Grief

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2002

Ouch! 16 (2004)

Fan-Q Winner

He just lay there.  Alive in body, dead in spirit.  And I didn't think I could stand to lose another friend that week.  Especially not him.  I just stood in the doorway and watched, trying to figure out what to do and trying not to think that I was watching him die, just as surely as she had days before.

We buried Terry on Tuesday, in one of the most love-filled, hopeful funerals I've ever attended.  There was joy with the sorrow, joy that she'd touched so many lives, that we'd had the chance to know her, that one day we'd meet again.  She'd believed that, and I did, too.  I'm not as certain about Starsky, but I saw even him smile that afternoon once or twice.

It was the first emotion he'd shown those last three days since Terry, Starsky's fiancée and one of my favorite people, had succumbed to the piece of lead in her brain, put there by crazy George Prudholm's crusade of revenge against Starsky.  Neither of us could figure why he'd gone after her, until George had tried to kill me a short time later.  It was simple: hurt Starsky through those he loved.

Prudholm had no idea how well he'd succeeded.

Starsky's a cop, and cops do what they have to.  For three days, we planned her funeral, received condolences, tied up some of the many loose ends of a life that ended early.  I cried, no shame in that.  I'd loved her, too.  Starsk even stopped once in the middle of picking hymns for her funeral to hold on to me when I couldn't talk past the lump in my throat.  I would have done the same for him in a second.

But he didn't need it.  After the hospital, after we got George locked away again – for good, this time – Starsky dove right into what needed to be done, saying Terry's parents shouldn't have to deal with it.  He was right, and I was proud of him for it.  But . . . he was taking it too well, and I was pretty sure he wasn't really taking it at all.

We'd buried somebody else he loved once before, vivacious Helen.  They hadn't been as close as he and Terry, but there'd been talk of marriage there for a while.  Then she'd gone undercover and never came out again.  Starsky had held it together then, too, but he'd been in shock over the pointless death of her sick murderer, a guy we should have been able to help.  And after the funeral, he'd bawled like a baby and, well, we got through it together.  If it was going to be like that again now, I could live with that.  So I'd helped with what I could those three days, been there at his side so he'd known he wasn't alone, and waited. . .

Through the beautiful funeral.  All the well-wishers.  Starsky talking to family and friends, looking grieved, but calm on the outside.  I don't think anybody but me saw he wasn't even there on the inside, but I know you have to go through the motions.  I figured at least he was trying.  I was glad when it was over, and, feeling a little overwhelmed and choked, myself, I took him home.

He didn't say a word in the car, didn't move until we got to his house and he went inside.  This was it, the chance to finally drop the act, and I went in with him, waiting for . . . something.  A glimpse into how he really felt, the start of some kind of grieving.  We should've been past the denial stage.

Starsky went straight to his bed, lay down on top of it still in his clothes and shoes, and didn't move again.

Fatigue; I could understand that.  Funny how emotions can wipe you out in and of themselves, but he hadn't been sleeping well those last three days, either – those last three weeks, for that matter.  I let him be and started cleaning the neglected apartment, stopping a few times to blow my nose or wipe streaming eyes, trying to be quiet.

     The bedroom stayed silent.  I figured he'd fallen asleep.  God knows he needed it.  I guess we both did, but I wasn't ready to leave yet.  It was only when the sunlight in the living room started turning pink and red that I finally went to the door and looked in on him.

He wasn't asleep.  He just lay there, eyes open, staring at nothing.  As far as I could tell, he hadn't even moved except for curling up on the bed, his knees drawn to his chest.

Fetal position; a mindless response to pain.

Until then, I'd been concerned, hurting for him, protective.  But looking into that dim bedroom, I started to worry.

"Starsk?"  No matter how quietly I spoke, it sounded loud.  Not that it startled him.  I don't think he even heard.

I walked over to his bed and sank down on the edge of it, remembering very similar circumstances after Helen's funeral.  Singing had helped break through his shock then, but this was something deeper.

"Starsky?" I tried again, running a hand up his arm.  I'd been doing a lot of that the last few days, using physical contact to make sure he knew I was there.  We weren't all that hands-off on a good day, comfortable communicating any way we felt like.  God knows we have a whole dictionary built up of glances and stares, pats and touches.  And this was one of the worst times we'd ever been through, a time we'd need that connection the most.

