Author: Daydreamer
Posted: March 11, 2003
WARNING: Here be slash -- mild and non-explicit, but
slash nonetheless.
If that's not your cuppa, then DON'T READ!
Alice's Love
It was the rain. For some reason, he was convinced that
if it just hadn't been raining, he'd have been able to
cope again. The rain always made it harder. It didn't
rain often, not here in Southern California, which meant
that when it did rain, it was different. Different
weather, different feelings, different reactions.
The last time it had rained, he and Starsk had gotten
drunk and ended up naked on the deck -- dancing close
and slow in the warm summer downpour. One thing had led
to another and ... Hutch groaned, muffling the sound
in another swallow of beer as his groin tightened from
the memory of touching the well-loved body of the man
who shared his life.
This time it was cold -- cold, winter rain. And he was
alone, staring at the rain through the door to the deck as
he took a last pull on the beer in his hand and reached
blindly for another. He opened the door and stepped
out into the cold. The icy water beat at his face, the
cold rain mixing with the hot tears that had threatened
to scorch his cheeks, and yet the cold could not touch
the frozen part of his soul, that place that ached with
the emptiness of his partner's absence.
He was alone, drowning his sorrow in alcohol. Drowning
his pain in morbid thoughts. He tilted his head upwards,
blinking as the frozen rain beat against his face, eyes
closed in deference to the violence of the storm and
wondered:
Could you drown in cold December rain?
It was raining. She looked up and stared out the patio
doors, watching the water slide down the thick glass.
She sighed contentedly. Nights like this, well, she
loved nights like this. It gave her all the excuse
she needed to stay in alone -- not even her regulars
wanted to come out on nights like this.
She sighed again, a happy sound, and snuggled deeper
into the overstuffed chair, pulling the tattered old
afghan her grandmother had made more tightly over her
lap. The book she was reading lay open in her lap,
forgotten for the moment, as she thought about her
grandmother. If Nana had been alive when all this started,
she'd never be where she was now. Her parents had
loved her, she knew that, but it was always a conditional
love. If she made good grades, she was loved. If she
kept her room clean, she was loved. If she did as she
was told, followed the rules and didn't make trouble,
made a success of herself, then she would be loved.
But Nana had loved her no matter what. And when her
life had fallen apart -- all because she fell in love
with a boy -- Nana would have taken her in and made
it all work out. But Nana had been dead, and there
hadn't been anyone who cared enough about a pregnant
fifteen year old to inconvenience themselves, and
now she was 26, and she'd been on the streets for ten
years, and there wasn't anyone who loved her anymore.
When she sighed this time, it was sad, and she wiped
angrily at the tears that threatened to spill from her
eyes. Her fingers traced the faded yarn of the old
afghan, circling the crocheted squares tenderly, before
she placed her book on the table by the chair. She
pulled off the afghan, rising gracefully to her feet.
Once in the small kitchen, she turned the kettle on
and began to gather the things she needed to make tea.
She glanced at the sliding glass doors again, still
awash in the night's rain. It was a good night to be
in, to read, and to drink tea. But as she busied herself
with tea bags and sugar bowls, mugs and spoons, she
could feel the sadness sliding over her, threatening to
chase away the comfort of being safe and warm and
content that being in on a night like this should bring.
Maybe it wasn't such a good night for memories.
But her brain wasn't listening and before she knew it
she was fifteen again -- pregnant by a boy she thought
she loved. A boy she thought loved her. And it was
inconvenient for her parents, embarrassing to their
social circle, and just all round too much of a bother.
Slowly, she added sugar to the cup, then poured the boiling
water in, watching as the steam rose in a steady column
and angry words buzzed in her head. Unconsciously, her
hand cupped the smooth expanse of her belly, still missing
the firm roundness of a baby, even after all these years.
"Where will I go, Mama?"
"I don't care! You should have thought about that before,
you little tramp!"
"But what will I do, Mama?"
"What you've already demonstrated a remarkable talent for.
Just lay back and spread your legs."
The words had dripped scornfully from her mother's lips,
each one scalding her, branding her with her own uselessness,
her own lack of worth. Good for nothing now, but opening
her legs to anyone with the money to pay.
And then her parents had moved, her father accepting a
new job out of the country, and she'd gone to be with
the boy. A soldier. They'd moved far away from everyone
she knew, from anything familiar, and he'd turned mean.
And then, after he'd been particularly cruel, she'd lost
the baby. And after that, none of it mattered anymore.
She'd walked out, never looking back. She'd worked any
job she could get, done anything to survive. She'd lived
anywhere she could find a bed, suffered through any kind
of indignity just to have a scrap to eat, a place to
sleep.
Because, after all, what kind of future was there for a
fifteen-year-old high school drop out? Only the kind that
ended with the girl on her back. Just like Mama had
always said.
