When The Evening Was Thin
By Raven Leigh
You woke up screaming
aloud, a prayer from your secret god
That you feed off
of fears, and hold back the tears, oh
You give us a
tantrum, and a know it all grin
Just what the need
was, when the evening was thin
You're a
beautiful, A beautiful fucked up man
You're setting up
your razor wire shrine
Cause you're
working, building a mystery
Holding on and
holding it in
Yeah you're
working , building a mystery
And choosing so
carefully
"Building a
Mystery", Sarah Mc Lachlan
Hutch awakened crossly at 2 AM, to a rapid, almost frantic pounding at his front door.
He slid out of bed, snagged his orange velour robe from the floor, all the while automatically cursing the sales attendant who’d
said it’d be just SMASHING with his blond good looks. He fumbled around in the nightstand for a moment, and his long, thin
fingers closed around cold metal. He stumbled with gun in hand through the gauntlet of his rickety furniture to his front door.
After his experience with Forrest and his goons, he never took chances anymore.
"Who’isit—" His voice was husky with sleep. He tried again, " Who’s there?" Then, suddenly, without knowing how he knew
it---Hutch for once went on blind intuition and opened the door. And caught a flash of midnight curls, dark brown leather
bomber, faded jeans—hurtling down the walk, back to the Torino parked haphazardly in front of the house.
" Starsk!" Hutch shouted, hoping not to have to run in his bare feet after the shadowy figure that was evidently attempting to
escape. But that figure stopped as if shot. He stood for a moment, facing the canal, and then slowly turned to face him.
It was Starsky all right, but Hutch had never seen him like this—not even last month when the poison from Bellamy’s needle
had nearly taken the dark-haired detective’s life. He’d been all tough bravado then—not like this...
Starsky’s eyes—so wide, and so very, very blue—cobalt—yes, that was the color—Hutch focused on those intense blue eyes
and walked out on the cold, hard concrete in his bare feet to meet his partner halfway.
"Hey, buddy." Hutch gentled his voice.
Starsky might as well have looked through him. He looked spooked. There was definitely something wrong.
Hutch’s policeman’s training forced his mind to pick up things about his partner he’d rather not have noted. The trembling of
the hands—hell, the whole body. The desperate look in the eyes. The tight-bunched muscles in the jaw; clenched teeth? The
defensive posture, yet the sense of being beaten down. " Starsky?" Hutch tried again, and Starsky was still mute, seemingly only
able to stare at his partner in some sort of dumb horror.
That was when Hutch began to be afraid, and he took a step closer to his partner, to reach out a gentling hand to this man who
had appeared on his doorstep like some terrified and wounded beast.
Starsky blinked and focused hazily on his partner. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like, " I can’t – I can’t –", then
his eyes rolled up in the sockets, and he crumpled. Hutch wasn’t quite close enough to catch him. But he was at Starsky’s side
in an instant, sinking down next to his partner, somewhere in the back of his brain registering the cut of rough concrete into
tender knees. He cradled Starsky’s head on his lap, and stroked overgrown curly hair off Starsky’s forehead.
Starsky’s eyes fluttered open to stare wildly at Hutch. " D-d-don’t –don’t let him—d-d-don’t—" he stammered hoarsely,
shivering violently, and Hutch pulled him closer, trying to warm him with his own body. Never mind that Starsky had on jacket
and jeans—and Hutch only a robe. Hutch tried to warm his partner just the same. Then his mind focused on what Starsky was
saying, still muttering, as Hutch rocked him.
" Oh, god, babe—what now--?"
++++++
It was quite a while before Hutch managed to get his partner settled. He kept thinking he should call an ambulance, call a
doctor—call somebody—but he was terrified of what the consequences might be—to Starsky—to his career.
Starsky was resting, now, snugly nestled in warm blankets and fluffy pillows on Hutch’s couch. But he hadn’t slept, and he
wouldn’t talk. Hutch settled himself down for a long wait. It would take a while for Starsky to tell him what was up. That was
Starsky’s way. Old-fashioned Brooklyn street kid in his heart—and he didn’t like admitting to personal, private
problems---even when the problem might turn out to be life threatening. If it was a physical problem—yeah--maybe, sure. But
let it have something to do with that archaic warrior’s psyche thing Starsky had going, and then complete, stoic silence was the
rule.
Eventually, though, Hutch’s patience was rewarded, as he had known it would be. Starsky would always talk to him.
Eventually.
" I’m sorry." Starsky’s voice sounded gravelly with unshed tears.
Hutch took his time before answering. He raised an eyebrow, he couldn’t help it. " What for?"
" I – I didn’t mean to wake you ---" Starsky said, voice a hair stronger.
