A chill wind stirred his hair, flapping the jacket around his body. He
tugged it tighter, closing it across his chest, and peered around into the
dark. Where was he? No moon, no light, no point of reference to orient
himself by. Just a lonely road cloaked in a Stygian blanket. He didn't
find it strange to be walking this isolated path in the middle of the
night, he only knew that he was expected... somewhere. Somewhere ahead.
He walked faster, then broke into a loping run as a sensation of purest dread grasped his heart and squeezed. Fear- no, terror - such as he'd never known before lent wings to his feet- Faster. Faster! But the road only stretched longer, his goal farther and farther away.
What was he afraid of? What was pushing him to his limits and beyond? Why...? ("I'm pushing the odds, Starsk.") Starsky! That was it! Starsky needed him. He was in mortal danger, perhaps dying, and he was counting on Hutch for help - to protect him.
"Hang on, buddy. I'm coming," Hutch panted, fighting a stitch in his side. "Please, God, please let me be in time." In the distance a high-pieced, wavering scream shattered the night, raising the hackles on the back on his neck. Oh, God, Starsk!
The scream died away to a low, animal moan, and then the silence fell again more terrible than before. The road - endless. A despairing cry escaped his parched lips and was lost to the night.
Wait, was that...? Yes, a light! Amorphous, restless - close. He was there - Starsky was there. Close.
The road narrowed, leading him through a stone archway, moss-covered, crumbling. There was a plaque against one supporting curve, a name carved into the stone. He couldn't make it out. It was worn nearly smooth by the wind and weather of uncounted ages. He turned away uncaring. It didn't matter anyway.
A sound off to his left brought him around into a crouch, hand reaching automatically for the gun which was not there. He listened intently for the sound to repeat itself, but the utter stillness of the place was unbroken. "Starsk?" he called low, quietly, tensed for action. But there was nothing save that same unnerving silence.
Cautiously, ever cautiously, he moved into the direction of that first sound, a great golden cat stalking prey. There was danger here - every instinct screamed its warning, but they were all disregarded. Danger there might be, but Starsky was there, too, and he was all that was important now.
Wait... A twig snapped... There! Just beyond that ring of stones... that ring of... graves...
Graves? Is that where he was? A cemetery?
The circle of headstones had expanded, hedging him in on all sides, choking in their proximity. Trapped. He was... No! He couldn't stay here. His friend was out there, hurt, dying, needing help.
"Starsky!"
The echoed cry was carried off on a wind pounding at him now at a hurricane force. He hunched his shoulders - no escape from the stones. No help for his friend. No....
The faintest whisper of sound reached him over the harsh roar of the wind. A small, inarticulate whisper. Casting his eyes about in all directions, he finally noticed the huddled shadow against one side of the circle. He could make out the slender form of a man gleaming dully in the moonlight. (Moonlight? But there was no moonlight before.) Huddled on its side, the head resting crookedly against the nearest headstone (Familiar. So familiar.) and lying in a pool of..
"No." A guttural croak. "No, please, no." Then he was on his knees, his pants soaking up the blood. The figure, so still - deathly still - hung limp when he pulled it up into his arms, remained limp when his trembling fingers checked pulse, heartbeat, breathing.... Nothing.
"No!" He shouted denial into the heavens, screamed heartache and grief to the uncaring moon.
"No! I lost him... again. Oh, God, I lost him again!" Tears, hot and acrid, welled over, falling down cheeks gone numb. He bugged his friend close, crying openly into the dark hair and pouring out thirty-five years worth of anguish and loss and sorrow.
A long time later the tears ceased, well-springs emptied. A numbness descended like a warm cocoon, drawing light, gentle bands around his mind, shutting off pain, soothing away hurt.
Starsky would have to be... taken care of. Buried. And Hutch's heart would lie in the cold earth beside him until his body mingled with that of his friend in the dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Hutch raised his head, then levered one arm under the other's knees prepared to life a weight which was suddenly far too insubstantial to have ever housed the living, breathing spirit of David Starsky.
He braced himself - and froze. The eyes were open - and looking at him. "Starsky?"
Blue lips curved upward into a ghostly parody of a smile which had once been golden sunshine. "Huuutch." A sibilant hiss.
"Starsk, I... I don't understand. I thought you were..."
