - but it was there, hanging over both of them like a sharp-beaked vulture. He’d broken a sacred trust, selfishly pulling Starsky into the mire of his own miserable desolation. He’d been unhappy longer than he wanted to admit, but it was no reason to subject his friend to callousness and cruelty.
And it was certainly not an excuse to sleep with the woman his partner had professed to love.
Even if she was a witch, playing us against each other.
So he’d gotten a good lay out of it . . . managed to work off some of his aggression in a hedonistic romp of lovemaking that reeked of sexual gratification far more than romance. He’d be lying if he said it hadn’t been good . . . that he hadn’t enjoyed wrapping his long body around Kira’s, their sweat-heated flesh grinding together until he’d exploded with the hot ecstasy of the moment. Even then he’d clung to her, unwilling to let go as he spilled into her, every inch of him shuddering with the staggering release. She’d screamed her own pleasure, arching her head back, nails digging into his flesh, begging him to fill her. Coming down from that euphoric high had left him feeling ugly and tainted. Then Starsky had shown up, catching him as he’d come out of the bedroom, mussed and disheveled after sex, tucking his shirt into his pants. Tarnish became betrayal, the ugliness, unforgivable filth. He’d been living with the stain of his selfish disloyalty ever since.
Moaning, he twisted fitfully on the bed, trying to silence the repulsive memories. His head thrummed, awakening a dull ache in his temples. He remembered a time when Starsky would have been at his side, talking softly, assuring him with gentle touches and murmured words of encouragement. But he’d flinched from his partner’s caress in the parking lot, too ashamed to be comforted after the hideous thing he’d done. This time he’d broken a line that couldn’t be repaired.
“Hutch?”
The sound of his name made him jerk slightly, a half-vocal groan rolling from his lips. An electric pulse of pain shot through his hip, down his thigh and into his knee. “Starsk?” His friend’s name came on a breathless pant as he dug his fingers into the mattress.
“Hey.” With a tentative smile, his partner appeared at his side, gazing down at him from what seemed an astronomical distance. The room felt vague and cottony, wrapped in layers of clinging darkness, the light over the bed set to low. It elongated the shadows contouring Starsky’s face, made his features harsh and angular. “Thought maybe you’d be asleep.”
Hutch wet his lips, his mouth abysmally dry. “Can’t.”
Starsky’s hands wandered to the bed rail where they hooked over the metal tubing as if in need of an anchor. “Hurtin’?” he ventured.
Hutch didn’t want to admit it even though his right side continued to flare with sporadic bursts of pain. Rather than face the truth, he avoided the question entirely. “Sorry I screwed up tonight . . . the wrestling match, I mean.”
Starsky gave a soft snort. “So I missed Heywood, the Dog tryin’ to put a half-nelson on The Mighty Thor.” He grinned with ease. “Somehow I think I’ll survive.” The smile thinned, turning serious as his hands tightened over the rail. “Why’d you run into the parkin’ lot, Hutch?”
He’d known the question was coming, but it still made his gut contract. To get away from you. I broke Terri’s trust . . . our trust . . .
Hutch turned his face away. “Starsky, I’m tired . . .” His eyelids dipped, adding to the illusion of fatigue. In truth he was exhausted, battered by pain, drained by emotions that left him feeling worthless and alienated. “The doctor told me I gotta stay here for the night,” he mumbled, intentionally slurring his words. “Mild concussion - - you know . . .” He winced even as he said it, the ache in his temple ratcheting behind his ear. “Pick me up tomorrow?”
“Yeah . . . okay.” A hand slipped around his wrist.
The contact was staggering, a jolt of cascading warmth that made him suck in a reflex breath. He hadn’t felt that crackling connection in a very long time . . . had pretty much considered it destroyed by Kira. To have it wash over him now when he was dazed with pain and doped with medication made a lump rise in his throat. He swallowed hard, convinced he didn’t deserve affection or contact. He’d screwed up royally. He’d broken Terri’s trust.
To you I entrust Dave . . .
Hutch twisted his head to the side, hoping the darkness hid the sharp burn of moisture in his eyes. “ ‘Night, Starsky,” he managed.