" Sure you did—" Shit! Hutch cursed at his own folly, and that had gotten out, before he could stop it. Damn it.
" No, Hutch—" And sure enough, Starsky took it the wrong way. He started to struggle with the encumbering blankets. " No –
I didn’t mean to be a pain—"
Hutch held the weak, trembling body down with one hand. " It’s okay, it’s okay."
Starsky looked doubtfully up into Hutch’s eyes, and Hutch felt that---drift---that sense of losing himself within eyes so
vulnerable, and yet so challenging.
A Machiavellian eyebrow lifted slightly, and then smoothed itself back down. " Okay." Shakily.
" You wanna tell me what this is all about?"
Another tremulous breath, and a look so full of trust it tore at Hutch’s heart.
" You know—"
" Yeah?"
"I –I haven’t been sleeping much—"
Long silence. Hutch broke it. " Yeah, babe?" Very softly.
" Not since ...not since Bellamy and the Nutty Professor. The Professor ... he doesn’t bother me so much, but Bellamy--"
Starsky’s voice broke. " And what he did to me--" Suddenly Starsky’s hands were clenching on Hutch’s, on the blanket, at his
own chest—and he finally raised both his hands to his face and sobbed brokenheartedly into them. Hutch moved to hold the
shaking form close.
He felt Starsky shaking so violently against him and it scared him. "Babe—hey, Starsky?"
And that’s when it dawned on Hutch—how much more of this story he didn’t know. . How much more damage there was to
repair—even after all the tests, the long recovery period, the prolonged weakness and the vision problems—and it still wasn’t
over. Because, and it was obvious, now—that Bellamy had left Starsky with a hole in his heart that couldn’t be mended by
medicine, or tests, or science. It could only be mended by love.
‘What—what happened, Starsk?" Hutch whispered, afraid to hear the answer.
" Y’know--, " Starsky coughed, " After "Nam, after all that blood and guts-- I thought I’d gone through the worst of it—the
nightmares—through the nights of waking up screaming, sweating---" Starsky was becoming more and more agitated—"
Y’know, I prided myself on that—that I never had to get help—I just took it like a man—I took it Like A Man—but –
now—all I see is HIM-- " Starsky’s voice was rising in volume and pitch; too high—panicked; Hutch tried to soothe the man
by rubbing his shoulders.
Starsky jerked away, wild-eyed. " ---I see Bellamy, Bellamy coming after me –in my house, in my room---—and I tried not
sleeping in the bed, but on the couch, and then not sleeping at all and now I can’t be in the house at all and now, now, now—’
Starsky sobbed into Hutch’s shoulder, " oh, God--- Please, oh, God...Hutch!"
" Hey...hey, now..." Hutch murmured, " It’s alright, I’m here—" saying anything he could think of to soothe the terrified man in
his arms. Eventually, though, Starsky drifted off into an exhausted sleep. Hutch was literally afraid to go to his own bed. So he
dragged out his sleeping bag and some more blankets and made himself a semi-comfortable nest, next to the couch. The sun
was coming up.
+++++
But Starsky slept, barely stirring, past the sun’s rising and falling and on into true night.
And Hutch, watching him sleep, could see his own feelings in the living poetry of Starsky’s breath, rising, falling, waxing into
nightmares; which Hutch would soothe him out of with soft words; and then waning into deep sleep; so peaceful; who would
guess that under that innocence lay a mind so badly torn by hardship and trauma, by death and near-death?
Who would guess?
Hutch would. He had. He’d seen the signs, and tried to ignore them, hopeful that his partner would bounce back with his usual
resiliency. That resiliency had been an act, and Hutch began going back in time; building a mental chronology that might just
help him decide what to do for Starsky.
Hutch had called Dobey early that morning, and begged off for the next couple of days. Said just enough to let his Captain
know that there really was a serious situation, and not enough to get Starsky pulled off the force for counseling. And not enough
to get himself suspended for insubordination. Almost, but not quite.
Somehow, Dobey had gotten the message. " Take all the time you need, " He’d said gruffly, finally.
Starsky stirred, moaning a little, and blinked slowly into awareness. "Hutch?" He looked at Hutch, wrinkled his brow a little and
yawned. The previous night’s events began to dawn on him and he looked away. That was painful to Hutch.
Hutch plastered on his best shit-eating-I’m- from-the-Midwest grin. " You hungry, buddy?" Food, he likes food, he thought...
maybe after he eats, then we’ll talk.
Starsky took the cue. Classic Bogey, wiseacre grin, complete with Brooklyn sneer. " What’cha got, Schweethart?" And Hutch
was immediately sorry. But he answered, " How’s pepperoni pizza sound, huh? "
" Hutch? " Starsky asked, feigning concern. " R’ya okay? No granola? No reconstituted goat’s liver?"
