Story: One More Arrow - written for Secret Santa 2010
This story was posted to the Secret Santa 2010 site as my gift to fellow S&H fan, Avoca. Here it is again, for anyone who might want to read. It was such fun to write a story for another fan!
As always, thanks to Nicky Gabriel for my "Storytime" Icon... :-)
Rating: PG
One More Arrow
For Avoca
1976. Early Winter, Venice Place, Venice, California
Chapter 1: The Ace of Arrows
The muted gold light of late afternoon streamed into the small Venice Place apartment, adding a soothing glow to the bohemian mix of wooden furniture, earthy textiles, mismatched chairs, and potted plants. The windows were cracked open, allowing the cool air of approaching evening to flow with the light - cozy and healing.
Starsky pulled Hutch’s borrowed orange robe around him. He steadied himself, one hand on the wall and the other in his thick dark curls. His deep blue eyes studied the short distance from the sleeping alcove to the kitchen, measuring how many steps would be required of his exhausted body to traverse the space.
A seam of pain escaped the balm of medications designed to dull the ache. His stitches felt shrunken, tight. Both reminders of his emergency surgery five days earlier.
Starsky could still see the shock-worry of Hutch’s expression - how Hutch’s guilt-stained blue eyes had met his pain-filled ones. He could still hear Hutch’s anxious warning to the paramedics - “I’m going with him!” - right before being swept into the hastily summoned ambulance.
Hutch’s relentless teasing about Starsky’s “iron clad stomach,” and his admonitions of “suck it up, Starsk - too much pizza - no wonder your stomach hurts,” had backfired big time when Starsky’s fiery gut pain was diagnosed. Not indigestion. Instead, a serious and nearly fatal burst appendix that had demanded grueling surgery and had resulted in an agonizing recovery.
Starsky had no memories of the time right before and immediately after the surgery itself. His hospital stay was an antiseptic smelling, pain-tinged blur. Only one constant, only one spark of reassurance and contentment had stayed with him through the groggy days and the feverish nights.
Hutch.
Starsky recalled the familiar touch of Hutch’s large hand on his hot forehead. He remembered his sense of gratitude, seeing his blond partner leaning over the bed, mouth curved in a goofy grin. Layered over the tortured nights, those endless hospital nights, was the sensation of being cradled against Hutch’s warm, strong body…a sturdy ship anchoring him as he rode the nauseating waves of pain.
Hutch’s arms, his comforting voice.
“I know, buddy, I know. Rest here against me. I’m here.”
Then Hutch’s uncompromising demands, bordering on belligerent, that Starsky be released into his care and custody to recuperate.
And here I am. Venice Place. On this drowsy-warm afternoon.
Starsky took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall, half staggering into the kitchen. With a loud exhale of effort, he grasped the handle of the refrigerator door with both hands. Filled with a sense of resounding dread, he pulled the door open. His eyes scanned the contents of the shelves. His face broke into a smile.
A bowl of hard boiled eggs. No threat there. A couple of chicken breasts. That’s nice. Two large potatoes. Innocent enough. Several large spears of broccoli. Well, life isn’t perfect.
He sagged on the door, summoning strength for the return trip to the sleeping nook. At the sound of the front door opening, he froze.
“Starsky! Damn it, Starsk! Damn! Don’t move!”
Starsky jerked his head around at the sound of Hutch’s normally mellow voice, now raised in a combination of anxiety and concern. His tall blond partner held a paper shopping bag in one hand and his leather jacket in the other.
“You’re busted, buddy.” Hutch’s mouth curved into a phantom of a smile, but beneath the white-gold bangs, Hutch’s eyes were alive with…with…
With what? What is that expression on his face? What is that emotion?
“You caught me fair ‘n square, Otticher Hutchinson.” Starsky tried for levity.
In a second, Hutch was at Starsky’s side, supporting his shoulders. Starsky leaned against him heavily, breathing the clean-air Hutch smell. Hutch gently steered toward the bed.
“Hutch. ” Starsky knew his voice was low, feeble. “Hutch, not the bed. Sofa. Sofa this time, okay?”
Hutch hesitated, but then complied. He angled over to the worn sofa and slowly lowered Starsky to the cushions. Before Starsky could acknowledge with a thanks or a smile, Hutch was off again, tearing around the apartment. He returned carrying a thick quilt and two pillows. He positioned the pillows carefully and pulled the quilt over Starsky from toes to chin.
Hutch’s sky-blue eyes were still haunted by that mysterious emotion. His hand lingered on Starsky’s shoulder. He spoke soothingly.