The hand slid from his wrist, sucking warmth from his flesh, unintentionally leeching away a part of his soul. He heard his friend mumble a hesitant goodbye, then Starsky’s footsteps faded into the hall.
Closing his eyes, Hutch tried to take comfort in the hush of the room, but the stillness felt empty rather than soothing. In the past when they’d been separated he’d always been able to sense his partner’s presence, but this time was different. The vibrant essence that was so much a part of Starsky had departed with him, leaving Hutch desolate and utterly alone.
+++++
Starsky parked his Torino in front of Hutch’s apartment, painfully aware of the tension in the car. There was no question his friend was hurting. Hutch sat huddled against the door, his left hand tucked between his knees, his right arm wrapped across his middle. He was being his usual pig-headed self about the pain medication, pretending he didn’t need it when it was clear every bump of the ride from the hospital had sent a grilling ache through his battered right side.
He’d been mostly quiet since Starsky had picked him up, parting with a wan smile of appreciation when the dark-haired detective arrived in his room bright and early. The attending physician signed Hutch’s release papers a short time later, assuring them nothing was broken but that Hutch would be painfully stiff and sore for a few days. He’d prescribed some medication, told Hutch to alert him about any double vision or dizziness brought on by his slight concussion, then dismissed him with orders to get sufficient rest.
It all seemed like good advice to Starsky, but rather than take the medication, Hutch had shoved it in his pocket and quietly asked Starsky to drive him home. They barely talked on the way, something that had become more and more routine ever since the incident with Kira.
Looking back on it, Starsky wished the whole thing would just go away. True, he thought he’d been in love at the time, but now realized his misguided emotions had amounted to a crock of ****. Hutch might have been thinking with the head dangling between his legs, but Starsky had caved to a storybook idea of romance. Kira had skillfully played both sides of the fence - - shy flirtation and moon-drenched extravagance with him; primal, pulsing lust with Hutch.
She’d had fun, getting what she’d craved from each of them.
They’d almost fried their relationship.
More than anything he wanted to put it back the way it had been, but it seemed Hutch wasn’t interested in trying. In the weeks since Kira he’d grown increasingly sullen and distant, often short-tempered as if he wanted Starsky to concede his disgust and give up on their friendship. From that night in Huggy’s bar when they’d jilted Kira and left together, Starsky had been ready to start over with Hutch - - to forgive and forget. It sometimes galled him that his friend hadn’t even apologized, but he was dealing with the slight as best he could. Daily, he’d been trying to repair the horrible damage Hutch had done, and for a brief time yesterday in the arena he’d felt a spark of their old camaraderie return.
And then it had vanished.
Hutch had flinched from him in the parking lot when he’d tried to offer comfort, shied from him last night in the hospital and had hardly spoken this morning. His behavior made no sense unless he was dead set on destroying something Starsky thought he’d valued. At least there was a time when their relationship had meant something to Hutch - - something beyond the casual familiarity of most friends.
As much as he tried to hold his anger in check, Starsky felt it slipping from his grasp. It wasn’t helping his already sour disposition to have his partner huddled against the door, as far away from him as possible.
“Okay, we’re here,” Starsky announced a little too tersely. He pushed from the car and rounded the front of the vehicle, intending to help Hutch onto the sidewalk. His partner beat him to it, leveraging his battered body out of the car with obvious difficulty.
Bracing himself with his left arm, Hutch leaned into the vehicle and squinted up at his apartment. “It’s good to be home.”
Starsky gave a non-committal grunt. Grasping Hutch firmly under the left arm, he steered him toward the exterior door of the apartment building. Hutch shambled along in his grip, straining to keep up, his pain-stiffened right side making him awkward and slow. At the entrance, Starsky shifted positions, opening the door and gripping Hutch on the upper right arm. He pulled him none too gently up the steps, even as he dug a copy of Hutch’s apartment key from the pocket of his jeans. He could feel his expression hardening, his mouth thinning into a tight line.
At the top of the stairs Hutch stumbled, unexpectedly pressing against him.
Unprepared for the fatigue-induced tremors he felt racing through his friend’s lean body, Starsky gave a startled jerk. It was then he realized how unnecessarily rough he’d been. Worse was the realization that Hutch had let him get away with it unchallenged.