They'd put her out, her loving parents, echoes of "you
made your bed, now lie in it" ringing in her ears.
And so she had.
And so she still did.
Her sigh this time was bitter, and she took a deep breath --
what they called a cleansing breath in that book Hutch had
given her on meditation. A deep cleansing breath that helped
her find her center. She unclenched her fists and then
carefully removed the teabag, setting it aside for one more
use, and carried her tea back to the big chair. She folded
herself into the almost threadbare upholstery, fabric
worn thin and shiny from years of use, but soft now to
the touch. Pulling the afghan back over her lap, she
let the comfort of covering herself with the old granny
squares that had been made with love soothe her troubled
soul.
A sip of the warm, sweet tea, a shift in the big chair,
and she settled, picking up her book. It was another
gift from her Nana, a happy childhood memory of home.
The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. She opened
the well-read book, quickly found her place and settled
in to rejoin her compatriots in Narnia. Aslan had just
appeared. The savior, the protector, the hero.
She had her own Aslan -- a big, golden protector who
watched over her -- at least in her dreams. Hutch was
the only man she knew who treated her like a person and
not a commodity. He treated her like she was real, like
she mattered, like she had feelings and opinions and
desires of her own, and they all counted and were important.
He was the only one who could still make her, at the
advanced age of 26, consider getting out of the business
to try something else.
She'd always thought she'd been lucky, never having to
really walk the streets. She had her connections, the
bars where she could hang out without getting hassled, the
men who had become "regulars" over the years. It wasn't
quite as good as being an 'escort,' but since she'd left
Belle, she'd managed well enough on her own and had only
had a few problems with tricks who got out of hand.
The last one had been bad, and she'd been hurt. Left
bleeding and bruised, she'd lain on the floor of her
bathroom for hours and finally managed to crawl to the
phone. And who had she called?
Hutch.
And had he come?
Yes.
He'd wanted her to press charges, but of course, she
didn't.
He'd wanted her to stop, to do something else, but she
hadn't done that either.
And he'd been so disappointed.
She'd seen it in his eyes, in the expression on his
face, in the slight pull of his lips. But he'd not said
anything. He'd allowed her to make her own decision,
allowed her to be her own person. She'd only seen him
once since then, and he'd been hurting so bad. He didn't
seek her out anymore.
She sighed again, lost dreams and lost opportunities
floating from her lips to drift aimlessly around the
room in an almost soundless cry as she glanced once
more at the patio door.
L ightning flared in the black outside, illuminating the
golden man who stood there. He swayed unsteadily as he
stared at her, an almost empty bourbon bottle dangling
from his hand, and she uttered a little cry of fright
before she realized who it was.
Hutch.
Her eyes narrowed as she studied him and she rose again
making her way to the doors. She stared at him for a long
moment and he met her gaze, his eyes so lost and alone it
was painful to look into their blue depths. Bending, she
tugged the metal security rod from the sliding glass door
tracks, then undid the lock and pulled the door open.
"Hutch," she said quietly.
His mouth moved, but no sound came forth, and his one
empty hand fluttered uselessly in the air for a moment
before dropping to his side once more.
He was drunk. Even in the rain, as wet as he was, she
could smell the bourbon and it made her laugh. That
was what she drank, too, when she was drinking seriously.
Bourbon and branch -- the southerner's standard. Her
eyes darted to the almost empty bottle he still clutched,
figuring his 'branch' had been rainwater this time, and
the bourbon had been mostly straight.
She cocked her head, still studying him, desperate to
know what had driven him to her on this night, in this
condition. He shivered uncontrollably and swayed,
stumbling forward to catch himself against the door
frame.
"You cold, Hutch?" she drawled lazily, still watching
his every move.
He nodded quickly, a jerky, little head move that seemed
to do nothing more than upset his balance as he tightened
his clutch on the door frame.
"C'mon in, Handsome," she offered, stepping back and
waiting, but he didn't move.
"Hutch?" she asked again, letting a little uncertainty
creep into her voice. "You all right?"
This time, he shook his head, a violent back and forth
motion and he lifted the bottle in his hand, then
half-turned and threw it against the concrete patio,
smiling ferally at the destruction.
"Gone," he mumbled.
"What's gone?"
"Ruined."
"What's ruined?"
"Destroyed."
He was starting to frighten her. His voice was so lost,
so ragged, the emotion in those few words flayed her
skin like the edge of a knife, the pain so palpable it
hurt her just to listen to his broken sounds. Without
knowing what he meant, she listened to her heart and
said, "You can fix it, Hutch."
He turned wondering eyes to her, eyes that suddenly
blazed with hope, and she knew she'd said the right
thing. He dropped his head, his golden hair plastered
there, water dripping from every strand, his body
convulsing from the cold.
