Archive of Our Own

Sighing with disappointment, Hutch slumped into the vinyl chair by Starsky’s bedside. He’d missed out, yet again. Starsky was already deeply asleep.

Hutch scrubbed his face with a weary hand and sat back, studying his friend. Instead of the pinched tension that often appeared there of late, Starsky’s features were lax and at ease. It was gratifying to see a lack of discomfort in Starsky’s expression; still, it saddened Hutch that Starsky’s pain medication had obviously needed to be increased again.

At some point he would seek out an update from Meg, his favorite of Starsky’s day nurses, but for now Hutch simply let himself rest here, in his familiar, uncomfortable chair, feeling as at-home as he was capable of feeling these days. This chair, in this room, beside this bed… it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

“Wouldn’t mind some company, though,” Hutch murmured with a half-smile. “You avoiding me, buddy?” He reached over, patting Starsky’s hand. Then he sat up and leaned close.

Clutched in Starsky’s fingers was a folded piece of paper, torn from a spiral notebook, and Hutch slid it free. His own name was printed there, in sloppy capital letters.

Hutch opened the page and read:

Hey you,

Greetings from sunny Room 715. Having a great time, wish you were here.

Guess you’re gonna miss out on my sintillating conversation again, poor guy. Bedtime’s coming early, they just gave me the good stuff. Figured I’d write this before I’m off to la la land.

How’s the case coming? You nailing Gunther’s coffin? Tell Dobey and the D.A. I said hi. Tell ‘em to cut you some slack sometime, cuz I ain’t seen you in days and I’m bored. Just played tic tac toe against myself on the ceiling tiles, and I lost. I’ll beat me yet, ha ha. Wow baby, drugs kicking in. Can you read this? I can’t.

Miss you Hutch

S

The slanted writing, in Starsky’s left-handed scrawl, was increasingly illegible toward the end, with the final S being nothing more than a loose curve. It made Hutch’s heart hurt.

God, what a long day. Hutch squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He wanted to talk to Starsky so badly that he ached with it; he felt it in his joints like a fever or the flu.

He exhaled slowly, releasing his frustration. Then Hutch flattened the wrinkled paper against his thigh, blank side up, and dug in his jacket pockets for a pen. Finding nothing, he opened the top drawer of Starsky’s bedside table and groped around until his fingers closed around a pencil. Its point was dull, but it would do.

Hutch started to write.

Hey yourself,

So you’re lounging around high as a kite while I’m slaving away on the job, huh? Doesn’t seem fair. Seems damned unfair, in fact.

You look pretty good tonight. Relaxed. I wish you could tell me how you’re feeling, Starsk. I’d like to hear it from you for once, instead of from other people. I think, though, that you sometimes tell me you’re fine when you’re not. I can tell when you’re lying, you know. I always could.

We’re building one hell of a case against Gunther. There’s a lot to do – a lot – but it’s top priority and we’re giving it everything we’ve got. Dobey has fire in his eyes. He’s lost about 30 lbs – you should see him. I’m not sure any of us are sleeping much. Not like you, Mr. Van Winkle. Do you ever wake up? Seems like you’ve been sleeping for 20 years.

It has been 3 days since you’ve spoken to me. I’m glad you decided to write. You’ve always been my favorite pen pal. By the way, scintillating has a C in it, moron.

Catch you tomorrow, maybe?

Sweet dreams,

Hutch

~*~

It had begun at the academy, barely two weeks into their training.

Some blowhard bigwig was guest-lecturing, filling the room with his self-important pomposity. Hutch had pasted a respectfully rapt expression on his face and was mentally writing a grocery list, when the guy sitting next to him flicked a folded piece of paper into his lap.

Hutch sighed to himself. David Starsky seemed dedicated to being the resident smart aleck in their cadet class. He was a nice enough guy, and genuinely clever, but kind of a time-waster. Hutch was rarely in the mood to play along. Today, though… what the hell. Hutch was bored.

He unfolded the note to find a cartoonish drawing of a hand with the middle finger raised. Hutch frowned at the crude message and shot an annoyed glance at Starsky, who was smirking at him. Fuck you too, buddy, Hutch thought with a scowl.

Starsky looked at him, rolled his eyes, and quickly scrawled another note, tossing it over to Hutch’s desk: Not you, dummy. The pompous blowhard.