Obviously worn out, his friend ducked his head. “Starsky . . . you’re hurting me,” he panted at last.
Shocked, Starsky hissed in a breath, distressed to find his fingers clamped like a vice around Hutch’s right arm. Releasing him, he fumbled to get the key in the lock. He felt like an idiot, something far worse - - a black-hearted caretaker who took glee inflicting cruel punishment on others. God, why couldn’t he just turn back the clock . . . find the friend he loved buried under the layers of aloofness and melancholy Hutch had stubbornly wrapped himself in?
He was like that when I first met him - - aloof, superior, irritatin’ as hell. I ain’t goin’ back to that again. No deal, Hutch. We’re gonna settle this now.
Inside the apartment, Hutch went straight for the couch, gratefully easing into the corner. Stretching one arm over the backrest, the other over the sidearm, he tilted his head back, long legs sprawled before him. Closing his eyes, he spoke to the ceiling. “You don’t have to stay, Starsk.”
“Figured that.” Starsky’s words came a little too sharp. Bring you home . . . chauffeuring duties all over, now you wanna boot me out without so much as a “thanks for the lift, pal.” With effort, Starsky tamped down a sliver of resentment before it could root and nurture hostility. Glancing around the apartment, he noted numerous clusters of ferns, hanging baskets and broad-leafed vines, all thriving in well-tended, effervescent health. Even if he’d been neglecting himself, Hutch obviously still cared for his beloved plants.
Wandering closer to the table, Starsky briefly scanned the handful of song sheets scattered across the top, all scrawled in his partner’s harried, looping handwriting.
He’s composin’ again.
He wasn’t sure why that should matter, but it did. Hutch had a beautiful voice, soft and mellow like a minstrel poet. Lately it seemed the Renaissance man had gotten buried under the filth and grime of the street cop. Starsky was glad to know the flame of creativity and passion hadn’t been extinguished completely, even if Hutch rarely shared that side of himself any longer.
Turning, he frowned across the room at his clearly exhausted friend. In the haze of early morning light, Hutch’s face looked drawn, the deeper gold of his hair accentuating the shadowed hollows of his cheeks. Starsky had a sudden vivid memory of his trembling partner pressed up against him in the hallway. The last of his anger melted with the thought. “Where’s that bottle of pills the doc gave you?”
Hutch lifted his head long enough to spare a suspicious glance. “In my jacket. Why?”
Stepping next to the couch, Starsky held out his hand. “Give ‘em here. I’ll get you a glass of water.”
“Don’t need any,” Hutch returned, but he handed over the pills.
Starsky read the label, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water. By the time he returned, Hutch had shed his jacket, kicked off his shoes and drawn his legs onto the sofa, curling onto his left side. He’d wedged one of the throw pillows into the crook of the couch and was using it to cushion his head, his eyes closed.
Sitting at the opposite end of the sofa, Starsky shoved the water and pill container onto the coffee table. There was a time he could have touched his friend and known Hutch wouldn’t shy from him. Sliding his hand onto his partner’s leg, he waited for a reaction and was immediately rewarded by a tensing of Hutch’s muscles.
The division between them had gone on long enough.
“Buddy, we have to talk.”
Hutch stared straight ahead. “I know,” he said quietly.
+++++
Hutch heaved a sigh. Sooner or later he’d known he’d have to face this moment. He’d really hoped they could repair their damaged trust after Kira had turned them against one another, but that was before he’d stumbled over Terri’s note. He’d made a mess of life in general - - badly, selfishly - - so completely wretched he didn’t know how to fix matters, or even if they could be fixed.
“Why’d you run into the parking lot last night?” Starsky asked.
Hutch shifted, turning so his back was wedged into the corner of the sofa and he was sitting facing his friend. He winced with the movement, uncomfortable when pain spiked down his right side. Everything hurt - - from his spirit, battered and hopelessly shorn, to his stiffly bruised body. Drawing his legs up, bent at the knees, he rested his socked feet on the thick cushions of the couch. Starsky’s hand dropped in a loose grip around his ankle, burning as brightly as their friendship once had.