She reached out and took his arm, worry full abloom in
her chest and drew him gently into the apartment, repeating,
"You can fix it." Her words seemed to calm him and he
followed docilely now, as if that last explosion of anger
had depleted him of his final reserves of strength. His
clothes were soaked; the frozen rain had turned them into
sheets of ice and his skin ... When she took his hand,
his skin was like ice itself; his hand, a cold, unfeeling
thing that remained motionless beneath her touch.
"We need to get you warmed up," she murmured as she pulled
him further into the apartment, letting him go only long
enough to lock the door and drop the metal rod back into
its place. She left him standing in her living room, dripping
on the worn carpet as she darted to the bathroom and
grabbed towels. She wrapped him in the biggest towel she
had then pushed him toward her small dining table, having
to tug to get him to sit down. He was too tall for her to
dry his hair while he stood. She began to work on his hair,
but he still shivered uncontrollably, and for a second she
felt like an idiot. She couldn't get him dry and warm
until she got him out of his wet clothes.
She swallowed a bitter snort -- this was a test of some
kind. What god had she pissed off now, that he would send
her Hutch, her dream, on a night like this when she was
hurting from the memories and vulnerable to pain? Who
would be so callous as to send him to her now, and set
it up so that she would have to undress and bathe him,
too? She smiled now, the bitterness fading as she was
able to see the warped humor of it all.
"C'mon, Handsome, come with me." He rose at her touch
and followed obediently as she led him to the bathroom.
He stopped at the door, confusion in his face.
"Alice?"
"Yeah, Hutch, it's me."
" 'm cold, Alice," he uttered plaintively.
"I know, baby," she responded as she started the shower.
"You're wet. You need to get out of those clothes."
"Need you," he murmured huskily, surprising her when
he reached out and enfolded her in his arms. His breath
reeked of bourbon and his touch was awkward and heavy-
handed as he pawed at her.
She didn't fight him, but she didn't cooperate either,
and in a minute or so it sunk through the alcohol-induced
fog that she wasn't responding. "Alice?" he croaked out.
"What's going on, Hutch?" she asked him as he slowly
released her.
" 's gone." He choked on a sob as the words escaped.
"Who's gone?"
"Starsk. Gone. Out with a woman."
She nodded. This still didn't make any sense, but the
man was freezing, and now, thanks to his, uh, amorous
attentions, she was wet and cold and was only going to
get colder. Warm and dry now -- emotions later.
"Oh. It'll be okay, Hutch," she promised, "but now you
need to take your clothes off."
Confusion blossomed on his face again. "But you didn't ...
You weren't ..."
She laughed. "No, I didn't. And I'm not going to. And
thank you for noticing that I wasn't."
He flushed in embarrassment and muttered, "Sorry, sorry,
sorry."
She waved the apology away. "But you still need to get
warmed up and into something dry." She met his still
confused eyes. "Take your clothes off, Hutch."
He nodded, seemingly content to relinquish control to
her, trusting her even through his pain and confusion.
Trembling hands rose and fumbled at the buttons of the
soaked flannel and his tongue slipped out between his
lips as he concentrated on making his half-frozen,
inebriated fingers do his bidding. He looked adorable.
She took a deep breath -- a cleansing breath -- and
stepped forward, batting his hands away gently. "Here,
sweetie. Let me." She quickly unbuttoned the shirt
and stripped it off, letting her eyes take in the expanse
of golden skin revealed. Nipples erect from the cold,
abdomen taut with strong muscles concealed beneath velvet
skin. She shook her head and wrapped him in a towel
for the moment, dragging her eyes away reluctantly.
Time for another one of those cleansing breaths.
She pressed him backwards till he sat on the closed
toilet and then she knelt and removed his shoes.
Glancing upwards, she saw his eyes were closed, his
mouth moving silently as he struggled with whatever
demons pursued him on this cold December night.
Socks came off next and she was again taken by his
perfection. How perfect his feet were. Long and
narrow, with thin, elegant toes and clean, square
nails. She let her fingers linger for a moment,
then looked up to find him staring at her quizzically.
She shook her head again and laughed, then stood,
pulling him to his feet again.
He stood passively before her as she unbuttoned his
jeans, drew down the zipper and then struggled to get
the heavy, wet denim -- the tight heavy, wet denim,
to slide down over smooth, muscular thighs, past strong,
well-shaped calves that she couldn't resist touching.
He watched her now, still shaking from the cold, still
unsteady from the alcohol, but there was a clarity in
his vision that hadn't been there before and she began
to feel that perhaps he understood how hard it was for
her to do this for him.