Hutch played it to the hilt. " Of, course I’m okay, Starsky—I’m just trying to be a good host, for crying out loud!"
‘ Okay, okay—you just kinda scared me for a minute—" Starsky gave Hutch a suspicious look. " No wheat-germ crust?"
‘ Dammit, Starsky!"
And that was pretty much how the rest of the evening had gone—Hutch playfully bickering with Starsky, first over pizza then
over a crappy game of Uno—which Hutch, of course-- lost repeatedly. But Starsky seemed to get more and more tense the
later it got. By midnight, Hutch could have sworn that his formerly cool, collected partner was going to begin climbing the walls.
" Starsky?"
No answer. Hutch stood up from his place on the couch to watch Starsky pace. Again. Then come back to sit. Then up again
to pace some more.
"Starsky—hey—wanna talk about it?"
Starsky went for his jacket, hanging in Hutch’s closet. " I gotta go." His hands were shaking again, violently.
" Starsky, wait—" Hutch went to his partner who was having difficulty getting his coat off the clothes hanger.
" Hutch took the hanger from him. " If you really want to go, then I won’t stop you, but well...Starsky, we need to talk. You
can’t go on like this."
And then suddenly that terrified, fearful man that Hutch had barely recognized as his partner last night was back—the fear was
back, and Hutch watched Starsky back up quickly, banging into the closet door.
" Hey, hey..." Hutch said softly.
" I can’t go home, Hutch. " Starsky drew a shuddering breath. " I want to, but I can’t. Not now.
Not after---" He stopped then, and just held on to the door behind him, trying hard not to shake.
++++++
For at least the fourth or fifth time that night Hutch asked the loaded question; " Starsky, tell me what’s going on?"
"It ... it was Bellamy.", and then Starsky’s legs nearly gave out from under him; Hutch helped his partner back to the couch.
Starsky let Hutch settle him on the couch, and looked up at his partner. " Thanks. I’m—I’m sorry to be this much of a bother,
I..."
" Starsky, don’t be ridiculous---" Hutch began helplessly, and then simply did something that prior to last month’s poisoning
ordeal, he never would have done. This is getting to be a habit, he thought as he pulled his trembling partner into his arms. At
first Starsky stiffened, resisting, and then all at once his whole body relaxed, and he buried his face in Hutch’s chest.
Hutch simply held him that way for a long time, letting Starsky rest there, providing sanctuary for this man who had come to
mean so much to him. Before last month, when he thought he was going to lose Starsky, he’d never known how much the
curly-haired, wisecracking but gentle-hearted imp really meant to him.
This wasn’t normal, was it? Hutch supposed he ought to be worried, but as tired and worried as he was, he decided not to
care. The only thing that mattered was Starsky. Starsky’s breath warmed him. The feel of his body there in his arms felt right.
That mattered, too.
But, finally Starsky pulled away, and sat up to face his partner. Hutch felt a little colder. He examined Starsky’s face, noting
with relief that the wild look in his eyes was gone.
He was also blushing furiously. "I seem to be falling apart about every thirty minutes these days," he mumbled, with a wry
expression.
" It’s okay." Hutch said, meaning it.
For a while the two men simply sat in a strained silence.
Starsky finally broke it, saying with the uncanny precision of a mind reader exactly what Hutch had been thinking. " I’ve .
Uhmm. Never been this close...this close ...to anyone. "
" Yeah. Me either." Hutch controlled his voice, making it sound as smooth and steady as possible.
" I-I can tell you anything---right?" Starsky stammered, staring at the floor.
" You have to ask?"
Starsky, without looking at Hutch, stretched out a hand. Hutch flashed on a moment at the station last month; Starsky reaching
out just like this, not looking at him. And as he had then, Hutch took the offering. And held it, keeping it safe. Keeping a trust.
It seemed to steady his partner a little, at least to enough to talk.
It was still hard. Too hard.
Starsky struggled for words. " I didn’t remember everything...everything that happened that night." Starsky sighed. "It ... it was
bad enough, the dreams from ‘Nam, and I thought I’d handled it... I thought I’d dealt with it. "
Hutch stared in surprise at his partner. " You never told me that you—"
Starsky dropped his eyes, and raised them again meet Hutch’s gaze. . " There’s a lot I never told you, Hutch." He swallowed,
and Hutch could see the muscles working in the corded throat.
"Alright." Hutch said with equanimity.
Starsky took a deep breath. His words came out in a slow stream of misery. " So now, after all this crap with Bellamy, now---I
wake up, and then there’s this ugly mug, all compressed with the stocking over it— and he’s laughing at me, taunting, and it....it
did something to me."
