***
Leaving Starsky to his rest, Hutch quietly went out of the room, closing
the door behind him. He wanted to clean up the
lunch dishes and figure out what to make for supper. Hutch also
wanted to give Huggy a call and bring him up to date on
Starsky.
The conversation with Huggy was brief. Hutch suggested he come
over later that afternoon, after Starsky had a chance
to rest. Maybe Huggy would shake loose some memories. Huggy
promised to bring over some Mexican food, Starsky's
favorite, to further the cause. Anything that might help.
Hutch had cleaned up the kitchen and was thinking about making coffee
when a quiet noise behind him alerted him to his
partner's presence. Turning, he saw Starsky leaning against the
archway corner, watching him. Starsky wore a quizzical
expression, as if he had stumbled across something that he couldn't
decipher.
"Hey, buddy, how come you're up? You haven't slept more than
a couple of hours." Hutch moved closer so he could lay
a concerned hand on Starsky's arm. He was surprised to feel how
tense the muscles were in that arm. "What's the
matter?"
"Nothing. Had a dream and it woke me up. Couldn't figure
out where I was at first but I heard you out here so I got up."
He sighed.
The searching way Starsky was looking at him was making Hutch a bit
nervous. He patted the arm under his hand and
gestured at the coffeepot. "I was just about to make some coffee,
you want some?" Getting a non-committal shrug,
Hutch went about putting the coffee together. Casually he asked,
"What did you dream about?"
Starsky had come further into the kitchen and was taking mugs from
the cupboard. "I'm not sure. Let me think about it
for awhile, okay?" He moved over to the fridge and took out the
carton of milk, placing it on the counter. He stood with
the fridge door open, staring inside. Hutch could see the tension
in the set of his shoulders and the way his jaw was set.
"Starsky, what's the matter?" Hutch placed a hand on Starsky's
back and was surprised when the other man flinched,
pulling away from him. Starsky slipped out from under his reaching
hand and closing the fridge door, moved as far away
from Hutch as possible in the small kitchen. "Starsk?"
"Nothing's the matter. Just, just let me be. All right?"
The last said with a small smile, but there was a look of uncertainty
in Starsky's eyes. Hutch was afraid that they had lost whatever
ground they had gained before his friend's nap. Deciding
that dropping the subject for the moment might be the best thing, Hutch
continued with the coffee preparations. He found
a box of cookies that he knew were Starsky's favorites and put some
on a plate. Starsky had wandered into the living
room and was idly looking at the books on one of the bookcases.
Hutch placed the plate on the coffee table and
returned to the kitchen for the coffee. Putting the mugs on the
table, he sat down in the white chair and waited for
Starsky to settle.
Starsky was looking over the shelves almost frantically. Muttering
to himself, he moved about the room, searching. Hutch
watched for a few minutes, worried by the way Starsky was behaving.
Finally he had to ask, "Starsk, what are you
looking for?"
Starsky jumped as if shot and whirled around to face Hutch. "Pictures.
There must be pictures of me, of my life,
somewhere. But I can't figure out where they are."
Hutch was a little frightened by the scared look on his friend's face.
"You keep most of them in a couple of boxes in that
cabinet." He pointed to the cabinet against the wall behind the
couch. "I think there's a couple of albums in there too.
You always planned on putting them all into albums but haven't gotten
around to it yet. I think there may be a few more in
the bedroom closet, too. At least that's where they were the
last time you had them out."
Starsky hurried over to the cabinet and pulled the doors open.
Rooting around in the assorted boxes and other things
that he kept in there; he finally found what he was looking for.
Carrying the boxes to the couch, he put them down and
dumped out the first one. Over time, Starsky had sorted the photos
into envelopes, in preparation to placing them in
albums. Each envelope was carefully labeled with subject and
in some cases, year. Hutch moved the coffee cups out of
the way when the contents of the first envelope hit the table.
Starsky pushed the pictures around, picking up one then
discarding it to pick up another. Not finding whatever he was
looking for, he dumped another envelope out onto the
table. This one seemed to have more of what he was wanting.
Starsky picked up a picture and held it up to Hutch. "What are
we doing here?" He demanded. Hutch tried to remain
calm as he took the photo from Starsky and looked at it. It showed
the two of them, Starsky in a white suit, Hutch in a
western outfit, posing for the camera.
