See Reverse for Care

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2002

Remot Control 21 (2004)

     David Starsky was bored.

     Which was a strange thing to be when you were sitting tied to a chair, but he would have defied anyone who’d been in those same circumstances for six days not to be bored, too.

     The first day, there had been some barely controlled fear and the argument of hope. The snatch had occurred in bright daylight, right in front of his house, just a gun stuck out of a car window as he was getting into the Torino, ordering him instead into the backseat of the old Honda. Starsky had obeyed, dropping his badge surreptitiously in the street before he did, glancing up and down the street for witnesses. Retired Mister Fiser diagonally across the street was watering his lawn but was intent on his task, and some kids were playing a few houses down. It didn’t look too promising, but you never knew who saw what. Starsky had inched up his hands theatrically and climbed into the backseat with exaggerated care, and hoped some busybody good citizen was watching.

     No rescue had come, however. But then, as in the days that followed, there was no violence from Starsky’s floppy-haired, rumpled young abductor, either, only not-too-uncomfortable restraints, taken off when he was eating or had to use the facilities, and moved to the bed at night. Starsky had tested the ropes a few times, but they were well-tied and thick and he’d just rubbed his wrists raw, so he’d finally given up that avenue. But it was actually a surprisingly humane arrangement for a kidnapping, and slowly fear had dissolved into curiosity, then thoughtfulness, and finally, six days later, boredom.

     It didn’t help that Charlie—that was his captor’s name—hadn’t been by for hours. Their last talk had been that morning over breakfast, a slightly mushy grapefruit and toast with butter and jam. Okay, so it was more Hutch’s fare than his, but it beat starving by miles. And they say it’s the company that really matters.

     Because the company, after the first flare of anger at the one-sided arrangement had faded, turned out to be not so bad. It didn’t take long to figure out that under Charlie Ellison’s laconic, moody exterior was a young man who’d lost his only sister to a freak stabbing in a holding cell after she’d been arrested for possession. A cell Starsky had put her in just a few weeks before. He hadn’t even heard; it was easy to lose track of cases when there were so many, especially the smaller ones like Cheryl Ellison’s. When cops weren’t called to testify on a case, they assumed the DA had bargained it out pre-trial. Charlie, however, had been left lost and sister-less, trying to make sense of things the only way he knew how, by confronting on his terms the cop who’d taken his sister away from him. Once that was understood, Starsky didn’t mind the forced vacation so much and hadn’t even taken advantage of some lapses of attention he possibly could have used to escape. The kid wasn’t all that bad, just confused, and that was one thing Starsky understood. The way their discussions were going, he figured Charlie would let him go by the weekend.

     It was a good thing, too, because for all his lack of qualms over his own situation, Starsky was really worried about the one outside Charlie’s little world. Namely, his friends and family, who would be anxious about him, and particularly one Ken Hutchinson, who would be pacing circles in some corner of Parker Center and scaring himself sick with the what-ifs of Starsky’s disappearance. It wasn’t the first time they’d pulled this act on the other; Starsky could remember too clearly the utter panic of his search for his partner when Forest had snatched the blond, and then a little over a year later, when Hutch had lain under his car in Topanga Canyon for two long days before Starsky had found him. And, in turn, there had been his own kidnapping at Simon Marcus’s hands, and then some time later, again by Marcus’s followers. He’d been too shell-shocked and battered to remember much of the immediate aftermath of either time, but when the fog cleared, some part of him had realized Hutch looked nearly as bad as he did. There were few things as terrifying as not knowing whether your partner, your best friend, was dead or suffering or had vanished for good. 

     And Hutch was going through that while Starsky sat, perfectly safe, in the tiny room somewhere in the heart of the city.

     Actually, Starsky was bored by choice, because thinking too long about what his friends were going through would have been just as bad as anything Charlie could have subjected him to. So Starsky sat in his chair in the barren room, listening to the distant sounds of cars and sirens and the life that eddied around him, and let himself be bored stiff.

     There was a crash and an indistinct yell that sounded a few rooms over, closer than the muted city noises, and Starsky idly turned his attention that way. Charlie lived in some sort of row house, and while each unit was partially isolated from its neighbors sound-wise—enough so they couldn’t hear him scream, Charlie had assured him—the occasional shattering noise penetrated the walls. At least, Starsky thought that was what he was hearing. Either that or Charlie was watching TV awfully loud. But it was all the entertainment he had besides watching the occasional cockroach scuttle by, and Starsky took it.

     Another crash, a little closer. Starsky’s brows drew together. Maybe Charlie was losing it? He’d actually seemed to be calming down through the process of their talks, working through his sister’s death and the choices she’d made that had brought her to that holding cell. Starsky had really thought they were making progress.

