Author's notes: A lot of thanks to Crazykater, for her kind offer to check my story. Without her help, this wouldn't have been published.
The Care
It wasn't going to be a normal day. Starsky had known that long before anything happened. Sometimes you just know. Some days – more than others - you go to work and you're not sure if you'll make it back home, at least not the way you left.
Starsky ducked for cover, his life flashing before his eyes. Replaying memories like an old tape recording, the way it did every time he'd woken up like that and found himself trapped with nowhere to go. The madman with the gun he and Hutch had finally tracked down after three days of almost non-stop investigation was reason enough.
His partner's drawn looks earlier that morning had told him Hutch didn't have the best of feelings about that matter either. They never got much peaceful sleep when working a hard case that begged to be solved, but the guy's history was what had really put a grim shade to their protracted efforts. This criminal had scores to settle, and hadn't minded settling them with gory interests, uncaring of the conspicuous trail of dead bodies he left behind. The last of which, he'd generously left for both of them to find that day, first thing after breakfast. That alone would be enough to deprive anyone of sleep, but what made Starsky really jittery about criminals like that was that the man had nothing to lose.
"You okay?"
Hutch's voice resonated in the garage they'd ended up retreating into, covering from the suspect's seemingly endless reserve of bullets.
"Yeah."
Hutch too had been quite baffled at the man's savageness, and that was no wonder. Starsky's blond, idealist partner was constantly heated with how cruel the world could be at times, much more than Starsky, it seemed. Starsky had seen-it-all, or at least he acted like it. But that was only façade. Hutch knew he felt as bad as him. They've been together since the Academy, shared a room for some time, they'd even started active service the same day. But it had been during that last year and half as partners that they'd really gotten to know each other and tell the difference.
He liked Hutch, a lot. He didn't give nicknames to people he didn't like, to begin with. At times it seemed as if they could read each other's minds, but it was simpler than that. They were so attuned to one another that they basically thought the same way. Working side by side every day, witnessing the worst of the streets stripped you of certainty, pretense, of everything but the trust in your partner, and the consciousness of his life in your hands. It didn't get much easier than that to make bonds, of the lasting kind.
The suspect had been cornered, and he knew it, but the clicking of the clip cancelled any hopes of surrender. Nothing to lose, indeed.
Starsky saw the crouching silhouette of his partner sneaking out of its refuge, after only a brief look at him with the meaning of 'cover me'. He didn't like that part even in a normal day and, now he was sure, this was no normal day.
But Starsky came up backing up nonetheless, shooting like a madman himself, making enough commotion for his partner's long legs to make it behind a finished-looking car. If something were ever to happen to Hutch... He'd come to call that indomitable spirit best friend, he didn't even know when. You don't realize you need best friends until you make them, and even then not really, not before you see them bursting out of their shelter in front of a desperate, armed felon the way Hutch was.
"You're not gonna get me alive!"
"The way you want, Grady. The way you want," Starsky said.
If it was meant to calm the suspect down, it didn't. Grady started shooting in Starsky's direction, where he realized belatedly a half-dozen gas tanks had been stocked up.
"Hutch!" Starsky warned, bolting out as his partner's Colt fired on his right. He knew that Hutch's position wasn't ideal for covering him, and the tape of his life resumed from where it'd been left as he landed on his back, mostly exposed. Grady came out, gun drawn and a ferocious sparkle in his eyes, just as Hutch emerged from behind the car.
"Freeze!"
The slug meant for Starsky was fired instead in his partner's direction, just as Hutch ducked quickly, then stood up again, shooting. And centering the suspect in his throat.
The hand holding the gun remained still for a long moment, then it disappeared behind the car, along with its owner's shape. A sinister silence fell in the garage, only altered by the reverberation of the gunshots still echoing in Starsky's ears.
"Hutch?"
This echoed too, making his own voice even more uncertain than what he'd let out. There wasn't an answer, either. Starsky replaced his gun into the holster, trying to ignore the revolting sight at his left, and started to wonder as he run back toward the car. He hadn't had such a good view, but Hutch had seemed well protected behind the car. Could it be-?
"Hutch!"