"We were undercover, Starsky, as a couple of out-of-town drug pushers.
We were trying to look the part by dressing in
these clothes. You thought we looked pretty sharp, so you got
someone to take the picture." Starsky practically
snatched the picture from Hutch, examined it for a moment, then thrust
another one at him.
"What about this one?" This one was of the two of them at a department
picnic, horsing around. They'd been playing
baseball and were trying to get a drink of water. Between the
two of them, they'd managed to get more water on the
ground than in the glass Hutch was holding. Hutch smiled at the
picture. It had been a good day, one where there had
been no demands on them other than to have fun. He looked up
into Starsky's face and tried to explain. Starsky just
shook his head and continued searching through the pictures.
Starsky kept passing Hutch photos, and Hutch kept explaining the circumstances
behind each one. This went on for quite
some time. It wasn't until Starsky came across the ones at the
bottom of the last box that it came to an end. The last
envelope contained the pictures that Starsky had kept from his time
with Terry. When the pictures hit the table, Starsky
stiffened, then picked up the top one.
It was one of Terry and him, one that Hutch had taken not long before
the shooting. The two of them were smiling at
each other, standing on the beach. There was a slight wind blowing
their hair around, the sea and sky behind them
almost the same shade of pale blue. Terry was wearing Starsky's
denim shirt; Starsky left with just his red t-shirt. So
wrapped up in each other that they hadn't even been aware that Hutch
had taken their picture. It was Starsky's camera
and he hadn't developed the film until some time had past after Terry's
death. Hutch and he were together when he
picked up the pictures and he still remembered the anguish on his friend's
face when he'd seen that one. Starsky had
taken the photos home, put them in the envelope, and hidden them away.
Starsky didn't pass the photo to Hutch. Instead he sat and stared
at it for a long time. Finally, Hutch had to break the
silence that was beginning to feel like a gulf stretching between them.
"Starsk?"
Starsky tore his eyes away from the picture. "I remember her.
Her name was Terry and I loved her. She's dead, isn't
she?" All Hutch could do was nod. Starsky looked at the
photo again and sighed. "Why do I get the feeling that
everyone I ever loved is gone? That anyone who loved me is either
dead or just simply gone." He threw the picture down
on the table and dropped his head into his hands. Leaning so
far forward, his hands almost touched his knees; he
started rocking.
Hutch, truly frightened, moved to sit beside him, pushing the empty
boxes aside. He wrapped his arms around him and
drew him into a tight hug. "Not everyone, Starsk. I'm still
here. And I'm not planning on going anywhere."
Starsky leaned into the embrace for a brief moment then pulled away.
Dropping his hands, he turned to face Hutch.
"Just what does that mean, though? Do I love you, Hutch?
Because if I do, I don't remember. And, God, I want to
remember that, if nothing else."
Hutch didn't know what to say. Starsky's eyes were wild; something
had him so scared he looked as if he was going to
implode. Hutch was afraid that no matter how he answered that
question it would be wrong. Did Starsky want
reassurance that Hutch was his friend and that they cared for each
other or was there something else he needed to
know? Hutch knew that Starsky loved him, as a friend, as someone
for whom he would lay down his life. But he was not
sure about anything more. He wasn't sure there *was* anything
more.
For just a moment, he was tempted to tell Starsky a truth and a lie.
The truth about how much he loved him and a lie
about what their relationship was. But he couldn't do that.
For one thing, it was not honorable to take advantage of his
friend's loss of memory to get something he so desperately wanted.
And Hutch was, if nothing else, an honorable man.
And the fear that when Starsky did remember everything, he would hate
him for lying to him. For deceiving him. If
something happened between this moment and that time because of a lie,
it would kill whatever hope Hutch held of
Starsky loving him. It would kill everything they already had
or would ever have. That was a risk he was not willing to
take.
"I'm not sure what you're asking, Starsk. We're partners, friends.
We've been together for years, known each other even
longer." Hutch waited to see if that would satisfy him.
Starsky's eyes searched Hutch's face as if he were trying to see inside
of him. He turned away and picked up one of the
pictures he'd tossed aside. It was another one of the two of
them fooling around. A drug bust on the waterfront that was
so smooth there was not one shot fired. In the euphoria of the
moment, when everything was over and the criminals were
safely on their way to jail, they had gotten silly. Starsky had
made some smart remark to Hutch and in retaliation; he'd
picked him up and threatened to throw him in the ocean. They'd
both been laughing so hard that there was little danger
of Hutch carrying through on his threat. One of the crime scene
photographers happened by and took a picture of them.