"I can’t sleep, Hutch. I can’t be in my own house, my own goddamned bed---" Starsky’s voice was shaking again, and he
pulled his hand away, only to clench a cushion to his chest. "Not even—not even when I was in ’Nam, was I ever that scared,
that---"
His voice broke, then. "--Ashamed..."
" Ashamed? " Hutch asked softly. " Of what?" He wanted badly to take Starsky’s hand in his own again, but recognized the
need to give Starsky his space. To let him breathe.
Starsky’s reply was muffled.
" What?" Hutch asked, not really wanting to push, but a chill went up his spine—and he knew somehow that what he was
about to hear would be awful. But he’d wondered, hadn’t he? Oh, Christ. The last month—Starsky’s touchiness, his moods?
The sleeplessness?
It took a long time for Starsky to answer. "I...didn’t want to remember, " he said again.
"What—what did he do?" Hutch whispered fiercely. " Tell me."
Starsky met his eyes again and this time they were full of tears. He dropped them again, kneading the cushion with shaking
hands.
" Dave?" Hutch murmured, not even realizing that he’d used his partner’s first name until after he’d said it. "David?"
Starsky’s eyes widened almost impossibly, they way they did when he was terribly hurt or scared. He faced Hutch, and said in
a rough whisper, " Do I have to say it?"
Oh my God. Oh my God. " He- he... raped you? "
Starsky held Hutch’s eyes with his own and nodded; so sad and forlorn looking; and Hutch shook his head, trying to simply get
his head around the very idea that this could happen. To a man. To a cop. To Starsky. It hit Hutch like the proverbial ton of
bricks. Part of him wanted to scream denial, and the other wanted to wrap Starsky in his arms and keep him safe. Neither
action was appropriate. Not now. Especially, not now. He sat numb and cold, trying to stay as still as possible, terrified that
he’d explode, and not daring to let that happen.
He kept reminding himself that Bellamy was dead. Had to. Else he’d run screaming and never come back. Not till someone
was dead.
Starsky’s face abruptly closed up, and he drew away, pressing himself into the far end of the couch, as far away as he could
get from his partner without rising. Hutch realized that Starsky probably felt that Hutch’s response—or lack of one was a
rejection .
Hutch could have kicked himself for his callousness. Be calm, he told himself, be calm. He doesn’t need you falling apart on
him, not now. Make him feel safe. Yes, that’s it. He took a deep breath. Didn’t try to touch him, not yet. He tried to remember
all the stuff he’d seen at work in the new brochures about rape victims. Something, anything that would help.
Could anything help this?
" Starsk?"
Starsky stiffened, and wouldn’t face him. " It’s my fault." He sounded like a dried up husk of himself, as if he’d given up. But he
was breaking; Hutch could see it in the shaking shoulders.
" No, baby—" Hutch reached for him, pulling him close, and damn the consequences. He could feel his partner’s heart
slamming itself to bits inside his chest. " Starsky, listen---"
Starsky moaned into Hutch’s chest, "My fault..."
" No, Starsky---" Hutch’s heart was breaking. He felt like bawling, and clamped down on it. But Starsky was still talking in that
dead, lifeless voice.
"He knew."
"What?" Hutch whispered, hugging the shuddering man more tightly.
" He could see it—like it was plastered on my forehead."
Hutch couldn’t keep his voice steady. "What are you talking about? It’s not your fault."
" It is. He did it because he knew I was --- because he knew how I felt about you."
Christ. He’d suspected. He’d had his suspicions, which had fueled his own feelings for his partner. He’d had hopes—though
he hadn’t wanted to admit it. But the hope, the longing had been there. And it seemed that the wings of the dream were broken
before ever it got a chance to try them. There was no way—no way, not after this...
But Starsky broke, then—and Hutch struggled to hold this man, this strong man, his partner, and his friend— this cop—who
was now sobbing in his arms like a brokenhearted child.
++++++
On the sofa in Hutch’s living room, a dark man twitched in his sleep. Hutch watched him sadly, musing over the last forty-eight
hours.
When you go to pieces, babe, you really go to pieces. And it takes a lot to bring you to this place, doesn’t it, Starsk? Like...
Christ, I can’t even say it. I’m so sorry, babe . I wish I could take this pain away from you, but nobody can do that. Not even
me. Hutch thought as he kept watch over Starsky’s sleeping form. He reached to pull the blanket up around Starsky’s
shoulders.
Starsky moaned and jerked, fighting off Vic Bellamy’s unwelcome attentions, even in sleep. It made Hutch wince to hear it. The
man seemed so terribly wounded.
Hutch still couldn’t believe it. He looked for reasons why this could happen, how could this happen?
This didn’t happen to men. It just didn’t.