But he wasn't hearing me.  As I watched him, I could see his eyes weren't focused, his breathing was difficult, and I finally started to understand, to catch that glimpse I thought I'd wanted.  The last few days had been a heck of an act, I realized, even more impressive than I'd suspected, because what was in front of me was how Starsky really felt.

Thank God, I've never personally experienced the depth of sorrow that left you feeling physically battered, as if the simple act of breathing required more strength than you had left.  I would one day a few years later, when I believed down to my soul Starsky was dying.  But this was back when I still had some innocence left.  Even so, I'd already dealt with enough victims and families of victims to know what I was seeing.

There would be no catharsis that night.  Crying took energy Starsky simply didn't have.

The protectiveness toward a wounded partner wasn't less even if the trail of blood he left was invisible.  "It'll get better," I whispered, hoarse anew but for a different reason now.  Then I just sat there and kept on rubbing his arm, his back, his shoulder, until the sun went down completely and the room was dark.  I finally loosened his tie and pulled it off, followed by his belt and his shoes.  It wasn't exactly sleepwear, but it was as comfortable as I could make him without a major undertaking neither of us were really up for.  I dug out a blanket for him – the homemade quilt of my grandmother's I'd given him once – covered him and stood there a minute longer, feeling the weight of my own pain and trying to imagine his.  I didn't have the strength for it, either.

"Good-night, Starsk," I said softly, and then blindly headed for the living room and the sofa there.  Guess we'd both be sleeping in our clothes because I was suddenly too tired to do anything but look for peace in sleep.

I dreamed about empty eyes.  Terry's and Starsky's.

He was just the way I'd left him the next morning when I got up, feeling like I'd been in the ring with the Omaha Tiger.  I stopped to look in as I staggered for the bathroom, almost shuddering when I saw him staring at the same wall.  I don't think he'd even slept.

But you have to take care of yourself first when you're the caretaker, and I was the only one who seemed to be functioning at the moment.  I showered, changed into one of Starsky's sweatshirts and a pair of my jeans I found at the bottom of his laundry basket, and fixed a quick breakfast of eggs I barely tasted.  Then I headed back with another plateful to Starsky's room.

No response to my coming in, to my sitting on the edge of the bed again, to the hand I dropped casually on his, checking his heart rate and temperature, then curling my fingers around his in simple comfort.

"Starsk?  You wanna talk to me here?"

A slow blink.  He had to be exhausted, his eyes ringed and heavy and a washed-out blue.

That wasn't going to work.  I slid down to a crouch beside the bed instead, at eye-level now with Starsky, in the path of his blank gaze which, ever so slowly, focused on me.

I smiled, probably sadly.  "Hi."

He was looking now, but nothing else had changed.  There was no life, no spark, as if pain pressed him immobile against the bed.  Maybe it did.  When what he felt was so great it couldn't even be captured by those expressive eyes, it had to be crushing.

The deep sigh just spilled out of me and there was another flashback, to Starsky after he'd been poisoned.  That had taken him to the very limits of his strength, too, leaving him for a few days like a weak infant in the hospital's – and my – care before he began to recover.  I knew too well how to deal with someone who didn't have the capacity to look after himself.

"C'mon, buddy," I coaxed, putting the plate down on the nightstand and shifting the glass I'd brought with it to my other hand.  I prodded Starsky's mouth with the straw.  "We can let the food slide for a day or two, but you have to drink something or I'll drag you over to Jace's and have him put an IV in."

No sign he was listening or understanding, but I managed to get him to take the straw.  Drinking was another matter, but it happened, slowly and with pushing.  That took energy and thought, too, and I could sympathize with it being an effort, but that was one thing I wouldn't budge on.

The juice gone, I gave up on trying to get anything more out of or into him.  Grief had to run its course, even if it was a long and demanding one.  With some dejection, I got to my feet and gathered the plate and glass.

"I'm not leaving," I said evenly.  "I'll be here until you're walking and talking, and you of all people know how stubborn I am."  Especially about something, or someone, I really believed in.

He just lay there.  I didn't even want to know what he was thinking.  Maybe he was too tired to think.  I hoped so because maybe at least it meant he wasn't suffering as badly as I thought he was.

Yeah, right.

     I took the full plate and empty glass back to the kitchen and put both away, and then just stared out the kitchen window into the small backyard.

     We'd had a cookout there once, Starsky and Terry and Christine and I before we broke up.  Starsky wore that stupid "Kiss the Cook" apron of his and made burnt hamburgers while I grilled vegetable ka-bobs that were perfect.  Nobody tried them – Christine and Terry were as hopeless junk food addicts as Starsky is.  They filled up on chips and very well-done hamburgers and the cake Christine had brought, while I told them I was gonna live longer than any of them.