Nothing yet. Finally, Starsky turned around the car. Hutch was sitting at the pavement, propped up against the rear wheel, apparently unharmed. The sight made Starsky slow down a bit, and yet he could perceive something was wrong. Hutch's gun lay abandoned a couple feet away.
"Hey. You okay?"
Still, no answer, nor any kind of acknowledgement of his presence.
"Hey." Starsky kneeled nearby and touched the blond's arm, trying to make him look up. "You get hit, huh? Huh?"
He was getting more and more nervous at that lack of interest, and Hutch's quickly paling features weren't helping either.
"Hey, talk to me." He cupped Hutch's cheek with one hand and gently lifted it, trying to have a look at those eyes. As soon as he did, though, Hutch jerked forward and started vomiting.
While he held up his partner as steadily as he could, Starsky discreetly checked out Hutch's body to see if there actually was something wrong with him, and found nothing. Something to be grateful for, notwithstanding whatever they were into now.
The bouts lasted for quite a bit, seeming to stop a couple times just to resume immediately later. Finally, Hutch sank back onto the side of the car, apparently finished.
"Hutch." Starsky hated to push now, but he had to know for sure. "Are you hurt somewhere?"
The washed-out face came into view this time, and cloudy eyes looked weakly at him. "No. No, I-"
"It's okay." Starsky put a hand on Hutch's shoulder. "Just catch your breath for a while, huh?"
He thought he had an idea about what was that all about. Of a different kind, but still an injury, if he was right. A bad injury that would leave scars. He knew, he had such scars.
Back-up was there, he'd heard the sirens approaching, and a uniformed officer had come around the car and was looking at the two of them on the pavement. "Detective..."
"It's fine. Look," he glanced at the man standing beside him, his hand still on Hutch's shoulder. "You take care of this, okay? That is Officer Hutchinson's weapon. Take it to the forensic. I'll clear it up with Captain Harrison later."
"Does he need an ambulance-"
"No, he's okay. Just- tell Harrison I'll call him later, will you?"
"Yes, sir." The officer finally went to collect the gun and drew back. Good guy... Jeffrey, was it?
"Thanks."
The man nodded and left. Starsky's attention returned to his partner.
"Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
It seemed to take a lot of effort to Hutch to speak again, let alone look up at him.
"'s get away from here."
"Sure." More than he'd hoped for, actually.
Starsky helped his partner up on wobbly legs; he was glad he'd parked on the other side of the garage, so Hutch wouldn't have to walk right back into the scene and in front of the corpse. And yet, when they abandoned the shelter of the old car, the blond head jerked back to look at the mess the dead man lay in, and Starsky with all his trying couldn't do much to hide the sight from the taller man's eyes.
"Oh, God-" Hutch's steps faltered. Starsky braced himself and all but dragged him away.
"Easy, easy. Don't mind it. Just get in the car, will ya?"
They finally made it to his car; Starsky managed to get his partner in, sliding him to the passenger side before sitting behind the wheel. He grabbed a tissue box from the rear seat and handed it to Hutch, who slowly took one and wiped his mouth. Starsky watched the whole process, then reluctantly started the car, knowing that the sooner they left that place, the better it would be. Five minutes later, anyway, they reached the quiet area Starsky was looking for, and he pulled up near the sidewalk.
"First time, huh?"
Maybe too bold, but patches hurt less when ripped off quickly. After a long moment, Hutch nodded angrily. Anger at himself, if Starsky knew that stubborn partner of his.
"I'm sorry I-"
"It's okay," Starsky soothed. "I've been there. I know how it feels."
He'd never talked to Hutch about that before, nor had he ever questioned the blond's shooting history. That was too private a matter even for partners, and one so terrible Starsky had hoped dearly never to have to bring up.
The sky blue eyes came up in surprise, and Starsky's throat constricted for a moment. Yes, he knew that look. He'd seen it in the mirror for days, weeks, after he'd fired his weapon and known for sure that the soldier falling dead before his very eyes wouldn't have been so very dead without him pulling the trigger. For a moment, Starsky felt it anew, saw it developing in those confused eyes, the sensation of being dirty, shameful, of having crossed a bridge and being permanently separated from those whose soul was still intact.