He thought at times that maybe it was a dream; a nightmare form being under the influences of the drugs that Professor Jennings
had mixed up in that deadly little cocktail. Then he’d see the broken man who could not even let him out of his sight for more
than ten minutes; terrified of everything and struggling so hard not to show it, not to show anything. Then crumbling at odd
moments, over odd things. Like a slamming door. Being touched anywhere on his person without warning.
Last night, Starsky had finally broken and he’d seemed to need to tell Hutch everything about the night of the poisoning. The
night he was raped.
Hutch never had understood quite a few things about that night. Had he wanted to? No. He’d just wanted his partner alive.
Now he wanted him sane. Whole. Healed.
Hutch thought back to that day...both of them had been tired and filthy from chasing an accused rapist through some of the
nastiest alleys in town. They were both little downhearted because of the case; the man was going to get off scot free, because
the teen-aged victim wouldn’t testify. They’d gone to Huggy’s after work, and tried not to discuss the case.
Last night, Starsky had remembered that case. He’d stared off into space while talking about it. " I remember...thinking that the
victim...that girl...was so wrong for not testifying. That she’d let that scum win. That she should fight." He’d looked up at Hutch
again, and Hutch could see the muscles working in his throat. " I was wrong. I wouldn’t have been able to do it."
Hutch instinctively knew that this was Starsky’s preamble to telling the story that he didn’t really want to hear. And he need to,
if he was going to help his partner. If they were going to get through this. So he asked. "What happened that night?"
Starsky took the long way around to answer. " After we got done at Huggy’s, and I took you home, I went straight on home,
myself. I was tired...and I ached. My shoulder hurt, the one that got hurt before..."
Hutch nodded, mind flashing back to another couch, another wounding. He didn’t try to control the shudder that ran through
him.
Starsky swallowed, then continued. " I just wanted to get some sleep. So, I stripped down, took a shower—brushed my
teeth—and I remember thinking that the toothpaste tasted funny, kinda watery, medicinal. I just thought it was old. So I blew it
off. Just thought I’d buy a new tube the next day."
Hutch schooled himself to stillness. But his mind was racing. The toothpaste? But hadn’t the doctor said something like that
when Starsky had been in the hospital? That the toothpaste had been drugged to render Starsky helpless? He really hadn’t
registered it—hadn’t thought much about it. He’d been too busy thinking about finding leads, at that point.
Starsky took a deep breath, and shuddered. " I put on my pajamas. The pants. Blue. Navy blue, my mother gave ‘em to me. I
always sleep in ‘em." He seemed very insistent about it, and Hutch wondered where he was going with it.
Starsky looked at him and said very low, " Where were my pants, Hutch?"
Hutch felt as if he’d been punched hard in the belly.
He hadn’t seen it. Why hadn’t he seen it? How could he have ignored it? At first he’d thought that Starsky and meant that
Hutch should have brought along a pair of jeans and some other clothes. But he hadn’t asked that. Hutch now remembered
seeing a quick flash of – what (fear?) in Starsky’s eyes as he’d asked the question. Hutch had interpreted it as annoyance and
anger. It had been that customary Starsky bravado, hadn’t it? Or was it something else?
" Why didn’t you say something, then?" Hutch asked, very softly. Hating himself for the question.
Starsky met Hutch’s eyes. Kept his hands busy kneading one of the couch pillows. " I-I didn’t remember all of it... I thought...I
wanted to believe it was all a dream. Or hallucinations, maybe...from the drugs."
That hurt, badly. It was exactly what Hutch and been thinking; he had wanted desperately to believe it. Even after all this. He
wanted to recoil from himself in shame, but there was nowhere to go. He sighed heavily, wishing that he could exhale his anger
and rage and sadness and shame along with used-up air. He felt old and wasted. He looked at his partner, who seemed to
realize just how hard this was on him. The man laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, a wordless gesture of comfort.
And that made Hutch feel even worse. You’re comforting me for feeling guilty about doubting you? God, I’m a piece of shit.
But this was getting them nowhere. "So...what did happen? " Hutch asked.
Starsky’s voice trembled. " I was gonna go to bed. I started feelin’ real tired. By the time I reached my bedroom door I could
barely stand up. I was so dizzy..."
Starsky’s eyes were nearly black with pupil. " I –I tried to make it the bed, but I fell. And I was laying there, smellin’ the
carpet—thinking it needed to cleaned—wonderin’ what the fuck was goin’ on—and I ... felt the floor move. Like under
someone’s weight. Really heavy. And then there were boots, right there... right in front of my face. At first I thought maybe it
was you. But they were workman’s boots, nothing you’d ever wear. Very clean. Didn’t track anything onto my carpet. I got
scared. I was having trouble trying to talk—but I tried—I asked who he was. I didn’t get an answer. But he bent down over
me then—and pulled me up by my sore arm. I think he had me in a fireman’s carry, and I thought I was gonna be sick. He put
me on the bed. I saw his face as he was putting me down. It was all mashed up, and I finally figured out he was wearing a
stocking mask. I kept trying to ask—who he was, what he wanted with me—"
Starsky’s breathing became labored as he struggled to speak. " He—he started touchin’ me. All over, and he---" Starsky
choked, " pulled my pajama bottoms down, then off. I tried to stop him—I tried to fight him—I couldn’t –I couldn’t do it..."
