Hutch

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2001

Published: Seasoned Timber 3 (2004)

For Paula

Soaked

(Vendetta)

“Detective Starsky?”

  Starsky turned to see Assistant DA Tom Tyson striding down the hallway to catch up with him. He stopped to wait for the lawyer.

  “I just wanted to thank you again for your testimony. After Sergeant Hutchinson, I thought we’d lost the jury, but the feeling you brought to it was just what we needed. I’m sure we’ll get a conviction.”

  Starsky nodded, half-smiling. “Good. I hope the judge throws the book at Solkin.”

  Tyson’s mouth twisted. “With the charges against him, his past convictions, and what he did to Tommy Marlowe, I think that’s a safe bet.” The assistant DA leaned conspiratorially closer. “Hey, is Hutchinson always that tough? It was like questioning a robot—I’ve seen hardcases show more emotions than he did.”

  Starsky stared at him. Robot—Hutch? Starsky would have laughed at the irony if the reminder hadn’t stung so. The lawyer obviously hadn’t seen Hutch the night they arrested Solkin. And that was just how Starsky wanted it. 

  The tableau that greeted Starsky upon his dash after his partner was one he’d never forget. The dingy room, one stark bulb lighting it. Tommy the “monster,” who lay staring sightlessly up at the bulb. And Hutch sitting slumped beside the door, answering Tommy’s each query with reassurances that were as lifeless and flat as Starsky had ever heard his partner be.

  He hadn’t dared interrupt the scene, the fragile connection between Hutch and the young man one that was beyond his experience, had merely stared and listened in mounting dread. To find that their monster was as much a victim as those he’d savaged was bad enough. To find it out just when catching the monster who had repeatedly, viciously attacked Hutch was all the blond had clung to, was the final straw. Hutch moved and spoke with the numbness of someone who had finally reached their limits and, overwhelmed, simply shut down. Except for the conversation he was holding with the kid who had attacked him and attempted to rape his lady.

  The arrival of the paramedics was a relief, and Starsky stood next to his partner as they watched Tommy be sedated and taken away. Finally. Hutch didn’t react at all, but Starsky still found himself relieved. Now maybe he could get his partner away from that nightmare and start trying to undo some of the damage. “Come on, buddy,” he’d coaxed, tugging on Hutch’s arm after the room had cleared. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

  Hutch stood up and went, not looking at Starsky or anything in particular, his shoulders slumped with fatigue that went far beyond the physical. In the hallway, they stopped to let two uniforms pass with Solkin cuffed between them, the bully silent and cowed now. Hutch didn’t say a word, and Starsky silently moved his hand to the blond’s back, encouraging him to follow the men down.

   They reached the car, Hutch growing autonomous enough to get in without Starsky directing his every movement, but otherwise showing no initiative, no emotion.

  Starsky would have had more than enough to spare as he also climbed into the Torino and watched the officers loading Solkin into a black-and-white. But that wasn’t what Hutch needed now. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly.

  Hutch’s place was still a crime scene and so Starsky immediately set out for Westchester and his own apartment. Hutch was at home there, anyway.

  The blond head had slowly sunk back against the head rest, pale lashes closing. It looked more like another way of shutting out the world than getting any kind of rest, but Starsky let him be, only reacting when Hutch said hoarsely, “I’m tired.”

  Starsky glanced at him. “Yeah. We’ll be home soon. I bet your hand’s hurtin’, too.” No doubt Hutch had forgotten all about his medication and was long overdue for a painkiller. But even that got no response other than a slight shift of the bandaged limb in question, as if Hutch had forgotten it was there. 

  It was with relief that Starsky saw his place come into sight, and he pulled the car up so that the passenger side door was only steps away from the staircase. He got out and jogged around to the other side before Hutch even seemed to think of opening the door.

  Getting his partner out of the car and up the stairs into the house was the easy part. What to do with him then was a lot harder. But Starsky had some idea what his partner needed.

  “C’mere,” he directed, pulling Hutch into the bathroom with him. “A nice, hot soak should make ya feel a lot better, huh?” Starsky sat on the edge of the tub and started the water running, fussing with it until it was just the right temperature. “You wanna get undressed?” he asked, looking up at the blond.