She lifted her hands again, drawing down the white jockey
shorts -- white jockey shorts! She'd have never taken
Hutch for a tightie whitie kind of guy, but ... there
they were in all their glory. And as she pulled them down,
there he was, in all his glory. His penis was flaccid,
the testicles pulled back tight from the cold and even in
this state, he was beautiful. The long, thick shaft hung
down from a nest of golden hair that looked as soft and
smooth as the hair on his head. No wiry curls, nothing
rough or harsh about him. He was all beauty -- strength
and power coiled within a soft, smooth shell. She stared
unabashed comparing him to the sculpture she'd seen pictures
of -- Michelangelo's David -- the epitome of male beauty.
Hutch could have posed for it; hell, Hutch should have
posed for it. She looked at him again, a slow appraisal
that should have embarrassed her, should have embarrassed
him, but somehow did neither. He seemed unaware of her
scrutiny, or if he was, seemed to know this was something
she needed to do, and so he stood patiently while she
memorized his form, imprinted his beauty upon her mind,
made a memory that she would treasure forever in her heart
of hearts. She smiled then, and looked up to meet his
eyes, nodding her appreciation, then tapped his foot.
He lifted his leg obediently and she pulled his pants off,
then repeated the process with the other leg, and he was
finally ready for the shower. She pulled back the curtain
and he took an unsteady step forward, stopping beside her
to whisper, "Thanks, Alice."
She swallowed hard and nodded, cleared her throat that
had suddenly tried to close up as tears threatened to
fill her eyes, and said, "I'm gonna make coffee and
find you something to wear." She looked up into his
blue eyes and asked, "You gonna be all right in here?"
He nodded and his hand came out to gently stroke her
cheek. It was more than she could bear and she ducked
her head and fled, closing the door softly behind her.
She moved to the kitchen, refusing to let the tears fall,
and began to make coffee. Once the pot was filled and
the water had begun to trickle through the filter, she
turned and padded to her bedroom. Stripping out of her
wet clothes, she quickly dressed again, then rummaged
through the box in her closet, the box filled with the
things her gentlemen friends occasionally left behind.
Sure enough, there was a pair of gray sweat pants that
she thought would fit him, and a black, long-sleeved
T-shirt. No underwear, no socks. She went back to
the bathroom, knocked once and then slipped in.
He was still behind the curtain. Silhouetted in the harsh
fluorescents, she could just make out his form. Tall
and lean, his hands were braced against the wall and his
head hung down beneath the shower's spray. She could
hear the ragged breathing, the choked sobs, and she
knew he was crying. Pretending not to notice, she said,
"Clothes on the vanity. Don't turn into a prune," as
she ducked back out and went to start the washer to
do his clothes. The socks she just wrung out and threw
in the dryer -- he needed something for his feet.
The shower went off and she could hear him moving in the
bathroom, his steps still unsure but better than before.
The door opened and he stood there, one hand clasping the
doorframe as he struggled for balance. He held the black
shirt in one hand and a towel hung around his neck.
His blond hair was disheveled; damp tendrils curled against
his neck and cheeks. The old gray sweats hung low on his
hips, tapering down to elastic cuffs that circled bare
ankles above bare feet. Droplets of water still clung
to his chest and he offered her a half-embarrassed smile
as he said, "Thanks, babe."
She nodded and motioned toward the table. "Come sit down,
Handsome, and finish gettin' dressed."
He moved to the table, still a little shaky, and dropped
the shirt on the formica surface. One hand lifted the
end of the towel and began to rub his hair.
She watched, mesmerized, as he worked the rough towel
through the silk of his hair. Under his touch, the heavy,
wet strands became damp, and hints of curls could be seen.
As he rubbed harder, the damp hair dried, and took on a
life of its own. Static electricity lifted individual
strands until his face was framed in floating tendrils of
golden silk, each one alive, drifting lazily around his
ruddy cheeks. She swallowed hard and looked away, fumbling
with the mugs. "You feelin' better now, darlin'?" she
asked softly as she poured the fragrant brew into the
cups. "Warmer?"
He gave a bitter laugh and mumbled something she couldn't
make out. A quick glance up showed that he had tossed
the towel onto another chair and was pulling the shirt
on over his head. She breathed a sigh of relief. There
was a part of her that hated to see that glorious expanse
of skin covered, but her better nature knew it was for
the best. She watched as he finished tugging the almost
too-small shirt down, then propped elbows on the table
and dropped his head forward to rest in his hands.
"Sugar? Milk?" She held up the now full coffee mug and
watched as he shook his head minutely. "Okay then, black
it is." She doctored her own cup, then placed them both
on the table and joined him. "Head hurt?" she asked
softly.
"Yeah," he replied.
"You remember what happened?" Her finger traced a lazy
circle on the tabletop and she refused to lift her eyes
to look at him. It was going to be hard enough as it was
for him to talk; she didn't want to make it any harder.
"I was drinking ..." he began slowly, lifting his head
and gazing unseeing at the far wall. "I had to get out
of the house." His hands fluttered about, then he looked
around almost as if seeing her apartment for the first
time. "I walked here."
