Author's Notes: Many thanks to all those who provided feedback. Please continue.
Starsky eased the Torino to a stop in the shadows of Hutch's apartment. The sun was setting deep into the horizon now, leaving blood-red streaks in the sky like angry fingernail scratches upon soft flesh. The temperature had dropped marginally and it was no longer suffocating to take a deep breath. Nature's cycle was turning, and the inhabitants of Bay City were preparing for the night.
Starsky killed the engine and let his hand fall to his thigh. The partners sat unmoving in the silence, simply staring out the windshield and not really looking at anything. The soft sound of breathing filled the car. Starsky's heart beat against his chest in a steady rhythm and soon the burning silence became uncomfortable.
At last, Starsky drew in a breath. He turned towards Hutch and without looking at him said, "I'm staying here tonight."
Hutch shook his head, like Starsky had expected. The blond turned away, looking towards the dark apartment building. "It's alright. You don't have to."
"I want to."
"I'll be okay," Hutch said, raising his voice a little as he turned towards the windshield again, still not looking at Starsky. "You don't need to baby-sit me."
Starsky propped an elbow on door, feeling the coolness of the glass and ran his hand through his dirty hair. "I don't want to baby-sit you, I want to be there for you. I want you to be there for me. Isn't that how it works?"
Hutch's eyes fell shut for a few moments. "I'll call you," he said, and opened the door.
Starsky watched him get out. The pain inside grew stronger, but if he tried to force himself upon Hutch now, Hutch would get angry and push him completely out of the picture. Starsky couldn't bear that, more than he couldn't bear letting Hutch go now. They needed to heal from this, and being there for each other was the best way- but sometimes that included waiting silently for the other. Waiting for however long it took. They would beat this heartache, they had before, but it would take time.
"Hey," he called softly just as Hutch began to push the door shut.
Hutch froze, and leaned forward the slightest bit. "Yeah?"
Suddenly Starsky didn't know what to say. 'Take it easy'? 'Don't do anything stupid'? He blinked and stared at Hutch with his mouth open, feelings of concern bubbling up and rushing his throat until it grew tight.
Hutch gave the faintest of smiles. "I know."
The door banged shut with a sickening finality. Starsky watched his partner walk towards the dark apartment building then disappear inside.
A part of himself followed.
He turned towards the streetlight then, his gaze dropping to the glistening pavement outside as the memories of the past 8 hours came crashing back.
53 children had been on that bus when it crashed. 23 of them were sent to the hospital, and two of them were still in critical condition. Nobody seemed to know why the bus refused to stop. It had been checked earlier in the week and found to be in perfect operating condition. The driver had a flawless record.
But today, for whatever unjustifiable reason, that bus load of elementary school children plowed through an intersection and killed two motorists before coming to a violent stop in a ditch. Being there, on ground zero, in the heartbreaking aftermath of it all had been hard to say the least. He and Hutch had remained on the scene for the rest of the afternoon, writing reports and directing traffic and other things that they normally would hand off to the uniforms. The extremity of the accident required every available officer and then some.
Starsky knew his partner had seen the worst of it. He had watched Hutch dive into that bus and begin rescuing children like he had been doing it all his life. He knew how tightly Hutch had sealed himself, closing himself off from the onslaught of pain and suffering that plagued the crash site. It was something they both had learned how to do, learned how to perfect. You put up your walls, blockade all the weak spots, and simply plow forward. You collect the pain like tuna in a net, and deal with the pain later.
Starsky had been dragged away before he reached the bus, and appointed to 'Chaos Director' of the entire operation. He had held back countless parents as they screamed and cried over their trapped and inured children. He had been hit, kicked and bitten, but that pain was nowhere near the anguish of seeing all those broken children. There had been a line for the ambulances, organized by what child needed medical attention the most. Helicopters circled the sky, broadcasting the carnage for the entire nation to see. People were everywhere, some helping, some in the way. Traffic was at a standstill for miles. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing Starsky had ever experienced.
And then Starsky had spotted Hutch over at the side of the road, puking onto the weeds while kneeling on his hands and knees. Starsky would have been at his partner's side right then and there if it weren't for another hysterical family member flinging herself towards one of the tarp-covered cars. Starsky grabbed her, let her beat him with her fists, and handed her off to another officer. By the time he looked back to the side of the road, Hutch was gone.
Starsky took a deep breath and blinked, his eyes burning as the pavement outside came back into focus. He wondered briefly what it was that made the blacktop sparkle like that, glittering with a beauty it had no right to possess. The sun was even deeper in the sky now and the streetlights along the road burned brightly. With a shaky hand, he reached up and scrubbed his face, feeling the muscles loosen at the pressure.
Starsky looked up at Hutch's window.
The lights were off. There was no movement.
With a heavy heart, he started the Torino. The engine rumbled to life obediently, then idled patiently as he sat with his foot on the brake. This was wrong, being alone tonight, but it was what Hutch wanted, demanded. Starsky could respect that. After a day of unjustified tragedy, he could give his partner some needed isolation.
They would make it through this. Maybe not tonight, but they would make it through this.
Starsky would be here, waiting patiently, whenever Hutch needed him.
He shifted the car into drive and pulled into the street, heading towards his own dark and desolate apartment.
o0O0o
For three hours, Hutch had sat on the floor under the window, guitar in his lap, and stared into the street below. Occasionally, a car would pass down the road and continue out of sight, completely oblivious to the turmoil in the second-floor apartment. A cloud of moths fluttered about the streetlamps, colliding with the bright lights over and over with the hope of warming themselves.
Hutch wondered if they ever died doing that.