The feeling got better, with time. Never quite went away, but got better. Even when he'd had to do it again, on the Force, to save his former partner's life during a shootout. His former partner was an older, wiser man who'd taught him a lot of things, just like Hutch's former partner had, and he'd been glad they'd come out of that okay. It had hurt, for a bit, but then he'd known it was the unpleasing part of the job, and that he'd have to learn to live with it. Hutch had saved his life today.
"I know it doesn't seem likely, but it'll get better." He placed his arm over Hutch's still shaky shoulders and squeezed slightly. "You had to do it, Hutch. He made you."
"I know," he admitted in an awfully small voice, "I shot someone before, but..."
"Yeah," Starsky came to his aid.
"I didn't know that you..." Hutch rubbed his eyes, letting go a long, trembling sigh. "It's nothing like they tell you, is it?"
"No."
Silence followed, then, "' Don' think I wanna go home, Starsk."
Of course. He still feels dirty. "Hey, you gotta get some sleep over this," Starsky tried to reason. "And Vanessa would get worried if you-"
"We had another fight this morning. I can't... can't handle that too right now."
"I'm sorry, buddy. But you can tell her, can't you? She'll understand why you're worked up. She'll take care of you, you'll see." Right? That's what I'd do, so why wouldn't she?
"No... Starsk-"
"Okay, okay." Who was he to insist on such a matter? Though that had to have been a hell of a fight to put Hutch down like that, even now. "Wanna get a beer, something to eat first?"
"Mmhmm."
"How about that guy, that informer who helped us with the Terrel case? Huggy Bear. He said he'd offer us a drink anytime."
"'kay."
His partner was done with decisions for that night. Starsky sighed, then headed for Huggy Bear's new bar.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
"Hutch? Hutch."
The slumped form beside him grumbled, and Starsky jabbed at it. "Time to go, buddy."
On second thought, beer hadn't been such a great idea, Starsky mused, nudging his blond partner's shoulder with a bit more insistence.
It had started quite harmlessly, actually. Huggy Bear hadn't been there, but they'd been greeted warmly, and a waiter had come to their table. 'Beer with nothing in your stomach?' Starsky had discreetly pointed out when Hutch had refused anything on the menu except for the drinks. But the blond had looked so beaten up that Starsky hadn't insisted, only waited grimly for their orders while Hutch looked around silently, in evident discomfort. After all, a can of beer had never hurt anybody.
But then, a second beer had followed, and, in the meantime of Starsky's brief visit to the john, something a lot harder had slipped by - if the smell from the big empty glass in front of his partner was any indication. Wonderful. Now Hutch was barely conscious, huddled on the table, eyes opening and closing with the agility of snails. Starsky never meant it to end like this when he'd suggested their trip.
"Go whe'? Patrol?"
"We don't do patrol, Hutch," Starsky replied patiently, pulling his partner's left arm around his own shoulders. "Come on. Gotta help me a bit there."
Starsky never knew how, but he managed to reach the counter, leave a banknote and stumble out of the bar, all with his partner in tow.
The cold outside had Hutch a bit rallied. He started shaking, too, and Starsky felt more than a little relieved when they reached his vehicle.
"Here we are, pal. Get in the car?"
He helped the man settle, just to be sure he wouldn't bump his head on the frame, then he pulled a blanket from the trunk and placed it around him. Starsky got inside, closed the car door and studied Hutch who was slouched in the passenger seat and looking at him.
"You got a bit caught up in it, didn't you?" Starsky smiled reassuringly.
"Yeah..." Hutch abandoned his head back on the headrest. A visible shiver went through him, and he pulled the cover tighter around himself. "Starsk, 'm sorry."
"No reason to be. I'll take you home now." Starsky turned the heat on, getting close enough to rub energetically Hutch's forearms. Just as he did so, the blond head drooped forward and landed on his shoulder, followed by his partner's weight against his chest. Starsky was at a loss for a moment, then he shifted enough to counter the pressure, and reached for Hutch's back, rubbing for warmth and comfort.
"It's gonna be okay, Hutch."
"Starsk-" came muffled from into his shirt.
"Hey, take it easy. Let me take care of this, huh?"
Even through the fabric, he could feel Hutch's relaxed smile against his collarbone.
