Fermata
"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."-C. S. Lewis
It happens in an instant, in the space of time between a breath taken and a breath released, before another can be drawn to claim its place.
The sound is oddly quiet, a deadly whisper of lead escaping hot metal clutched in sweaty hands.
A hand goes to his chest, searching for a wound he will not find, as his eyes connect with his partner's, blue crashing into blue like the waves of a storm at sea.
And the next instant he sees his partner crumple, fold like a paper doll, and slide almost in slow motion down the wall to the ground of the filthy alley.
He wastes precious seconds tackling the teenager, cuffing him to the car, and shouting a frantic request for backup and an ambulance.
Somehow, he finds enough inner strength to walk the distance to the still form sprawled on the ground, to drop to his knees and clench the pale wrist for a pulse, to call a name infinitely more precious than his own in a raw whisper.
Somehow, he gathers the limp body against him, tightly, as if trying to merge two souls into one body to sustain them both.
If it wasn't for the crimson wetness draining from between his fingers pressed to the gaping hole in the almost motionless chest, soaking his shirt, his jeans, and even dripping onto blue sneakers, his partner might only be asleep, dozing off at the office after an all-night stakeout.
If it wasn't for the horrible lack of movement from a man seemingly always in motion, the almost tangible ebb of life from a person who fairly radiated it, he might only be resting.
Hutch makes no sound.
He sits, cradling the dying body, chin resting on the unruly mop of curls that give his partner an almost childish look, eyes fixed on something only he can see as the deadly scarlet runs like ribbons spilled from a child's hands.
He doesn't know how much time passes before the ambulance arrives.
And then Starsky is lifted from his arms, stolen from him, and placed on a stretcher.
The chrome doors close and Hutch cannot go, cannot follow.
The other officers take the teenager in, close the case.
Hutch goes home.
He pours himself a glass of alcohol and lets it burn its way down his throat and through the invisible hole in his chest, the wound mirroring his partner's.
He drags a chair over beside the phone and sinks into it, chin resting on folded hands.
He doesn't wash his hands, or change his shirt to remove his friend's blood.
He doesn't move from the chair and his eyes remain fixed on the phone like a drowning man watching a twig floating down the river.
Later, much later, when the phone rings and the voice on the other end tells him his partner is still alive, that's he's going to recover, he finally moves from the chair.
And alone, where no one can see and no one will ever know, Hutch cries.