     I don't remember anymore what the lure of that was.  Doesn't seem a bit funny now.

     What was, was that I got sick that night, an awful stomachache.  Christine had gone home, Terry was helping with the dishes and I started throwing up.  Terry offered to stay, but Starsky had sent her home with a kiss, knowing I was embarrassed.  Protecting me same as always.  He gave me some privacy until it was clear I wasn't leaving that bathroom any time soon, and next thing I know, he's in there making himself comfortable on the floor, bringing me a blanket to sit on, some ice to suck.  Yeah, he teased me about my dinner – which in no way caused the attack, of course – but he stayed there until I was finally ready to be miserable lying down, then gave up his bed without a word.

     Terry was there first thing in the morning with flat soda and popsicles and Pepto Bismol.  I'd already known they were meant to be together, but that was probably when I'd realized she was taking me in, too.

     I swallowed and rinsed the glass I held until the design was almost worn off the front.  Then I grabbed the nearest book off Starsky's shelf and went back into his bedroom.

     No response; didn't expect any.  We can be together even if he's someplace else – some part of him would know.  I curled up in the chair beside his bed, the chair I'd sat a few vigils in while he healed and suffered over the years, and started to read.

     It was morning again.  Nothing affects those cycles of life, not even when life otherwise seemed to have stopped.  I wandered into the bedroom, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, hoping to find some kind of change.  Starsky had dozed off some the day before and I'd hoped maybe at least some of the night.  Surely that had helped.

     It actually hurt to see the way he looked, an ache I couldn't isolate.  The unshaven, gaunt cheeks and blackened eyes gave him the appearance of a prisoner of war, but it was the dried tear tracks that really cut.  I hadn't heard a sound, and I'd been listening for it even in my sleep.  He probably hadn't even realized he'd been crying, the grief just overflowing.  He had to be so filled with it, there wasn't any room left.

     That was the last straw.  I was willing to give him space, let him do things as he was able, but this was killing him.  It was time to let some of the grief out and replace it with something positive.

     Like the basics.  I squared my shoulders and plastered some good cheer on.

"Rise and shine, Starsk."  It still came out gentle – how could it not with someone I cared for who was looking like that?  But he was going to do this one way or another.

     He didn't even blink.  No matter.  I walked over to the bed and pulled the quilt off, then got an arm solidly under his shoulders and began levering him up.

     "Get up, partner, busy day ahead here.  Bathroom's waiting, breakfast, then I thought maybe we'd tackle a shower, what do you think?"

     He wasn't resisting.  That would've taken energy, too.  But he wasn't helping, either, like a heavy rag doll.  Uncaring at its most powerful.

     "C'mon, Starsky."  I sat him up, had to keep him sitting up with one arm while I chafed his cheeks with my free hand.  "Gotta get moving here, buddy."

     He blinked, and actually looked at me, almost frowning.

     "That's it.  Just do a few things for me, then I'll leave you alone again."

     Another flash of memory and insight.  Me after I got away from Forest, withdrawing off the heroin into hell.  Not caring about anything but making the pain stop, and too tired to move except in drugged, agonized spasms.  Starsky had done all the work, getting me to the tiny bathroom as needed, cleaning me up, making me comfortable whenever I was able to sleep for a few moments.  Anything beyond simple survival had been unimaginably difficult, so he'd done it for me.

     Was there anything we hadn't shared or repaid by now?  I shook my head.

     He was losing a little of the lethargy now, drawing on energy I didn't know he had.  It probably came from the pain that trickled into his eyes, and I smothered a flinch.  I knew making him move meant making him feel, but there wasn't any other way.

     "C'mon, partner," I coaxed, pulling him to his feet.  "Just a few things."

     He came, lumberingly heavy and uncoordinated, but pliant.  In the bathroom, I pointed him to the toilet and shut the door and waited.

     It took ten minutes, but he did what he had to and came out again, weaving.

     Out into the kitchen next and he winced at the sunshine coming through the living room window.  I made sure I sat him facing away from it, then fixed some cream of wheat on the stove and set it in front of him.  When it cooled, I pressed a spoon into his hand.  Took him a minute to remember what to do with it, but then he ate, and drank a full glass of juice.