He'd never seen Hutch like this. Yes, he'd figured out long ago what a softie was hidden behind the tough cop he got to see every day on the streets, but this was new to him. As far as he knew, Hutch never trusted anybody with his private feelings, let alone with his control. And yet, here he was, ending up drunk, lowering the guard, unconsciously or not, with just the knowledge that Starsky would be there. Completely relinquishing control and letting him take charge of everything.
Except, Hutch was never that casual. He made a point of everything, there always was reason behind his every choice. Starsky wasn't even remotely that structured, but he'd come to like the tight focus of the man. Focus he'd all but thrown to the wind now. Purposefully. Maybe Hutch hadn't meant to get drunk, but that hadn't been an accident either. It had been trust. A real, extremely rare leap of faith that – Starsky realized – somehow he'd come to earn, and that he had no intention to squander.
Hutch had stopped shaking, and Starsky took advantage of the relative calm to place his limp form back into the passenger seat. Sure enough, his partner didn't even stir, and Starsky started up the car, heading quietly for Hutch's place.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
The road was clear, and that gave Starsky occasion to think. Hutch was in no condition to explain to his wife what the hell had happened for him to show up late and drunk like that. Starsky would have to go up and fill her in first to diffuse the tension a bit, at least give Hutch a night's peace. He didn't like the idea particularly, but there was no other solution that he could see.
When they pulled up, the blond was partially awake, but it didn't look like he'd be able to realize where they were.
"Hey, partner, I gotta do something. I'm leaving the heat on. Will you be okay until I'm back?"
Hutch nodded, eyes closing again as he turned to rest his head against the window.
"Fine. Don't go anywhere, huh?"
The moment he went up the house's stairs, he wondered how he should make himself known. Cops' spouses and families in general reacted pretty unpredictably when the cop in question was late, especially when they opened the door and found instead said cop's partner, alone. At least, he thought as he rang the doorbell briefly, he wasn't calling.
After some moments of silence, the door opened, and the woman he identified as Vanessa appeared. Not that worried to see him, either. She was as beautiful as he remembered, Starsky noted objectively, but he couldn't bring himself to like her, and that had nothing to do with the fact that she was Hutch's wife.
"Hi, Dave." She smiled a cold, forced smile that gave Starsky the chills. She looked quite irritated, actually, which in turn irritated Starsky. "Where is he?"
On his deathbed, he was tempted to say, to see if it would at least elicit some sentiment.
"He's okay. He's... look, can we talk inside for a moment?"
It was some classy house. He'd been there before, but it never ceased to amaze Starsky with all the strange stuff that seemed more fit for an art museum. Too classy, actually. Except for a photo where a younger Hutch embraced Vanessa, his partner smiling with that astonishing pureness he emanated when he was utterly happy, the rest of the house didn't carry the warm intimacy Starsky had imagined a family's house should. A little space of a generally warmer tone, visible from where he'd followed Vanessa, revealed a slightly messy table with two potted plants on it, a library, Hutch's guitar and a stuffy couch. While he could perfectly picture Hutch in there, he couldn't imagine how his partner would fit with the rest of that house.
Starsky tore his eyes away from his surroundings, and concentrated on what the hell he should tell Vanessa and how.
"Well..."
She raised her eyebrow in a way that actually reminded him of Hutch, except there was no affection in those eyes.
"Okay. He's had a... pretty rough day at work. Both of us..."
At that point, he realized he didn't like so much the idea of telling everything to that woman. As with himself, it was a private matter, and he didn't feel like trusting Vanessa with Hutch's feelings.
"What are you trying to tell me?"
He sighed. "Well, sometimes it's just too much. You know him." He smiled, real affection warming his heart."He cares about everyone..."
"Dave, will you get to the point?"
"He's... had a little too much alcohol. I think he'll be fine, but he's in the car now. He's gonna need-"
"He's drunk, isn't he?"
The disgust in her voice was almost more than he could bear.
"Yeah," he forced out, trying to maintain control.
"And why are you coming here?"
"Why am I—who else should I go to?" His voice was getting more and more high-pitched with each word, the way it did when indignation suffocated him.
"None of my business."
"Look-"
"No, you look. I don't let drunk people into my house."
"This is Hutch we're talking about!"
"So what?"