  Hutch began mechanically to strip, though it was soon apparent that his bandaged hand was getting in the way. Starsky stepped in to help with the buttons and zippers, then dashed out into the kitchen long enough for a plastic bag, which he taped tightly around the bandaged hand. He left Hutch immersed in warm water up to his neck, the heat-flushed cheeks the only color in his face and his eyes closed once more.

  He’d nearly forgotten the medications, and Starsky went back to the bathroom once more with the bottle from Hutch’s jacket and a glass of water. It took two requests before the dull blue eyes had opened and Hutch finally complied. Swallowing a sigh, Starsky returned to the kitchen.

  A hastily assembled beef stew and a loaf of bread were waiting on the table by the time Starsky went to fetch his partner, taking his warmest bathrobe with him. He was almost glad to see the bewilderment on his partner’s face at the choice of clothing, happy for any kind of reaction at that point, but Hutch didn’t question, merely put it on. He shambled out to join Starsky in the kitchen some minutes later, his hair sticking out in spiky tufts from a halfhearted attempt at rubbing it dry. Starsky didn’t comment, dishing up two bowls of the stew.

  Hutch sat blinking at his, and Starsky was about to admonish him to eat when the blond head shook. “I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s okay,” Starsky said. “Eat some anyway--you need it.”

  Hutch’s head was still shaking. “Starsky--”

  “Do it for me then, Hutch,” Starsky cut in kindly.

  The eyes that lifted to him were not quite so distant anymore, briefly giving Starsky a look at the despair churning inside before withdrawing again. Hutch reluctantly picked up his spoon and began to eat.

  Withdrawal was a coping mechanism when a mind temporarily overloaded and lost the ability to deal with things, Starsky knew that. Unhealthy but also painless, and Starsky truly regretted having to draw his partner out of that numbness and back into facing the trauma again. But Hutch wouldn’t move on without that, and Starsky was there to help his partner deal with it this time. Time, privacy, and all the support and comfort Hutch needed was the gentlest way Starsky could think of to coax his partner back to life.

  He watched the stew slowly disappear, wishing he could fix a hurting soul as easily as he could a meal. But maybe the small comforts would help the larger injury.

  Starsky was done long before his partner, but he waited until Hutch had scraped the bottom of the bowl before collecting the dishes and silverware and putting them in the sink. Then he turned back to Hutch, sitting listlessly at the table. “You wanna watch some TV?”

  That seemed to stir some automatic reflex and Hutch looked around as if searching for something. “I should head home...”

  Better not to mention the crime scene just then, Starsky decided, and while he was surprised Hutch hadn’t brought Abby up or wanted to go see her, the omission was probably just as well, too. Both Hutch and his lady needed time to heal. Starsky smiled at his partner. “What’s the hurry? Why don’tcha stay for a while--there’s a good movie startin’ in a few minutes.”

  Hutch turned to look at him, and Starsky realized abruptly his partner was a lot more aware than Starsky had been giving him credit for. The world-weary pain and confusion were still there in those diluted blue eyes, but so was chagrin over his struggles, and recognition of Starsky’s efforts to help. Trying to decide between embarrassment and appreciation.

  Starsky leaned closer, gentling his voice. “Hey, I know this was rough--it’s okay to need some time. I just don’t want ya to do it alone, okay? Ninety-ten, remember?”

  The corner of Hutch’s mouth turned up in an almost accidental smile at the familiar maxim. They’d both had their share of ten-percent days and cases, when the other one had to give the remaining ninety. It was a reminder that it was okay to need a little more once in a while, and that there was someone around who could give in return. Hutch sighed softly, running a hand through still-damp hair and succeeding only in setting it more on-end. “Movie, huh?” he asked tiredly.

  “Or something.”

  “Or something.” Hutch finally shrugged. “Yeah, okay.” Leaving it all in Starsky’s hands to deal with.

  Starsky gave a quick nod of acceptance at the entrustment, then went to get some blankets. Upon returning to the living room, he found Hutch flopped on the sofa, staring at the dark television. Starsky flicked it on, finding an interesting-looking black-and-white movie, and threw a blanket over his partner’s shoulders, settling himself next to the blond.

