Usual disclaimers, don't own the guys, wish I did. Written for love of the characters and the entertainment.
Hutch's Constants
There are just certain constants that define and shape my life.
Some constants I just have to accept whether I like it or not. Like waking up in the morning with bad breath, keeping track of expense receipts, a receding hairline and thinning hair and that my eight minute mile gets a little harder to maintain with each passing year.
Some constants are predictable, like knowing at least once a week Dobey's going to be screaming at one of us, that the crack dealer we just busted is going to tell us the dope really belonged to a friend, and my car is going to crap out and I'm going to have to call my partner for a ride then stare at a smug mug all day as I ride in the tomato.
Some constants are annoying, like the backache that comes from sleeping all night on a crummy couch, the drone of trivia facts on a ten hour stakeout, or indigestion that comes after being dragged off to some condemned hole in a wall to try something "terrific" that I'm going to "love" once I get passed my prejudices and the flypaper strips hanging over the tables.
But there are other constants that are pleasurable distractions too, like an afternoon spent in my greenhouse pruning and fussing, watching a sunset while sitting barefoot on the beach with a beautiful woman and a nice glass of wine, or sitting in a back booth at The Pits enjoying an ice cold beer after a long shift, or just strumming on my guitar on a quiet evening alone.
Some constants are necessary evils, like Internal Affairs, typing and white out, and fourteen hour shifts.
Some constants are inevitable, like trips to the ER, being dumped by a girlfriend who can't handle the crazy life of a cop, the pair of blue Addidas sneakers that find their way onto my shoulder accompanied by the snores in the back seat, or the volatile arguments that send doors slamming shut followed by the stony silences the next day like an old married couple.
Some constants are comfortable, like a soft broken in red shirt traded back and forth, the touch of a hand on an arm, a rub on the back, shoulders leaning together, or just an evening spent together in companionable silence.
Some constants I take for granted, like daily reports that become weekly, that my father will never understand why I like being a cop and my mother will worry, and that my partner doesn't like nature or camping but will come with me anyway simply because I want him to.
Some constants I have to ask for, like a pencil because I never remember to bring one along, dressing on the side of my salad, grilled chicken instead of fried, and that Merle not do anything "extra" on my car when all I want is a tune-up.
Some constants never need asking, like a beer or borrowing a clean shirt, or snagging a French fry or a pickle off the plate across from me, or caring for one, when the other is hurt, or asking for forgiveness because I've been a jerk all week.
Some constants are knowing, like a certain someone who can read me like a book and has the ability to pierce right through all my protective layers, heals me, keeps me sane, and sees all the ugly inside me and still loves and accepts me anyway.
But the most important constant of all is the one who is still watching my back everyday, the same guy who is sitting in the chair next to me now, wearing a pair of sweat pants and nothing else. Bare chested, the criss-cross pattern of scars, faded silver now with time, are still faintly visible in the dark matted curls as he sits quietly cleaning his gun. The same annoying, loveable, fiercely protective lug I consider a miracle to be by my side, the guy I call partner, best friend and my better half…
He looks up with a quizzical smile, eyes alight. I throw him a lopsided dopey grin. He shakes his head 'cause he knows I'm having a "soapy" moment and goes back to cleaning his gun.
I can't help but smile. Thanks, Starsk, for being my constant.