He took a shuddering breath and seemed to pull into himself. He finally put down the cushion and laid his hands flat on his
thighs, palms down. He took a deep breath. His voice was eerily calm now. " I think I passed out for a little while. When I
woke up, I was on my stomach and he was on top of me, pumping away, grunting, laughing with that hyena laugh...telling me I
was shit, calling me his "little pig" –and he told me that I should think of him like I thought about my partner. He kept taunting
me about it. Saying that I wanted you—but I’d never live to have you."
Starsky wouldn’t look at his partner. He kept his eyes focused on the coffee table in front of him. " I –lost time. I couldn’t think.
The next thing I knew, I was on my back again, and he—" Starsky trembled violently, "--he was tucking me in—tucking me
in....like I was a kid, or something’. Starsky’s voice broke, but he swallowed it and went on. "He gave me the shot. You know
the rest."
" When I woke up in the hospital, I thought I’d dreamed it. I hoped. But I hurt, and I knew...even though I tried not to. When
we first saw Bellamy, I—I recognized him. But he was wearing the cast, so I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. But I
started remembering everything—in bits and pieces—when I heard his voice." Hutch watched the slim hands begin to shake
again.
" Up on the roof—when I heard him laughing and yelling at you, I finally remembered everything. And it clicked. He was gonna
kill you, Hutch. And he’d already killed me. I was already dead, and I knew it. I wanted him to die, for what he did to me.
And what he was gonna do to you." Starsky finally met Hutch’s eyes, and Hutch was chilled by what he saw. Self-loathing.
Hatred. Guilt.
" It was a clean shoot. " Hutch said, stupidly, reasonably. He was numb. He couldn’t let himself feel. Not—not just yet. Or
he’d kill something. "It was a clean shoot, Starsky." he repeated uselessly.
Starsky shook his head. " I meant to kill the man." Starsky said, just as reasonably. " Because I swore, after
‘Nam...nobody...nobody...would ever hurt me like that again."
Again? Again? This has happened before? Starsky has been...raped before?
During Vietnam.
Oh, Christ.
But Starsky was fading fast; this evening had taken a helluva toll on him.
I need a drink. And so do you.
Hutch got up stiffly, and walked into his kitchen. Managed to open the cabinet over the fridge. Snag two snifters and brandy.
Bring them back to the sofa. Sit down next to Starsky, not too close. He’d learned about that. Don’t get too close.
He poured double shots, more or less. He handed a snifter to Starsky. " Drink it." It was an order.
Starsky obeyed, downing it in two gulps, grimacing at the burn. Hutch did the same with his own. Then took Starsky’s glass
from an unresisting hand and poured again. "Drink it." And Starsky followed Hutch’s instructions again as obediently as a child.
He’s going to get really drunk. I’ve barely been able to get him to eat for the last two days. Good. He needs it. And so do I.
Hutch poured himself another generous shot and swallowed it down.
Starsky was beginning to relax, a little. His legs were no longer tightly pressed together, he wasn’t folded up on himself
anymore. He’d stopped trying to rend Hutch’s couch cushion into scrap fabric. He finally looked at Hutch. He looked weary,
bone-tired. "You okay?" He asked.
" Haven’t you got that backwards?" Hutch replied. " Yeah, I’m okay."
" Can I have another?" Starsky gestured to his snifter, which he’d placed on top of the magazines on the coffee table. Hutch
obliged, and then poured another for himself. He leaned back wearily, and stretched out his legs on top of the coffee table.
Starsky shifted, drained his glass. He leaned back as well, staring at the ceiling. "Fort Benning, Georgia."
"What?" Hutch’s eyebrows shot up.
" It happened there, in Army Ranger School. " I joined the Army, eighteen years old, and full of anger. Really confused.
Became a damned good marksman. Real sharpshooter. My commander took notice and got me into the Rangers. Handpicked
me out of over a hundred recruits. We were gonna be the cornerstones of the 196th's Infantry Brigade's Provisional
Long-Range Reconnaissance Patrol—LRRP--'Lurps'. "
" You were a Ranger? I –I never knew that..." Oh, Jesus. It explained a lot. In Vietnam, being a Ranger meant being
continuously deployed as a member of a 4 to 6 man team, conducting reconnaissance or combat operations in VC or NVA
controlled territory. " Oh, Jesus, Starsky..."
