by Ellis Murdock

"Why?"

"Because I wanna hear it."

"But—"

"Look, you asked if there was anything you could do to make me feel better. Right?"

"Yes, but I don't see—"

"Well," Starsky attempted an expansive gesture with his hand, and regretted it immediately. Even simple movements caused spasms tonight, and everything in the room vanished in the sudden blinding whiteness of pain. Time was strangely absent in this solitary place, flowing again only when the almost shockingly gentle touches first began to register and reunite him with the wider world. Fingers first, making soothing counterclockwise strokes on an inner wrist; then the safe, secure stillness of a strong arm holding him fast against Hutch's chest. Twin heartbeats came into focus next: the sharp, slower tautophony in his ear a calming counterpoint to the sickeningly rapid pulse pounding his temples. The words successfully resisted deciphering, but drowned out the foreign sounds emanating from his own lips nonetheless. . .both voices eventually trailing off until the ocean's rhythm was the only intruder on the quiet of the room. Waiting until breathing was no longer a feat worthy of a medal, Starsky continued, this time without moving anything he didn't have to. "Tell me again. That helps."

"All right," Hutch whispered, gently repositioning them both with his legs, "but I fail to see how re-living my life's most embarrassing moments can make you feel any better."

"Can't explain it." Starsky briefly wondered if his rapidly-spreading grin might somehow be audible. "But it does."

Teasingly shooting a hand to Starsky's throat in a mock choking gesture, Hutch drew a deep breath and started. "It was a dark and stormy night. . ."

"Hutch—"

"Well, it was. If there had been a moon--even a street light--it would've never happened. And you have to keep in mind that it was after three in the morning on the last shift of nearly a week of doubles, and it was still brand new. It even smelled new. These things don't imprint on the mind overnight, you know, and—"

"Don't imprint-- A 'tomato' with a white racing stripe? Come on--I've heard you give an accurate description of a suspect you caught sight of as a blur going round a corner at thirty feet." Starsky twisted his head the bare minimum required to catch Hutch's expression. "How long could it take?"

"It was during one of those downpours—"

"Down—? It was misty, maybe. And that's a stretch."

Hutch tugged lightly on a handful of curls. "Who's telling this story, anyway? Any time you want to take over. . . ."

"Just tryin' to keep you from turning it into a fairy tale." Starsky leaned back again with a sigh, burrowing just a little closer. "There is no way it was a downpour."

"Rain then. Can we split the difference and call it rain? It was raining. We had pulled over to Dominico's--it was my turn to buy, naturally--and I ran in to pick up some dinner."

"What'd you get? You remember?"

There was a pause. "I remember the coffees, because I was juggling them when I came out the door. The usual, probably: ham and cheese on rye for you, and tuna with—"

"—tomato and sprouts on whole wheat for you," Starsky finished, running a thumb absently over the back of Hutch's hand. "Then what happened?"

"I came out and made a dash for the car. You were in the usual spot and— Are you comfortable like this, or would you like to try turning the other way?"

"Nah. I'm as comfortable as I'm gonna get until the pills kick in. Just keep talking, will ya? What happened next?" Hutch snagged the damp cloth from the nightstand and pressed it lightly against the back of Starsky's neck, dabbing it in a slow arc across tense shoulders. The coolness that washed over him in waves was a refreshing contrast to the nearly stifling heat that had been his companion moments before, but it still made Starsky shiver.

"I got in, pulled the wet newspaper off my head and tossed it into the back seat, set the cups on the floor, and started hunting through the bag for the mustard. If you recall, Mort never put enough mustard on anything--I always had to ask for extra."

"Was I saying much while you were doing all this?"

"No, but I was too busy telling you about the new busboy who was a deadringer for Jimmy Hoffa to notice. I handed you your sandwich—"

"Which I took?"

"Which you took, and without your usual complaint that I forgot the extra mayo. That was actually encouraging. So, I thought it would be a good time to broach the subject of heading up north for our days off. . .you know, renting a cabin, doing some early season fishing."

"And I still didn't say anything."

"No."

"And we weren't moving?"

"No."

"And you didn't find that kinda strange?"

"I was really tired, Starsk. You seem to forget the kind of hours we were putting in there. . . ."

Starsky chuckled, then drew his knees up. "Ow. Yeah, well I wasn't the one forgetting things that night. When did you know?"

"Not until I spilled the coffee," Hutch admitted with a sigh. "I mean, I knew something didn't feel right, but it wasn't until I had a fight with one of those damned plastic lids that I knew. You were treating that car like a combination of a newborn baby and the Hope Diamond. I hadn't done anything particularly heroic that day. There was no way you were going to let me spill hot coffee on your precious upholstery and not say a word."

"So?"

"So, I froze. I was hunched over like this," Hutch somehow managed to demonstrate without jarring the man in his arms, "and I took in what I could without moving. It was all wrong: the color, the smell, the feel. I glanced over at your feet, and they were wrong, too."

"How could my feet be 'wrong'?" The combination of pills, warmth, and mostly Hutch, was finally beginning to take effect. Starsky risked a tentative stretch, and yawned. "What was wrong with my feet?"

"They weren't wearing the shoes they were in when I went to get our sandwiches. Your legs weren't in jeans anymore, either."

"That had to be a bit of a shock."

"Yeah. I thought about just crawling out, not saying anything. Just leave? But it was weird. . .morbid curiosity, I guess. I had to look."

The tremors going through Starsky's body were no longer caused by pain.

"You're laughing at me!"

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Okay, I am. Go on anyway."

Hutch sighed. "I worked my way up until I was staring into the eyes of this large, amused-looking guy who could've been one of Huggy's endless supply of cousins." He poked Starsky lightly in the ribs. "Keep that up, and it's the last bedtime story I'll ever tell you."

"Then what?"

"He smiled at me and said 'hi.' Mentioned that he was waiting for his wife to get off shift across the street, but that he was always open to new possibilities. And he thanked me for the sandwich and coffee."

"And then?"

"I was trying to explain, but I couldn't get my tongue to cooperate. Then I heard this tapping on the window—"

"Yeah?"

"And there you were, outside, wearing the strangest expression on your face."

"My partner had just crawled into a car with a strange guy and given him my dinner. How was I supposed to look? So, didja say anything before you got out?"

"No, not that I recall. You opened the door, I think, and I just sort of got out and went with you." Hutch made a growling sound and went for Starsky's throat again. "It's not that funny. Besides, it could've happened to anyone."

"No, I really don't think it could've." Starsky wiped his eyes and yawned again, even wider than before. "What color was the car?"

"I don't remember."

"What color was the car?"

"Orange. It was an orange Mustang."

"Uh-huh. And what color was the driver."

"Watch it, Chinchilla Boy. I can drag out some good ones on you, too, you know."

"Yeah, but at least I didn't get the two a you mixed up." The laughter was therapeutic, somehow, and Starsky found himself starting to drift off in the arms that were rocking him very, very slowly. "Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"Next time, I wanna hear about that wig that attacked. . . ."

"Shh. Next time."

Feedback: eire@tenforward.com

Return to Ellis Murdock's Main Page

Return to Twin Dolphin Productions