"Hey!" he almost yelled. "He's had to shoot a man today, he's taking it bad enough already." Starsky said that angrily in Hutch's defense, but she'd know that much anyway, as soon as he returned without his gun. Hutch could tell her the rest if he wanted.
"That's not a good reason for getting drunk."
"Don't you understand, for God's sake? This is not like getting back from the office! He could get killed any day out there!"
"Who are you to talk to me like that? And what about me? Doesn't anybody care about my suffering?"
Oh, God, please, not this.
"Come on. He loves you. Can't you even see that? He needs you now."
"If he loved me he'd choose a better way to pay the bills." Here it was, her favorite weapon. "I'm not his babysitter, anyway."
"You're his wife! What would you want me to do, dump him at the nearest hospital?"
"I don't care."
"You don't- Can't you just... show him some compassion?"
"You mean pity! This way you cops have to let off steam..."
He never knew what came after that. He hurried out of there as her words still hung in the air, with all the desire of slamming the door upon that cold face, and restraining himself only because it was Hutch's door too.
Only when he was down the steps and outside did Starsky stop a moment. Collecting himself in the fresh air before returning to Hutch, back in the car. The blond had been apparently dozing off, but, when he opened the door, stirred immediately.
"Starsky... Starsk-" Hutch reached out for him confusedly. Starsky took his hand, affection warming him instantly into a gentle smile.
"I'm here, partner."
"Don't feel well-"
No kidding. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
"We go home now?"
"Yeah."
The decision had come to him before he even knew it, and it made perfect sense. "Just rest down, huh?"
"Mmhmm." Nearly out of it, Hutch slipped on his left side, ending up against Starsky's shoulder. After a second's debating, Starsky decided to let him be.
He started up the car, pulling Hutch to rest easier upon him. Then, he blushed at the protectiveness of his own gesture. It all was new that night. He was still amazed for the amount of trust his partner had decided to grant him. Actually, that said a lot about the blond's current state of mind too, but it would still be better than bottling things up. Hutch already bottled up enough, and after the scene with Vanessa, Starsky was just beginning to realize how much.
He still wasn't sure where he was meant to fit in all of this, but little mattered now, because he wasn't one to refuse help to anyone, and surely not to Hutch.
Finally, Starsky pulled up in front of his place. Hutch was still dozing off on his shoulder, but a gentle shake of his arm roused him enough to understand what he was needed to do. They staggered together up the stairs and past the doorway, then Starsky headed for the bedroom without hesitation.
"Here we are, partner. You get the bed for tonight, but don't make a habit of it, okay?" Starsky adjusted the long limbs of his partner as he crumbled onto the bed, covered him, then leaned over to get a look at heavy-lidded eyes. "How do you feel, huh?"
It seemed to take all out of Hutch to get that answer out. "Sick. Head's spinning. Tired."
"That's normal, buddy. This the first time you get drunk?"
"Yeah."
Ah, such a boy scout. Not that Starsky had ever been the drinking type himself, but the less than happy experiences of his earlier life had somewhat initiated him at a younger age.
"It's okay. You're gonna feel lousy for a while, but you'll be okay."
A quiet moan was his only reply. That head must have been killing him by now.
"Hang in there. I'll be back in a jiffy."
He went to the kitchen and soaked a washcloth, then prepared a glass of water and a basin, and went back into the darkened room.
"Hey." He waited for Hutch to give some kind of response, then squeezed his arm. "Think you can keep down this water?"
"Don't know."
"Okay. Try a little sip."
Hutch did as he was asked. Not even a minute later, he was emptying all the alcoholic content of his stomach into the basin Starsky had readied for that very eventuality. His stomach had probably been simmering already, ready to go off at a random prompt. Starsky could only be glad the prompt hadn't occurred while they were in his car.
"Breathe, partner. Better out than in, huh? You're gonna feel better when you're done."
If he even was feeling anything at all. Hutch lay so limp in Starsky's arms that he could have been unconscious, except for his eyes that were still stubbornly open, and such remained even when Starsky finally put him back down into the bed and under the covers.
"Close your eyes now. It'll help," Starsky coaxed, putting the cold towel on Hutch's forehead. Hutch's eyes started drooping. "That's it. Now time for some sleep."
"Where're we?"