  After a minute, eyes still on Humphrey Bogart on the screen, Starsky slung a casual arm around the slouched shoulders, kneading the tense muscles in Hutch’s neck with his fingertips. He could always trace the tension in his partner’s lithe body from the neck down the length of his back. Starsky had done the same thing earlier, as they’d sat in the hospital treatment room and waited for the shot to kick in before Hutch’s burned hand could be treated. Starsky had cradled him in the grass until help had come, not letting go as they’d wheeled Hutch inside, and finally had ended up sitting on the gurney, stroking the blond head in his lap, rubbing Hutch’s neck and down his back. Forcing Hutch’s attention away from the excruciating pain and onto Starsky. Hutch’s eyes, sometimes watering or cringing, never left Starsky’s face the whole time, drawn by his partner’s voice and touch, finally beginning to relax as the medicine and massage took effect.

  It seemed to be working this time, too, Hutch loosening by degrees, unthawing as he soaked in the warmth of the safe downtime and Starsky’s fingerwork. The slouch became a slump, finally curling on his side with his head and shoulder propped against Starsky’s ribs. Starsky just continued his rubdown, moving down the slackening muscles in the back. They’d both done their share of back rubs as a form of both comfort and communication, spelling out with each stroke that they were there and that they cared. It seemed to ease a wounded heart as well as an aching body.

  And it seemed to be what Hutch needed now, his slightly uneven breaths lengthening into a relaxed rhythm, then softening into sleep. Satisfied, Starsky smiled faintly as he continued to watch the movie, arm draped over the curve of his sleeping partner’s back. It was a definite start.

  Tyson was still staring at him, waiting for a reply to his presumptuous question. Starsky shook off the memories and leaned confidingly closer.

  “Buddy, if you only knew...” 

Saved

(The Plague)

  He was hurting.

  That was the first thing he realized, hurting not in waves, but as if his body were soaked with it, pain one constant flow through him. No matter how much Hutch wanted to escape it, to move or shy away from it, he couldn’t. He was trapped.

  Murmurs around him, broken and meaningless, added to the feeling of helplessness, of entrapment. Of building raw terror.

  What kind of hell was this?

  His eyes were closed, Hutch realized, and the incredible amount of will and mustered strength it took to crack them open almost got to him right there. When all he saw the shadows moving around him, flickering like wind-blown flames, he’d have sobbed if his exhausted body would have allowed him to.

Starsky...please...I want Starsky...

  He’d tried to say the words, even to beg if he was able, but they never seemed to make it beyond his thoughts. His lips had moved; Hutch had felt the dried skin crack as his mouth worked, but there just wasn’t enough in him to push air up past his vocal chords and make the sounds.

  But he was almost gagging on the fear and to stop trying meant losing himself in it. 

...Starsk...please...help...

  God, he was scared. He’d never felt so helpless in his life, but no one could even hear him screaming inside.

Starsky...

  Fingers slid through his hair with one delicate stroke, then another.

  Hutch’s mind froze, teetering on uncertain hope.

  He could feel each individual finger, their texture rough but their touch gentle as they lightly brushed over his forehead and ruffled through his hair to briefly cradle the back of his skull, over and over. Then they slipped lower, massaging his neck just under his jawline.

  His throat drew tight, catching on tears he couldn’t shed.

  Something must have come out, though, because soon a thumb was rubbing over his damp cheekbone. There was a rumble, different from the murmurs, a worried and tender voice he still couldn’t make sense of but that he knew, he knew.

  It was Starsky at his most uninhibited gentle, when all his caring was visible for anyone to see while he didn’t even notice, all his focus on the person he cared about. Hutch’s partner was there, and that in itself took away most of the cause for fear. And the rest was being smoothed away by that reassuring touch.

  The soothing continued, along his throat, his jaw, his cheek and matted hair, sometimes pausing to just rest on his skin, as if savoring being able to touch, then continuing that hypnotic stroke.

  The pain was still present but distracted, the fear ebbed. There was a promise in Starsky’s gentle contact that Hutch would be all right, even if he didn’t understand what was happening.

Go to sleep. I’m here, you’re safe. It’s okay.

  He could almost hear the words; their communication had never depended on the spoken.

Go to sleep. I’ll be here. Trust me.

  The touch had lightened, just feathering through his hair like a light breeze. Not withdrawing, but encouraging him to do so.

Go to sleep.

  He slept.

  Starsky could remember what it was like to die.

  There had been close calls, the shooting in Giovanni’s, the time Simon Marcus’ followers had grabbed him. But really dying, feeling his life slipping away and knowing he was closer to death than to life, that stood out in stark contrast against the rest. Poison circulating through his body and only twenty-four hours to live, Starsky had felt the inexorable creep of death even as he’d rebelled against it. Finally, fight gone and lying helpless in a hospital, he’d felt himself dying and knew there would be no second chance that time. Until his partner pulled one off, anyway.