"No wonder you were near froze through and plumb wore
out to boot." She looked at him then, watching his reaction
to her words.
He stared at the mug before him, then asked, "No bourbon
this time?"
"I think you've had enough bourbon, don't you?"
He nodded, lifted the cup, took a sip and sighed. " 's
good, Alice. Thanks."
She inclined her head but didn't speak, and he took
another sip then resumed staring at the wall.
"It was raining. I was thinking about the time it
rained this summer." He faltered and the almost peaceful
look on his face dissolved, pain flooding his features
once again.
"What happened this summer?" she prodded gently, knowing
he needed to talk, knowing he needed someone to hear him.
He flushed and dropped his head, mumbling unintelligibly.
"What was that, Handsome?" she asked again.
"StarskyandIgotnakedanddancedonthedeckintherain." His head
still hung low, and his shoulders were hunched, almost as
if to protect himself from a rejection he would feel as
surely as a blow.
She took a deep breath, then reached out and gently touched
his arm. "That sounds nice, sweetie. Real nice."
Blue eyes came up, brimming with tears and he looked first
at her hand on his arm, then into her face. The smile he
gave her was slow, gentle, and it lit up his face for a
moment as he remembered. "Yeah," he said softly. "It
was."
"You love him." It was a statement of fact. She'd always
known there was a bond between Hutch and his partner, she
just hadn't realized how deep it went.
He nodded. "I love him."
"So what happened tonight?" She let her fingers stroke
his arm, an asexual touch that offered only comfort and
he seemed to draw strength from it, and from her acceptance
of his revelation.
"He's out. Again. With a woman."
"Why?"
Hutch shrugged. "It's what he does."
She lifted her mug and sipped, then made a face and rose
to retrieve the sugar bowl. Adding another spoonful, she
stirred thoughtfully then asked again, "Why?"
He blinked twice, blue eyes huge as he struggled to
comprehend her question. "Why what? Why does he go out?"
She shook her head.
"Why does he still look for women?"
She shook her head again.
"Why what?"
"Why does he hurt you like this?"
He stared at her in confusion.
"You're his partner, right? And you love him?"
Hutch nodded.
"And he loves you?"
He smiled slowly, a gentle movement that tugged his lips
upwards and softened his eyes with good memories. "Yeah,"
he said quietly, "he loves me."
"Then why is he out with someone else?"
The smile disappeared and pain lines etched his face.
"He's not -- comfortable -- being with a man. I think,"
Hutch struggled to find the words, "he needs this to make
himself feel all right."
"Even if it's killin' you?"
Hutch shrugged again. "I love him. I'll take him any way
I can have him."
"It's not right," she said. "You love him. He loves you.
You shouldn't have to settle for part-time."
"Any way I can have him," Hutch repeated.
"Would you take him part-time at work?"
He looked at her, his eyes wide with shock. "What? No!
That wouldn't work. We'd never ... I mean, I have to
depend on him -- my life depends on him. He depends on
me. You can't be part-time cops. You just can't be
part-time ..."
"And your life doesn't depend on him the rest of the time?"
She rose and began to pace, wondering what had happened
that made this man think his feelings had less value than
those of his partner's.
"I ... It's not like ... He needs ..." Hutch flushed
suddenly and couldn't seem to finish a sentence.
"Why do you let him hurt you like this?"
He jerked at her words, hot coffee sloshing over the side
of the mug to burn him, and he pulled his hand back quickly.
Lifting it to his mouth, he sucked at the tender skin between
thumb and forefinger and watched as she came back from the
sink with a paper towel, wet with cold water. She pulled
his hand from his mouth, and wrapped it in the cool moist
towel, then began to wipe up the spill on the table.
The dryer chose that moment to buzz and she moved smoothly
down the hall and pulled out his now dry socks. Taking
a moment longer, she transferred the rest of his clothes
from washer to dryer and turned it back on, listening for
a second as the metal button on his jeans tumbled against
the sides. Grabbing the still-warm socks, she padded back
to the kitchen and looked down at him.
His head was bowed again, and he picked at the wet paper
towel as he eyed the table, studiously avoiding her
gaze. She knelt before him, the warm socks in her hand,
and gently touched his foot. Startled, he pulled back,
staring down at her in confusion that slowly cleared,
then said, "I can do that."
She just shook her head. "Let me." Her eyes lifted to
meet his as she willed him to hear what she was saying.
"You deserve to have someone take care of you. Let me
do this for you, tonight. Let me take care of you."
He nodded and she tugged the warm socks onto his long,
elegant feet, then rose and extended her hand. "Let
me see," she said, and he held out his injured hand.
She unwrapped the paper towel and looked. "It's not
blistered." She probed gently, then pulled back when he
flinched slightly. "Sorry," she murmured. "I have some
lotion."
