Touching
K Hanna Korossy
Written: 2004
Cabrillo Con Zine (2005)
So thin and so thick. The walls of glass could have been two feet of steel for all their impenetrability, separating life from death. And Starsky from his partner.
Callendar was in surgery, and Starsky found himself curiously apathetic as to whether the man survived it. There would be time later for second thoughts, philosophizing, consequences. One way or another, there would be a lot of time. But now, all that mattered was a thin, inviolable wall of glass away.
He’d snuck in a few minutes earlier, but Judith had arrived with the antidote at the same time and ejected him from the isolation room before Starsky could get close to his partner. That priceless syringe in her hand had circumvented his immediate protest, and reluctantly he’d retreated back to the other side of the glass. But even that was too far away. Starsky watched her draw aside the sweat-soaked sheet and administer the injection directly into Hutch’s painfully thin arm, patting it gently before covering it again. And envied her so much, it hurt.
The risks didn’t matter. Death was something he’d faced many times before, even if this invisible kind was beyond his experience, but personal safety was never a factor where Hutch was concerned. Only being there mattered, the contact, tangible expression that they were there for each other, even when nothing else was certain. Could Hutch even tell Starsky was near? A wall, a world away?
Starsky swallowed. This was killing him, too, watching his friend suffering, on his own, so close. Not to touch was like not to breathe, and Starsky wasn’t sure either of them could make it alone. How could Hutch pull through if he was pulling by himself? But Starsky was too far away to help. There would be no comfort, not like the many times before, no drawing strength from the other, no soothing, no reassurances. No touching.
What would they do without what they’d always relied on before?
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Starsky blinked, yanked from recesses of memory he didn’t
care to linger in. Instead, he gave his partner a generous smile. “Only a penny?”
“I know how you think, remember?” Hutch said dryly, playing the game, but his gaze hadn’t left Starsky. “You know this is just a formality—Dobey already said IA’s closed the case.”
“Yeah.” He slumped a little in his seat, staring blankly at the empty table across the room, behind which soon would sit the three men who would decide his fate.
“There wasn’t anything else you could do—you couldn’t let them get away.”
“I know.”
“And you weren’t aiming for the gas tank.”
Starsky turned to look at his partner. “You sure about that?”
Hutch stared back at him just as hard. “Yeah, I am.”
“Even after I thought they’d just killed ya?” It still wasn’t so very far away, the horror that had hit him as he’d watched Hutch crash through the glass door, certain he’d just seen his partner gunned down in front of him, and the black hole it had plunged him into. He still felt its pull on him now, three days later.
Hutch’s jaw was starting to set; he never did determination halfway, especially when it involved Starsky. “Yes.”
Starsky peeled his eyes away finally, to the tabletop in front of him. “I’m not.”
“That’s okay.” Startled, he looked up at Hutch, catching the glint in his eye. “I am for both of us,” his partner finished.
Starsky watched him in disbelief for a long minute, then softly laughed. “Yeah, that—”
The door across the room opened, and the three high-ranking officers trooped in. They weren’t avoiding his eyes, which was a good sign, but they didn’t look very cheerful, either. Starsky gulped and stood, Hutch rising next to him.
“Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They sat. Starsky hesitated, glancing around the room. The only others there were Dobey and a stenographer, sitting near the panel’s table, across the room from him and Hutch. Which meant nobody could see under the tabletop in front of the two of them.
Out of their line of sight, Starsky held out his hand.
Hutch’s expression didn’t change, his gaze never wavering from the panel as he immediately grasped it, his grip tightening as the head of the panel began to speak.
He didn’t let go until the verdict was read and the hearing adjourned, and then it was only to pat Starsky’s arm with an enthusiasm that barely reflected how tired and sore Starsky knew he still felt. It hadn’t made a difference: Hutch had still found strength to lend Starsky, yet again.
But that was his partner for you.
The fact that the shaking mess in his arms was his neat, strait-laced partner still withered his soul. Every time Starsky closed his eyes, he saw the look on Hutch’s face in that alley as Starsky pulled up his sleeve. And every time he opened them again, it was to the nightmare that was still there, Hutch horribly sick and in pain and only shreds of remembered trust in his lost mind allowing Starsky to be any comfort at all.