“I . . . I found something when I came back inside for the tickets yesterday,” Hutch admitted. “Just a slip of paper I shoved into my pocket.” Shrugging, he laughed hollowly, feeling shame burn all the way to his gut. “I looked at it on the way to the arena, and um . . .”
Starsky frowned, a crease of irritation settling between his brows. “Yeah?” he prodded sharply.
With a sigh, Hutch reached for the jacket he’d dropped on the floor. He fished in the right pocket until he felt the paper crinkle between his fingers. There really was no sense trying to hide it any longer. He might as well just get it over with and face the music. Pulling Terri’s note free, he thrust it at Starsky. “Here.”
Nervous, Hutch dropped the jacket and dragged a hand through his hair. His eyes darted back to his partner’s face as Starsky read the note. He saw surprise, followed by puzzled dismay.
“I don’t get it,” Starsky said. “This is the note Terri wrote . . .the one she gave you with Ollie.”
“Yeah.” Hutch barely got the word past his constricted throat. There was a hint of vulnerability in Starsky’s eyes, something that was always evident whenever he thought of Terri, but it faded quickly. His friend set the note on the coffee table, looking oddly uncertain.
“Hutch . . . what’s this gotta do with - -”
“Don’t you get it?” Hutch interrupted hotly, crushed by deep-seeded guilt. It was bad enough to realize what he’d done, but to have Starsky read the note and not call him on his selfishness made him feel like a condemned man waiting for the executioner’s blade. He’d done something heinous, worthy of disgust and revulsion, not patience and continued understanding.
“She entrusted you to me,” he spat. His body trembled with reaction, blackness, remorse and self-incriminating rage tangling in a single corrosive knot. Shaken, he drew his legs back further, tugging the battered right limb closer to his body, letting the left drop heavily to the floor. A stab of pain made him abruptly light-headed, but he stubbornly ignored the ensuing dizziness. “I was supposed to look out for you, take care of you. She asked me to do one thing, Starsk - - something that should have been instinctive and reactionary. Something I shouldn’t even have to think about. She asked me to love you. Don’t you get it - - I couldn’t even do that right!” His voice cracked with anger and self-loathing. Ohgod, how could I not love you? How could I be that stupid? His mouth thinned. “I ****** it up.”
Starsky frowned. “You did not **** it up,” he said deliberately.
“Okay, you’re right.” Hutch smirked. “I stand corrected. I ****** Kira - - the woman you thought you loved.”
Starsky’s frown soured with anger. “Damn it, quit baitin’ me, Hutch! You want me to get pissed and take a swing at you - - is that it? Well, it ain’t gonna happen, pal. This ain’t about Kira. It’s about you and me, and the fact you’re like some friggin,’ stranger ever since that she-witch got her claws in you.”
“Because I screwed you over,” Hutch snapped. “Like I always screw you over. I don’t know why you bother anymore, Starsk. I never even said I was sorry for what I did.” His words shuddered to silence leaving them both with the ugly truth neither wanted to face.
Hurt, Starsky looked away. “So why didn’t you?”
Hutch flopped back against the cushions, his eyes tracking skyward. “I don’t know.” That wasn’t true - - God, it wasn’t true! He knew exactly why he hadn’t apologized, why the thought of attempting it still terrified him. He half hoped Starsky would say it didn’t matter, that it was all in the past.
When he didn’t, Hutch realized how badly the omission had hurt his friend - - how wretchedly unfair he was for not making the apology now. Everything felt confused and jumbled, trapped in the black threads of his own dismal failures. He couldn’t fix it. It was too late, shot all to hell because he’d been a selfish bastard. As much as Starsky had tried to be comfortable with him, there was still something in the way . . .
After reading Terri’s note, Hutch understood why.
I wish I could take it back. Ohgod, I want to take it back.
The pain rocketed higher in his right side, making him long to stretch out on his bed. Maybe he really should down a handful of pills and settle for a few hours of medicated bliss. Oblivion was a far sight better than watching the slow demise of his relationship with Starsky - - the only relationship that had ever mattered to him. Why not get doped up, fry his mind and tune out his misery?