     Then stood so suddenly, his chair fell over, and Starsky stumbled to the kitchen sink, sweating and pale.  Apparently, cream of wheat hadn't been a great idea.  The toilet would have been easier, with Starsky's knees threatening to fold, but we made it through the nausea all right, me mostly holding him up.  Bonding over vomiting – leave it to us.

     I wet a paper towel and wiped it over his forehead, then put it on his neck.  Don't ask me why it helps but it does, I knew from experience.  "Easy, Starsk, easy.  Don't fight it," I tried to soothe, but he wasn't fighting.  His soul had curled up on itself, his body was rebelling, and he wasn't fighting it one bit.

     The nausea over, I helped him rinse out his mouth, then took him back to bed.  He immediately drew up into the same fetal curve he'd been in an hour before, the one I'd prodded him out of.

     Well, small steps, right?  I tried to pretend it was progress, that it didn't matter he hadn't said a word throughout the whole thing.  Grieving takes as many different forms as there are people.  When I lost Gillian, it had been getting drunk and sleeping all the time until Starsky had started cajoling me back to life.  But this . . . this couldn't be healthy, could it?  And not just because it was scaring me to death.

     That particular phrase made me shut my eyes and take a deep breath.  I could have used Terry there now; Starsky had never been able to say no to her.  But she was gone and it was back to just the two of us.  I would fight for him, with him if I had to, to get Starsky through this.

     For now, though, I knew the end of a battle when I saw it.  I got another book and went back into the bedroom to read.

     The soft-boiled eggs and toast at lunch also came back up.  The crackers and soup at dinner didn't.  In between, we managed a bath that took two hours, some laborious shaving, and a change into pajamas.  All with a lot of soft, urgent words from me and not a sound from him.

     The next morning, he resisted when I tried to get him up.

     "I wanna sleep."  The voice was unexercised, rough, almost painful sounding.  I thought it was beautiful.

     "Later, buddy, time to get up right now."

     "Hutch–"  That was where the argument ended, like a brief spurt of animation that had run dry.  I levered him up, supervised his getting dressed, fixed the tea and toast for breakfast and then coached him out of throwing it up.  I left him on the couch this time, the TV on and set on some talk show, which he hated.  He could get up and change the channel if he wanted.

     He didn't.  Lunch, more soft-boiled eggs, upset his stomach so much he stayed in the bathroom for an hour, then went to bed after and fell immediately asleep.

     Sleep was good, too.  Heartened, I'd cleaned up the kitchen and baked some brownies, one of his favorite desserts.  I was starting to let myself believe there was an end to this long, dark tunnel.

     I was just getting ready for another night when he awoke, panting.  I ran into the room, just in time to see any emotion wipe away, replaced by the same barren look of before.

     Oh, God, I didn't think I could stand that emptiness again.

     I crouched down by the bed, frowning when I saw he was flushed.  A hand on his cheek confirmed a low-grade fever.  So, his body didn't like what was happening, either.  That made two of us.  "Nightmare?" I asked kindly.

     He didn't even look at me.  The labored breathing was back, the drain of drawing in air, of simply living.  One step forward, two steps back, I couldn't help thinking.

     I got a wet washcloth from the bathroom, settled it over his forehead and eyes, then went to fix more tea.

     "Just drink this for me, huh?"  I got him upright enough to swallow and he drank nearly all of it before he stopped swallowing.  I made him comfortable again, drew the covers up to his chin when he shivered, and waited, my hand on the back of his neck.  But it was all he'd had strength for, his eyes sinking shut after he drank.

     I stayed there a long time, watching him sleep.  When the bedside clock read 11 p.m., I finally pushed myself to my feet, standing there a minute longer before I went out into the living room, collecting a well-worn book off the shelf and returning with it to the bedroom.  The Bible went on Starsky's nightstand, along with a fresh glass of water.  It was all I could do for the moment, but I stood a while in the doorway and thought before I finally went to bed, exhausted in mind and body.  It took a long time to go to sleep.

     It was Friday when I woke up.  Dobey was expecting me in to work the next day, unless I called.  Starsky was on bereavement leave until the following week.  I wished it felt like either of us was healing, but the tightness in my chest since the funeral had only grown worse, and Starsky . . . I refused to believe this would break him.  He was a lot stronger than that and I knew it, but I hadn't expected it to be this hard, this destructive, either.