After it was developed, he'd given each of them a copy. Starsky
stared at that picture, taking in every detail. The way his
arm was around Hutch's shoulder. The way Hutch's hand lay on
his thigh. The comfortable way they accepted such an
intimate embrace. Finally Starsky spoke.
"That dream I had, the one that woke me up, was about us. You
and me. I don't know what it was all about for sure,
except you were holding me. I don't know where we were or why
you were holding me. All I know is that I was scared, but
with your arms around me, I felt safe, like nothing really bad could
happen as long as you held on. I couldn't see you, I
had my eyes closed, even in my dream, but I knew it was you.
I could hear your heart beating, smell your leather jacket. I
remember feeling pain, and that fear. But you just held me.
You were saying something, but I couldn't really hear it. I
never felt so safe, so, so loved, I guess is the word. All because
you were there." He looked up at Hutch, still scared but
there was something else in his eyes. "Is that something I just
dreamt or is it a memory, Hutch? Just what kind of friends
are we?"
Hutch had to move, get away from those eyes that were asking him questions
he wasn't sure he was ready to answer.
Now it was he who was moving aimlessly around the room. What
kind of friends were they indeed? Once, he could have
answered that question. Best friends. Comrades in arms.
Partners. They were all those. But things had changed.
He
had changed. He knew what the dream was about; maybe that truth
would appease Starsky's quest for answers.
"It's a memory, Starsky. From a couple years ago. You were
poisoned and we were trying to find the people
responsible. The kind of poison they used did something to your
nerves and caused you a lot of pain. You collapsed at
one point, in an alley. You were in such pain, and you were scared
because you knew you were dying. I held you
because you were hurting and it was all I could do." He stopped
beside the couch and looked down into those dark blue
eyes. "What kind of friends are we? The best of friends,
Starsk. We've been through so much together that sometimes
we're all we have. Me and you. You're the most important
person in my life, Starsky. You're closer to me than my own
blood kin. Is that what you want to know? Because that's
all I can tell you." He turned away so Starsky wouldn't see the
need in his own eyes.
Before Starsky could ask again, before Hutch's resolve broke further,
the doorbell rang. <Thank God. Talk about saved
by the bell.> Hutch hurried to the door, barely noticing Starsky's
look of fear. He opened the door to greet Huggy, whose
arms were full of bags.
"Hey, Hutch. I brought enough food to satisfy even Starsky."
Huggy looked past Hutch and saw Starsky standing by the
couch, with that look of fear still on his face. Huggy looked
back at Hutch, who was standing there with a sickly grin on his
own face. He lowered his voice. "What's the matter?"
Hutch ran his hand through his hair. Looked back over his shoulder
at Starsky and sighed. He pulled the door open
wider and gestured for Huggy to come in. "Nothing, Hug.
All of Starsky's returning memories aren’t good ones. He
remembered about Bellamy and the Professor. He's a bit spooked,
is all. Come in. Maybe you can cheer him up."
Huggy approached Starsky as if he were a skittish animal that might
take flight at the least provocation. "Hey Starsky.
How you doing? I've brought some food. Mexican, hot and
spicy, just the way you like it." Starsky responded with a little
smile. He was looking at Huggy with that quizzical expression
again. Hutch was pleased to see the fear gone and only
honest curiosity remaining.
The look of questioning turned to dawning remembrance. "Oh my
God, Huggy! It's Huggy." Hutch was as amazed as
Huggy was when Starsky suddenly threw his arms around him, bags and
all. Almost crying through the laughter, Starsky
squeezed the shocked man. "I remember you. You're Huggy.
I remember you, I remember you." He repeated again.
Hutch shook himself free of the spell caused by his partner's sudden
breakthrough. He grabbed the bags that were
slipping from Huggy's hands enabling the other man to return Starsky's
embrace. Hutch could tell that Huggy was a bit
taken aback by Starsky's exuberance. Neither man had ever been
demonstrative with each other. A slap on the back or
a pat on the arm was usually the extent of physical expressions of
affection between them. It had always been the two
partners who hugged each other, never anyone else. Hutch felt
a pang of jealous hurt rip through him.