" I told you, there’s a lot you don’t know about me." Starsky’s voice was hard.
Obviously, Hutch thought, but he held his peace.
" Training was a bitch. It was normal for the Rangers to lose half-a-dozen recruits—just during training camp. We were
crammed into tiny two-man barracks rooms in 40-year-old buildings that reeked of wet paper towels and disinfectant and
echoed with noise.
"It was like being in prison," Starsky summed it up. "And to top it all off, I was the only Jew o’ the lot of them, a whole bunch
of angry WASPs, me... And then there was Brian."
" Brian McLauren. From East St. Louis, Missouri. Real bright—too softhearted. And he was Black. They ganged up on him
once. Used to play real nasty little tricks on him. Me, too. We started stickin’ together, watchin’ each other’s backs. It
got...marginally better. Brian and me got to be good friends. Pals."
Starsky was silent for a long time. Then he drew a deep breath. " I started it."
Hutch didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare.
" I ...started...something between us. Brian and me. It was good, for a while. He loved me, I think. I think I loved him. Or
maybe I just needed him, needed anybody...But we got caught by some of the other recruits. They beat the holy shit outta us
both. But they never reported it. We didn’t either. Then later...oh, God, " Starsky choked, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
"Never shall I fail my comrades. ... I will never leave a fallen comrade ... and will fight on ... to complete the mission,
though I be the lone survivor." He grated out the words as a tear rolled out from under tightly closed lids.
" Starsk?" Hutch whispered, desperately wanting to comfort; to help.
Starsky’s voice roughened. " T-t-training mission. Nighttime. Recon. Brian, he somehow got separated from me, from the
group. And I ended up with the rest of ‘em. There was six of em.’"
" It hurt—so much..." Starsky gasped, and Hutch reached to pull the man into his arms. Starsky endured it for about thirty
seconds. Then he pulled away violently, panting for breath. Hutch held up both hands, out and away from his body, physically
broadcasting the message "no threat".
Starsky was past calming. " They hurt me—so much—" The tremors that had plagued him the last two day returned. "And oh,
God, Brian...Brian... he...supposedly got in the way of some live rounds by being where he shouldn’tve been. Killed instantly..
I didn’t find out about it until I woke up in the infirmary. The Army covered it up, I was told to forget it had happened and I
could save my career. The only reason I wanted to stay was so I could go to ‘Nam—and get my head blown off. And it
happened again---four guys—in the bush—and my commander ignored it. It seemed my reputation as a good fuck preceded
me. That I deserved it. So I tried my best to die during the fighting. I didn’t want to live, not like that, not anymore. But I only
got wounded, instead."
" Once I was back in the World, I tried like hell to forget. I –I never wanted you to know." Starsky’s voice was edged with
pain.
" Why? Why didn’t you want me to know, Starsk?" Hutch asked, knowing the answer.
" That I’m a homo—that I’m dirty—that I’m weak---what the hell do you think!" Starsky snarled, and launched himself off the
couch and headed (where?) And succeeded banging his shin with an audible impact on the corner of coffee table. It had to
hurt, Hutch thought, but Starsky didn’t even seem to register it. Of course, with what he’s been through, normal aches and
pains wouldn’t faze him, would they? And that explained even more.
Hutch got up, slowly feeling every bone in his body creak with the effort and pain of the last month. He approached Starsky
slowly, carefully as if he were a wounded animal.
Starsky was standing, legs braced as if for a fight, in the middle of Hutch’s living room, looking as wild and scared and
dangerous as Hutch had ever seen him.
Starsky began inching slowly toward the closet, all the while keeping his eyes on Hutch. Where his gun, plainly visible through
the open closet door, hung in its leather holster on its peg.
I don’t dare leave you alone, do I? What are you gonna do? Hutch thought, nearly panicked under the super-calm exterior he
tried to present to his partner. I may have to take him out. Hutch thought, analyzing the situation, and seeing possibilities, seeing
pitfalls; everything that could happen in the blink of eye with perfect clarity.
You’re really gonna go for it, aren’t you? Hutch thought, dismayed. Oh, shit.
Starsky was a mere few feet away from the open closet. Hutch took another step. Readying himself.
Get the gun. Get it before he does. Just do it.
"Starsk? " Hutch reached out a hand.
And Starsky chose that moment to spring for the gun.