  But the utter unreality of returning to life after that, the fear that clung upon waking when you never expected to wake again: Starsky remembered that too vividly. As well as who’d been there at every disorienting turn to reassure him everything would be all right, that there was a constant he could hang on to. That was why Starsky had insisted on being there when Hutch woke up. Maybe the doctors didn’t understand, but he did.

  Neither of them had said it, but they’d both known Hutch was going to die. The plague had left only one survivor in its wake, one bit of hope lost in a city of hundreds of thousands. Starsky had sworn to his partner he’d find the cure, but in the end hardly believed it himself anymore. He’d tried to find a way to say good-bye but couldn’t, just kept looking. And succeeded.

  No one would tell him at first if it’d been in time or not, and Starsky had gowned up and crept back into his partner’s room. His place was there now. They’d chewed him out, of course, told him he was still endangering himself even if an antidote had been found. Starsky made it clear he couldn’t have cared less. With fever eating up his partner in front of his eyes, Starsky would be damned before he’d go, whether it was staying with Hutch until he woke up, or until he breathed his last. And so Starsky had remained, through hours of ice baths and delirium and clinging to a hand that was almost too hot to hold.

  And then the fever had broken, nearly sending Hutch’s system crashing but eventually leaving Starsky with a partner who was as weak as a baby but gloriously starting the long climb back to life. They’d tried to get him to leave then, too, but Starsky remembered what it was like to die. He wasn’t budging.

  He’d been the first to see that Hutch was waking, watching closely as the blue eyes had opened just a fraction, then the lips moved soundlessly. He couldn’t hear a thing but he could make out one of those mute words, and knew he had to do something.

  It felt so good to be able to touch again, skin on skin. He’d petted through the lusterless hair and down the sweat-slicked neck, hoping Hutch was feeling the relief as strongly as he. But Starsky hadn’t been sure he’d been recognized until the tears had begun to trickle out. His throat had choked up a little then, too, and suddenly it became simple: make Hutch feel safe, loved. It hadn’t been hard. After so many days of strain and worry about that one blond cop, Starsky couldn’t have kept the feelings bottled up any longer if he’d wanted to. He’d still been stroking and talking softly when Hutch had finally gone back to sleep, a few of the ravaged lines of his face easing.

  Dying took a lot out of you.

  Ever since then, it had been a few hours of heavy sleep interspersed with some moments of semi-consciousness. Hutch never moved, didn’t even seem to have the strength to speak or hold his eyes open for very long, just lay there and soaked up Starsky’s care and reassurances, blinking at him lethargically until he spiralled back into the deep pit of sleep. And that was just fine by Starsky. It suited his needs, too, of being able to finally do something after days of helpless watching from afar.

  Two days later he was still there.

  Hutch’s breathing changed again, becoming shorter and less even as he roused. Fingers flexed on the blanket he clutched to his chest and the familiar frown line of confusion appeared between his eyebrows. Starsky grinned and leaned forward, smoothing out the line with a rub of his thumb, then reaching down to trace the ridges of Hutch’s knuckles. “Hutch?”

  The blond still looked terrible. The once-tan skin was white, almost translucent from illness, his cheeks and throat sunken. Starsky could count his ribs when they changed the patient’s gown, and doubted the bony legs would hold up even that emaciated body for a while. But whenever those blue eyes opened and looked at him, Starsky couldn’t think of a better sight in the world. They hung on to him as if he were a tether to reality. Knowing the dreams a mind on fire could conjure, Starsky could well believe he was.

  His grin was slipping and Starsky fixed it, saying gently, “You’ve been sick, buddy, but you’re gettin’ better. Don’t be scared, everything’s fine. All I want you to do now is sleep.”

  He watched Hutch slowly, painfully swallow, closing his eyes with the effort, and Starsky jumped at the chance to help with something else. A nurse had only just recently left him with a pitcher of water, a glass, and a straw, and Starsky filled the glass half-full with one hand. He dropped the straw in and then nudged it gently against Hutch’s split and peeling lips.

  It took a little while to connect, but Hutch finally sucked once, then again, eyes closing this time in sheer appreciation of the cool water. One more sip seemed to use up the last of his energy and Starsky reluctantly took the glass back, setting it on the table. Then he gently finger-combed the lank hair out of Hutch’s face while the blue eyes wandered, returning repeatedly to him as if making sure he hadn’t left.