Starsky pulled himself together and stepped back from Huggy.
The grin on his face could have lit the whole room. "I
can't believe it. I know you. You're Huggy Bear; you own
a restaurant called Hug, uh, no. You sold that one. Now you
own the Pits. See Hutch? I remember him." His grin
faded. "Oh God, Hutch. I can remember Huggy. But I can't
remember you. Damn it. I still can't remember you.
Why the hell can't I remember you?" He sank back down on the
couch, shaking his head. "What's wrong with me that I can't remember
my own partner?"
Hutch was quick to move to comfort Starsky. Huggy decided that
he needed to leave the two of them alone so went into
the kitchen to get the food ready. Hutch set down beside Starsky,
placing his hand on his knee. "Starsk, listen to me.
There's probably a perfectly logical reason why you can remember some
things and not others. Gibbons, the man that
took you, may have done something that caused this. He hated
me and maybe he said something to you about me that
your mind's trying to protect you from.
Dr. Bernardi said that your memory loss was a defense mechanism gone
haywire. It'll come back. You've already
remembered so much. And you do remember me, in bits. Who
knows? Maybe tomorrow you'll wake up and it'll all be
back. You just have to be patient."
"Yeah, maybe. But I'm not remembering *you*. I'm remembering
incidents, things. But I don't remember us. You and
me. I don't feel anything towards you. If you're my best
friend, I should feel something. In that dream, or memory, or
whatever the hell it was, I felt safe with you. I felt something
good. Now all I feel is scared 'cause I don't know how I
should be feeling." Starsky pointed at his chest. "In here,
I feel like there's a great big hole where you should be. My
mind keeps telling me that from everything you've told me; from all
the pictures I've seen, that we're close. That, maybe,
we're more than close. But I don't *feel* it. And that
hurts so damn bad." He sighed.
Hutch really didn't know how to respond to Starsky. His own heart
hurt with the knowledge that his friend didn't feel
anything of what he was feeling. What if Starsky never regained
all his memories? Dr. Bernardi had said that he might
never remember everything, especially the last while. Over the
months since Terry's death, the two of them had grown
even closer than they had been before. He knew that, for himself,
he hadn't met anyone since Gillian that he felt
anything but a fleeting attraction for. All his attention, all
his affection, was directed towards his partner. And after Terry
died, Starsky rarely left Hutch's side. He had needed Hutch.
And Hutch had needed too. Needed his friend's love. What
would become of him if Starsky never felt anything for him again?
He didn't think he'd survive that.
Trying to keep his fears out of his voice, Hutch tried to reassure
Starsky. "It's only been a day since you even knew your
own name, Starsk. Give it time. You remembered Huggy, and
Terry. You'll remember me. And I'm not going anywhere
until you do."
Starsky was shaking his head again. "But the doctor said I may
not remember everything."
"Starsky, the more you push it, the more you worry about it, the harder
it will be. Let it lie. Please, buddy, just try to be
patient. It'll come." <Please, God, for both our sakes.>
Huggy cleared his throat from behind them. "Uh, guys. Dinner's
ready. Come and eat. Things always look better on a
full stomach."
Starsky's relief at this interruption struck Hutch like a blow.
Starsky was beginning to be afraid of being around him, afraid
of the emotions that he didn't feel. Hutch was afraid that if
there weren't some kind of breakthrough soon, he'd lose his
partner for good.
*****
The meal was a quiet affair, at least on Hutch's side. Huggy
and Starsky talked, mostly Starsky asking questions and
Huggy trying to answer them. But not one question was about the
partners themselves. Most of what Starsky wanted to
talk about was Huggy and some of the cases he'd helped them with.
Most of which Starsky seemed to remember up to
but not including his partner. Or maybe he was simply afraid
to ask.
Hutch picked at his food, pushing it around his plate, eating only
a mouthful here and there. He could feel Starsky's eyes
on him at times, but never looked up to match that gaze. The
fear that he had seen earlier in his friend's eyes haunted
him. He dreaded the end of the meal, the moment Huggy would say
that he was leaving. Would Starsky ask him to leave
too? To leave him alone until, or if, he remembered him.
What could he do but honor that. After all, it was Starsky's
home and if he didn't want him there, it was within his rights to ask
him to leave.