     I went in to see how he was doing, unusually relieved to see he was still sleeping.  It was good for him, but it also meant I didn't have to deal with that blankness just yet.  I was running on fairly empty, myself, and the thought of continuing to have to function for two of us was like being weighed down with lead.  Why was the death of a loved one so physical?  Wasn't the emotional pain, the loss and grief, pain enough?  Why did it feel like surviving a car accident, hurting to move, bleeding inside?  Then to shoulder another's pain on top of that, someone you love and whose distress you could feel. . .

     I staggered into the bedroom and sank onto the floor beside Starsky's bed and wept, bitter this time, angry and more than a little confused.  No answers could have possibly filled the dark hole inside me.

     A hand, shaky and hesitant but gentle, settled on my head from above.

     I dragged in a breath without turning around.  "I loved her, too," I managed to say.

     "I know."

     He wasn't crying.  He hadn't really since the hospital.  Maybe the loss was still too deep to loosen that way.  For my part, I felt like I was emptying my heart.

     "She was beautiful."

     "Yeah."  A whisper.

     "I was lookin' forward to being your best man."

     Silence now, but Starsky's hand hadn't moved, heavy and warm on my head.  I hiccupped, then took a deep breath, tears tapering off, and felt his hand rise and fall with the motion.  Still with me, through everything, just as I was with him.

     We sat that way a long time.  I was too tired to think, but it was like soaking in a warm bath, drifting, taking a break from the work of daily living.  I wondered idly more than once if he'd fallen asleep, except it wasn't a passive touch on my head, but a light, comforting action, fingers slowly sifting down into my hair.  An effort, and he was making it.

     "She liked blue."

     I waited for more, but that was all Starsky said.  I wasn't sure what had brought that on, but even though he still sounded ragged, there was something different about those three words.  Besides the fact they were the first ones he'd volunteered.  It was another effort, one I knew took a great deal, but he'd made that one, too.

     When he fell asleep, I slipped out from under his hand and climbed stiffly onto the bed on his far side, wondering at the strength of my friend who would not save himself but would make the effort to save me, even if it meant he'd have to come along.

I fell asleep soon after that, facing him, not so dark inside as before.

Fatigue, the normal exhaustion of a body that had been run to its limits for weeks, had finally taken over.  Starsky slept through the day, the night after, and through my shift, only half-rousing when I insisted on bathroom breaks and food and drink.  Maybe it was another form of withdrawal, but at least it was a healthier one.

Starsky was still in bed when I got home Saturday afternoon, but sitting motionless against the headboard of the bed with his eyes open.  This was new, and not terribly reassuring, my heart speeding up when I saw the unfocused gaze.  At least until I got close enough to see the blue eyes weren't empty this time, but rather shining with sorrow.

"Starsk?" I ventured, approaching the bed.  Maybe I shouldn't have gone to work; I certainly hadn't felt like it, but when was grief supposed to end?  "Starsky?"

The blue eyes blinked, slowly, then wandered up to meet mine.  "How 'm I supposed to do this?" he asked, throat bobbing hard.

I slowly sat on the edge of the bed.  "Do what?"

"Go on without her.  It hurts, Hutch."

It hurts, Hutch.  Oh, God, it hurts.  I flashed onto the alley outside Martini's studio, my poisoned and dying partner in my arms.  We'd been at the end of a different rope then, but that was what it took for an admission like that.  I softened as I rested a hand on Starsky's drawn up knee.  "I know, buddy.  But you take it one day at a time, and it gets better."

A tattered indrawn breath.  "Don't know if I can make it through the day."  His voice wobbled even as he clearly struggled with it.

I smiled slightly, understanding.  "Then you take it one hour at a time, or even one minute.  You can make it through that, Starsk."

He almost managed a glance up at me, the same vague smile on his face I could remember from when he'd been poisoned, almost apologetic.  "I don't think I want to."

It was an honest admission and I couldn't fault him for it, even if it speared through me.  I remembered feeling like that a few times myself, briefly.  Starsky had usually been the one to bring me around again.

For an answer, I climbed up on the bed next to him, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder as we so often do even when there’s plenty of room to sit apart, resting one of my arms over his shoulders.  Sometimes there just wasn't a better answer than that.

His muscles were slack under my arm.  I could feel his fatigue, the desire to give up fighting because it was too hard.  Couldn't blame him for that one, either.  Life didn't have a whole heck of a lot to offer at that moment, just a battered but faithful partner.

"I don't know what to do," he whispered.

I sighed, massaging his shoulder as if I could knead strength into him.  "You keep going, Starsk.  That's the only way to get through it.  You make yourself live and move and work, and it keeps getting easier until you don't have to make yourself anymore, it just happens."