  “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Go back to sleep--I’ll be here when you wake up,” Starsky coaxed.

  The pale lips moved again before Hutch closed his eyes and dozed off, and Starsky’s vision went blurry for a minute as he made out the single word worth all that effort.

Partner.

  Starsky was always there when he woke. Sometimes Hutch knew it at once, feeling the pressure of a gentle hand or hearing the familiar snore or dragging his eyes open enough to see smiling blue ones looking back at him. Sometimes it took a little longer, fear squeezing his heart as he realized he didn’t know where he was or why he ached so much and couldn’t move, only to be wrapped a moment later in a tangible, gentle reminder. The bad awakenings were becoming less and less, the lucid moments lengthening.

  Along with the returning energy of thought came the realization his partner wasn’t a hundred percent, either. Unshaven, unkempt, and hollow-eyed, Starsky looked about as tired as Hutch felt. And even under the obvious joy and affection his partner watched him with, Hutch could still see all the signs of being stretched taut to the point of snapping, an edge that didn’t go away even as Hutch slowly healed and started to regain his strength. He knew that feeling himself but was too tired to pursue it, even the thoughts still slipping away from his strengthless grasp.

  Starsky’s troubles didn’t interfere with his care for Hutch, though. The brunet had already said he needed to do something to help after going so long without having been able to, and Hutch was too tired to argue, lying comfortably, passively, as Starsky shaved him in the mornings, helped him eat at each meal, and did the massages the therapist had demonstrated for rebuilding deteriorated muscle tone. Hutch would have been embarrassed with all the gentle, intimate attention except that he’d been on the giving side before, himself, and death had a way of changing what was important and what wasn’t, at least for the short-term.

  His partner’s newest plan was to go through his own library, reading to Hutch whenever the blond was awake. They were already halfway through Frankenstein. It worked out well, Starsky usually falling asleep over the book just about when Hutch also dozed off.

  Except for this time. Hutch quietly watched his partner, curled uncomfortably in the hospital chair with the opened book clutched in his hand. There were new age lines in Starsky's face, signs of his side of the ordeal. Exhaustion clung to him even in sleep, and yet-unrelinquished worry. Hutch had more than once wavered on the edge of telling Starsky to go home, to sleep more than two-three hours at time and to do it in a real bed, eating real food and taking a real shower instead of a quick wash-up in the residents’ room. Doctor Judith, bless her, still looked in on Hutch and would be available if he needed anything, and surely even Starsky knew he was out of the woods now.

  But he’d have been lying if he’d said Starsky’s care wasn’t helping him get back on his feet faster, both physically and emotionally. He was still shaken inside, and all his comprehension when he was fully aware still fell apart when he would first awake. And when he wasn’t sleeping, few people would have been willing to help him with all the embarrassing, intimate little things while teasing him out of self-consciousness. Fewer still would have listened, let alone understood all his pent-up feelings about almost dying. And there wasn’t another person on earth who would have known him well enough to recognize when to push, when to coax, when to comfort. He owed his life to Starsky many times over, most recently for finding a cure to the plague in time. But it was his soul Starsky was saving now.

  There was another reason Hutch held his tongue, however. More sleep would surely do Starsky good and Hutch hoped to see him get some soon, but Starsky also had some needs that went beyond the physical. He’d helped Hutch with the worst of his, and the blond wasn’t about to take away what Starsky needed in return. God knew why, but they always healed better together.

  Sleep still hit him without warning and as heavily as a hard blow, and suddenly Hutch couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. With a cavernous yawn, he fell asleep to the reassuring sound of Starsky’s soft snore.

Supported

(Murder One)

  It was a brittle day for a funeral, rain threatening to break at any moment, the wind cutting. It matched the mood of the two people attending the token service.

  Hutch knew it shouldn’t have surprised him, the lack of mourners; Vanessa had no family and was not the kind to make friends. But still it hurt, the fact that she’d died alone, murdered in his apartment, even if she’d won her way back into his home with a lie. Despite five years of divorce, of living on his own, she had still been his wife and he had loved her, and now she was gone.