Hutch let himself into his dark apartment and dropped the keys somewhere near the door, ignoring the jangle they made as they landed on the floor. He leaned back against the door to close it, then simply stood in the black silence. The streetlights filtered through the street-front windows, casting long and empty shadows across the room. Nothing made a sound, nothing moved- not even the plants. A fearful tension hung in the air as the ficus dared the fern to drop a leaf.
Hutch pushed himself off the door and moved about the apartment, shedding his gun and holster and picking up his guitar and a bottle of whiskey, then slid to the floor next to the large front window.
He had watched Starsky sit in his car for nearly twenty minutes after Hutch had left, and he was just pushing himself to his feet when Starsky started the car and drove into the night. So, Hutch slid back down wall and resumed his position propped up against the wall.
He cradled the guitar in his lap, and he gripped it as if to play, but no notes sounded from it. Giving up, Hutch reached beside him and wrapped his fingers around the glass of alcohol he poured himself earlier. This was the hard stuff, the stuff he kept on a shelf and had to dust occasionally.
This was the stuff that burned going down.
Hutch took another sip, savoring the pain the liquid brought with it. The apartment was dark and quiet, and through the thin walls he could hear the neighbor's television set broadcasting the story of the school bus wreck. The reporter's sterile words sent Hutch into a trance as he watched the moths and remembered the grisly things he had witnessed that day.
Images of blood and gore and tears and glass and smoke chased each other around in his head and Hutch was forced to close his eyes against the pain they caused. Screams and cries echoed in his ears and suddenly his fingers were dragging over the guitar strings in an effort to block the sounds. He didn't know what the song was, nor did he care, as long as it drowned the grief in his mind.
But then there was the pain of refusing Starsky's comfort. He knew the brunet needed solace as much as he was willing to give it. Hutch felt sick at the hurt look in his partner's deep blue eyes as he shut the Torino's heavy door, placing a barrier between them. Denying Starsky his company hurt very much, but something prickly and twisted writhed within Hutch and he just needed to be alone tonight.
Alone with a song and a bottle of whiskey.
The slow, sorrowful notes that trickled from the guitar seemed to come straight from his heart. Pain welled up within him suddenly, and Hutch shut his eyes against it all, simply listening to what his heart was trying to say.
For countless minutes, Hutch sat against the wall and simply moved his fingers against the taught strings. When he finally opened his eyes, the sky was pitch black and so was the edges of his apartment. Somehow, the blindness soothed him and Hutch had no intention of getting up to turn on a light. The weak light from the streetlight cast long shadows over his furniture, and that was enough to navigate by, should he chose to move.
Hutch took another long swallow of the alcohol and set the glass down closer to him. The heavy ache in his chest was beginning to fade, and maybe he would get some sleep tonight after all. The jagged things tearing at his heart were growing blunt now.
His stomach cramped as if the weight of the whiskey were too much. Food was totally out of the picture. His stomach revolted just looking at the refrigerator. His muscles were heavy with fatigue, and he knew he stunk of sweat and blood. At some point during the day, he must have held still long enough for someone to care for the cut on his arm, for it was covered neatly with white gauze and tape. It still stung a little when he moved it, but that was nothing compared to the solid, leaden despair in his chest.
He doubted that pain would ever go away.
It was all so senseless, so frustrating, and that's was stung the most. Nobody knew why the bus couldn't stop. An entire day had passed and no one had any answers. 23 children were hospitalized because… why? 2 innocent people were dead because…?
Hutch tossed the guitar aside more forcefully than he intended and the hollow instrument made a strangled noise as it hit the end of the couch. Anger swirled within him as the constant drone of the reporters filtered through the wall. Why was the human race so entranced with other people's pain? Why was grief so easy to solicit?
Folding his arms around his waist, Hutch leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. He took a deep breath, dispelling the stagnant air from his lungs and closed his eyes. The face of the toothless little girl slammed against his mind's eye as if the picture had been taped to the backs of his eyelids and Hutch jerked, automatically reaching for the glass and downing the rest of the amber liquid.
When it was gone he set the glass down and grabbed the bottle, tilting it to pour more, then thought 'What the Hell,' and tilted the bottle to his lips instead.
His belly was on fire briefly, then the feeling left him and Hutch found himself content, even sated. His eyes were beginning to blur and when he risked shutting them again, all he saw was vacuous blackness.
At last, the whiskey was shutting him down.
It was time to move this little pity party into the bedroom.
Hutch pushed himself to his feet, catching himself on the wall as he overbalanced. He was suddenly aware of a pressure on his bladder and pushed off the wall towards the bathroom. It had been a while since he had gotten drunk like this, alone and in attempt to ease unrelenting pain, and Hutch had forgotten about this part.
Moments later he was standing over the toilet, one hand on the sink to steady himself (because there was nothing worse than cleaning up urine stains that had sat all night), and tried to keep his eyes open. The room was tilting to the left, which did not help his aim any. Hutch tried to make it come out faster, before the room turned upside down.
At last, he was finished. Hutch stumbled into his room, not risking the additional coordination of trying to undress, and simply fell face first onto his pillow. A warm fog was embracing him, wrapping him up in a thick shield and numbing his heartache. He couldn't remember if he was supposed to work tomorrow, but at the moment he didn't really care. He'd be lucky to wake up before noon.
A little voice in his head told him that Starsky would be here tomorrow, letting himself into the apartment and waking up him up, offering a cup of black coffee, and maybe then they would talk about whatever it was they needed to talk about.
Maybe tomorrow, they could have breakfast and carryout their normal routine.
Maybe tomorrow, when the fog lifted and the heartache ended.