“Easy now, Hutch. It’s gonna be over soon, just hang on.”
The words held little meaning anymore, but he said them because it was important to believe them. This had to end sometime. Even the junkies he’d seen in the hell of withdrawal hadn’t seemed to hurt this deeply or eternally.
Then again, maybe they just didn’t fight it as hard as his stubborn partner did, with disgust and fury and desperation. Or they didn’t have days of torture and terror to overcome on top of the heroin’s devastation.
He’d been a little more objective about their pain, too, than that of his suffering partner’s.
Hutch cried out in pain, contracting again, curling impossibly tighter around his rebelling stomach. Starsky’s face tightened with grief as he pulled him closer, trying to force the long body to unfold to make breathing easier, but Hutch was too knotted in his misery. Starsky rubbed the sweaty throat again, repeating his words over and over even if they probably weren’t getting through. “You can do it, you can do it, just hang on to me…”
The gasping eased and Hutch’s body untensed a fraction as the attack let up briefly. Starsky kept on rubbing, massaging, holding, trying to help somehow.
A trembling hand reached up and touched his arm, then grabbed his sleeve.
“S-Starsk.”
The word was clear and fairly steady, and the blue eyes with their tiny pupils seemed to be seeing him for the moment. “I’m right here, pal.” Starsky covered the hand with his own.
“Don-don’ go.” The grip on his sleeve was tightening; another spasm was coming.
“I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay? Don’t worry about that, I’ll be right here. We’re gonna get through this.” He didn’t let his voice tremble. This much he could vow.
“G-good.” The word became a groan as the next wave hit and Hutch clung to him, shaking through it. Starsky braced them both and rode out the attack grimly, holding on as tight as he could, making Hutch feel he was there to hold on to even in the midst of all that battering.
And providing the only sanity he could, in the circle of his arms.
Starsky drove into the station garage and parked the car, but after turning off the engine, made no move out of the car.
Hutch, about to get out on the other side, must have realized he was doing so alone and stopped, turning back to Starsky. “You ready?”
“No.”
Hutch smiled. “Oh, come on, Starsky, you’re not gonna let a few bad cops get you down.”
Starsky made a face at him. “It’s not the bad ones I’m worried about. It’s all the good ones who know I ratted out some of their brothers.”
“Our brothers,” Hutch corrected gently. “Our brothers who were about to shoot you and an unarmed civilian. I don’t think anyone’s gonna hold that against you, not the people who count.”
Starsky drummed a few fingers restlessly on the steering wheel. “That’s good comin’ from the guy I popped in the mouth yesterday.”
Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Is that what’s bothering you? People thinking you’ve turned against me?”
“I just don’t like it, okay? We’re cops; we’re supposed to go after bad guys, not other cops. I like knowin’ what side I’m on.”
“Mine,” Hutch answered without hesitation, and while Starsky gaped at him, climbed out of the car, only to lean back down again. “You comin’?”
Starsky shut his mouth and got out. So much for him being the black-and-white thinker of the partnership.
He waited for a moment for Hutch to come around the Torino to join him, which he seemed in such a hurry to do, he nearly tripped over the bumper. Starsky just rolled his eyes at the sheepish look he got, then started toward the elevator. Within a few steps, Hutch was by his side, almost shoulder to shoulder.
Starsky was used to sharing his personal space with the clumsy blond, so it took until they were walking down the hallway toward the squadroom before he realized what was going on. This wasn’t business as usual, not with the looks they were getting, not with how you couldn’t see any daylight between the two of them, not today. This was Hutch presenting a united front, announcing to anyone who was paying attention that the partnership was as solid as ever, and anyone who had a problem with Starsky would have him to deal with, too. Simple as that, and all with just a brush of jacket sleeves and mesh of rhythm.
Starsky grinned to himself. If those rotten apples in blue had paid any attention at all, they would have known from the start how phony the act was the two of them had put on. Turning on each other? They couldn’t have been more obvious friends if they’d written it up on a banner.
