The Same Language

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2002
Ouch! 14 (2002)

     It would be a stupid way to die.

     That was all Hutch could think in the precious few moments of dwindling oxygen. Fingers tightened on his throat, and his field of vision was beginning to narrow to the anger-twisted features of Louis Thasker. The mild-mannered accountant whom he and Starsky had just served with a search warrant for financial records. The small man who’d meekly let them into his house and stood watching nervously in one corner as Hutch had begun searching and Starsky went out to talk to some officers.

     And who’d then crept up behind Hutch and, catching him off-guard, first knocked him to the floor, then straddled him and started to single-mindedly squeeze. Hutch’s arms were pinned to his sides by Thasker’s knees, and all he could reach with his hands was the man’s back, not the more vulnerable throat or ears and eyes. But no amount of beating against that surface or bucking his hips or kicking loosened Thasker’s astonishingly strong grip.

     Manual strangulation by an accountant while serving a routine warrant. Hutch would never live it down.  And then the black spots in his vision grew, eclipsing even Thasker’s face, and morbid humor was swept away by real panic. It was now or never.

     Hutch threw all his strength into one more thrust upward, trying to dislodge the weight on his chest, those crushing fingers. But Thasker seemed inhumanly stuck to him, grasp never easing.

     Oh, God, he was going to die. Starsky would be so mad.

     And the rush of blood in his ears reached a crescendo, his vision all black, and one last thought escaped before even that went.

     He hadn’t been ready.

     Pain and the lack of air were his first clues he wasn’t dead.

     Hutch gasped in a large breath, only to find most of it wasn’t getting through. His chest was lined with lead, almost too heavy to expand, and his throat was blazing raw, protesting even that thin stream of air. He coughed—that hurt—and tried again, almost as frustrated as he was scared to get the same result. The buzzing in his ears was starting to drown him again, and maybe this time he wouldn’t wake up.

     “Take small breaths.”

     An authoritative voice. It made him listen, caught his attention away for a moment from the struggle for air.

     “Don’t try to breathe deep, Hutch, just little breaths. You can do that.”

     A kind voice, gentle and encouraging. Despite his instincts, he curtailed his next gulp into a sip and found that neither his heavy lungs nor his closed-off throat protested as much. The pounding of blood through his head grew a little quieter.

     “That’s good. Keep breathing, small breaths. You’re doin’ fine.”

     A very worried voice, and it probably went with the hand that was rubbing his back, because he knew who was there now. The corner of Hutch’s mouth automatically turned up and, distracted, he drew in a deep breath and began to choke again.

     “Easy, easy. I know it’s hard but you can do it. Just breathe shallow.”

     Hutch was listening more to his partner’s voice than to the words, focusing on doing what he knew he was being told. It still burned and scraped and took tremendous effort, but the small inhalations were pulling him back from the verge of blacking out again.

     Slowly the crisis began to ease,  and he finally began to notice other things. Like that the weight of Thasker was completely gone—no surprise there—and Hutch was on his side, his upper shoulder propped against something that felt like a knee. The carpet was making his nose itch, but the very thought of sneezing horrified Hutch. He rolled his face away from it, feeling now the trickle of saliva that trailed to the floor from his mouth. And finally hearing clearly the awful wheezing that was no doubt coming from him and no doubt royally frightening his partner. All-in-all, Hutch thought with some embarrassment, he had to be quite the picture.

     He bent his will next toward opening his eyes, and found another knee in front of his face. A slightly higher angle caught Starsky’s face, ducked down to see him. A grin creased the dark features, but Hutch’s vision was clear enough to see its unsteadiness, the crinkle of the blue eyes, the pallor beneath the flush of exertion. Yup, thoroughly frightened.

     He opened his mouth to protest he was all right, if Starsky hadn’t already figured that out, but that was another stupid move. His throat seemed to close up altogether, only a squeak making it out.

     Starsky’s smile disappeared and he bent lower, face nearly level with Hutch’s now. “Take it easy. No talkin’, no nothin’, just breathe for me, huh?”

     Orders and encouragement were one thing, pleading was something else. Hutch shut his eyes again for a moment, intent on nothing else but oxygen and relieving both their fear.