“Why didn’t you apologize?” Starsky persisted.
Hutch looked at his hands. “I don’t know.” The same lame excuse as before, only this time he took it further. “Maybe because I wanted you to know what kind of person she really was. Or maybe - -” He swallowed hard, feeling a reactionary sting of moisture in his eyes.
Oh, that’s just ******* great! Of all the times to get emotional, he had to pick now. He’d been angry for so long, he forgot what it felt like to be remorseful and hurt.
“Maybe I just wanted you to know what kind of person I am.”
“You mean a selfish S.O.B?”
Hutch winced, but refused to raise his head. He deserved the slur, deserved far worse. “Yeah.”
“That’s a load of crap, Hutchinson.”
Starsky jerked closer, the sudden movement sending Hutch into a reactionary panic. He was petrified Starsky would touch him . . . would feel the frantic thump of his heart or the cold sweat collecting in his bangs. Alarmed, he scrambled backward, but there was no place to go. The couch butted up against him, sending him teetering off balance to the side. Still dizzy, he slammed his right leg to the ground in an effort to halt his forward momentum. Pain exploded in his hip at the exact moment Starsky caught him around his bruised right arm and held fast.
Grimacing, he crumbled into the sofa, half supported by his friend. “Starsk, my arm,” he gasped, pain making his voice quaver.
Realizing he was doing more harm than good, Starsky released him as if stung. Hutch folded to the side, burying his face in the throw cushion he’d been using for a pillow. Panting, he tried to catch his breath, the punishing pain and his own grief stripping his nerves raw. He moaned softly, unable to choke back his misery. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be sick or just curl up and die. Why was it so hard to apologize?
Because . . . because . . .
He couldn’t get the truth past his lips. “You should go,” he managed.
There was a long pause, followed by a shifting of weight as Starsky pushed from the couch. “Right,” his friend said tightly.
It was really happening - - he was in agony, emotionally and physically, and Starsky was actually leaving. Like he doesn’t give a ****! The footsteps heading toward the door drilled bullets into his heart, each echo igniting a grisly thunderclap of despair. His face grew hot, pressed into the sweaty cushion. If Starsky abandoned him, who would be left that mattered? His parents, his sister and brother-in-law, a few casual acquaintances? No one who saw into his soul, inherently understanding every distinct flutter of his heart . . . every unreasonable fear, desperate hope, occasional joy, fractured dream. Was there anyone who meant even half as much as the man about to walk out the door?
Don’t go!
He couldn’t get the words past his lips. The cushion felt sticky and warm, pressing against his scratched cheek, the fine bristles of his mustache. The world rolled upside down, snagged on a kite-tail of leering chaos, buffeted and tossed beyond his limited control. Would Starsky really, truly desert him?
He doesn’t care - - and why the **** should he?
The truth came harder, wrenching a deep groan from his throat. Ohgod, he doesn’t care! This is really the end of our friendship.
Ferocious tears spilled from his watery eyes, soaking the flesh-heated pillow. His whole body trembled with strained resistance as he willed himself not to sob aloud. And then it happened - - the doorknob turned and the thought of his friend walking out on him shattered his fragile control.
“Starsky!” Hutch bolted upright, blinded by tears, the name spilling from him in strangled haste. His head spun, slamming him back to the couch under a buffeting wave of dizziness. “Please, Starsk - - don’t go.” He was choking now, the words forced through abject misery and the suffocating fear of desertion. “I . . . need you! I need you to stay.” His breath came choppy and fast, a monstrous sob building in his chest until he pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle it silent. Then suddenly Starsky was there, sitting beside him, one arm wrapped around his heaving back. Hutch felt gentle fingers cup his wet cheek, tenderly guiding his head to rest against his friend’s shoulder.
“Ssh, babe, it’s okay. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
The long-neglected yet familiar endearment gushed through him with a burst of sun-soaked warmth, crushing the wall that had stood between them for the last few weeks. Shaken, Hutch uttered a low moan and turned his face against his friend’s neck, holding fast. “You . . . you h-haven’t called me t-that, s-since - -” He felt like an idiot, sobbing his words, but Starsky seemed to understand what he was talking about.