A quick trip to her bedroom and she was back with a tube
of aloe vera hand cream. She took his hand, then squeezed
a dollop of cream out, and slowly worked it into the red,
inflamed flesh. This time, he didn't flinch, and when she
was done she continued to hold his hand. "You deserve
all of him -- on the job, and everywhere else, too. You
need to tell him how much this hurts you."
He reached out and circled her waist, pulling her forward
so he could rest his head against her belly. Of its own
accord, her hand rose and stroked his hair.
He mumbled against her abdomen, arms lax about her waist.
"What?" she asked.
"I'm tired and I don't want to go home."
"Then sleep here." She rose and led him to the bedroom,
turning back the covers and patting the pillows. He
crawled into the bed when she gave him a small push, then
looked up and eyed her speculatively.
She shook her head. "That's not what you want," she said
softly. "I'm not who you want." The last was uttered so
quietly, so sadly, she didn't think he'd heard her, but
he reached out and took her hand.
"I didn't mean to hurt you, Alice," he said in a gentle
voice.
She turned his hand and looked at the burn, asking how it
was with her eyes.
He looked at her and said, "It doesn't hurt as bad anymore,"
and there were layers and layers to his simple statement.
"You shouldn't have to hurt at all," she said. Then she
let him go and left the room, turning out the light as she
went.
When she woke the next morning, he was gone. The bed
was neatly made, the gray sweats and black T-shirt folded
and stacked at the bottom of the faded comforter she used
as a bedspread. His clothes were gone from the dryer,
and the mugs, spoons, and coffeepot had been washed
and were drying in the drainer. A note, written on the
back of one of her old grocery lists -- where had he dug
that up from? -- was propped up against the sparkling
clean coffeemaker.
"Thanks, Alice," it said. "Love, Hutch."
She lifted it, held it to her breast, and then she let
herself cry.
"Detective Starsky." He held the phone against his ear
as he watched his partner going through the paperwork on
their latest case. Hutch hadn't been home last night when
he'd gotten back, and then he hadn't come in all night.
When he'd gotten to work, Hutch was already there. He'd
hardly said two words to him all morning. And there was
a big red splotch on his hand that looked suspiciously
like a burn. But when he'd tried to ask, Hutch had waved
him away, and all his other attempts at conversation had
been similarly rebuffed. Hutch didn't seem angry, just
distracted, as if he had too much on his mind to be
bothered with anything else right now. Even if that
anything else was his partner.
"This is Alice," she said softly. "Can you meet me?"
Starsky straightened in his chair, wondering what Alice
would want with him. Usually they went to her, but if
she did call, it was always on Hutch's line. "Sure,
babe," he responded easily. "When?"
"An hour?" came the drawled reply. "At Jackson's Bar?"
It made him smile, that slow, southern drawl. Yankee boy
that he was, the smooth rhythms of Alice's southern accent
always got to him. "We can be there."
"Not Hutch," she said firmly. "Just you."
"O - kaaaaay," he said slowly. "Is there a problem?" He
glanced up at Hutch. Normally his partner would be all over
him by now, wanting to know who it was, what they wanted,
where they were going to have to go. But Hutch was still
seemingly engrossed in paperwork, lost in his own thoughts
and paid him no mind.
"I just want to talk to you," Alice repeated. "And don't
tell Hutch."
The phone disconnected harshly in his ear and he was left
staring at it with a confused look on his face.
"Starsk?"
He looked up. Now Hutch wanted to talk to him.
"Everything okay, babe?" Hutch asked.
Starsky shrugged. "Yeah. I just gotta go out."
Hutch rose at once, but Starsky motioned him to sit back
down.
"It's just a little errand," he said as he sauntered off
down the hall. "Hold the fort. I'll be back in a couple
of hours."
"Alice?" He spoke quietly as he approached her. "What's
going on?"
She swirled the straw in the coke that sat before her as
she motioned for him to join her at the table, holding her
anger in check until he was seated. Of course, if he got
up and walked out, there wasn't a lot she could do to
prevent it. She'd just have to keep him interested long
enough to hear what she had to say.
"Where were you last night?" she asked calmly.
Starsky's brow furrowed as he considered her question. "I
don't think that's any of your business." His words were
still quiet, but there was a decided edge to them. "Do
you have something for me?"
"Do you know where your partner was last night?"
He blanched and his head swiveled quickly as if trying to
see if he was being observed. She smiled. That had
taken the wind out of his sails.
"I -- I don't see where any of this is any of your business,"
he tried to bluster, stopping when she held up one hand.
"I know where your partner was, Starsky," she purred.
His fists clenched and his face reddened. She could see
him struggling to clamp down on the emotions that suddenly
suffused him. She pushed a little harder.
"He was with me."
Starsky swallowed hard, staring at her with steely eyes,
then looked away.
"He was with me," she repeated.
Starsky stared at the far wall.
"At my place."