     Starsky had found a handkerchief somewhere—probably Hutch’s own pocket—and dabbed at his mouth with it, then his hand returned a moment later without the cloth to sympathetically brush sweaty hair out of Hutch’s face and then settle on his head. There were few things that felt quite so protective, so…safe, and Hutch let it smooth away the lingering panic and relax his breathing even further. Air was still a deep, hungry craving, but it no longer felt like one that would never be quenched.

     “Good boy,” Starsky said warmly. “You just concentrate on that. I’ll take care of everything else.”

     So what else was new? Life was so simple with Starsky around. You took care of your partner, he took care of you, and everything else took care of itself. Speaking of which, Hutch found one of his hands and clumsily managed to hoist it onto Starsky’s knee.

     “You’re gonna be okay, Hutch.” Starsky’s relieved words were for himself this time, and Hutch almost smiled. Taking care of your partner, indeed.

     He was content to lie there and breathe, until paramedics came and put a mask over his face that, once he got over his initial panic, made it even easier. Cleared his head so much, in fact, that Hutch was able to snag Starsky’s jacket and make it very clear even without words that he wanted his partner to go with him. Nobody argued with him, which was good because he couldn’t have fought with a puppy at that point, and he was trying not to even think about speaking. Starsky just patted his hand and went along.

     So, who said they needed words?

     Of course, words were very useful sometimes.

     Hutch lay on the cranked-up hospital bed, trying to keep heavy eyes open as Starsky talked from a nearby chair. His words kept getting lost in the hiss of the oxygen and Hutch’s fatigue, and more than once Hutch had to lift a hand and get Starsky to go back and repeat himself. They’d offered him a pad of paper to communicate with, but holding a pen and writing seemed too much an effort. So Hutch blinked hard and tried to listen.

     “…tomorrow for a psyc evaluation. Guy was still rantin’ and ravin’ when Trahan and Donaldson dragged him outside. Figure that’s the only way we coulda…you—you’re not so easy to…”

     Hutch mentally sighed, a real sigh too painful, as he started to lose the train again. His hearing was fine, but his brain still felt slow and oxygen-deprived. He’d gotten the gist that Starsky had returned to the room just in time to pull Thasker off Hutch and send him away with the uniforms, and that he himself would be fine, no crushed windpipe—obviously—no brain damage, no permanent injury, just a very bruised and swollen throat that would take a good week to completely heal. Beyond that, he couldn’t seem to process, not even to find out how long he’d be in the hospital. Hutch shifted restlessly.

     Starsky trailed off, then stood, catching Hutch’s attention again. He was going to leave, now? With him like this? But Starsky crossed to the bed, easing down on its edge. That close it was hard not to focus on him and what he said.

     “I know this isn’t your favorite place, but it’s only temporary, Hutch. You can leave as soon as you can breathe okay without the mask. Then we go home and you spend a day in bed, a few more days restin’ your voice, and we’re back on the streets.”

     Hutch gave him a hard look.

     Starsky grinned. “Scout’s honor. This won’t last long. You can even go back to desk duty until your voice comes back.”

     Hutch rolled his eyes.

     His partner laughed. “Beats bein’ here.” He nodded at Hutch. “Why don’tcha take a nap, then we’ll see how you’re doin’.”

     Even the word “nap” made him want to yawn, he was so tired. But it just felt so damnably vulnerable. He couldn’t even call for help if something was wrong.

     Starsky leaned forward, stilling Hutch’s unconsciously fidgety hand with his own calm one. “I’ll be right here. Nothin’ to worry about, I promise.”

     Being transparent somehow didn’t bother him this way, not with his partner, though Hutch couldn’t help a flush at the childishness of his fears. Next he’d be needing a nightlight.

     “Hey, if it helps,” Starsky shrugged, and for a startled moment, Hutch wasn’t sure if he meant staying or a nightlight. “I’ve needed ya here a couple times, too. Now go to sleep, blondie.”

     It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. And even as his eyes closed, Hutch couldn’t help but think that he had a voice, after all.

     There were few things Hutch hated more than doing paperwork, but doing it voiceless was one.