“You aren’t supposed to be up and around, Starsk. When I’m not here, you gotta stay put. What if you fall? What if you pull those stitches and end up bleeding to death all over my rug? What if - ”
Hutch’s voice trailed off.
Starsky reached out tentatively and scuffed Hutch’s chin.
“You worry too much, partner.”
“You suck as a patient, partner.” Hutch finally parted with a genuine smile. “You gotta follow the rules. If you break training, it’s my ass. I had to sell my soul to get you discharged.”
His fingertips brushed Starsky’s forehead. “You rest here. I’ll get a few things staged for dinner. Maybe you’ll feel like a nap before we eat. Hey! I just remembered, I gotta go back out before dinner. Huggy’s coming over to keep an eye on you. And I won’t be long.”
From his swaddled corner on the sofa, Starsky watched Hutch open the refrigerator and juggle an assortment of ingredients onto the wooden kitchen table. He spied a refreshingly cold long neck beer bottle among the jumble.
“Beer?” Starsky’s voice was hopeful.
“Beer for me. A nice glass of cool water and your evening pills for you.” Hutch handed them over as he spoke.
Starsky sighed, but under Hutch’s critical eye he took the medication without complaint. Resigned and silent, he watched Hutch assemble and grab and assemble some more.
Hutch beamed at him.
“Starsk. I’m making more of your favorites tonight. Just like last night.”
Starsky offered a weak smile while simultaneously suppressing a fearful groan.
“What’cha got on the menu, Hutch?” He warily watched Hutch crack the shells on the boiled eggs.
Hutch tipped his head, leaning into a playful smile. “Let’s see. I got deviled eggs. I know you love ‘em. And I’m gonna grill you a little bit of chicken. French fries - homemade style ‘cause nothing’s too good for my buddy. And,” Hutch pointed his paring knife at Starsky, “some broccoli - just to torture you.”
Starsky watched as Hutch halved the eggs, dumped the firm yellow yolks into a bowl, added mayonnaise, mustard, dill, salt and pepper.
Starsky grinned.
Hutch reached for a can of anchovies and then a jar of green olives.
Starsky stared.
“Hutch. Hey, Hutch? What’s going on with those eggs over there?” The alarm in Starsky’s voice was almost childlike.
Hutch winked. “Making ‘em extra fancy, extra good - just for you. Adding in two of your favorite foods - anchovies and olives.”
Starsky bit his tongue to keep from protesting.
The finished deviled eggs looked like they had contracted a case of alien acne.
Hutch turned his attention to the chicken breasts. Starsky watched helplessly as Hutch doused them with a generous glug of maple syrup.
“Hutch? Ain’t syrup for pancakes?”
“Starsk, I know you love maple syrup and you haven’t had any since before you got sick. You deserve to have some!”
He held up a jar of relish. “And you love relish too, so let’s add some of that too. The more the merrier, I say.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. He gulped.
Hutch looked up. “Alright over there, Starsk?”
“Yeah…but… Hutch. Don’t go to so much trouble. My appetite is kinda half-strength from the surgery anyway.”
“You’ll eat more if I tempt you.” Hutch nodded and whistled as he quartered the potatoes. “French fries,” he clarified as he sliced away.
“Anything special planned for the fries, buddy?” Starsky could barely stand to ask. To his horror, Hutch nodded enthusiastically.
“Rolling them in ground up peanuts mixed with chocolate shavings. After all, peanuts and chocolate-“
“Are some of my favorite foods,” Starsky finished for him.
Hutch put the knife down and wiped his hands on his jeans. He came over and crouched in front of Starsky.
“Yes.” He placed his forehead against Starsky’s. “And you’re my favorite partner.” His right hand, smelling faintly of anchovy, settled on the back of Starsky’s neck. They sat in a companionable silence - bathed in the warm comfort of the fading sunlight.
The front door opened. At the sound, two pairs of blue eyes turned, intercepting Huggy Bear’s entrance. Two pairs of eyebrows, one winter fair and the other midnight dark, raised in welcome.
“My men, my men,” Huggy half-sang, half-scolded, his long fingers and long silk scarf entwined.
Two grins greeted him.
“Star-S-Kay.” Huggy leaned down from his beanpole height for a critical look. He nodded approvingly. “Liking that smile of yours, brother.”
“Pinch hitter’s here.” Hutch picked up his wallet. He shrugged into his jeans jacket and tucked several scraps of paper into the upper left pocket. He nodded an intense look of gratitude toward Huggy.
“I won’t be long, Starsk.”
He fumbled for his keys and headed toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Watch him, Hug. Don’t let him move around. If he tries anything, you have my permission to banish him to bed with a threat of no dinner.”