  And even one of the them wasn’t there for her, really. Starsky had come solely because of Hutch, the blond knew that. His partner’s steadying presence was what enabled him to stand there in that empty cemetery, listening to the pastor’s well-meaning but irrelevant words, staring at the shiny brown coffin Hutch had picked out for her. At the very funeral parlor where they’d caught her murderer, ironically, but that didn’t matter now. All that really did was that any second chances she and he might have had, no matter how remote, were dead, killed by a bullet from his gun.

  Hutch shuddered once, feeling Starsky move slightly nearer, and closed himself off from the thought.

  The perfunctory service ended and the pastor said his quiet good-bye, leaving only the two of them standing there.

  “I still loved her,” Hutch said shakily.

  “I know,” Starsky quietly murmured beside him.

  They stood a minute longer, then Starsky’s arm came gently around his shoulder. “Let’s go home, Hutch.”

  He didn’t argue, letting himself be led back to the car and driven home. It was hard to imagine leaving her behind in that place, in that box. Even at her most infuriating and hurtful, she’d been so alive, so beautiful...

  Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, his fist curling on his leg. She had been beautiful, but hard inside. Love had softened her in the beginning, but as things got tough and the glow of passion wore off, the hardness became increasingly obvious. He’d fought for her as much as he’d fought with her, but no one could make Vanessa do what she didn’t want to.

  Except die.

  “We’re here,” came Starsky’s sympathetic voice from beside him.

  Hutch opened his eyes to stare at his apartment building. The place he’d come home to to find her lying on the ground in blood...

  “Why don’t we go over to my place instead, have a few beers?” Starsky offered as if knowing what he was thinking, and reached for the ignition.

  Hutch just shook his head and got out of the car.

  He didn’t know if he wanted to be alone or not just then, but Starsky made the decision for him, joining him on the sidewalk a moment later. Waiting patiently until Hutch found the courage to open the door and go in.

  The blood had already been cleaned up by thoughtful friends in the department, the mess of a searched apartment mostly tidied through their own efforts the night before. Still, it was hard not to look at the place where he’d found the body, Hutch’s eyes still drawn to it every time he came through the door.

  Starsky stepped in front of him, blocking what he suddenly realized had become a stare. A gentle hand reached out to massage his arm. “Hey, you wanna take a shower, get changed? I’ll find something for lunch.”

  No, he didn’t really feel like doing anything, but Starsky’s soft voice made the offer sound reasonable and Hutch found himself moving again, pulling out a pair of sweats and heading into the bathroom.

  The water was so hot it stung. For a while Hutch just stood under it, his face upraised against the stream. She’d never lived in that apartment but the memories were there in whatever he did, wherever he looked: showers taken together, the old sweats she’d teased him about replacing, the array of beauty supplies she’d always kept by the sink, though she was just as beautiful without them. Memories that had laid dormant for the last five years, now suddenly returning to bring as much pain as the reminder of her lifeless body stretched out on his living room floor.

  Hutch swallowed hard, then soaped up and rinsed, climbing out and getting dressed as fast as he could.

  Starsky glanced up at him as he emerged from the bathroom, frowning a little at something he saw but saying only, “I made some sandwiches--you don’t have much around here to eat.”

  No, he’d meant to go shopping the day Van had called, and since then...

  He turned away from the living room and its phantom image, pacing instead to the front window.

  “Hutch?” came the concerned query behind him.

  Even the kindness was grating and Hutch wished he’d told Starsky to go on home. Even if the thought of being alone in that room was unbearable. He shook his head slightly, crossing from one window to the next to look out at the grey street below. A sprinkle had started up, beginning to darken the pavement and street with wetness. The street he’d been jogging on while they killed her. He was a cop, he should have been able to defend his wife at the least. Her being murdered in his own home, with his own gun, seemed like the sharpest kind of cruel irony.

  Not that she’d been an angel. To lying, cruelty, and disloyalty, he could now add a list of formal charges: forgery, grand theft, smuggling. She’d taken advantage of him, betrayed his trust, and played with his feelings.

  And then she’d gone and died, leaving him for good.

  “Hutch?”

  Starsky was closer now, and Hutch turned away from him, striding to the other side of the room. Angry--that was what he was. Angry at being used and abused by Vanessa, angry that Wheeler and his men had taken Van away from him. Angry at himself that he still cared when he doubted she did, that he was grieving her loss. It pressed at him from the inside, ready to explode, and he paced faster.

  “Hutch.”