“You mean ‘babe?’” Warm fingers threaded into his hair.
Hutch shivered. He’d almost forgotten how blessedly wondrous that contact could be, how terribly he’d missed it . . . how badly he craved it even now, feeling like a drowning man who’d been given a lifeline. As addictive as any highly indulgent drug, it left him shaking in reaction.
“Starsk - -” His voice cracked, broken by tears. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I’m so ******* sorry. Please don’t go. I don’t deserve you.”
“No . . . you don’t.” Starsky chuckled to show he wasn’t serious. His arms tightened around Hutch, hugging him closer. “And I already toldja - - I ain’t goin’ anywhere, so pull it together, okay? You’re shakin’ like some kinda diseased idiot.” An unmistakable smile crept into his voice. “Notice I didn’t call you an ***, even though you deserve it.”
Hutch snorted softly, his face still pressed to Starsky’s neck. He tried to swallow his tears but choked instead, bottled anguish dredged from his throat in deep, audible sobs. Shuddering, he clung tighter, afraid if he eased his grip, Starsky would change his mind and leave him floundering in well-deserved misery.
“Hutch . . . ssh, come on, babe. It ain’t all that bad. We’re gonna get through this - - just like every other shitty mess life dumps in our path.” Starsky stroked his back, talking softly. Seconds melted into minutes before the dark-haired man raised a hand to cup Hutch’s wet cheek, thumbing aside clinging moisture. “Buddy, you gotta talk to me. You been actin’ like Ice Man Supreme for the last two weeks, now you’re doin’ an emotional nosedive, crash and burn. I ain’t made for 360s. How ‘bout lettin’ me in on what’s got you so upset?”
“Yeah . . . okay.” The words were barely audible. Hutch twisted away, dragging shaking fingers over his wet face. It was hard owning up to the truth, harder still facing what he’d almost destroyed . . . what he desperately feared losing. “Give me a minute?” Not a statement or even a question, but a heartfelt plea he knew Starsky wouldn’t challenge. Disentangling himself completely, Hutch pushed painfully to his feet and lurched in the direction of the bathroom.
His head felt stuffy, pounding from the force of his sobs, and his right hip throbbed with steady pain from the way he’d been scrunched on the couch. Ducking inside the bathroom, he pushed the door closed, gratefully wilting against the frame, tilting his head to stare up at the ceiling. Starsky wasn’t leaving. Starsky had agreed to listen to him, but what if . . . what if . . .
He couldn’t finish the ugly thought. Staggering to the sink, he opened the cold water faucet and thrust his hands beneath the icy spray. He took a moment to scrub his face, washing away the telltale evidence of uncontrollable tears. When he exited the room a few minutes later, his eyes were red and puffy, but the salt stains had been rubbed from his cheeks.
Starsky was still on the couch, sitting comfortably in the corner, one arm stretched over the backrest. “Hey.” He parted with a soft smile. “Feelin’ better now?”
Hutch managed a self-conscious nod. He paced to the kitchen, walking stiffly to accommodate his damaged hip. He’d slept miserably last night, tossing and turning even with the heavy doses of pain medication the nursing staff kept feeding him. If he allowed himself, he could keel over right now, his exhaustion more mental than physical. By contrast to his fatigue-fried mind, his body felt jittery and wired, penned in by a trap he’d set for himself. Restless, he glanced out the window, nervously wiping his hands on his thighs.
“Thought you were gonna talk to me?” Starsky called from the couch.
Hutch shot him a worried glance, meandering closer as if reeled by an invisible tether. His heart ratcheted into a drummer’s cadence, doing a rat-a-tat-tat skip-dance in his chest. He tried to measure his friend’s expression, finding Starsky’s blue-eyed gaze patient and open. Was it possible his partner was really willing to forget what had happened with Kira, despite how miserably Hutch had failed to uphold Terri’s trust?
“Starsk, I . . . um . . .”
Starsky blew out a breath. “Hutch, quit hoverin’ and sit, will ya? I hurt just lookin’ at ya. And while you’re at it, take some of these pain pills.” Leaning forward, Starsky snatched the plastic bottle from the coffee table and twisted off the cap.