“Not much of a threat,” Starsky muttered to himself.
Hutch paused at the door, out of Starsky’s range of sight. He caught Huggy’s eye and mouthed, “Keep him safe.”
The sound of his boots on the stairs blended with whistling and the slamming of the outer door.
Chapter 2: The Eight of Arrows
Starsky pushed the quilt away and sat up straighter, moving gingerly against the threat of pain. Huggy, propped on the edge of the rocking chair, observed from over his long nose, as intent as a hawk on the trail of a field mouse.
“Hug. I gotta tell ya, I’m at a loss. It’s like I was telling you on the phone. Hutch is possessed or something. ” Starsky shook his head in half-fondness and half-consternation.
Huggy sat back, arms crossed, head tilted in listening mode.
“It’s like…” Starsky struggled to give words to his feelings and observations. “It’s like, he’s Hutch. But at the same time he’s not Hutch. Like there’s some imposter inside of him, wearing a Hutch costume. And I can’t get a read on it.”
Huggy’s expression remained intent and patient. He waved his cupped fingers in a “c’mon - keep spilling” gesture.
Starsky’s eyes surveyed the room. He weakly motioned to the living area and kitchen, then pointed to the bathroom. His medication fogged mind dueled with his detective training as he tried to organize his thoughts.
“Okay. Here’s what I see. Here’s the evidence.”
He counted on his index finger.
“Point number one - Hutch is a slob. You know when you’re with Hutch, ‘cause papers go flying, dishes ain’t washed, towels live on the floor, ‘n dust collects without fear. Except now. Except this week. Hutch takes his shoes off before he comes in the door. He dusts. He scrubs the bathroom. He puts clothes in the closet. Hell, he disinfects the kitchen. Does that sound like Hutch? Where’s my buddy, the slob? Who is this stranger? This…clean freak livin’ in his skin?”
Huggy smiled.
Starsky’s lip curled. He counted off on his ring finger.
“Point number two - Hutch’s cooking. Hutch is a basic cook. Burgers. Eggs. Sandwiches. His precious salads. Nice plain steak. Predictable boring Hutch food. Wrong. Not this week. Hell Huggy, he’s cooking like some demented gourmet. He can’t leave the food alone. Last night, he made macaroni ‘n cheese, ‘cause it’s my favorite. It would’a been fine except for the cinnamon and cornflakes he poured in so I’d have some of my other ‘favorite foods’ at the same time. And don’t get me started on breakfast this morning - an oatmeal-jam-salami concoction!”
Starsky grimaced. “By the time Hutch gets done, the food’s so bad, I dread eating it. And you know how much I like to eat.”
Huggy waited.
Starsky’s pinky finger signaled.
“Point number three - Hutch hates errands ‘n stuff. Except now. He rushed out yesterday evening to wash the Torino. He went to the library for me, and he hates getting books on my library list. Then he offered to read to me so I could sleep and read at the same time. Ya saw him just now - off on his second errand since punching out. And he was whistling!”
Starsky stopped for breath.
Huggy stood and began pacing, his polished shoes silent on the orange shag rug. He stopped in front of Starsky and studied his face.
“Huggy.” Starsky winced at the strain of stitches as he stretched to place a hand on his friend’s forearm.
He noted Huggy’s expression.
“What is is, Hug?”
“My man. My brother.” Huggy’s voice was soft with emotion and memory. “Your head may be flipping over Blondie’s weird act. But your heart isn’t.”
Starsky frowned, exhaustion threatening to close in.
“Hug. Let’s just cut to the chase. I’m tired and my whole body aches. No riddles or clues this time, okay?”
Huggy sat down. “So you say. And so, you listen to the Bear.”
Starsky nodded.
Huggy ran a hand over his upper lip. He looked back at Starsky, the brown of his eyes deeper and darker with a lingering sadness.
“Here’s what went down, Starsky. When they had you in surgery, Goldilocks went way way inside himself where none of us could reach him. He was a guard dog on duty. He went radio silent, like he was responsible for holding together something more fragile than glass. Like if it broke, his life would end.”
Starsky half-nodded. He knew that door and it swung both ways. He had his own key to a reciprocal private hell, reserved only for him and Hutch, the entrance available every time one of them was injured or sick or hurt.
“You were bad off by the time the doctors got their hands on you. They weren’t making any promises. They didn’t know if they caught the poisons running around in your blood in time. We waited for hours for the word.”
Huggy shook his head.
“Blondie spent every second of it with his hands propped on the wall, staring at the operating room door. Ain’t nothing can put Hutch out of his head like you hurting and him being helpless to fix it.”