He winced.
"All night."
His eyes closed and the pain that slipped over his face
was reminiscent of the pain Hutch had worn the night before.
"Doesn't feel so good, does it, babe?" she said quietly.
He swallowed hard and slowly opened his eyes, then dragged
them back to her. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked
in a broken voice.
"It rained last night." She offered this in the hopes he
would make the connection. When he didn't, she went on.
"Hutch told me about the summer rain -- the two of you on
the deck."
"He told ...? He had no ... We agreed ..." he sputtered.
"What? He had no right to talk about being in love? What
kind of love is it if you have to be ashamed?"
Starsky dropped his head. "I'm not ashamed."
"Oh, really? Is that why you were out cattin' around last
night? That lack of shame? That why you can't even look
me in the eye right now? 'Cause you're so damn proud?"
Starsky's shoulders fell and he leaned forward on the
table, scrubbing his face with his hands. He was quiet
for a long time. She watched him, then when it was
obvious he was oblivious to her scrutiny, she turned her
head slightly and studied the bar. When she grew tired
of that, and he still didn't speak or move, she shifted
again, and stared toward the door, just barely able to
make out the street through the small strip of glass
that ran down its right side. She was ready to seek
out a fourth focus when he finally stirred.
His eyes were haunted as he looked at her and asked, "Did
you ... I mean, did Hutch and you ...?"
"Did we sleep together?"
Starsky nodded miserably.
"Isn't that what you did last night? Go out and sleep
with someone?"
He recoiled as if she had struck him, then dropped his
head again, not answering.
"You did," she said matter-of-factly. "And he knew it."
She waited until Starsky raised his head and looked at
her.
"It's killin' him, Starsk," she said softly. "Killin'
him."
"I don't wanna hurt him," Starsky murmured. "I never
wanted to hurt him."
"Well," she said, "you did." She had to be hard, had to
be firm. Even though Starsky was obviously in pain, too,
even though he obviously loved Hutch, she had to make him
see that he couldn't go on the way he was. This kind of
love wasn't enough for someone like Hutch. It had to be
all or nothing -- and Hutch couldn't live with nothing.
She had to make Starsky see that Hutch needed all of him,
a full-time commitment, not just a part-time affair.
She cocked her head as she studied the blue eyes before
her. "Would it bother you if Hutch slept with me?"
Starsky shrugged.
"Would it bother you?" she pressed him. "Would it?"
He shrugged again, then nodded. "Yeah. All right?
Yeah, it would bother me. I know it shouldn't ... I mean,
I ain't got the right, not with me out running around,
too, but yeah, it bothers me."
She studied him, wondering if he'd begun to grasp how
fragile love could be, how easily it could be lost. "We
didn't, Starsk," she said quietly, watching as relief
slipped over the man's face. "He wanted to. That's
why he came to me. He was drunk, and he walked to my
place ..."
Starsky's head came up, fear and concern and anger flitted
across his mobile features. "That's what? Five? Six
miles from us?"
"Something like that," she agreed.
"It was freezing last night!"
"Yep. It was. He was half froze when he showed up, still
carrying that bottle of bourbon."
"Carrying ...? He was carrying a bottle? Drinking in
public? In the freezing rain?" Starsky ran a hand over
his face and spoke to himself, "What the hell where you
thinking, babe? You could get sick, get hurt. Hell,
that ain't the best part of town." His eyes darted up
and met hers. "No offense, Alice," he offered hastily.
"None taken."
"But damn, he coulda gotten arrested! What if some
dumb uniform decided to pick him up?"
"He wasn't thinking clearly," she offered. "He was in
pain."
Starsky's anger drained and he slumped in the chair again.
"I know."
"He won't come to me again, Starsk," she said quietly.
She couldn't tell him how she knew this, but she knew it.
"Next time, he'll go to someone who won't care, who won't
take time to talk to him. He'll go to someone who'll
say yes."
"Next time?" Starsky seemed confused, almost overwhelmed
by everything and she knew she needed to get him back
on track, to make him focus.
"Listen, Starsk, you gotta listen to me, and really hear
what I'm sayin', okay?" She waited until he met her
eyes and nodded. "This is important. Hutch is
important."
He nodded again, and she could tell he was totally tuned
in to her every word. She had his full attention -- now
she just had to make it count.
"He wanted to do what you were doing last night. I don't
think it was to hurt you, more to make himself hurt less.
Sorta -- if he can do it, I can too. But it wasn't what
he really wanted, and I knew that, and I said no."
Starsky was nodding now, following her every word.
"I told him -- and now I'm telling you -- part-time won't
work for you two. You can't have him as a part-time partner
at work, can you? There sometimes, but not all the time.
Never being able to depend on if he'll be there or not?"
Starsky shook his head. "You know it don't work that way,
Sweetness. My life's in his hands; his is in mine. It's
gotta be a hundred percent."