Hutch watched as he tumbled two tablets into his palm, holding them out with a glass of water. Uncomfortable, Hutch wet his lips. Ever since the incident with his father and morphine in Duluth over a year ago, he’d been freer about taking medication, but it still brought an instinctive gut reaction. Any other time he might have refused, but now he only wanted to please Starsky. And the truth was his battered right side throbbed mercilessly every time he moved.
Trying not to grimace, Hutch lowered himself to the sofa, mutely swallowing back pain. He took the pills and glass from his friend, obediently downing the medication. At his side, Starsky watched thoughtfully.
“You did that way too easy.” Casually, he threaded a hand into the strands of dark gold hair splayed over Hutch’s collar. “I’m used to fightin’ you tooth and nail just to get you to swallow a Tylenol, let alone something narcotic. What gives?”
“Nothing.” Hutch gave a quick shake of his head, dropping his eyes to the glass in his hands. I just want to make you happy . . . whatever it takes. The fingers in his hair slid down to his neck, firmly kneading the tendons. Undone by the touch, he closed his eyes, surrendering to the sheer ecstasy of the massage. It did far more than the sedative-laced pain pills could ever hope to accomplish. In another moment, he felt both of Starsky’s hands move to his shoulders. His head lolled slightly to the side and he moaned.
“Feel good?” Starsky asked.
Hutch hadn’t meant to utter that sound, but it was near impossible to hold his tongue with his partner turning his knotted muscles into pliable heat. Starsky pulled the glass from his hand, setting it aside on the coffee table. Angling his body so he faced Hutch, he snagged one of the throw cushions, wedging it against his chest. “Come on, buddy - - lean back against me.”
Hutch intended to refuse, but Starsky was still kneading his shoulders, a side effect that turned his mind to slow mush along with his steadily loosening muscles. Twisting around on the couch, he pulled his long legs onto the seat cushions and willingly folded back against his partner. The attention to his knotted shoulders and neck was pure magic, momentarily making him forget the ugly fear buried in the back of his mind.
Starsky leaned forward, jet-dark curls catching on the long golden strands layered over Hutch’s ear. “How ‘bout if I hang around for the rest of the day?” he asked quietly, his breath a warm caress against Hutch’s cheek. “I’ll camp out . . . make you dinner later . . . maybe find some stupid movie to watch on the tube or dig out the Monopoly board if you’re up to it. We ain’t done that in a long time.”
Monopoly . . . Terri . . .
To you I entrust Dave . . .
One thought led to the next, sending the fear tumbling back, violently knifing into Hutch’s soul. He tried to scramble upright, but Starsky held fast, digging his fingers into the obscenely sized knots in his shoulders.
With deliberate attention, his partner increased the intensity of his massage. “Keep your impatient *** where it is. I ain’t done with you yet.”
Defeated, Hutch wilted against his friend. He couldn’t play the game any longer, was tired of existing on borrowed time. He needed to know the truth, even if it shattered every remaining shard of his heart. “Starsky, I need to talk to you.”
“So talk. I’m listenin’.”
“No. I need to look at you.” This time Hutch did pull away, turning around to face him. For a split second, gazing into his partner’s vibrant blue eyes, his courage failed completely. Just as quickly, he plowed ahead, determined to see the grim task to its conclusion, however heart-rending it might be. “Starsky, I . . . I should have apologized about Kira. What I did was selfish . . . horrible . . . something I can’t ever atone for. Not after you told me you loved her . . .”
“Thought I loved her,” Starsky corrected. “I was wrong about that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” Hutch dropped his eyes, unable to look his friend in the face. The fear came tumbling back, sharper this time, prickling moisture to the surface of his reddened eyes. I’m not gonna lose it. Not again. If he’s going to forgive me, it has to be without pity.
“I . . . I should have apologized, but . . . I-I couldn’t, b-because then y-you’d have t-t-to - -” The stuttering made him cringe, his composure failing despite his fierce conviction to hold it together. Starsky hadn’t moved, and although Hutch kept his head bowed he could feel the sharp intensity of his friend’s gaze. In the end everything came down to this - - all his fears, depression and confusion of the last few weeks were bottled in a single thought that terrified him more than any other. Could Starsky forgive him?