It was a long speech to make it through the obvious fog of Starsky's thoughts, but he seemed to absorb it.  Not that it seemed to make much difference.  Promises of the future were probably cold comfort in the present.

I gave him a friendly tug.  "I'll help.  I'll be right here all the way, you know that.  So will Huggy and Dobey and all your other friends.  We're gonna get through this, trust me."

We sat a long time in silence.  Somewhere along the way, Starsky started leaning on me instead of against the headboard.  I didn't mind.  We'd always leaned on each other and whether he was doing it consciously or not, I'm glad the instinct was still there.

"We were gonna go white river rafting some day."

I almost pulled away to look at him, I was so surprised.  Not just at the strong timbre of his voice, but at his words.  "Rafting?  Did Terry know how much you hate the great outdoors?"

"Didn't matter.  She wanted to go."

Simple as that.  Then again, how many times had I managed to drag him along to fancy parties and camping trips and art galleries he hated, purely because I'd wanted to go?

I took a heavy breath, remembering.

Another long silence before he spoke again.  "Sharin' a tent didn't sound too bad, either."

I sputtered a laugh involuntarily, then gave in to it as he weakly joined me.

A laugh.  An honest-to-gosh laugh after an actual conversation.  Oh, God, I prayed, maybe we were going to make it, after all.

It wasn't exactly a normal way to spend an evening, tucked against one end of the bed, hanging on to each other like the only shelter in a storm, but compared to the rest of the week, we were doing fantastic.  My standards had become awfully low, I mused, then realized who I was with and just how stupid that thought was.

Even talking, even as sporadically as we did, wore him down to the point of unconsciousness in a few hours, and he was pliant a whole different way when I helped him to bed.  It wasn't apathy anymore, but the fatigue of the suffering – and healing.  That I could accept.

It was when I was getting up from the bed, Starsky already deeply asleep, that I noticed the Bible was sitting open on the nightstand.  My eyebrows went up and I leaned in for a closer look at what my partner had been reading.  Genesis, the stories of Starsky's ancestors and a God who always looked out for his people.

Maybe he had more going for him than one used partner.  I had to admit, I was in good company.

Weary but comforted, I dragged myself to bed and was asleep soon after.

I stood, somewhat unsteady, and stared at the remnants of an abandoned Monopoly game, torn gift wrap, and a lot of beer bottles littering the floor of Starsky's kitchen.  It had been a good night, our own little wake, celebrating Terry's life and the last presents she'd left us.  I had a feeling Ollie, the bear she'd given me, would be winding up in Starsky's care soon, more a memory – and more needed – for him than for me.  But the other part of her charge, looking after Starsky, was one I had no intention of giving up.

He'd gone to bed soon after we'd opened the gifts, too drunk and miserable to keep up the game.  The memories were still bittersweet at best, but we both knew there was light ahead now.  He was back at work, trying hard, I was still sleeping over a lot, and together we managed to keep going.  I knew it was going to get easier, sooner or later, but I sure wouldn't have minded sooner.  It was taking all we had just to keep going, and I missed the easy good times of the past, the simple moments of contentment and joy.  Acceptance was a good start, but it was only a start.

Shaking my head and unutterably tired, I started collecting empties off the floor.

That was when I heard him.

He hadn't cried since she'd died, at least not in front of me.  There were signs of tears before, sometimes when I came in in the morning, but I didn't think he'd even been aware of them.  Certainly there wasn't any of the bawling I'd done when Gillian had died – deeply embarrassing but such a relief.  I'd started to figure maybe we just dealt with things differently.

Maybe not.

I was drawn to the bedroom door, to the sound of his sobs, through the basic magnetic attraction of a partner in pain, the lump in my own throat growing, even though I was unsure if I should intervene or how.  Pain could be a desperately private thing.

And oh so lonely.

We'd always healed better together.  I was moving before I even made the conscious decision.

A minute later we were sitting in the middle of the bed, Starsky sobbing onto my shoulder, me silently crying with him, hanging on for dear life.

But it was life now, I was sure of it.  The final choice was made that night.

And it did get better after that.  That was the lowest I've ever seen him go, through poisoning, shootings, sicknesses, kidnapping and torture.  Starsky's a fighter, with a spirit that doesn't give up and a God and a partner on his side who won't let him quit.

We're both survivors.  I learned that about him, he taught me that about myself.  But we still survive best together.