Huggy closed his eyes, remembering that cresting wave of despair. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“When you finally got outta surgery, they still couldn’t give Hutch what he wanted. He was dangerous, bro. If they hadn’t let him in to be with you, I think he might’a shot them. He wouldn’t let you out of his sight, my man. He pushed everyone who tried to stop him out of the way. He disappeared into your room like he’d disappeared into your soul.”
Starsky blinked. Hard. Memories swirled.
Confusion. Cold. Too-bright lights. Sharp spikes of pain nailing him to an unforgiving altar. No escape. No salvation. No hope.
And then…a soft whisper against his hair. A pair of caring arms protecting him. A cool cloth to his feverish forehead. Peace. Safety.
Hutch.
Huggy’s voice tugged at his consciousness, dragging him back. “I was in there for a few minutes right after the worst had passed. You were out of danger, finally sleeping.
“Hutch was sitting on your bed, holding onto you. And this is what he said to me. ‘Huggy,’ he said, ‘every time I almost lose him, it’s like another arrow’s hit him. The arrows are always flying - each one getting closer to the mark. And finally, an arrow’s gonna pierce his heart and take him away from me. One more arrow, Hug. There’s always gonna be one more damn arrow.’”
Huggy’s voice was ragged. “When you almost died, he was there ahead of you. Dig? He lived in the moment when you had died. So, when you made it back, it was a miracle to him. Like a resurrection or something.”
Starsky sat, absorbing the words and their raw power.
He whispered.
“And, because he’s Hutch, he can’t come out and talk about what’s underneath. He bottles stuff up or he chases off in a different direction.”
Huggy nodded.
“Yeah. He can’t say how close he came to losing it. He won’t let himself admit it. And since he can’t say, he does. He can only show you by watching your back. By building a Starsky-friendly world for you to get better in.”
Starsky closed his eyes, a far too obvious truth dawning.
A Starsky-friendly world.
A world with a shiny waxed Torino and horror films on the television at midnight.
A clean world, tidy and orderly.
An abundant world of endless food.
An indulgent world where books and puzzles and newspapers fell right into your hands.
Starsky touched his temples.
A world as fragile as a soap bubble floating in a landscape filled with flying arrows.
He thought and ached and thought again, until it was just too hard, just too much effort. Until his eyes surrendered to slumber and his chin slipped down onto his chest.
Huggy stood watch, his shadow lengthening as the streetlights and car headlights winked on in homage to the inky curtain of dusk.
Chapter 3: The Six of Arrows
Hutch quietly placed a cardboard box on the top of the piano. He looked worriedly over at Starsky and then back to Huggy
"When did he drop off, Hug?”
“Half hour ago.”
Starsky vaguely felt Hutch’s gentle hand on his forehead, as though checking for fever. He smiled contentedly at Hutch’s touch to his cheek, followed by a light squeeze to his right shoulder. He felt the quilt tucked higher, felt the reassuring promise of safety contained in those light strokes.
Hutch’s voice reached him as though across a great distance.
“Check it out, Hug. I got him a few things to keep his mind off of bugging me or bugging Dobey. Here’s a magnifying glass. He can perfect his Sherlock Holmes routine. Here’s a book about how clocks were invented. He looked at this one in the store awhile back and I thought he’d never shut his trap about it. I got him a new set of dice so he can kick my ass at High Roller. And for when he’s feeling better, I got a whole roll of tickets for that game he likes at the Pier - the one with the machine claw scooping up prizes.”
Huggy chuckled. “It don’t get any better for our Starsky-man, Blondie. And make sure you feed him up good, too.”
“I will. Sleep is what he needs right now, but I have a great dinner planned for him later.”
“Hutch, I gotta say. Curly on the mend sure does wonders for you.”
Starsky surfaced from sleep at Huggy’s words. He cracked his eyes open slightly, enough to see Hutch’s shy look under flaxen bangs.
“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was a bit gruff with emotion.
“Why you think that is, brother?”
Starsky strained to hear Hutch’s low voice.
“Wanna know the best thing about Starsky, Hug?”
“I do. Hutch, sure I do.”
A short silence.
Then Hutch’s quiet voice, serene as a prayer.
“The best thing about him is, well, it’s all the memories he makes. Memories he makes and gives to me. And he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”
To Starsky’s sleepy mind, it seemed like Hutch’s words came damn close to a perfect description of love.
He silently promised, with a nod to his wary stomach, that he would eat enough of the culinary madness Hutch called dinner to make one more fine memory.