"Dead?" The voice was a little stronger, becoming almost conversational. "I am dead, buddy. Dead and about-to-be-buried."
A knot appeared in the pit of Hutch's stomach, his lips frozen numb. "N- no. You're not..."
"'Course I am." The glazed eyes continued to stare at him, unblinking. "You killed me, remember?"
"No... I... I wouldn't..." His mind reeled, insanity only a hairsbreadth away. "I...."
Starsky sat up, cold fingers reaching for his face. "You must remember. Hutch. I needed you and you killed me. It's your fault I'm dead."
Hutch noticed abstractedly that the lips remained locked in that grim rictus, not moving even when speaking. The eyes, black holes in a grey- white face, remained on his. Sanity slipped again, "I'm sorry... I wouldn't hurt you... I love you.. I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm..."
A shadow was bending over him, shaking his shoulder frantically, calling his name in a frightened tone. The shadow - it was after Starsky!
Training took over then. Without a word. Hutch buried himself from the bed, knocking the intruder to the flour. The shadow made a whooshing noise as the air was forced from its lungs - then clawed helplessly at the steely fingers slowly choking the life away.
"Hutch?!"
The shadow's voice was familiar. The same sibilant hiss he'd heard from....
"Starsky?"
With an effort. Hutch pried his fingers from the other man's neck and reached up to snap on the beside lamp. In the harsh glare he found himself sitting astride Starsky, who was blinking owlishly up at him while drawing in great gulps of air.
"Whazzamattawhidya?" he gasped painfully, massaging his throat. "You tryin' ta kill me or sumptin'?" His anger faltered before the undisguised fear written across the ashen face above him. "Hutch?"
"Starsky?" An unbelieving, untrusting plea offered to the dreamscape. A shaking hand descended, touching Starsky's unshaven cheek gently before the night exploded and reality dawned. "Oh, God, Starsk."
Hutch scrambled off Starsky 'd body, then extended a hand to pull his friend up. "I'm sorry.... God, I could have.... Are you all right?" The words emerged in a rush, tumbling over themselves in an effort to escape.
Starsky raised a hand to stem the flow. "Whoa! I'm fine. Really." He grimaced slightly coming to his knees, but deliberately restrained himself from reaching for his chest. Hutch, however, was fooled not one bit. "You are hurt. Easy, buddy, I-"
"Hey I am fine." Starsky turned on his most convincing, heartwarming smile. "No harm done. You just startled me, that's all." He sobered. "Bad one, eh?"
The blond sank down onto the edge of the bed and lowered his face into his hands. "You don't know."
"No, but I can guess."
Hutch looked up into the sympathetic eyes and concluded that maybe Starsky could guess; he'd probably had his share of nightmares since the shooting. Besides, it'd be pretty hard not to be able to guess after this little incident.
They had shared Starsky's house for almost two months after Starsky had been released from the hospital, but generally the dark-haired man had rested in a drug-induced slumber night after night; thus, he was unaware of the ghosts his partner entertained whenever he closed his eyes. Until now.
Sharp eyes scrutinized Hutch with new found knowledge, connecting isolated pieces of data into a collective whole. "I knew..." He cleared his throat. "I knew you were tired. Hutch, all the time- But I didn't know..,." He stumbled, "This is every night, isn't it?"
The guilty look in the other man's eyes was answer enough, Anger flared, "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Hutchinson drew a shaky hand across his face. He sensed rather than saw Starsky pull himself up to sit next to him on the bed, felt a warm hand on his shoulder transmitting a calming strength which eventually soothed away the shaking and the terror.
Long moments later he raised his head, "Are you sure I didn't hurt you, Starsk?"
Starsky blinked, "Of course not, dummy. And you didn't answer my question. This has been going on a long time, hasn't it?"
The blond head nodded reluctantly. "Every night... I think."
"You think?"
"I don't always remember." He dropped his head into his palms, massaging his aching temples furiously. "Sometimes I wake up and everything is gone like smoke. Other times I open my eyes and I can see it all so clearly."
Starsky's hand tightened, as much support as comfort. "What do you dream about?"
Hutch raised his head to regard his friend steadily for a moment. "You. The shooting. Your... death. Each night is different - unique... I... think. But each night you die because I'm not there for you. Or because I... failed you somehow. "
"That's stupid." Starsky shook him gently. "You never failed me. Not ever."