He half expected Starsky to tell him that he never wanted to see him
again. That, even when his memory returned, the
something special they had would be gone. Forever. That
whatever horror Starsky had endured during the last three
weeks had destroyed what made them, them. And that there would
be nothing he could do to fix it.
*****
Huggy knew something was terribly wrong. And not just Starsky's
memory or lack there of. Something wrong between
the two partners. Hutch wouldn't look at Starsky; Starsky kept
looking at Hutch from the corner of his eye then turning
away. Through the whole meal, Hutch said not one word, just sat,
and toyed with his food. Even Starsky didn't eat much,
although he tried to pretend an interest in the spicy concoctions that
Huggy had brought over. It was almost as if they'd
had one of their great rows and were mad at each other. That
had happened before, but there had still been that sense
of oneness between them. Huggy definitely didn't feel that now.
They were like two strangers; two people who happened
to be sharing the same space without anything to connect them.
That scared Huggy a great deal.
These two were his best friends. Even though they viewed life
differently than he did, them being cops and he not, they
shared a common bond. All those years ago, when he'd met the
fledgling police officer that would later become Detective
Sergeant First Class David Starsky, he'd liked the brash young man.
He'd liked the way Starsky had accepted him as
Huggy, didn't stereotype him or try to make him fit into some preconceived
pattern. Even though they were from two
different worlds, racially, ethnically, and culturally, they had became
friends. All those surface things seemed to mean
nothing to Starsky; he liked the person inside the package, not caring
what the package looked like.
The same was true of Hutch. Although it had taken a bit longer
for Huggy to trust him, Huggy knew that Hutch was his
friend. Even though Hutch came from a better background than
either Starsky or Huggy, those things didn't matter to him
either. Just like Starsky, he only cared about what was inside
the person, who they were. Not what they were.
These two had fought for him, protected him, even risked their lives
and careers for him. He would do the same for
them. There wasn't anyone else that Huggy could say that about
with any great assurance. And now, here they sat, not
looking at each other. The two people he cared the most for in
the entire world and they might as well have been that
entire world apart. Huggy felt like a child caught in a divorce.
Both of them had demands on his affections. Whatever
was wrong between them, he didn't want to have to choose.
Huggy hated to leave them alone, for alone is what they seemed to be.
But he really had no choice; he had a business to
run. Besides, as far as he could tell, his presence wasn’t helping
anything. He really wasn't prepared for the look of
desperation on Hutch's face when he announced that he was leaving.
"Do you have to go, Hug? It's early yet, not even seven.
You sure you don't want to stay a bit longer?"
"Sorry, Hutch. I really gotta go. If I don't keep an eye
on things, who knows what that crew of mine will do. But if you
need me, you know you can call." Huggy felt like he was leaving
a puppy at the pound the way Hutch looked at him. And
Starsky just looked scared.
Hutch sighed, looked over at Starsky who was still trying not to look
at Hutch. "Yeah, I guess after these last weeks you
can't take too much more time away from the Pits." Huggy could
tell that Hutch was worrying about more than his leaving
them alone. That Starsky wasn't the only one who was scared.
"I've a favor to ask though, Hug. Both of our cars are
back at the station. Could you drop me off there so I can get
mine? I have to pick up a prescription for Starsky, too."
Starsky finally turned towards Hutch. He looked nervous as well
as frightened. Whether it was the thought of being alone
or simply Hutch going that bothered him, Huggy couldn't tell, but he
was definitely upset. Starsky reached out a hesitant
hand towards Hutch then pulled it back. It hurt Huggy to see
that.
Hutch responded to the unasked plea without actually looking at Starsky.
"We're without wheels right now, Starsk. If we
needed to go somewhere fast, we couldn't. I won't be gone long.
Maybe an hour at the most. Will you be okay by
yourself? Do you want me to bring you something from the drugstore?
Or do you want to come with me?"
Starsky seemed to retreat into himself. He looked away from Hutch,
his shoulders hunched, hands folded in his lap. "No,
I'll be fine. I think I'm just going to get ready for bed.
I'm feeling pretty worn out." He did look tired. Huggy had
noticed
him getting increasingly haggard looking since the beginning of the
meal. It had been hard for him not to stare at
Starsky's transformation. His face was drawn and pale, sickly
looking. And with his cropped hair, the cuts and bruises on
his head and face were very noticeable. Huggy had been startled
to see Starsky's hair that short. It was even shorter
than the time Starsky had tried to get rid of the last of the overly
straightened hair that some girlfriend had convinced him
would look good on him. To Huggy's concerned eyes, he looked
more like a refugee from some concentration camp than
the healthy, vigorous man that he knew. Even his demeanor shouted
abject defeat. Huggy's heart ached for him. Ached
for both the partners.