     Actually, voiceless wasn’t quite the correct term. If he tried, he could manage to get out some squeaks and grunts that sounded like a pig in labor but by no stretch of the imagination could be considered speech. Then again, Hutch soon found out his partner’s imagination stretched a great deal farther than his own.

     He held up the file he was working on, organizing the affidavits into coherent order for the upcoming trial. Starsky, at his desk across from Hutch, looked up at once, his face a question.

     “Utt Bur j?”

     Starsky’s face creased. “Butler? Wasn’t he the janitor?”

     “T sl?”

     A nod. “Yeah.”

     Hutch nodded, going back to the file. The school janitor—that made sense. No wonder he’d found the murdered teacher in the middle of the night. Still…

     He looked back up again. “Ey una ch ni?”

     “Yeah, Eney did. Guy came out clean, no record.”

     Hutch raised his eyebrows.

     “I know it doesn’t mean anything,” Starsky said with exasperation, “but Gandel is our guy. Even the DA’s sure.”

     Hutch conceded that with a nod and went back to sorting. Asking questions was their job, even when they had a suspect in custody. No arrest record was worth putting innocent people behind bars.

     Starsky abruptly shoved his chair back from his desk and the typewriter he’d been hunting and pecking on. As Hutch looked up, he nodded his head toward the door. “I’m starvin’. You wanna go get some lunch?”

     Hutch made a face. Never a big eater himself, unlike his partner, food was even less enticing now that just about everything hurt going down. And he was still so tired that just the trek down to the cafeteria seemed too far.

     Starsky winced. “Sorry, I forgot. How ‘bout I see if they can make ya a milkshake downstairs? You know Agnes would do anything for you.” He winked.

     Hutch nearly groaned, but a milkshake sounded too good to pass up. Even his health shake that morning had scratched and scraped its way down, with its gritty consistency. A cold, smooth drink sounded like heaven. He nodded, trying not to look too eager.

     “Strawberry?” Starsky asked.

     That was usually his favorite, but he didn’t even want to risk bits of fruit just then. “Nil.”

     “Okay, vanilla. Be right back.”

     Hutch licked his lips and turned back to the bulging file.

     The squadroom was busy around him, detectives hurrying in and out. Hutch was used to ignoring the bustle, until a courier appeared in front of Starsky’s desk. Hutch frowned at him.

     “This Sgt. Starsky’s desk?”

     Hutch nodded mutely.

     “Do you know when he’s comin’ back?”

     He forgot himself. “Oo.”

     The courier, a young, freckled office boy, blinked at him. “Huh?”

     Hutch impatiently grabbed at a notepad on the corner of the desk and wrote, “Soon.”

     “Uh, okay. Cap’n Christian over in Robbery wanted to know if the Thompson’s department store heist report was ready yet.”

     Hutch opened his mouth, snapped it shut again, then grabbed his pencil again. “Almost. Have it by this afternoon.”

     The courier read the words silently, his lips moving. Then he looked back up at Hutch. “Cap’n Christian’s gonna want to know what the delay is. Say, what’s the matter with you, anyway, can’t you talk?”

     If looks could have drilled holes, the courier would have had a neat one bored between his eyes.

     Starsky chose that moment to come sailing into the room, milkshake in one hand and a paper bag in the other. It must have only taken a moment to figure out there was a problem.

     “What’s goin’ on?”

     The courier and Hutch spoke at the same moment.

     “Cap’n Christian sent me over for a file and this guy won’t talk to me.”

     “E aun Tn fl bees be ana.”

     Starsky tossed a reproving look at Hutch—okay, okay, so maybe “ass” had been too strong a word—and turned to the courier. “The reason Detective Hutchinson isn’t talkin’ to ya is ‘cause his throat was injured in the line of duty.” The kid automatically turned to look at him, but Hutch hadn’t worn a turtleneck sweater that day for nothing. He gave the courier a smug look instead. “Which he coulda let you know you if you’d been a little more patient. That’s why we’re behind on the paperwork, too, but tell Cap’n Christian he’ll have it by—“ he glanced at Hutch.

     “Th afno.”

     “--this afternoon.” Starsky finished. He gave the kid a patronizing smile. “Anything else?”

     “Uh, no. Sorry.” The last was directed hastily at Hutch, and then the courier was out the door.