“I’d have to what?” Starsky asked neutrally, almost suspiciously.
The tone of his voice, far from the solicitous warmth he’d used just moments before, left Hutch biting his lip. He closed his eyes, shaken by the thought that Starsky couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive him. And if that were the case, what would become of their friendship? For two weeks he’d thought it better to avoid the situation than face possible rejection.
“You’d have to make a decision - - t-to forgive me . . or t-tell m-me y-you couldn’t, and-and . . .”
“God, Hutch, stop stutterin’! She aint’ worth gettin’ that upset about.”
Mortified, Hutch shook his head. “It’s not her I’m upset about Starsky. It’s you!”
“Oh. Well in that case - -” Hooking an arm around Hutch’s neck, Starsky pulled him into a snug embrace, dipping his lips close to his partner’s ear. “You certified dumbass. I forgave you that night at Huggy’s. Just woulda been nice to hear you say it, that’s all.”
Hutch deflated, exhaling a pent-up breath. The tension went out of him. Wearily, he melted against his friend, the realization his fear had been over nothing leaving him weak and drained. He tightened his arms around Starsky’s back, burying his face in the warm hollow of his partner’s neck. “Even after I-I broke Terri’s trust?” He stammered in a choked voice.
He felt Starsky’s hand settle on his hair. “You didn’t, Hutch. Things just got a little confused there for awhile. All that matters is we got ‘em figured out now.”
“Yeah . . . ” Hutch gave a brief nod, blinking to hold the moisture in his eyes. “I was so afraid you couldn’t . . . wouldn’t. It’s made me act like an idiot.”
“No argument there.”
He laughed softly, relief swelling again. Everything had felt so dreadfully wrong for an agonizingly long time. Just a few days ago he’d been careful to keep his distance from Starsky, but now it felt natural to be huddled up against him.
He’d never take Terri’s trust for granted again. More than that, he’d never forget the true counterpart to his soul - - the man she’d entrusted to him for life. He’d made a colossal error in judgement, learned from his mistake and had been granted a second chance by his completely unselfish and forgiving friend.
Hutch rested his head against Starsky’s shoulder. “So you’ll hang out here today?” He took it one step more, hoping to coerce something they hadn’t done in ages. “Maybe stay the night if I promise you pizza or something fattening like that?”
Starsky brushed the bangs from Hutch’s forehead. “Yeah, babe. I’d say we got some catchin’ up to do on a few missed weeks of friendship.” His mouth tipped upward in a grin. “I dunno about you, but I’m a selfish bastard. I want every minute I can get - - ‘though I gotta admit, the pizza’s a good bribe.”
Hutch laughed. Amazing what that simple release did for his pain. “Okay, Starsk. Pizza it is.”
Rather than draw away, he settled in to fall asleep. Resting against Starsky was equivalent to taking a strong sleeping pill and burrowing beneath a mound of blankets. The familiar warmth of his partner’s body had the uncanny ability to make him feel instantly comfortable and safe. Judging by the indulgent languor he was feeling, Hutch guessed he’d be out in a matter of minutes. “Don’t wake me if I snore,” he mumbled sleepily.
Starsky chuckled. “That’s a given, Blondie - - the snorin’ part, I mean. You’re just lucky I’m used to it.” An arm slipped loosely around his shoulders. “Go to sleep, ‘cuz when you wake up I wanna hear you play some of those songs you got layin’ on the table.”
“Starsk, they’re not even finished. I was just screwing around.”
“Long as you stick to doin’ it on paper, we’ll be fine.”
Hutch groaned, lifting his head. “I can’t believe you said that.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Starsky’s hand guided his cheek back to rest on a warm shoulder. “You love me anyway.”
“Says who?”
“Your one and only.”
Tired, Hutch grinned and closed his eyes. “Well, at least you got that right, partner.” The last two weeks had taught him a hard but valuable lesson about life, one he’d never forget or make the mistake of falling prey to again - - the Kiras of the world were easily forgettable and highly disposable.
Starsky, cherished soulmate and devoted friend, was not.