     Something large and made of glass broke with an audible smash in what sounded like the room next door, followed by muffled thumps. Starsky’s heart began to speed up. Was someone breaking in? The kid, for all his bravado, ultimately wasn’t that tough, and worry about him gnawed at Starsky. If only the door would open….

     The door opened. Starsky blinked at the sight of first person who stepped through it.

     “Hutch!”

     He grinned, fear swooping up into joy. He hadn’t even dared hope for that, but there the big blond was, standing in the small room’s doorway, in one piece…white as a sheet of paper, eyes red-rimmed with extreme fatigue, and staring like he had just seen the dead rise.

     Starsky’s smile wavered. “Hutch?”

     “Starsk?” Speaking seemed to make it more real, and finally Hutch moved with stuttering steps to Starsky’s side, his Colt hanging loosely in his hand, and fell to one knee. He was staring the whole time at Starsky, joy seemingly overwhelmed in his haggard face. The hands that reached automatically behind Starsky’s back to work at the knots were clearly trembling.

     Starsky, understanding too well, became gentle. “Hey, I’m okay. Not a scratch, buddy, I promise.”

     The weary, almost blank blue eyes had finally pulled away from his to peer around at the stubborn ropes, and his voice was a tired murmur from behind Starsky. “Tell that to your wrists.”

     “My wrists are fine,” Starsky insisted. “He just kept me tied up—hey, where’s Charlie?”

     “Charlie?” It was an almost unfamiliar tone of voice. Hutch swiveled around to meet his eyes again briefly, his face nearly as unreadable. “You mean Ellison?”

     This was, Starsky suddenly realized, thin ice to be treading a bare minute into his rescue. It would have been as impossible for him to understand any personal connection Hutch would have made—if he had—to those who had forcibly abducted him before, as it would be now for Hutch to understand Charlie was just a mixed-up kid who’d done something stupid. “Yeah, Ellison,” Starsky said, then more softly. “He didn’t hurt me, Hutch. I just wanna make sure he gets a fair shake.”

     The blond head ducked back down. “He’s under arrest in Gennaro’s car. I think his nose’s broken.”

     Starsky wondered briefly who had done the breaking, then decided it wasn’t important. If the kid was safe, they could sort all that out later. Now, his only concerns were a hot shower, a change of clothes, a drink, and to make sure his partner was okay, not in that order.

     The ropes finally loosened, then gave, and Hutch switched to the ones binding Starsky’s feet to the wooden legs of the chair. Charlie had been decent but thorough.

     As he rubbed his chafed wrists, Starsky studied the blond kneeling in front of him. Even from that position, he could see the quaver in shoulders that had been tensed too long and were no doubt knotted and stiff, the heaviness of fatigue that bowed him, the unwashed, unruly strands of hair that spoke of personal neglect. Even Charlie had let Starsky take a brief shower and wash his hair at one point.

     One ankle was freed, but Starsky was content to let his partner undo the other also. Besides his fingers feeling stiff and cramped, there was the fact Hutch needed something to keep busy with at that moment.

     Hutch finally spoke again, as if he’d been summoning the strength to do so. Or struggling not to say more.

     “You sure you’re okay?”

A gruff, almost offhanded question, but man, even his voice sounded weary, limp like a rubber band that had stretched too thin and couldn’t snap back now. Long hours of sleeplessness alone didn’t do that to you. That fine patina of fatigue took days of unrelenting worry and tension.

     “I’m fine. Little tired and starvin’ for a meatball sub, but I’m fine. How’re you doin’? You miss me?” The last he couldn’t resist, an irrepressible add-on. Maybe it would break through the aloofness Hutch seemed to have brought with him like a personal shield.

      The “sub” line earned him a snort, but he saw Hutch’s shoulders contract at the last bit. Still, it was with a feeble attempt at a smile that Hutch lifted his face to Starsky as the last rope came undone, and stood to offer his hand. “Nope. Think Milton did, though. And Dobey was a little concerned. You know how he feels about being short-staffed.”

     Milton the spider plant, and his boss. It made for a sorry list of those who cared about him, if Starsky had believed it for a second. He took the offered hand, and the offered attempt at returning to normalcy, and grinned. “Dobey always liked me better,” he said smugly.

     “In your dreams, Narcissus.” But Hutch’s face didn’t look quite so harsh anymore, the blue eyes starting to soften with relief and even a muted, bewildered joy. His hand reached up seemingly of its own free will and rested, cool, against Starsky’s cheek for a minute as if feeling to make sure he was alive, then sliding back along his neck to ruffle his hair.