Hutch sighed again. He seemed to have been doing that a lot this
evening. "Okay, whatever you want." Hutch pushed
his chair back to stand up. Starsky spoke, still looking at a
spot on the floor.
"You're coming back though? I mean, you are planning on staying
here. Aren't you?" To Huggy, he sounded lost. As if
something or someone was gone and he wasn't sure it would be back.
"Yeah, I'll be back. Like I said, it should only take an hour
or so. I'll be as fast as I can." Hutch reached out to touch
one
of those hunched shoulders but stopped inches from contact. Huggy
had never seen them so uncertain with each other.
It made him feel terribly sad.
Hutch turned away and, gathering up his jacket and keys nodded to Huggy
that he was ready. Huggy stood beside the
silent Starsky, looking down on that shorn head. "If you need
anything, Starsky, anything, just call. I'll come around
tomorrow, if you like, to see you." It took Starsky a moment
to respond. When he lifted his head, he gave Huggy a faint
smile and nodded. There didn't seem to be anything else to say,
so the two men left, Hutch softly shutting the door
behind him.
*****
Starsky gathered up the dishes and carried them to the sink.
He didn't feel like doing more than that, so he simply
stacked them in the sink, put the leftover food in the refrigerator,
and turned off the kitchen light. He walked listlessly into
the bathroom and tried to remember why he'd come in there. Dropping
his hands on to the basin edge, he stared in the
mirror at his reflection. What he saw only added to his depression.
Although he recognized that face as his, as David
Starsky, he felt no connection to it.
He hadn't told his partner the exact truth about his memory.
He did remember Hutch, in a way. At first he hadn't, that was
true enough, but later things had started to come back. He remembered
flashes, moments in time. But they were
memories with no emotion, no feeling. It was as if he was reading
about someone else's life and it meant nothing to him.
When one of those flashes happened, he'd remember the circumstances
of them, the history, but nothing more. He knew
what had happened, why and who, but that was it.
What really frightened him was that he didn't remember himself.
That somehow who and what he was, and who and what
Hutch was, were so entwined, that until he remembered the one he'd
never remember the other. A vicious circle with no
end in sight. He knew that Hutch was important to him, to his
sense of self. Probably the most important thing in his life,
but he didn't *feel* it. Except for a great, aching need that
he didn't understand at all.
He had a suspicion that Hutch wasn't telling him something. Something
crucial. And until Hutch told him, there would be
no breakthrough. But he didn't know the right questions to ask
and every time he felt as if he were getting close, Hutch
would back away. Looking at those pictures earlier, he'd felt
as if he almost had it. That the next picture, the next
question would bring the answer that would solve everything.
But it wasn't there.
Starsky sighed and straightened up. Rubbed his hands over the
short, tight curls that felt so strange. Decided that he
really needed to brush his teeth and go to bed. He was so tired
he felt dizzy. Finishing up in the bathroom, he drifted
back into the bedroom and looked for pajamas or something else to wear
to sleep in. The sweatsuit he had on was
comfortable, but too heavy. Searching through the drawers of
the bureau against the wall, he found a pair of pajama
bottoms and changed his clothes. Lying down on the bed, he stared
up at the ceiling. Rolled over on his side and stared
at the wall. Rolled over on the other side and stared at the
other wall. Giving up, he got out of the bed, pulled on the
bathrobe hanging in the closet, and went back into the living room.
Turning off all the lights except for the one by the
couch, he sat down in the wingback bamboo chair by the bookcase and
tried to think.
He knew that the two of them had a history. He just wasn't sure
what that history included. From what he did remember,
he knew that they had been in some pretty scary situations and it was
only because they functioned so well as a team
that they had survived any of them. The dream, or memory, of
the time that he was poisoned bothered him. In that, he
had felt so safe, but the fear and pain mixed in only confused him.
Again, he understood the circumstances of the event,
but not the emotion. It also reminded him of something else,
but in a kind of déjà vu way. He couldn't put a finger
on
what it was his mind kept slipping away from it when he came close.