~Finis~
Note: Comment below contains author notes, including explanation of Greenwood Tarot Deck references
As always, thanks to Nicky Gabriel for my "Storytime" Icon... :-)
Rating: PG
One More Arrow
For Avoca
1976. Early Winter, Venice Place, Venice, California
Chapter 1: The Ace of Arrows
The muted gold light of late afternoon streamed into the small Venice Place apartment, adding a soothing glow to the bohemian mix of wooden furniture, earthy textiles, mismatched chairs, and potted plants. The windows were cracked open, allowing the cool air of approaching evening to flow with the light - cozy and healing.
Starsky pulled Hutch’s borrowed orange robe around him. He steadied himself, one hand on the wall and the other in his thick dark curls. His deep blue eyes studied the short distance from the sleeping alcove to the kitchen, measuring how many steps would be required of his exhausted body to traverse the space.
A seam of pain escaped the balm of medications designed to dull the ache. His stitches felt shrunken, tight. Both reminders of his emergency surgery five days earlier.
Starsky could still see the shock-worry of Hutch’s expression - how Hutch’s guilt-stained blue eyes had met his pain-filled ones. He could still hear Hutch’s anxious warning to the paramedics - “I’m going with him!” - right before being swept into the hastily summoned ambulance.
Hutch’s relentless teasing about Starsky’s “iron clad stomach,” and his admonitions of “suck it up, Starsk - too much pizza - no wonder your stomach hurts,” had backfired big time when Starsky’s fiery gut pain was diagnosed. Not indigestion. Instead, a serious and nearly fatal burst appendix that had demanded grueling surgery and had resulted in an agonizing recovery.
Starsky had no memories of the time right before and immediately after the surgery itself. His hospital stay was an antiseptic smelling, pain-tinged blur. Only one constant, only one spark of reassurance and contentment had stayed with him through the groggy days and the feverish nights.
Hutch.
Starsky recalled the familiar touch of Hutch’s large hand on his hot forehead. He remembered his sense of gratitude, seeing his blond partner leaning over the bed, mouth curved in a goofy grin. Layered over the tortured nights, those endless hospital nights, was the sensation of being cradled against Hutch’s warm, strong body…a sturdy ship anchoring him as he rode the nauseating waves of pain.
Hutch’s arms, his comforting voice.
“I know, buddy, I know. Rest here against me. I’m here.”
Then Hutch’s uncompromising demands, bordering on belligerent, that Starsky be released into his care and custody to recuperate.
And here I am. Venice Place. On this drowsy-warm afternoon.
Starsky took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall, half staggering into the kitchen. With a loud exhale of effort, he grasped the handle of the refrigerator door with both hands. Filled with a sense of resounding dread, he pulled the door open. His eyes scanned the contents of the shelves. His face broke into a smile.
A bowl of hard boiled eggs. No threat there. A couple of chicken breasts. That’s nice. Two large potatoes. Innocent enough. Several large spears of broccoli. Well, life isn’t perfect.
He sagged on the door, summoning strength for the return trip to the sleeping nook. At the sound of the front door opening, he froze.
“Starsky! Damn it, Starsk! Damn! Don’t move!”
Starsky jerked his head around at the sound of Hutch’s normally mellow voice, now raised in a combination of anxiety and concern. His tall blond partner held a paper shopping bag in one hand and his leather jacket in the other.
“You’re busted, buddy.” Hutch’s mouth curved into a phantom of a smile, but beneath the white-gold bangs, Hutch’s eyes were alive with…with…
With what? What is that expression on his face? What is that emotion?
“You caught me fair ‘n square, Otticher Hutchinson.” Starsky tried for levity.
In a second, Hutch was at Starsky’s side, supporting his shoulders. Starsky leaned against him heavily, breathing the clean-air Hutch smell. Hutch gently steered toward the bed.
“Hutch. ” Starsky knew his voice was low, feeble. “Hutch, not the bed. Sofa. Sofa this time, okay?”
Hutch hesitated, but then complied. He angled over to the worn sofa and slowly lowered Starsky to the cushions. Before Starsky could acknowledge with a thanks or a smile, Hutch was off again, tearing around the apartment. He returned carrying a thick quilt and two pillows. He positioned the pillows carefully and pulled the quilt over Starsky from toes to chin.
Hutch’s sky-blue eyes were still haunted by that mysterious emotion. His hand lingered on Starsky’s shoulder. He spoke soothingly.
“You aren’t supposed to be up and around, Starsk. When I’m not here, you gotta stay put. What if you fall? What if you pull those stitches and end up bleeding to death all over my rug? What if - ”
Hutch’s voice trailed off.
