"A friend is one to whom you can pour out the contents of your heart, chaff and grain alike. Knowing that the gentlest of hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away." - unknown
Pianissimo
If I had to think of a sound I identify with Starsky it's the sound of breathing. He can breathe so softly at times I think he's stopped, and others so loudly I know he could be heard on the next block. But it's the sound of life and I never take it for granted.
The first time I hear his breathing he's propped up against the car door, air coming in loud snores through his open mouth. It's a long all night stakeout..my first..and I'm still downing coffee hours after he drifts off. The next day I snap at him for sleeping and making me stay awake, and he only looks at me without speaking. It isn't until much later that he realize he slept because he trusted me enough to stand guard, and would have stayed awake if I'd trusted him enough to ask.
The second time I hear his breath he's gasping for air between laughter, pinned face down by Captain Dobey's kids. He wrestles his way up and tosses Rosie in the air, grinning at her shrieks of laughter. He's just a big kid at heart and I can't help but smile watching him.
The third time I hear his breath he's holding me against him, cradled on a hillside as a crew works to pry the car off the leg I can no longer feel. His breath is heavy, panting from running down the slope, gasping as the fear melts away. The sound is oddly comforting and I drift away.
The fourth time I hear his breathing I'm gasping for my own air, fighting to hang on. His hand grabs mine, eyes filled with agony above the mask. I hear his breath catch, hold until I drag another ragged gulp of air into my tortured lungs. Sometimes I wonder if that breath had never come if he'd have taken that next breath alone.
The next time I hear his breath he's slumped against his car, face tilted slightly upward, eyes closed. If it wasn't for the scarlet spilling from his chest, running down his back, trickling from his mouth, and the ragged intake of air I could mistake him for asleep. I land on my knees beside him, pavement cutting into my skin as I wrap my jacket around him, try to stop the blood. I feel him stop breathing as my hand trembles in front of his face. As if in a dream I ease him down, force my air into his lungs, gasps that barely lift his chest, my lungs breathing for him, my heart beating for two. It isn't until the paramedics come and take him from me that I taste the blood on my lips and know it's not a dream.
The last time I hear his breath it's soft, a whisper as he sleeps..natural, real sleep, eyes closed, pain lines brushed out of his face. He looks like a little boy lying there and I reach out and tuck the covers in around him without bothering to ask the nurse. His eyes flutter and he looks at me, a loopy smile touching his eyes. He drifts off again almost instantly and I sink into the chair beside him.
He won't wake again until morning but I'm content to sit here, to watch him sleep. And listen to the quiet music of his breathing.