     Starsky watched him go, shaking his head before he sank back into his chair. “Were we ever that young an’ dumb?” He glanced over with a grin. “No pun intended.”

     Hutch resisted the impulse to stick his tongue out at his partner—that was more Starsky’s style—and instead made a dignified face at him. Starsky just grinned.

     “Hey, got you that milkshake. Agnes sends it with her love.”

     Hutch winced.

     “Don’t worry about it, I told her you were spoken for.”

     A raised eyebrow.

     Starsky looked surprised. “What’shername, the brunette with the long legs.”

     “Tre”

     “Tracy, yeah.”

     “Ee bru as wee.”

     Starsky paused from unwrapping his cheeseburger to give him an apologetic look. “Sorry, you never said anything. Her idea or yours?”

     “Bo.”

     Starsky nodded sympathetically. “Best way to go,” he agreed, taking a bite of his burger. “Alicia’s back with her old boyfriend. Guess you an’ I are stuck with each other.”

     “U do er a dr yls rnn ag.”

     Starsky laughed. “Shut up and drink your milkshake.”

     It was frustrating to need a translator.

     The deluge of old paperwork finally stemmed a bit, they’d switched to current cases. But half of a cop’s work was talking to people, on the phone, in person. With that taken away, all you could do was write, think, look up information, and have someone else ask your questions for you.

     Which Starsky had been doing the past hour, almost glued to the phone as Hutch wrote or croaked out one question after another. Starsky didn’t seem to be tired of it, and it wasn’t like they’d never been each other’s voice before, though usually when the other was out of circulation completely, not sitting right there next to him. Nor was it often during a case, when rapid-fire communication was sometimes a must. In all, it felt very limiting, and if there was anything that chafed Hutch, it was limitations.

     Starsky hung up the phone, turning soberly toward him. “I think you were right about Mobley. Nobody’s seen or heard anything from him since Saturday.”

     So the fact that Mobley, a house painter, was the only apparent link between two missing people maybe wasn’t just coincidence. Hutch thought for a minute, then suddenly sat up, snapping his fingers.

     “Thhow!”

     Starsky frowned. “Mobley’s house?”

     Hutch shook his head vehemently. “Chi.”

     “Chittam’s? But he said Mobley never showed up…” The light dawned. “You think Mobley took the women to Chittam’s?”

     “Chi no the.” Ralph Chittam had hired Wallace Mobley to paint the house he’d bought before he moved into it, but it was still uninhabited. Perhaps the missing painter had showed up, after all.

     “Yeah, empty house like that would be perfect,” Starsky agreed. He reached for the phone, then thought better of it and grabbed his jacket instead. “I’ll go check it out.”

     Hutch understood the urge to go in person instead of asking a black-and-white to stop by, especially since the two missing young women had made the case more urgent and absorbing. But there was no way he was allowed out on the streets—Dobey had been very clear on that—and the thought of Starsky going alone made Hutch very uneasy.

     He grabbed Starsky’s sleeve, got his partner’s attention.

     “Tay Bun.”

     Starsky’s impatience gave way to understanding and a small smile. “You worry too much, you know that?” But he glanced across the room and called to the black detective sitting a few desks away, “Hey, Gabe, you free to take a ride?”

     Gabe Bonhomme looked up from his paperwork. “A ride? Where?”

     “Check out an empty house. Hutch’s nervous about me goin’ alone.”

     He flushed a little at the words but didn’t back down, still holding on to his partner’s jacket. Starsky could call it whatever he wanted, as long as he indulged it.

     Bonhomme’s grin at Hutch wasn’t mocking, though. “Yeah, sure, I could use some fresh air.” He stood, shrugging into his suit jacket. “I’ll bring him back in one piece, Hutch.”

     “Et. Own usat juhee or.”

     Bonhomme frowned. “What was that, buddy?”

     Starsky laughed, heading toward the door, Bonhomme one step behind him. “You don’t wanna know.”

     Hutch grimaced after them, glad at least Starsky hadn’t claimed he was insulting the Haitian detective’s parentage or something. It was a dangerous thing, being at that idiot’s mercy to speak for him. Starsky was too sympathetic and concerned to take full advantage of Hutch’s disadvantage, but there were flashes of mischief in those dark eyes that he knew would only grow.