Starsky reached out tentatively and scuffed Hutch’s chin.
“You worry too much, partner.”
“You suck as a patient, partner.” Hutch finally parted with a genuine smile. “You gotta follow the rules. If you break training, it’s my ass. I had to sell my soul to get you discharged.”
His fingertips brushed Starsky’s forehead. “You rest here. I’ll get a few things staged for dinner. Maybe you’ll feel like a nap before we eat. Hey! I just remembered, I gotta go back out before dinner. Huggy’s coming over to keep an eye on you. And I won’t be long.”
From his swaddled corner on the sofa, Starsky watched Hutch open the refrigerator and juggle an assortment of ingredients onto the wooden kitchen table. He spied a refreshingly cold long neck beer bottle among the jumble.
“Beer?” Starsky’s voice was hopeful.
“Beer for me. A nice glass of cool water and your evening pills for you.” Hutch handed them over as he spoke.
Starsky sighed, but under Hutch’s critical eye he took the medication without complaint. Resigned and silent, he watched Hutch assemble and grab and assemble some more.
Hutch beamed at him.
“Starsk. I’m making more of your favorites tonight. Just like last night.”
Starsky offered a weak smile while simultaneously suppressing a fearful groan.
“What’cha got on the menu, Hutch?” He warily watched Hutch crack the shells on the boiled eggs.
Hutch tipped his head, leaning into a playful smile. “Let’s see. I got deviled eggs. I know you love ‘em. And I’m gonna grill you a little bit of chicken. French fries - homemade style ‘cause nothing’s too good for my buddy. And,” Hutch pointed his paring knife at Starsky, “some broccoli - just to torture you.”
Starsky watched as Hutch halved the eggs, dumped the firm yellow yolks into a bowl, added mayonnaise, mustard, dill, salt and pepper.
Starsky grinned.
Hutch reached for a can of anchovies and then a jar of green olives.
Starsky stared.
“Hutch. Hey, Hutch? What’s going on with those eggs over there?” The alarm in Starsky’s voice was almost childlike.
Hutch winked. “Making ‘em extra fancy, extra good - just for you. Adding in two of your favorite foods - anchovies and olives.”
Starsky bit his tongue to keep from protesting.
The finished deviled eggs looked like they had contracted a case of alien acne.
Hutch turned his attention to the chicken breasts. Starsky watched helplessly as Hutch doused them with a generous glug of maple syrup.
“Hutch? Ain’t syrup for pancakes?”
“Starsk, I know you love maple syrup and you haven’t had any since before you got sick. You deserve to have some!”
He held up a jar of relish. “And you love relish too, so let’s add some of that too. The more the merrier, I say.”
Starsky’s eyes widened. He gulped.
Hutch looked up. “Alright over there, Starsk?”
“Yeah…but… Hutch. Don’t go to so much trouble. My appetite is kinda half-strength from the surgery anyway.”
“You’ll eat more if I tempt you.” Hutch nodded and whistled as he quartered the potatoes. “French fries,” he clarified as he sliced away.
“Anything special planned for the fries, buddy?” Starsky could barely stand to ask. To his horror, Hutch nodded enthusiastically.
“Rolling them in ground up peanuts mixed with chocolate shavings. After all, peanuts and chocolate-“
“Are some of my favorite foods,” Starsky finished for him.
Hutch put the knife down and wiped his hands on his jeans. He came over and crouched in front of Starsky.
“Yes.” He placed his forehead against Starsky’s. “And you’re my favorite partner.” His right hand, smelling faintly of anchovy, settled on the back of Starsky’s neck. They sat in a companionable silence - bathed in the warm comfort of the fading sunlight.
The front door opened. At the sound, two pairs of blue eyes turned, intercepting Huggy Bear’s entrance. Two pairs of eyebrows, one winter fair and the other midnight dark, raised in welcome.
“My men, my men,” Huggy half-sang, half-scolded, his long fingers and long silk scarf entwined.
Two grins greeted him.
“Star-S-Kay.” Huggy leaned down from his beanpole height for a critical look. He nodded approvingly. “Liking that smile of yours, brother.”
“Pinch hitter’s here.” Hutch picked up his wallet. He shrugged into his jeans jacket and tucked several scraps of paper into the upper left pocket. He nodded an intense look of gratitude toward Huggy.
“I won’t be long, Starsk.”
He fumbled for his keys and headed toward the door, calling over his shoulder, “Watch him, Hug. Don’t let him move around. If he tries anything, you have my permission to banish him to bed with a threat of no dinner.”
“Not much of a threat,” Starsky muttered to himself.