     And then the other officers on scene began arriving, and the two of them were swallowed in the chaos of welcome backs, relieved fellow cops, and back poundings. Hutch faded back to let Starsky have his moment.

     As if he didn’t realize any moments worth having included him.

     Hutch had insisted on driving them home, nearly a week away from the wheel apparently too long in his determination for Starsky to remember how it was done. But Starsky let the assertion go without more than a token protest, knowing this, too, was less about him and more about Hutch. Nor had he said a word about the fact that the car they were in, the one Hutch had driven to the scene, wasn’t the blond’s LTD, but the Torino.

     Dobey had shown up somewhere amidst the hubbub of Starsky’s rescue and, after a gruff welcome, had dismissed them both until the next day. Never one to argue about putting off paperwork, Starsky went, only checking first to make sure Charlie really was all right. He was bloody and sullen but safe, sitting handcuffed in an unmarked unit, and a night in a cell wouldn’t hurt him. Starsky decided he’d figure out what to do with him the next day.

But for now, Hutch was staring dangerously at the kid, and it was time to go home. Of course, it had taken some argument before Hutch was finally willing to go home instead of the completely unnecessary hospital, but he’d finally given in. Starsky suspected he was just too tired to argue.

     Between savoring being in his beloved car again and the familiar cityscape flashing past the window, Starsky snuck peeks at his driver, seeing in turn the glances Hutch couldn’t seem to help throwing at him. And the hard knot of a week’s worry about this man’s worry over him softened into humble gratitude. Who was he to cause this much concern in anyone other than his Ma simply by his absence? He knew the why from personal experience when the tables were turned, but the who never ceased to amaze him.

     And exasperate him. And distress him.

     But usually the situation was extreme enough that he was barely or not at all aware of what was going on, let alone how Hutch was doing. Hutch’s worry was something that had crossed his mind, but hadn’t sat before his eyes in pale, spent, face-lined reality.

     So what was next, with no wounds to care for, no crisis to clean up, nothing to cap a week’s worth of adrenalin highs but an anticlimactic, abrupt happy ending?

     Hutch switched lanes, heading toward Westchester, and Starsky spoke up for the first time, a little hoarse from his own lingering shock at the turn of events. “I wanna go to your place.”

     Hutch turned toward him, frowning. “What? Why? I got you some food, the mail’s piling up, and I hate to tell you, buddy, but those clothes are getting a little rancid.” The car hadn’t veered an inch from its direction.

     The fact was, Starsky had had no doubts his place was in great shape—probably dusted and tidied, too. Hutch was great at making sure his home was ready for his return after every crisis. But Starsky had some growing suspicions about the state of the Venice Place apartment in the meantime, probably as neglected as its owner. He had an idea he needed to reconnect with his place less than Hutch did with the normalcy and familiarity of his own.

     So he sat up, looking determined and pleading all at once. “Venice, Hutch. I’ve got some stuff at your place.” A good chunk of it, in fact.

     Hutch wavered between what he thought was best and what Starsky was asking for, and the real lack of argument against indulging his partner won, as Starsky knew it would. Hutch reluctantly shifted into the other lane again, taking the requisite exit to Venice.

     They drove in silence another few minutes until Starsky spoke up once more. “Who won the game Monday?”

     Hutch turned to stare at him with something near incredulity. “I was a little busy to be worrying about baseball, Starsky, sorry.”

     He wanted to smile at that but didn’t dare. “I guess you didn’t catch the lottery numbers on Sunday, either, huh?”

     The sound was somewhere between disbelief and disgust, Starsky couldn’t quite figure which, but he couldn’t help grinning this time.

     Another minute of silence, then Hutch reached into his pocket and pulled out something he tossed to Starsky without a glance at him.

     A leather fold. His shield. Hutch had had it with him, not even knowing if or how he’d find Starsky that day at Charlie’s.

     Starsky didn’t say another word the rest of the way to Venice.

     The apartment, as he’d figured, was a mess. Clothes were strewn in careless stretches along the floor, apparently dropped where they’d been removed in mid-stride. A few dirty dishes lined the sink, one with something off-white growing in it, the mail was in a heap next to the rolled newspapers on the floor by the door, and Hutch’s plants looked a little wilted even to Starsky’s city eyes. He was willing to bet the food in the refrigerator was greener and fuzzier than what was in the planters lining the windows.

     Hutch, meanwhile, continued to linger near the door as if unsure what to do now that they’d arrived, his eyes wearily roaming the room only to keep being drawn back as if by magnetic attraction to Starsky. And suddenly that shower and change of clothes didn’t seem so important.

     “Hey,” Starsky said quietly.

