A/N: This is a death story. You have been warned. Also, I am a first time writer. This is my first Starsky and Hutch story as well as my first fanfic.
Warnings: Death (main character and OC), Language. Disclaimer: I do not own Starsky and Hutch or any of its characters.
The Transition
"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome."
-Isaac Asimov
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He has the Bastard cornered, up against a wall. The alley they've ended up in smells like garbage and urine. The guy must have pissed himself. Hutch can see it, staining the Bastard's left thigh. It reminds him of another stain...spreading over fabric, deep and final. The thought makes Hutch's vision blur...tinge red and he wants to puke, add another rancid smell to the ones already stewing in the alley.
He doesn't even realize that he's got his gun jammed into the Bastard's temple until the guy whimpers like the fucking coward he is. He pulls the gun away, only slightly, and smiles with his teeth when it leaves a deep, red ridge in The Bastard's skull. The blemish is puffy and swollen from the pressure of metal against paper thin skin. Hutch feels drunk with the Power of Knowing. Knowing that the man is a just a fragile heart beat away from having his brain smeared into the alley wall.
'Like organic graffiti.'
The Bastard whimpers, "I ain't got nothing. I swear I'm done. Just don't kill me. Jesus fucking Christ. You're a cop." The guy's voice is thick and slow. It annoys Hutch so much he thinks about ending it right then. Putting a bullet in someone's skull. Either his or The Bastard's. He laughs when he realizes how much he doesn't care whose. It stopped mattering two days and a final heart beat ago.
"Why does it matter? Cops kill, too." Hutch's breath scalds right into the Bastard's ear. He's right up close, too close, because he wants to humiliate him. He wants the Bastard to feel as dirty as he did, as dirty as he felt sitting in a puddle...a fucking ocean of blood. Fire engine red. Tomato red.
He'd only been gone two days. Two days. Thirty-six hours. What could possibly happen?
Desk duty. Paper work. Just in case. No chances.
And still. Maybe Because.
"Kenny," she calls and he winces at the pet name. His problems weren't so bad. He should have left it alone. Been content.
"Kenny," she says. "Phone call. It's urgent." Her voice is wrong. Clipped. Like when Grandpa was...gone. It makes Hutch trip over himself.
"Who?" Because it is the only question he can think of over the roar. The roar in his head and somehow in his heart.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
"It's Harold. Ah...Mr. Dobey." She says because she doesn't know who Capt'n is.
Hutch knows. Before he is even told, he knows.
Blood.
The Bastard's eyes widen. And Hutch sees a current go through them, like tiny splintered universes simultaneously dying. His eyes are of someone who suddenly understands mortality.
'Smoke 'em if you got 'em.'
And Hutch laughs. At least he thinks he does but the Bastard flinches like maybe he...
'The End is Near.'
Hutch is the Bastard's End. And still he doesn't feel right. Just empty. Still. It's revenge. It's someone else's blood soaking into the cracks of his skin. Someone else's.
Blood.
Blood is everywhere. On the carpet. On the couch. In the kitchen. In smears. It's red. Tomato-engine-fire-red. Sanguine. It's too much for anything because it's everything. Everything Hutch had. It's all on the floor, somewhere in the blood.
"I'm sorry." Is what they say. Hutch laughs. He doesn't cry. He hasn't. He won't.
Somethings go beyond. They go beyond, behind the eyes and burn it all up. They take up all the tears and go down the throat into the heart. Where they sit and flame. Drying up everything. Everything. Anything. In the blood.
Hutch can hear the Others. They're coming to help, to back him up. And he sneers. They can't help. They're no help. They couldn't save...They didn't save...And he understands, for the first time and forever. He understands the hate. He understands why the Others, why He, is hated. Because the cops, the Police, are no help. They make promises, but when it really matters they're too late. And all they say is 'sorry' and 'Let us know if there's anything we can do, Hutch,' and 'He died a hero.' Which is a lie. They're just a bunch of fucking useless liars. There were no heroes. Just left over pizza and beer and a game and a bullet. And blood.
"Where's the gun?" Hutch asks. The Bastard shrugs, whimpers, wriggles.
No.
Hutch brings up his knee and jabs it into the Bastard's piss stained groin as hard as he can. The Bastard doubles over in pain, tears in his eyes.
Yes.
Hutch reaches down and puts his hands in the Bastard's jacket. He finds it in an inside pocket, pulls it out. Immediately he knows. It's the same gun, the same one that...made the blood on the carpet. On the couch. In the kitchen. He knows because he can feel It in the gun. He can feel the gun's weight. It's heavy with the act. The act of killing. Hutch. And it feels good to get it out there. To say it. This is the gun that killed Hutch, by killing...
And this time he does puke. It's yellow and putrid and lands right on the Bastard's chest, where he's still on the ground holding his crotch in a perverse mockery of self-pleasure. Hutch laughs when the Bastard moans in disgust and he can feel vomit on his teeth. It tastes like acid. The same acid that's burned away his tears. It starts to rain.
Hutch holds the heavy gun, the Bastard's gun. He feels it in his hand and it burns his palm. It feels good, like punishment. He empties the clip onto the pavement and the bullets hiss in the rain. Hutch makes the Bastard stand up. Pushes him against the wall and puts the gun back in the Bastard's hand. He can hear the Others coming. Hutch walks to the other side of the alley.
"Point the gun at me." he says. He orders. The Bastard looks at him like he's crazy. In the rain, facing his murderer, maybe he is. "Point the gun at me," he says again, "Point it at me like you did at Him." It's the first time Hutch has acknowledged it, said it, made it real. And the words are so heavy they break his tongue. He can taste blood in his mouth. But it's just a memory.
The Bastard stares at him. "But it's empty. You emptied it." He says and then "the bullets are on the ground." The Bastard is patronizing. Hutch pulls out his own gun. It's fully loaded. He points it directly at the Bastard. Right at his head.
"Don't move. Keep the gun pointed at me. No matter what. When the Others get here, keep the gun on me." Hutch's voice is low. Hard to hear over the rain. He feels calmer than he has in two days. "It's empty." The Bastard points out again. He has the nerve to sound confused. It makes sense to Hutch. The Bastard's gun is empty. He knows. The Bastard knows. The Others don't. And there is no way they're losing another one. They won't loose another one.
Hutch is standing in the rain. The Bastard has his gun pointed at Hutch. Hutch has his gun pointed at the Bastard. That's what the Others see when they finally reach the alley. It's a standoff. 'Hutch,' someone yells. He hears. But it sounds far away. Like the echo of a forgotten conversation... or someone calling out from beyond the grave. He knows the Others have seen. He knows what they will see.
'Hutch was cornered. He had no choice. He had to shoot the guy or the guy would have shot him. It wasn't a revenge killing. It was self-defense.'
That is what they'll say because that is what they saw.
Ironic. Hutch is the only one who knows. It wasn't self-defense. It was murder. He killed everything he ever was (The White Knight, A Gentleman, Handsome Hutch, An Older Brother, A Hero, A Good Person, Blintz). Everything. Anything. In the blood.
Hutch feels the rain on his face. It gathers in his eyebrows and drips down his face and into his eyes. Hutch can't see. There is something in his eyes. It feels like hate. He pulls the trigger. And sees blood.