+++++
Hutch collided into Starsky just as Starsky’s hand snagged the gun out of the holster. They toppled, and the gun skidded across
the floor. Hutch grappled with him, tried to catch Starsky’s flailing wrists, but Starsky was wriggling like a maddened eel,
fighting with all his strength, and caught Hutch in the jaw with one fist, sending him reeling back. Starsky flipped over to move
toward the gun. Hutch caught a leg, and got kicked in the face for his trouble. Something snapped—hurting terribly, and Hutch
knew his nose was broken. Blood began to flow, and his eyes watered, but he kept on moving toward Starsky until it
registered in his mind that Starsky had the gun. His arms were extended, gun clutched in both hands, aiming at him. He stopped
dead. The idea was so alien, he almost laughed. Starsky? Shoot him?
But it wasn’t funny. Not at all.
Starsky was in the corner, near the door. Crouched down, back to the wall, ready to shoot. "Get away from me." Starsky said
in that deadly, controlled tone he used for only the worst of perpetrators. " Get away from me." He repeated. " Now."
"What are you gonna do, huh, babe?" Hutch edged closer. " You gonna take me out?"
A little closer. " Or yourself? Huh? Give me the gun, babe."
" No." Starsky still had the gun trained on his partner. His hands were beginning to tremble, but he held position.
" Give me the gun, Starsky. Give me the fucking gun!"
Starsky only shook his head and pressed himself further back into the corner. "No."
Hutch moved again. He was so close, now. Close enough to touch. " I won’t let you do this, " Hutch said, determinedly. I
won’t let you do this, Starsk."
He moved again, too abruptly.
" I said get away!" Starsky roared as he cocked the Magnum. His hands shook terribly, but with horrible swiftness, he placed
the muzzle of the gun in his mouth.
And suddenly Hutch found himself on his knees, weeping. He was going to lose Starsky. It was too late. He’d already been too
hurt, too broken---before Hutch ever knew what a treasure he had in the man.
"Starsky---please---don’t –" Hutch pleaded, " Please---I--I can’t make it without you, you know that—"
Starsky’s eyes shut tightly, clenching on tears. His finger was taut on the trigger.
Hutch felt a ripping pain go through his chest. Another. His heart—being broken in pieces. It was difficult to speak around it,
but he managed. He had to tell Starsky something. Something terribly important—before Starsky’s action killed them both.
" I-I love you, David, I love you... " He spoke barely above a whisper. " You kill yourself, you’ll kill us both."
Starsky’s eyes opened and grew very wide. He pulled the muzzle of the gun out of his mouth, and let it rest across his cheek.
He slumped against the wall, weeping in that eerily soundless way of his.
Hutch moved quickly, and snagged the gun, breaking it down quickly, tossing the bullets across the room. They landed with
metallic pings! all over the room. He tossed the empty gun back into the closet, far out of reach and shut the door. He sat,
simply trying to breathe.
Starsky stayed hunched over in the corner, breathing fast, shoulders quivering with nearly silent sobs.
Hutch went to him, and carefully wrapped him arms around the man, whispering, " I love you, Starsk... I do...c’mon Babe, it’s
okay,"
They both cried for a long time.
Both of them were worn out. Hutch’s nose had stopped bleeding. But he was a mess. Starsky was calmer. Definitely drunk.
Slurring. But then, so was Hutch. They rested, slumping against each other for support and solace.
Starsky focused blearily on Hutch, and something perilously fragile but bright dawned behind his eyes. Very weak, barely alive,
but there was a spark. Hope.
Hutch knew he looked bad. Blood everywhere, swollen nose, tear-stained blotchiness—the curse of a fair skin.
He didn’t care. Starsky was his. One way or another. After all this. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you go.
Starsky suddenly looked horribly embarrassed. And drunk.
" I’m –I’m so sorry, Hutch," he said as he scooped Hutch into his arms. "So fucking sorry--I don’t know what I was
thinkin’—" He was babbling, and Hutch clung to him.
All Hutch could do was weep helplessly in Starsky’s arms. " If you ever do anything like that again, I’ll kill you myself—", he
gasped. " Christ, Starsky—"
" Oh, Hutch—" Starsky mourned, as he took Hutch’s face in one hand, tilting it up. " I think I broke your nose. We gotta
get’cha cleaned up—I’m sorry, Babe. It’s been hard on you, too, huh?"
Between the two of them, they managed to get back to the couch. Starsky busied himself with getting ice, and wet towels for
Hutch’s nose. It wasn’t broken, after all, but it hurt like hell.
The wounded tending the wounded. They got settled eventually and Starsky turned to regard his partner. "Did you mean it?"
Starsky’s look was fey.
" That I loved you? " Hutch rasped. " Yeah."
Starsky seemed sad. " It won’t be easy. I-I have ... a lot of baggage."
" Yeah, I know." Hutch caught on of those slim, dark hands between his own, interlacing his fingers with Starsky’s. " But I can
wait."
Finis.