     Still skittish, the blue eyes jumped to his.

     He nodded at the disaster of a living room. “Looks like the Huns were through here. Why don’t we clean up a little, then order a pizza?”

     Hutch seemed to shake himself out of his frozenness. “I’ve got a better idea—how ‘bout I clean up and you take a shower. Then we-we’ll figure out dinner.”

     A stutter. Darn, this was worse than he’d thought. Although, the take-charge tone of his partner’s voice had been reassuring. Hutch was snapping out of it, but it would take a little while, and you were supposed to let the victim make his own rules whenever possible.

     Starsky didn’t even pause to consider when they’d switched places and he’d stopped being the victim. Probably the first time he’d gotten a good look at his partner’s face back at Charlie’s. Yeah, he’d been the one kidnapped, but besides that first jolt of fear and the not being able to go anywhere for a while, what had he really undergone? No real fear for his life, nothing like wondering if Hutch was dead, hurting, gone for good.

     “Okay,” he agreed gamely. “But I’m gonna call for a pizza first. I’m starvin’, and I bet I’ve been eating more than you have.”

     There was, he noticed, no argument to that. Hutch merely began to pick up the room with a lack of energy that nearly had Starsky forcing him to go to bed instead. But first thing’s first. Reluctantly, he placed the pizza order, watching the slow, clumsy movements of his partner around the room, catching the occasional tremor that still shook the lean frame. That was another thing—the victim was usually the one who had adrenalin aftershocks, not the rescuer. 

     Order placed, he gave Hutch a grin, got half of one in return, and disappeared into the bathroom.

     Hot water had rarely felt so good. It washed the smell and feel of Charlie’s house away, loosened the stiffness of hours in that chair, and warmed the persistent chill that had stayed with him all week. Only awareness that he wasn’t the only one who could use a good shower kept him from staying under the stream until it grew cold, and Starsky finally climbed out, shivering contentedly in the steamy bathroom, to find one of Hutch’s wrinkled but clean sweatsuits waiting. It was one of the most beautiful sights Starsky had seen all day, and sliding on the familiar clothing settled into the last corners of his mind that he was really home.

     The living room he stepped out into had been transformed—on the surface, anyway. It didn’t take much looking to realize the clothes had simply been relocated into a single pile in the far corner of the bedroom, and the plates were stacked, soaking, in the sink. Still, it took away the appearance of disinterest and disuse from the place, and that helped, too. Hopefully it did for Hutch, as well, who once more seemed to be hovering, at a loss, tired mind running down with an even more tired body.

     His eyes came to rest on Starsky’s hands as they worked at the wet curls, and Hutch straightened, striding over with renewed purpose and catching one of Starsky’s hands with gentle fingers. “Let’s take care of these wrists.”

     They really weren’t that bad, just red and roughened, some of the top layer of skin flaking off, but Starsky didn’t argue the coddling for once. Hutch needed to fuss over something and it might as well be that.

     He let himself be led to the edge of the bed and watched with affectionate amusement as Hutch hurried to gather supplies. His partner then eased down next to him, taking first one wrist, then the other, gingerly spreading antibiotic on the scraped skin and then winding a few layers of gauze around each wrist. His restlessness and fatigue seemed to disappear with the attention he gave the task, and Starsky again wondered at the intensity and tenderness he somehow could elicit from his tough-guy partner. And vice-versa. It was as if they brought out the best in each other.

     No wonder they were always so afraid of losing that.

Starsky laid a hand on Hutch’s arm as he worked, making him pause for a moment to glance up curiously and meet Starsky’s eyes. Starsky smiled faintly and gave the thin arm a squeeze, watching puzzlement fade to comprehension and a smile Hutch couldn’t quite bring off in return, before the blond head lowered to focus again on Starsky’s wrist. He knew it, too. Starsky swallowed a sigh at what a pair they made, and then let his attention wander, enjoying the feeling of quiet contentment that had crept in while Hutch worked.

     The tending finally completed to Hutch’s satisfaction, he went to put the first-aid supplies back as the doorbell rang. The pizza. Starsky had no idea where his wallet was, but Hutch took care of that, too, detouring from the bathroom to the front door without hesitation, and soon they were convening on the couch for hot, greasy food, Starsky plunking down with gusto, Hutch deflating onto the cushions. Starsky didn’t even raise an eyebrow, simply served them both.

And another piece when Hutch ate the first. And another.

Four had disappeared into his partner before Hutch seemed to realize he was eating and began to protest, if half-heartedly, he wasn’t hungry.