"My place. My bed." Starsky smiled, trying to keep as neutral as he could. There was silence for a moment, then Hutch darted half-up, only stopped by the spike of pain in his head. He winced.
"Easy, easy. I'm sleeping on the couch," Starsky quipped, helping him back down.
"Vanessa... I- she-"
"It's okay, buddy. She knows you're with me." As if.
Hutch loosened up a bit, the weight of the day pushing hard on him. "Yeah?"
"Uh huh."
"She okay with it?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't truth nor was it a lie. Yet, Starsky didn't like it. He never lied to Hutch, and this wouldn't solve things with his wife. But Hutch probably wouldn't remember anything in the morning anyway, so there would be no point in having him agitated and hurt when he was needing the rest so badly. "Don't worry now. Get some sleep, will you?"
"Stars'."
"What?"
"First time... of how many?"
The blue eyes were on his with such intensity that Starsky was confused for a moment. Then, he thought he got it. "It's no big deal. It'll be out of your system before you know it."
"Not that... takin' life."
What a beautiful brain was that. For all its drowsiness, it surely got amazingly clear when drunk. Even more so than what Hutch let out in a normal day. Starsky wasn't sure he felt comfortable with it, but that still demanded an answer. A thought-out one, too.
"We can't know, Hutch. But it's our job. We help people, and sometimes this happens."
He had to wait some before a reply came out, so very softly.
"Don't know if I can be part of it."
Starsky's heart skipped a beat. Was it the drunken man talking, or was Hutch with all his intelligence, thoughtfulness, and kindness, who refused to take part in a job that now and then required them to kill people? In either case, could Starsky really blame him? And what about himself? Was he so sure he could pay the price of having his soul ripped to keep another safe and sound – and whole – at home with their family?
"You don't have to sort it out now, partner. You've had a hard day."
Hutch nodded, closing his eyes. There was still a tension about him. They'd already reached way farther than their usual comfort zone that night, but it couldn't have been helped. Hutch had needed back-up, and that was what partners were for, after all. Now, Hutch still did, and Starsky still couldn't help worrying. There was deep, painful emotion boiling right under the surface of that grown-up man lying drunk on his bed, holding tight onto the bed sheet, who wasn't family but who felt more and more to Starsky as if he were.
Starsky reached out, driven only by his awakened older-brother instincts, and touched softly that almost-white head, mesmerized at the warm silkiness under his fingers. The only reaction he got was a lapse in Hutch's breathing, but no evident sign told him he was unwelcome. He only smoothed the disheveled hair back in place, but that – or the simple contact – seemed enough for his partner to slowly relax, and draw a deep, shaky sigh.
"Come on, Hutch. Just let it go," Starsky murmured, softer than ever, stilling his motion over Hutch's head.
In the silent seconds that followed, Starsky looked distractedly out of the window, waiting, involved much more deeply than he'd ever thought possible with his partner's well-being. Attracted by a muffled sound, he looked down. The pale cheeks were wet with tears now, though Hutch didn't seem to have noticed. Starsky's hand didn't waver even then, and, little by little, the broken breathing turned into deep, regular respiration. Finally.
When he'd first started acknowledging Hutch's worth as a cop and a man, Starsky had never thought that such a strong presence, like his partner's, could ever be broken down. But that had been before he'd come to know Hutch and, beside the man's fierce justness, that quiet, insightful sensibility, that natural kindness. Those were a different kind of qualities. Qualities that most people overlooked in cops, or even discarded as weaknesses. With and because of Hutch, Starsky had grown and learnt to recognize them for the strengths they were instead, both on his partner and on himself. Love, compassion, and caring. Caring that was eating Hutch away. Caring for his job, for his partner, for himself, for a woman who hadn't cared enough to let him back home, for strangers who wouldn't hesitate to kill him every time, every day. All at once, Starsky realized he didn't mind a bit looking after such a human being, and there was no reason to be ashamed of it.
Starsky stood up. He had to figure out some things of his own, but not tonight. Surely, his slumbering partner didn't seem less strong to him now than he had that morning, before the shooting, nor less whole after what he'd had to do.
But Starsky had been right, after all. It hadn't been a normal day. He'd left home alone, and made it back with a blond, soft-hearted partner to take care of. Satisfied for now, he headed for the living room, to see if that couch could really be slept on.
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