  Even Starsky was hemming him in and, feeling trapped, Hutch pulled away from the voice right next to him. “Leave me alone!” he burst out. “You don’t know what it’s like, you’ve never been married. You didn’t even like her!”

  Hutch saw the momentary flash of grief in the dark blue eyes, a reminder of just why Starsky had never married, and brief pain at his words. And then Starsky lifted his chin as if ready for whatever Hutch would throw at him next, words, or even a fist, as Hutch once had when his partner had tried similarly to console him.

  Everything crumbled inside him into one insurmountable pile of rubble. Overwhelmed, Hutch turned away to cover his face with one hand as the first sob welled up.

  Hands tenderly pulled at him, insistent even as he tried to resist them, and in a moment he’d been coaxed back around and was crying his heart out in Starsky’s arms.

  So much for pride and pretenses. Starsky appeared willing and able to hold him like that forever, and Hutch gave up worrying about keeping anything back, letting the seemingly endless wash of grief and pain flow on and on. It was such a relief to give in to it, it made the tears flow even harder, but he wasn’t being hurried. Just held, supported. And loved.

  Oh, God, he hurt. But he wasn’t alone, and the pain was eased with sharing.

  The tears finally ran dry, taking with them all his energy, and Hutch stood and sniffed against his partner’s wet shirt, beginning to feel the creep of embarrassment at the scene he’d just made.

  Starsky didn’t seem to mind, easing him over to the sofa. Hutch’s legs, suddenly too long and clumsy, didn’t want to hold him and he sank down into the cushions, his heavy head ending up on a cool pillow. Hutch blinked, trying to figure out how that whole transition had occurred. He couldn’t seem to, yet somehow it didn’t bother him.

  Starsky drew the living room chair up to the sofa, close enough that Hutch could reach out to touch him if he wanted to. Somehow it didn’t feel stifling this time. He didn’t feel much of anything, actually, only staring dully at the coffee table as Starsky made himself comfortable in the chair.

  His partner’s question flew right by him the first time, startling him into awareness only when he realized he was expected to answer.

  “Wh-what?” His tongue was clumsy and he flushed at the hiccuping stumble, but again Starsky didn’t seem to take notice, repeating his questions patiently.

  “You never talked much about Van after the Academy. Tell me about her.”

  Actually, he had, spending whole shifts pouring out his marital problems to his new and tolerant partner years ago, but the problems weren’t what Starsky was asking about now and he knew it. Hutch accepted the tissue offered, blotting at his wet face and runny nose with it before uttering a deep sigh. He felt so tired, so old and emptied. But the words came after all, and soon he found himself talking as if he couldn’t stop, from the first time he and Van had met, to their wedding and honeymoon and all the good memories before they’d started going bad.

  The sun set while he talked. Starsky had shifted closer, leaning forward into his space as he listened, sometimes reaching out to simply touch Hutch’s arm in mute reminder he was there. And Hutch talked on, a weary peace beginning to settle on his heart like darkness on the room. The concerned figure next to him seemed to soak up all his distress like a sponge, just listening and caring. Hutch shivered once involuntarily at the memories that tumbled out of him, and like magic a blanket was draped around him, tucked under his chin. His voice was running hoarse, and finally it ran down altogether and they sat in silence in the dark.

  “I’m sorry ’bout dinner,” Hutch rasped finally.

  With the darkened room and his tired eyes, he could only make out the general shape of Starsky’s face, but he didn’t need to see it to know what expression it would show. Starsky spoke with amiable exasperation. “That was lunch. And it can wait. Unless you’re hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’ll wait. Why don’tcha take a nap first?” He shifted in the chair for the first time Hutch could remember since he’d started talking.

  “She didn’t hate you, you know,” Hutch said, voice cracking from overuse. For some reason it felt important that Starsky know that.

  Starsky paused, and Hutch could see the glitter of his eyes as he studied his partner. “Sure seemed like it sometimes,” he finally said with a hint of wryness.

  “She hated the job--you just represented it. And...you were competition,” Hutch said slowly.

  “Competition?” Confusion now, and he could see Starsky shake his head. “Hutch, I--”

  “Funny thing is, you and I hardly knew each other back then. She had no idea how right she’d end up being.” His voice fell to a whisper. “You’re a better partner than she was.”

  Starsky’s only response was a moment of silence, followed by his resting a roughened hand on his partner’s forehead.

  Hutch fell asleep to the feeling of that touch.