     And yet he couldn’t help but wish he were the one riding with that idiot at that moment and watching his back. He trusted Bonhomme, more than he would have most of his other brothers in blue, but there was just no substitute for being there himself.

     Hutch turned back to the paperwork. A minute later, he reached for the phone, before catching himself with a grunt of frustration. Great, left behind and alone, without a voice. Could things get any worse?

     He ignored the creep up his spine that reminded him, indeed, they could.

     The next hour passed very, very slowly and quietly.

     At least the other detectives knew enough to leave him alone, knowing about both his muteness and his absent partner. No one in the squadroom didn’t know what it was like to worry about your partner because you weren’t there with him. The one question he did get asked, by a patient Simmons who then waited for a written answer, Hutch had to answer twice, his distracted scrawl illegible on the first attempt.

     Waiting for news from Starsky was bad enough, but even worse was his inability to do his job in the meantime. Already Hutch had started a list of calls and questions from the information he was sorting through for his partner to follow through on upon his return. When you couldn’t be a good partner or a good cop, what did that leave?

     Mood sinking even lower, Hutch pulled his pocket watch out and propped it in front of him on the desk, then went back to the old case files they were behind in finishing. At least those were closed and didn’t require any phone calls, though working on old cases didn’t make him feel a lot more useful.

     An hour crept by.

     Hutch watched the minute hand move on to the next digit, now an hour and one minute, and bent over the notepad and wrote a careful question. Getting up, he strode into Dobey’s office and placed it on the desk in front of his boss.

     The captain looked up, first at him, then at the piece of paper. “‘Any word from Starsky yet?’” he read aloud. Back up at Hutch. “Not yet,” he shook his head. “He hasn’t called in?”

     Hutch shrugged. There was no police radio in the squadroom, and Dobey didn’t usually have his unit on unless there was a reason. The uniforms used the radio far more than the detectives.

     “I’ll check on it. Sit down, Hutch.”

     He sat.

     The phone rang just as Dobey was reaching for it, and he gave Hutch a slightly apologetic look as he picked it up. “Dobey.”

     A long silence. And then Dobey looked up at him, eyes suddenly pinched. Hutch stomach tightened and he leaned forward.

     “That’s all?” Another silence. “All right. Hold on a minute, I have Starsky’s partner right here.” Putting one hand over the receiver, he addressed Hutch. “What call was Starsky going on?”

     Hutch opened his mouth, then closed it with a frustrated snap. He grabbed his notepad instead from in front of Dobey and wrote a hurried few words before dropping it back in front of his boss.

     “Looking for Mobley out at house was supposed to paint—think he kidnapped two women. What’s wrong?”

     Dobey relayed the information before addressing Hutch in undertones. “Shots fired at the scene and an officer’s down.”

     Hutch nearly dropped the notepad in his haste to retrieve it, his hand shaking as he wrote one word.

     “Starsky?”

     Dobey just shrugged, still listening to the telephone. He reached absently over to snap on the transmitter unit behind him, but the voices Hutch could strain out all seemed to be units that were responding and no one knew anything yet.

     He grabbed the notepad and began to write, showing Dobey each line and half-listening to his boss pass it on while he wrote the next one.

     “Mobley house-painter, 8^th grade education.

     “Suspect in disappearances of Julia Cornwall and Emily Klassen—painted for them.

     “Thought he might be hiding them at empty house he was to paint. Owned by Tim Chittam.

     “Starsky went to check out with Gabe.”

     And then he sat in frozen agony and waited.

     The units had arrived on scene, and shots were heard in the background, as well as breathless reports of a stand-off and hostage situation. SWAT was already rolling, but no one could give a clear report of what was going on. Only that an officer was down.

     Hutch closed his eyes, trying to both listen and not hear. If they didn’t give him more than that and soon, he was going down there himself to find out what was going on. Even now, only the reluctance to leave the radio even for a minute, and the knowledge that Dobey might need more from him, kept him fixed to that chair.

And then he heard the voice he had been listening for and almost not expecting to hear.

“This is Zebra-3. Situation stable, suspect under arrest. Requesting ambulances for three persons, including officer with non-lethal injury. Code four on-scene.”