Hutch paused at the door, out of Starsky’s range of sight. He caught Huggy’s eye and mouthed, “Keep him safe.”
The sound of his boots on the stairs blended with whistling and the slamming of the outer door.
Chapter 2: The Eight of Arrows
Starsky pushed the quilt away and sat up straighter, moving gingerly against the threat of pain. Huggy, propped on the edge of the rocking chair, observed from over his long nose, as intent as a hawk on the trail of a field mouse.
“Hug. I gotta tell ya, I’m at a loss. It’s like I was telling you on the phone. Hutch is possessed or something. ” Starsky shook his head in half-fondness and half-consternation.
Huggy sat back, arms crossed, head tilted in listening mode.
“It’s like…” Starsky struggled to give words to his feelings and observations. “It’s like, he’s Hutch. But at the same time he’s not Hutch. Like there’s some imposter inside of him, wearing a Hutch costume. And I can’t get a read on it.”
Huggy’s expression remained intent and patient. He waved his cupped fingers in a “c’mon - keep spilling” gesture.
Starsky’s eyes surveyed the room. He weakly motioned to the living area and kitchen, then pointed to the bathroom. His medication fogged mind dueled with his detective training as he tried to organize his thoughts.
“Okay. Here’s what I see. Here’s the evidence.”
He counted on his index finger.
“Point number one - Hutch is a slob. You know when you’re with Hutch, ‘cause papers go flying, dishes ain’t washed, towels live on the floor, ‘n dust collects without fear. Except now. Except this week. Hutch takes his shoes off before he comes in the door. He dusts. He scrubs the bathroom. He puts clothes in the closet. Hell, he disinfects the kitchen. Does that sound like Hutch? Where’s my buddy, the slob? Who is this stranger? This…clean freak livin’ in his skin?”
Huggy smiled.
Starsky’s lip curled. He counted off on his ring finger.
“Point number two - Hutch’s cooking. Hutch is a basic cook. Burgers. Eggs. Sandwiches. His precious salads. Nice plain steak. Predictable boring Hutch food. Wrong. Not this week. Hell Huggy, he’s cooking like some demented gourmet. He can’t leave the food alone. Last night, he made macaroni ‘n cheese, ‘cause it’s my favorite. It would’a been fine except for the cinnamon and cornflakes he poured in so I’d have some of my other ‘favorite foods’ at the same time. And don’t get me started on breakfast this morning - an oatmeal-jam-salami concoction!”
Starsky grimaced. “By the time Hutch gets done, the food’s so bad, I dread eating it. And you know how much I like to eat.”
Huggy waited.
Starsky’s pinky finger signaled.
“Point number three - Hutch hates errands ‘n stuff. Except now. He rushed out yesterday evening to wash the Torino. He went to the library for me, and he hates getting books on my library list. Then he offered to read to me so I could sleep and read at the same time. Ya saw him just now - off on his second errand since punching out. And he was whistling!”
Starsky stopped for breath.
Huggy stood and began pacing, his polished shoes silent on the orange shag rug. He stopped in front of Starsky and studied his face.
“Huggy.” Starsky winced at the strain of stitches as he stretched to place a hand on his friend’s forearm.
He noted Huggy’s expression.
“What is is, Hug?”
“My man. My brother.” Huggy’s voice was soft with emotion and memory. “Your head may be flipping over Blondie’s weird act. But your heart isn’t.”
Starsky frowned, exhaustion threatening to close in.
“Hug. Let’s just cut to the chase. I’m tired and my whole body aches. No riddles or clues this time, okay?”
Huggy sat down. “So you say. And so, you listen to the Bear.”
Starsky nodded.
Huggy ran a hand over his upper lip. He looked back at Starsky, the brown of his eyes deeper and darker with a lingering sadness.
“Here’s what went down, Starsky. When they had you in surgery, Goldilocks went way way inside himself where none of us could reach him. He was a guard dog on duty. He went radio silent, like he was responsible for holding together something more fragile than glass. Like if it broke, his life would end.”
Starsky half-nodded. He knew that door and it swung both ways. He had his own key to a reciprocal private hell, reserved only for him and Hutch, the entrance available every time one of them was injured or sick or hurt.
“You were bad off by the time the doctors got their hands on you. They weren’t making any promises. They didn’t know if they caught the poisons running around in your blood in time. We waited for hours for the word.”
Huggy shook his head.
“Blondie spent every second of it with his hands propped on the wall, staring at the operating room door. Ain’t nothing can put Hutch out of his head like you hurting and him being helpless to fix it.”