Hutch chuckled sourly. "My head might know that, buddy, but tell that to my gut."
Silence fell again during which the only sound was the baying of a dog, distant and mournful. It was Starsky who spoke next, his voice sympathetic. "Did you tell that police psychiatrist about them?"
Hutch nodded. "Dr. Marsden? I told her."
"What did she say?"
A shrug. "Usual crap. Delayed stress syndrome caused by the tensions of our living on the edge for so long, triggered by the trauma of watching you get shot down."
"Oh." Starsky digested this for a minute. "Did she say when they would stop?"
"Yeah."
"Well?"
A hesitant pause during which the blond ceased massaging his temples and fixed the far wall with a frown. "She... uh... said they would probably stop when...."
"What?" Starsky prompted.
Another pause. "When I finally realize that I'm not going to lose you again." He sank his head back into the concealing cover of his hands, only a slight quiver betraying the incredible strain in his body.
Starsky sighed, his gentle tones conveying a curious combination of affection and dismay. "Hey, I'm sorry."
Hutch raised his head again. "Sorry?"
The dark head bobbed. "I didn't mean to put you through all this. If I' had been faster in that parking lot, Gunther's mechanics would have never got me, and you wouldn't be going through all this now."
It was Hutch's turn to stare. "Starsk, I never thought you intended to get shot."
Cool street wisdom glittering in hard eyes, Starsky shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that what happened was due to a lack in my own training -- my own responsibility... and Gunther's." Impulsively, he threw his arms around Hutch, pulling him into a hug. "And I won't die on you now, either. I promise."
Laughing, Hutch returned the hug. "You promise, do you? Then I guess I'll have to promise you the same thing. It's about time we both backed off a bit from the edge, anyway. Let's face it, neither one of us is as young as we used to be,"
Starsky pulled his own thirty-five-year-old body out of his partner's embrace in mock indignation. "Whadda'ya mean by that, pop? I'll have you know one of us is doing just fine."
"Yeah?" Hutch yawned dramatically, then politely excused himself. "Maybe so, but the other of us is worn out, so get your juvenile delinquent ass back to you own bed and let me get some sleep. I've got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day." ***
He walked faster, then broke into a loping run as a sensation of purest dread grasped his heart and squeezed. Fear- no, terror - such as he'd never known before lent wings to his feet- Faster. Faster! But the road only stretched longer, his goal farther and farther away.
What was he afraid of? What was pushing him to his limits and beyond? Why...? ("I'm pushing the odds, Starsk.") Starsky! That was it! Starsky needed him. He was in mortal danger, perhaps dying, and he was counting on Hutch for help - to protect him.
"Hang on, buddy. I'm coming," Hutch panted, fighting a stitch in his side. "Please, God, please let me be in time." In the distance a high-pieced, wavering scream shattered the night, raising the hackles on the back on his neck. Oh, God, Starsk!
The scream died away to a low, animal moan, and then the silence fell again more terrible than before. The road - endless. A despairing cry escaped his parched lips and was lost to the night.
Wait, was that...? Yes, a light! Amorphous, restless - close. He was there - Starsky was there. Close.
The road narrowed, leading him through a stone archway, moss-covered, crumbling. There was a plaque against one supporting curve, a name carved into the stone. He couldn't make it out. It was worn nearly smooth by the wind and weather of uncounted ages. He turned away uncaring. It didn't matter anyway.
A sound off to his left brought him around into a crouch, hand reaching automatically for the gun which was not there. He listened intently for the sound to repeat itself, but the utter stillness of the place was unbroken. "Starsk?" he called low, quietly, tensed for action. But there was nothing save that same unnerving silence.
Cautiously, ever cautiously, he moved into the direction of that first sound, a great golden cat stalking prey. There was danger here - every instinct screamed its warning, but they were all disregarded. Danger there might be, but Starsky was there, too, and he was all that was important now.
Wait... A twig snapped... There! Just beyond that ring of stones... that ring of... graves...
Graves? Is that where he was? A cemetery?
The circle of headstones had expanded, hedging him in on all sides, choking in their proximity. Trapped. He was... No! He couldn't stay here. His friend was out there, hurt, dying, needing help.