 Starsky, tired and winded, but very alive. Hutch’s throat seemed to narrow even more and he sagged in his seat. Dobey gave him a small smile and he found he could return it. An officer was hurt—Bonhomme, maybe?—but it wasn’t Starsky, and while Hutch felt a little guilty over his relief at that, at least it didn’t sound too serious. Mobley was also caught, and with the request for three ambulances, maybe his two victims were found alive, too. In all, it was very, very good news.

Dobey was still on the phone, coordinating clean-up, mostly ignoring Hutch now. But he did pause for a moment as his detective stood. They traded a long look, no words needed. And then Hutch walked back out into the squadroom, feeling both older and lighter than when he’d gone in.

The paperwork didn’t seem to make sense anymore, though, and Hutch finally shoved it to one side with a sigh. Catching up on old files suddenly wasn’t all that important.

The phone rang.

Hutch pounced on it before thinking, then sat in stupid silence with it cradled against his ear. Just what had he thought he’d do with a telephone?

“Hutch?” Starsky spoke up at the other end. “It’s me.”

He blew out a very grateful breath.

“I’m okay—Mobley was here and Gabe got a little winged, but he’s gonna be okay and the girls are kinda banged up but they’re safe, too. I’m goin’ in with Gabe but I’ll be back as soon as I can. You doin’ okay?”

Hutch didn’t even try to say it all, just made do with a quiet, “Mm-hmm.”

“Good.” Starsky’s voice still sounded a little shaky—adrenalin aftereffects, Hutch knew from experience—but it steadied as he grew quieter. “I know what it’s like bein’ on the waiting end, but I wanted you t’know everything’s fine.”

I’m fine, was the unspoken assertion, in case Hutch hadn’t gotten it the first time. And maybe he really hadn’t, because his shoulders and spine were only now beginning to untighten.

     “See ya, blondie.” The line went dead. A good-bye that wasn’t as light as it pretended to be, but Hutch got the message. Don’t worry. He wasn’t the only one who didn’t necessarily need the words.

     Hutch pulled the pile of files back in front of him and found he could concentrate on them again, and silently went to work.

     Three days of paperwork, followed by a quiet weekend, were far more rest than his throat needed, in Hutch’s opinion. Especially since Starsky had done most of the talking for him at work, then filled in the silence the bulk of the weekend, too, as they spent one afternoon on the beach and the following evening watching movies on TV, his partner’s favorite pastime. Monday morning found Hutch ready for street duty and conversation.

     “So, how does it feel?” Starsky asked with a grin as they peeled away from the curb, heading in to Parker.

     “Like I’m part of the world again,” Hutch answered. His voice was still weak and a little hoarse, but he’d tried it out on his neighbor the day before and Mrs. Johnson had understood him just fine.

     Starsky’s grin lost some of its playfulness. “It was that bad, huh?”

     “Couldn’t do my job, couldn’t back you up, couldn’t use the phone, couldn’t even sing. You try it for a week.”

     “No thanks.”

     Hutch paused. “Could’ve been worse.”

     “Yeah?” Starsky glanced over at him, expression curious. “I guess it could’ve been two weeks. Or Thasker coulda killed ya.”

     Funny, he hadn’t thought of that. Trust Starsky to. But Hutch shook his head, getting back to his point, and said softly, “At least I had you.” When Starsky had walked into the squadroom that afternoon after arresting Mobley, it’d been like a restoration of communication, not just of his partner.

     And then he’d realized that had always been true, not just that week. Only with Starsky did he have the shorthand, the history, the common language that a good chunk of his personal contact depended on. It gave a whole new meaning to the idea of losing his voice.

     Starsky had given him a laden glance but hadn’t answered, hadn’t needed to. He understood almost as well as if he’d been the one without a voice that past week. Which was the whole point.

     Starsky finally cleared his throat. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told that brunette on the beach then that you were a deaf-mute.”

     Hutch’s jaw fell open and he stared at his partner. “The…the one with the long…”

     “Yeah.” The mix of guilt and amusement in his partner’s expression would have been comical if not for how very much it made Hutch want to strangle him. He just glowered instead.

     And didn’t speak to Starsky the rest of the way in.