"Exactly. And that's the kinda guy Hutch is, isn't it?
A hundred percent kinda guy?"
Starsky nodded again. "Yeah. He's a hundred percent
all right."
"So why would you think he could be less than that in your
private life? What would make you think he could settle
for anything less than being able to depend on you to
be there -- all the time?"
"It's different, Alice. That's -- different."
She shook her head. "Not to Hutch. His life is in your
hands -- all the time. Remember that." She rose gracefully,
and stood, looking down at the dark-haired man. "One hundred
percent, Starsky," she said, "one hundred percent."
She was wearing the long-sleeved black t-shirt again. It
was getting to be a habit. She smiled to herself as she
moved the clothes from the washer to the dryer and turned
it on. It always surprised her gentlemen callers to see
the little alcove with the washer and dryer on their
way to the bathroom. Perhaps they just assumed she did
nothing but have sex and entertain -- no need for laundry
or dishes or grocery shopping. She laughed out loud
at that thought -- ah, the glamour of a hooker's life.
The doorbell rang, and still enjoying her laugh at herself,
she pulled it open, smiling.
It was Hutch.
Who smiled back.
And offered her flowers.
Yellow daisies and baby's breath.
She stood there with her mouth open, staring at his smiling
face, until the smile faltered a bit, and his brow wrinkled.
"You okay, Sweet Alice?" he asked softly, the flowers still
extended.
She nodded quickly, then stepped back, letting him in.
He moved swiftly to the kitchen. "I'll just put these
in water for you, okay?"
She nodded again, then followed him, sitting at the table
to watch as he rummaged through her cabinets for something
for the flowers. She could have told him he wouldn't find
a vase. Nobody'd ever given her flowers before. He
finally contented himself with a glass pitcher he found
tucked in the corner of one of her bottom cabinets. It
was another legacy from her Nana, hidden in the corner of
one of the few boxes she'd taken when she'd left home.
She'd forgotten she even had the thing.
He was humming under his breath, a contented sound that
told her more than any words he could say. She swallowed
hard. There was a small -- very small -- part of her that
had held onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, things
wouldn't work out for Hutch and Starsky. Maybe, just
maybe, he'd return to her for comfort and understanding.
And maybe, just maybe, he'd fall in love with her, and
he'd be one hundred percent for her. But now, seeing him
humming, obviously happy in love, that part of her
faded away, and the better, truer part of her nature
was able to be truly happy for him, to celebrate his
joy. She smiled again, pleased that she hadn't had to
force it.
"Everything's okay now, Hutch?"
He turned, holding the now full pitcher and set it on
the table. "Better'n okay," he said as he joined her
at the table. He nodded at the flowers. "It's not
enough, but I wanted to say thanks."
She reached out and gently touched the petals on one
of the daisies, then let her fingers trail down the side
of the pitcher. The pitcher was real. It was made to
last. Fragile glass, but still strong, and ready to
last through the years. Just like Nana's love. But
the flowers. They were beautiful, but transient. Hutch
cared, but it wouldn't last. It wouldn't be a forever
kind of love. Still ... it was nice while it lasted.
She looked up at him and smiled. "Nobody's ever given
me flowers before," she said in a small voice.
"A mistake I am pleased to rectify."
She blushed at the intensity of his gaze, then wondered
how anyone could wring that reaction from her -- after
all she'd seen, all she'd done. This man was incredible.
"I'm -- happy for you, Hutch," she said sincerely. "Happy
for you both."
"Starsk said you talked to him."
She shrugged.
"Said you made him see some things."
She shrugged again.
"You still taking those classes over at the college?"
She nodded. "Here and there, one or two at a time."
"You're smart, Alice. You'd make a good counselor.
You -- understand."
Tears pricked at her eyes and she fought them back.
He would not make her cry. "Thanks, Hutch."
They sat in silence for a minute, then he rose. "I, uh,
need to get going." He nodded at the door. "Starsky's
waiting."
She nodded and rose, following him to the door, then opening
it to let him out.
He paused in the doorway, then reached out and stroked her
cheek, his touch so gentle she ached with longing and felt
the need to bolt and run. He was too close -- she cared
too much. And she couldn't afford that. Bolstering her
defenses, she forced herself to smile up at him, let
herself lean into his touch.
"You're too good for this, Alice," he said softly.
"I used to say I'd get outta the business, Hutch, and then
I'd get you." She shrugged, but still smiled as she looked
at him. "Don't think that's an option anymore, Handsome."
He smiled as he looked at her, his hand still electric
against her cheek, his eyes serious. "You get out, babe,
and I'm here for you. Me and Starsk. Anything you need.
You'll have us both."
Disclaimer:
Starsky and Hutch and all related concepts, characters, etc,
belong to Spelling/Goldberg Productions, Inc.