"Starsky!"
The echoed cry was carried off on a wind pounding at him now at a hurricane force. He hunched his shoulders - no escape from the stones. No help for his friend. No....
The faintest whisper of sound reached him over the harsh roar of the wind. A small, inarticulate whisper. Casting his eyes about in all directions, he finally noticed the huddled shadow against one side of the circle. He could make out the slender form of a man gleaming dully in the moonlight. (Moonlight? But there was no moonlight before.) Huddled on its side, the head resting crookedly against the nearest headstone (Familiar. So familiar.) and lying in a pool of..
"No." A guttural croak. "No, please, no." Then he was on his knees, his pants soaking up the blood. The figure, so still - deathly still - hung limp when he pulled it up into his arms, remained limp when his trembling fingers checked pulse, heartbeat, breathing.... Nothing.
"No!" He shouted denial into the heavens, screamed heartache and grief to the uncaring moon.
"No! I lost him... again. Oh, God, I lost him again!" Tears, hot and acrid, welled over, falling down cheeks gone numb. He bugged his friend close, crying openly into the dark hair and pouring out thirty-five years worth of anguish and loss and sorrow.
A long time later the tears ceased, well-springs emptied. A numbness descended like a warm cocoon, drawing light, gentle bands around his mind, shutting off pain, soothing away hurt.
Starsky would have to be... taken care of. Buried. And Hutch's heart would lie in the cold earth beside him until his body mingled with that of his friend in the dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Hutch raised his head, then levered one arm under the other's knees prepared to life a weight which was suddenly far too insubstantial to have ever housed the living, breathing spirit of David Starsky.
He braced himself - and froze. The eyes were open - and looking at him. "Starsky?"
Blue lips curved upward into a ghostly parody of a smile which had once been golden sunshine. "Huuutch." A sibilant hiss.
"Starsk, I... I don't understand. I thought you were..."
"Dead?" The voice was a little stronger, becoming almost conversational. "I am dead, buddy. Dead and about-to-be-buried."
A knot appeared in the pit of Hutch's stomach, his lips frozen numb. "N- no. You're not..."
"'Course I am." The glazed eyes continued to stare at him, unblinking. "You killed me, remember?"
"No... I... I wouldn't..." His mind reeled, insanity only a hairsbreadth away. "I...."
Starsky sat up, cold fingers reaching for his face. "You must remember. Hutch. I needed you and you killed me. It's your fault I'm dead."
Hutch noticed abstractedly that the lips remained locked in that grim rictus, not moving even when speaking. The eyes, black holes in a grey- white face, remained on his. Sanity slipped again, "I'm sorry... I wouldn't hurt you... I love you.. I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm..."
A shadow was bending over him, shaking his shoulder frantically, calling his name in a frightened tone. The shadow - it was after Starsky!
Training took over then. Without a word. Hutch buried himself from the bed, knocking the intruder to the flour. The shadow made a whooshing noise as the air was forced from its lungs - then clawed helplessly at the steely fingers slowly choking the life away.
"Hutch?!"
The shadow's voice was familiar. The same sibilant hiss he'd heard from....
"Starsky?"
With an effort. Hutch pried his fingers from the other man's neck and reached up to snap on the beside lamp. In the harsh glare he found himself sitting astride Starsky, who was blinking owlishly up at him while drawing in great gulps of air.
"Whazzamattawhidya?" he gasped painfully, massaging his throat. "You tryin' ta kill me or sumptin'?" His anger faltered before the undisguised fear written across the ashen face above him. "Hutch?"
"Starsky?" An unbelieving, untrusting plea offered to the dreamscape. A shaking hand descended, touching Starsky's unshaven cheek gently before the night exploded and reality dawned. "Oh, God, Starsk."
Hutch scrambled off Starsky 'd body, then extended a hand to pull his friend up. "I'm sorry.... God, I could have.... Are you all right?" The words emerged in a rush, tumbling over themselves in an effort to escape.
Starsky raised a hand to stem the flow. "Whoa! I'm fine. Really." He grimaced slightly coming to his knees, but deliberately restrained himself from reaching for his chest. Hutch, however, was fooled not one bit. "You are hurt. Easy, buddy, I-"
"Hey I am fine." Starsky turned on his most convincing, heartwarming smile. "No harm done. You just startled me, that's all." He sobered. "Bad one, eh?"