“I don’t like eating alone,” was all Starsky said. It was good for another two pieces until both pizzas were gone and they leaned back, full and sleepy from the first large meal either of them had had in six days. Starsky didn’t have to have been there to know his partner had been living on coffee and candy bars while he’d been gone.

He wanted to know how they’d found Charlie, if anyone had seen the snatch, if someone had called his mother, what exactly had happened those last six days, but one glance at Hutch’s face, finally smoothing out as sleep refused to be ignored any longer, and he decided it could wait.

“Time for bed, Blondie,” Starsky announced, levering himself up and grabbing a handful of dirty plates and napkins. It apparently took the time of his trip into the kitchen to toss the trash for Hutch to process that.

“It’s not even dark out yet,” he said thickly as Starsky came back out, not making the slightest move to rise and help with clean-up or go to bed.

Starsky carted the pizza boxes and the remaining garbage to the overflowing can he figured could also wait another day. “I think we’ve both got some catching up to do.” He returned to the couch, stood there a moment assessing before he sat back down next to his partner, and casually dropped his hand on Hutch’s nearest shoulder. It felt like it was carved from wood. Bowed wood.

Stress and anxiety always seemed to collect in Hutch’s shoulders, neck, and back, something Starsky had learned after weathering a few of his partner’s bad backaches and spasms. And it wouldn’t be the first time he would help get rid of it. It was just the physical side of the releasing of tension he’d started with the familiar environment, the comfort food, the quiet afternoon together reestablishing normalcy.

Starsky began a slow massage with the tips of his fingers. “How much did you sleep this week?” he asked with gentle curiosity.

Hutch’s eyelids were sagging and he shrugged one-shouldered. “I got some at the station.”

Starsky’s hand moved slowly inward toward the neck as he felt muscles loosen and give under his fingers. Sleep at the station usually meant borrowing an empty cell or curling up in one of Dobey’s padded chairs, hardly real rest. “He let me lie down each night,” Starsky offered.

Hutch’s eyebrows tried to draw into a frown but were as sluggish as the rest of him. “That doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” Starsky agreed, and didn’t push it. Later, when his return wasn’t so tender and new. He reached the rigid neck, the blond head wobbling with each rub, and almost smiled as the eyelids sank all the way shut. Ken Hutchinson, tough guy on the outside, pure goo on the inside.

“It could’ve been Marcus again. Or another Forest.”

It was probably only because he was half asleep, his words slurring, that Hutch would have admitted that at all. That was always their fear, their expectation, that it would be another Marcus, or Forest, or Poindexter, or any one of their many other nightmares. You didn’t dare hope for a Charlie when your partner was concerned.

Past the neck and now-lolling head, Starsky continued to Hutch’s far shoulder.

“That bad, huh?” he finally said. It was an invitation.

Hutch’s face crunched up. “Yeah.”

     Maybe tears would have helped, but nothing else was forthcoming. Starsky continued to knead until he reached the end of Hutch’s drooping shoulders, then impulsively pulled the tired man in for a quick hug.

     For all his lethargy, Hutch returned it immediately and fiercely.

     They separated with mild, comfortable sheepishness, and after a momentary sorting out of limbs, Starsky slapped a hand onto Hutch’s leg.

     “I’m beat. How ‘bout we call it a day, huh?”

     “More like a week,” Hutch mumbled, but this time he moved, too. He stopped as he glanced first at his bed in the sleeping alcove, then the couch. And longingly back to the bed. “Flip you for it?” he asked hopefully, turning to Starsky.

     Starsky laughed, deeply, happily. Apparently the breakable phase was over. Good riddance. “Comin’ here was my idea—you take the bed.”

     Another flicker of doubt and maybe memory in the blue eyes. “Starsk, I can sleep just fine—”

     “Trust me, partner, those long legs of yours aren’t gonna fit, and I don’t wanna have a pretzel for a partner tomorrow. ‘Sides, I’m used to it already.” God knows he’d slept there enough in the past.

     One last doubtful look until he gave the blond a friendly shove.

“Go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.” He got a different look at that, and it was with soft gravity that Starsky added, “Promise.”

     A slow nod, and Hutch shuffled off.

     Starsky had already made up the couch and climbed under the covers with a contented sigh when the bathroom door opened, a freshly showered Hutch coming out into the darkening room. The bathroom light flicked off immediately, and then soft footsteps padded over to stand just behind the couch. Starsky deliberately kept his eyes shut, lying still in feigned sleep as he was studied for several long minutes.

     “’Night, Starsk.” It was hardly a whisper, and then Hutch moved silently away, the bed creaking a moment later. But it had the easy fondness now Starsky had missed all that afternoon.

     Satisfied everything was all right again, Starsky rolled over and went to sleep.