Huggy closed his eyes, remembering that cresting wave of despair. His voice was barely above a whisper.
“When you finally got outta surgery, they still couldn’t give Hutch what he wanted. He was dangerous, bro. If they hadn’t let him in to be with you, I think he might’a shot them. He wouldn’t let you out of his sight, my man. He pushed everyone who tried to stop him out of the way. He disappeared into your room like he’d disappeared into your soul.”
Starsky blinked. Hard. Memories swirled.
Confusion. Cold. Too-bright lights. Sharp spikes of pain nailing him to an unforgiving altar. No escape. No salvation. No hope.
And then…a soft whisper against his hair. A pair of caring arms protecting him. A cool cloth to his feverish forehead. Peace. Safety.
Hutch.
Huggy’s voice tugged at his consciousness, dragging him back. “I was in there for a few minutes right after the worst had passed. You were out of danger, finally sleeping.
“Hutch was sitting on your bed, holding onto you. And this is what he said to me. ‘Huggy,’ he said, ‘every time I almost lose him, it’s like another arrow’s hit him. The arrows are always flying - each one getting closer to the mark. And finally, an arrow’s gonna pierce his heart and take him away from me. One more arrow, Hug. There’s always gonna be one more damn arrow.’”
Huggy’s voice was ragged. “When you almost died, he was there ahead of you. Dig? He lived in the moment when you had died. So, when you made it back, it was a miracle to him. Like a resurrection or something.”
Starsky sat, absorbing the words and their raw power.
He whispered.
“And, because he’s Hutch, he can’t come out and talk about what’s underneath. He bottles stuff up or he chases off in a different direction.”
Huggy nodded.
“Yeah. He can’t say how close he came to losing it. He won’t let himself admit it. And since he can’t say, he does. He can only show you by watching your back. By building a Starsky-friendly world for you to get better in.”
Starsky closed his eyes, a far too obvious truth dawning.
A Starsky-friendly world.
A world with a shiny waxed Torino and horror films on the television at midnight.
A clean world, tidy and orderly.
An abundant world of endless food.
An indulgent world where books and puzzles and newspapers fell right into your hands.
Starsky touched his temples.
A world as fragile as a soap bubble floating in a landscape filled with flying arrows.
He thought and ached and thought again, until it was just too hard, just too much effort. Until his eyes surrendered to slumber and his chin slipped down onto his chest.
Huggy stood watch, his shadow lengthening as the streetlights and car headlights winked on in homage to the inky curtain of dusk.
Chapter 3: The Six of Arrows
Hutch quietly placed a cardboard box on the top of the piano. He looked worriedly over at Starsky and then back to Huggy
"When did he drop off, Hug?”
“Half hour ago.”
Starsky vaguely felt Hutch’s gentle hand on his forehead, as though checking for fever. He smiled contentedly at Hutch’s touch to his cheek, followed by a light squeeze to his right shoulder. He felt the quilt tucked higher, felt the reassuring promise of safety contained in those light strokes.
Hutch’s voice reached him as though across a great distance.
“Check it out, Hug. I got him a few things to keep his mind off of bugging me or bugging Dobey. Here’s a magnifying glass. He can perfect his Sherlock Holmes routine. Here’s a book about how clocks were invented. He looked at this one in the store awhile back and I thought he’d never shut his trap about it. I got him a new set of dice so he can kick my ass at High Roller. And for when he’s feeling better, I got a whole roll of tickets for that game he likes at the Pier - the one with the machine claw scooping up prizes.”
Huggy chuckled. “It don’t get any better for our Starsky-man, Blondie. And make sure you feed him up good, too.”
“I will. Sleep is what he needs right now, but I have a great dinner planned for him later.”
“Hutch, I gotta say. Curly on the mend sure does wonders for you.”
Starsky surfaced from sleep at Huggy’s words. He cracked his eyes open slightly, enough to see Hutch’s shy look under flaxen bangs.
“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice was a bit gruff with emotion.
“Why you think that is, brother?”
Starsky strained to hear Hutch’s low voice.
“Wanna know the best thing about Starsky, Hug?”
“I do. Hutch, sure I do.”
A short silence.
Then Hutch’s quiet voice, serene as a prayer.
“The best thing about him is, well, it’s all the memories he makes. Memories he makes and gives to me. And he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.”
To Starsky’s sleepy mind, it seemed like Hutch’s words came damn close to a perfect description of love.
He silently promised, with a nod to his wary stomach, that he would eat enough of the culinary madness Hutch called dinner to make one more fine memory.
~Finis~
Note: Comment below contains author notes, including explanation of Greenwood Tarot Deck references