But, hey, a reminder didn’t hurt, right?
“Hutch?”
The blank, distant stare of the other drew first his attention, then his concern. Hutch had slowly been opening up again, picking up the pieces of his life after Gillian’s death. Starsky didn’t like to think about the wounded wreck he’d found on the living room floor that first night, seemingly bent on drinking himself into forgetting. But Hutch was starting to remember again without pain, that easy smile even having made an appearance or two. He was definitely mending.
That didn’t mean there were no setbacks, however.
Starsky leaned forward, sliding the plate off his lap. They’d been sharing a pizza while laughing over some old Wally Stone comedy on the evening show, when something had suddenly changed.
“Hutch? Hey, what’s goin' on?”
The eyes turned slowly to look at him, suddenly unbearably full of loss. Then, ashamed, they skidded away just as quickly, trying to hide the transparent emotion.
Mourning, mixed with guilt. Hutch hadn’t known Gillian all that long, but they’d fallen hard for each other, probably over scenes just like this, just enjoying each other’s company. Until she’d tried to go straight for his sake and got killed for it. Grief alone was bad enough, but guilt for being wrapped up in the reason she’d been murdered was a lot worse, and that all took time to heal.
And that had been before he’d punched Starsky for being the bearer of bad news.
They’d talked about it, of course, and Starsky had forgiven and forgotten. He hadn’t even been mad, not that Hutch would have believed that, but if his partner needed forgiveness, so be it. But it was all one heckuva knot to unravel, and sometimes it seemed to just knock Hutch flat again. Starsky had pretended not to notice the times of sudden sadness or quiet those last few weeks, teasing or coaxing Hutch past them as needed. Embarrassment, on the other hand…well, that was too much for him to ignore. The healing wouldn’t do its thing if Hutch was getting hung up on Starsky seeing how he really felt or, God forbid, feeling like he somehow didn’t deserve a shoulder to lean on. As if he’d never seen Starsky weak or foolish before.
Without a word, Starsky slid over on the couch until he was next to Hutch, then, deliberately, curled a hand around one of the limp ones in the blond’s lap.
Hutch didn’t look up, gave no sign of being aware of his presence. But the long, thin fingers grasped back so tightly, it almost hurt.
They stayed that way, silently not watching TV, for nearly an hour, until Hutch finally began to droop. Starsky rallied him to his feet then and sent him off to bed, giving the slumped shoulders a quick squeeze first. Hutch gave him a long helpless look and went. But it wasn’t the helplessness of despair anymore.
It took a while for circulation to fully return to Starsky’s fingers, but it was worth it. He didn’t care what form it took, as long as Hutch finally believed that his acceptance—messy emotions, taking it out on your best friend, and all—was unconditional. Considering the tingling in his fingers, Starsky figured his friend had gotten the message.
Starsky smiled to himself. About time.
The chanting began softly, like always, then grew louder until it felt like a physical beating, knocking into him over and over until he could barely stay even on his knees. Blindfolded and hands tied, he’d yelled his defiance at them until he was hoarse, but it hadn’t made a difference. The chanting kept growing, swelling in a crescendo that pierced his brain. And then a dozen pairs of hands reached for him…
Starsky awoke with a gasp.
His eyes didn’t clear for a moment, and the pounding of his heart deafened him to the sounds around him, but some things were immediately obvious: he ached, all over, his stomach contracting in warning against more movement, his head still pounding under the onslaught of those chants.
But there was soft cotton under his palms and the soles of his feet, which didn’t make sense at all. And a gentle pressure against his foot and leg that didn’t feel painful at all. In fact, it felt…
“Starsky!”
Distracted, the low voice didn’t make him flinch, just blink, trying to see past the strobes of light that were fading from his vision. To the sight of Hutch only feet away, studying him with a worried intensity that said this wasn’t the first such rude awakening.
Oh, yeah. It wasn’t.