The blond sank down onto the edge of the bed and lowered his face into his hands. "You don't know."
"No, but I can guess."
Hutch looked up into the sympathetic eyes and concluded that maybe Starsky could guess; he'd probably had his share of nightmares since the shooting. Besides, it'd be pretty hard not to be able to guess after this little incident.
They had shared Starsky's house for almost two months after Starsky had been released from the hospital, but generally the dark-haired man had rested in a drug-induced slumber night after night; thus, he was unaware of the ghosts his partner entertained whenever he closed his eyes. Until now.
Sharp eyes scrutinized Hutch with new found knowledge, connecting isolated pieces of data into a collective whole. "I knew..." He cleared his throat. "I knew you were tired. Hutch, all the time- But I didn't know..,." He stumbled, "This is every night, isn't it?"
The guilty look in the other man's eyes was answer enough, Anger flared, "Why didn't you ever tell me?"
Hutchinson drew a shaky hand across his face. He sensed rather than saw Starsky pull himself up to sit next to him on the bed, felt a warm hand on his shoulder transmitting a calming strength which eventually soothed away the shaking and the terror.
Long moments later he raised his head, "Are you sure I didn't hurt you, Starsk?"
Starsky blinked, "Of course not, dummy. And you didn't answer my question. This has been going on a long time, hasn't it?"
The blond head nodded reluctantly. "Every night... I think."
"You think?"
"I don't always remember." He dropped his head into his palms, massaging his aching temples furiously. "Sometimes I wake up and everything is gone like smoke. Other times I open my eyes and I can see it all so clearly."
Starsky's hand tightened, as much support as comfort. "What do you dream about?"
Hutch raised his head to regard his friend steadily for a moment. "You. The shooting. Your... death. Each night is different - unique... I... think. But each night you die because I'm not there for you. Or because I... failed you somehow. "
"That's stupid." Starsky shook him gently. "You never failed me. Not ever."
Hutch chuckled sourly. "My head might know that, buddy, but tell that to my gut."
Silence fell again during which the only sound was the baying of a dog, distant and mournful. It was Starsky who spoke next, his voice sympathetic. "Did you tell that police psychiatrist about them?"
Hutch nodded. "Dr. Marsden? I told her."
"What did she say?"
A shrug. "Usual crap. Delayed stress syndrome caused by the tensions of our living on the edge for so long, triggered by the trauma of watching you get shot down."
"Oh." Starsky digested this for a minute. "Did she say when they would stop?"
"Yeah."
"Well?"
A hesitant pause during which the blond ceased massaging his temples and fixed the far wall with a frown. "She... uh... said they would probably stop when...."
"What?" Starsky prompted.
Another pause. "When I finally realize that I'm not going to lose you again." He sank his head back into the concealing cover of his hands, only a slight quiver betraying the incredible strain in his body.
Starsky sighed, his gentle tones conveying a curious combination of affection and dismay. "Hey, I'm sorry."
Hutch raised his head again. "Sorry?"
The dark head bobbed. "I didn't mean to put you through all this. If I' had been faster in that parking lot, Gunther's mechanics would have never got me, and you wouldn't be going through all this now."
It was Hutch's turn to stare. "Starsk, I never thought you intended to get shot."
Cool street wisdom glittering in hard eyes, Starsky shook his head. "I didn't mean it that way. I only meant that what happened was due to a lack in my own training -- my own responsibility... and Gunther's." Impulsively, he threw his arms around Hutch, pulling him into a hug. "And I won't die on you now, either. I promise."
Laughing, Hutch returned the hug. "You promise, do you? Then I guess I'll have to promise you the same thing. It's about time we both backed off a bit from the edge, anyway. Let's face it, neither one of us is as young as we used to be,"
Starsky pulled his own thirty-five-year-old body out of his partner's embrace in mock indignation. "Whadda'ya mean by that, pop? I'll have you know one of us is doing just fine."
"Yeah?" Hutch yawned dramatically, then politely excused himself. "Maybe so, but the other of us is worn out, so get your juvenile delinquent ass back to you own bed and let me get some sleep. I've got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day." ***