The quiet in the apartment was starting to get to him. When Hutch
was there, even when he didn't make any sound, the
place felt alive. Now, in the silence, he could hear his own
heart beating, the sound of the tree brushing against the deck
roof. It was beginning to unnerve him. He felt as if something
horrible was about to happen but he had no idea how to
prepare for it. Pushing himself out of the chair, he started
pacing, slowly because everything hurt so much. That pain,
that weakness were part of the anxious feeling that was building in
him. He hated the feeling. He knew he was a strong,
capable person. He was a cop after all; but the past weeks <God,
how long was I gone?> had taken their toil on his
muscles. And his nerves. He looked at his wrist, forgetting
that there was no watch. How long had Hutch been gone? It
seemed longer than the hour he'd promised. Finding a clock became
very important.
Remembering the clock beside the bed, he hurried in as fast as his
tired body would allow. Quarter to eight. Not even an
hour had past. Starsky sat down on the bed and tried to quiet
his breathing. Something other than Hutch being gone
was getting to him. It was sitting at the very edge of his memory,
but he couldn't grasp it. Something about the quiet, the
dark rooms, even the wind in the tree nudged at that blocked memory.
The headache that he'd tried to ignore since waking in the hospital
was pounding again. A wave of dizziness and nausea
flooded over him and pushed him back onto the bed. Curling on
his side, Starsky tried to hang on, ride it out. Closing his
eyes, he willed the pain down to a manageable level, but the dizziness
kept him from moving. Finally, his body's need for
release carried him across into sleep.
***
The dreams started almost immediately. Images floated across
his dream vision. Images of Hutch, of people he thought
he knew. Sounds, smells, all the bits and pieces of stimuli that
trigger memories drifted by, but the only thing he could
latch onto was Hutch. Hutch holding him, patting a shoulder,
laying a hand in his. A soft voice whispering words of
encouragement in his ear. Hutch carrying him when he was too
weak, too hurt to walk. Then the images changed. A
subtle fear wormed its way in. Images of Hutch, lying on the
ground, bleeding. Hutch, sick and shaking, fighting with him.
Of him holding Hutch, trying not to cry in shared pain and fear.
Of staring in horror as Hutch screamed, not knowing what
to do.
Then they changed again. A voice in the dark, of being held down,
someone beating at him, yelling at him. A sharp pain
in his arm, then a deadening of awareness, but still aware of the words,
the fear. Not being able to see, being so scared
that he could hardly breathe. Of hunger, thirst, the pressing
need to go to the bathroom and not being able to move. A
cruel laugh, a taunting, words that made no sense because they couldn't
be true. A complete feeling of despair and
hopelessness. Then nothing at all.
***
The sound of the outside door opening woke him. He lay frozen
in terror, the memory of that voice in the dark rushing
over him. A movement, quiet, stealthy, as someone approached.
A tall figure, silhouetted against the pale light loomed
in the doorway. He tried not to look, afraid to take his eyes
off of it. The figure came closer. His heart felt as if it
was
going to stop. He was helpless in the face of that fear, couldn't
move, could hardly breathe. He thought he was about to
die.
Then something, a smell, a certain way the light glinted off the figure's
hair, something broke the hold his fear had on
him. He reached up to the bending figure and, throwing his arms
around it, pulled Hutch down onto the bed.
*****
Hutch wasn't sure what had made him come into the bedroom. He
was sure that Starsky was asleep, the apartment was
dark except for a single lamp, and no sound came from the bedroom.
But yet a sense of panic that wasn't his drew him to
the bedside. At least at first it wasn't his. Starsky lay
on his side, curled up in a fetal position, still as death. For just
a
moment he feared that something had taken the life from the form on
the bed, from his own body. He leaned over, trying
to catch a sound of breathing to reassure himself that his world hadn't
ended, when Starsky moved.
Starsky whimpered, then reaching up, pulled him down onto the bed,
almost on top of him. His grip was strong even
though his arms trembled. Starsky buried his head in Hutch's
shoulder and just held on. At first Hutch couldn't make out
what Starsky was saying, muttering into his jacket collar. Then
the words filtered through his shock. And what he heard
made his heart swell.
Starsky was repeating over and over. "I remember, I remember.
I remember that I love you. Oh God, I remember. I love
you, Hutch. I love you." A litany. A prayer of hope.