Starsky tried to slow his breathing, putting his hand on his ribs to ease the throb of bruised bone. Hutch’s arm hovered nearby, wanting to touch him but afraid to cause more pain. It wasn’t an idle fear. Starsky’s arms and shoulders still screamed at the memory of hanging by his wrists, the burned skin on his cheek felt tight and hot, and every motion reminded him of the bruises that layered his torso. About the only part of him that didn’t feel busted up were his lower legs and feet.
Which was what Hutch was sitting next to at the opposite end of the bed, his hip tucked up against Starsky’s nearest ankle, providing that steady pressure that seemed to send a message of its own to counter the other complaints of Starsky’s abused body: you’re safe now, you’ll be okay, I’ll watch over you.
It was the only thing Starsky could have heard over the chanting that was just now fading from his mind’s ear.
“’M okay,” he murmured, already being pulled back into sleep, easing back down onto the pillow. Slowly, too slowly, pulled muscles and compressed nerves began to relax, too, reluctant to forgive him for his unwary movements.
The bed rocked and covers were pulled back over him. His shin was patted with a careful touch, almost making him smile, and then there was just that weight against the side of his foot. Anchors were a good thing when you felt perilously close to floating away and getting lost.
Maybe Hutch said something before he went back to sleep and maybe not, but Starsky had already heard him loud and clear.
Judith came out of the isolation room peeling her mask and gloves off, then her gown. She stopped to dump them, then turned around, looking so tired Starsky felt a stab of sympathy. But that didn’t stop him from advancing on her with determined steps.
“How long?”
She pushed back her hair and then met his gaze directly. “We should probably know something in a few hours.”
Whether Hutch would live or die, she meant. Starsky’s jaw shifted, his spine straightening for the first time in hours as he peered past her for a moment, through the glass. “I wanna be with him.”
Judith sighed. “Dave, we’ve been over this already—you could still get infected—”
He met her eyes again. “And you have the antidote now. I’m willin’ to take that chance.”
“I’m not sure I am.”
The anger had completely run its course by now. Starsky took her by the arms, but kindly, earnestly. “Judith, listen to me. If you care about us—if you care about him—let me do this. He needs me in there. I can’t explain it to you, but…we’ve been through a lot together, and believe me, it’s easier if you’ve got someone in your corner.”
“He won’t even know—”
“He’ll know,” Starsky said firmly. He stared right into her, growing even quieter. “Even if this doesn’t work, I gotta be there with him. I owe him that.”
Her mouth unexpectedly tugged into a wry smile. “I suppose I’d have to post a guard to keep you out.”
He matched her humor. “Half-dozen, at least.”
“And I am short-handed…” She nodded, resigned but looking not too upset by it. “All right. But only if you suit up, and you’ll have to get out of the way if something happens.”
Starsky nodded. He would have promised her his every last worldly possession just then and she probably knew it, but did nothing more than shake her head at him as he let her go and rushed for the door.
The mask and gown and gloves took an impatient minute to pull on, but then he opened the inner door and stepped inside the quarantined room.
No more glass, no more walls, just him and Hutch.
Starsky stumbled forward, the surety of before evaporating in the stifling sick room. Hutch had hated the stuffiness, the sterility, the lack of privacy, at least when he’d been aware of it. Now, he no longer knew anything but the nightmare of fever. He lay mostly still now, a scarecrow of a man, no longer having the strength for restlessness or moans or anything but those loud, gasping breaths. Just barely clinging to life, antidote or not, and Starsky knew it.
He took a deep breath and eased himself down on the edge of the bed, certain now what he had to do. What he’d been wanting so badly to do those last many hours. The tiredness and tension and aches of his own body faded as Starsky very gently gathered up a limp, hot hand and folded its fingers around his own, palm to palm. And then he held on tight.
“Okay, partner,” Starsky said softly. “It’s you an’ me now. Let’s show this thing what we’ve got.”
‘Tis the human touch in this world that counts,
The touch of your hand and mine,
Which means far more to the fainting heart
Than shelter and bread and wine;
For shelter is gone when the night is o’er,
And bread lasts only a day,
But the touch of the hand and the sound of the voice
Sing on in the soul always.