Hutch snorted when he read it. Clearly he and Starsky had similar attitudes toward arrogant authoritarian assholes. Taking out a pencil, Hutch turned over the paper and went to work. With practiced skill, he sketched a man’s hand in the same rude gesture. The drawing was accurate and realistic, and Hutch smiled as he added two rings to the little finger. It was Starsky’s hand. Your Mickey Mouse cartoon is inadequate for this guy, Hutch wrote underneath. He deserves better. Hutch folded the paper, “dropped” his pencil on the floor and bent to retrieve it, subtly handing the note to Starsky.

He avoided looking over, but he heard Starsky’s stifled laugh as he opened the page. Hutch grinned.

A flurry of notes followed.

Nice work, blondie! You’re and officer and a gentleman - and an arteeste!

You flatter me. And it’s spelled artiste, moron.

Who cares. Jeez. Am I spelling snooty egghead correctly?

Yep. Good job.

This turkey ever gonna shut up? Let’s get a beer when he loses his voice.

You buying?

Yeah, cuz I’m secretly rich. Buy your own beer.

That’s when Starsky and Hutch became pen pals.

~*~

Bay City Police Department
Inter-Division Memorandum

FROM: Officer David Starsky, Metro Division
TO: Officer Kenneth Hutchinson, Westside Division
RE: Beer

Havin’ fun? Miss me?

How’s Huntley, I heard he was a jerk. Hope he’s not. My guy’s OK, but no sense of humor.

Someday you’ll have to leave the hoity-toity neighborhood and come to Metro where the action is. Mean streets, Hutch! My beat’s the place to be.

How bout beer on Thursday? I know a cat you have to meet. It’s good to have a bartender for a pal.

Bay City Police Department
Inter-Division Memorandum

FROM: Officer Kenneth Hutchinson, Westside Division
TO: Officer David Starsky, Metro Division
RE:

Here’s an idea. How about NOT talking about our training officers in an inter-division memo. (Huntley’s great.)

We have real criminals in Westside, too. Don’t be a snob.

Also, beer is a bad subject for inter-div memos. (Need to check with V, but I think Thursday’s fine. Does your pal pour freebies? I’m strapped until payday.)

Bay City Police Department
Inter-Division Memorandum

FROM: Officer David Starsky, Metro Division
TO: Officer Kenneth Hutchinson, Westside Division
RE: Lighten up

Can I talk about my uptight buddy in memos? Man, I think you miss me bad. You need me around to loosen you up. Maybe with a BEER.

BEER BEER BEER

Huggy might pour on the house for us if his boss ain’t looking. If not, it’s on me. I don’t have a wifey to support on my crap salary. Course that means I also don’t get the “benefits of matrimony” wink wink.

Bay City Police Department
Inter-Division Memorandum

FROM: Officer Kenneth Hutchinson, Westside Division
TO: Officer David Starsky, Metro Division
RE:

Thanks for Thursday. Huggy was cool. I like him.

What are the benefits of matrimony? Remind me. (Ignore that. Bad day.)

You’re right, I need you to loosen me up. Seriously – thank you for Thursday.

A note found in Hutch’s desk drawer at 8 a.m. on his first day at Metro:

Hey, partner. Glad you’re here. You know what? We’re gonna be unstoppable. –S

Written on a scrap of paper and slipped into Starsky’s jacket pocket later that same day, while Hutch was supposedly searching for a pencil:

Hey yourself, partner. Glad I’m here, too, even though I have to look at your ugly face every day now. Feels like coming home. –Hutch

Written on a balled-up piece of paper and tossed across the desk that afternoon, bouncing off Hutch’s forehead:

F. U. I’m the pretty one.

A note Starsky found taped inside his locker on a very bad day:

Starsky, stop listening to these clowns. I can see you taking their words to heart, and you need to stop. You are not responsible for the actions of a madman.

I swear to you: we are going to find Prudholm, and we’re going to put him away for good. Believe that.

I need to tell you something else. When I watched you talking with Lonnie Craig’s mother after the funeral yesterday, I realized – again – that no one has a partner with the strength and courage of mine. No one does. I’m so proud of you.

Hutch

A note Hutch found taped in his locker, two days later:

Don’t know where I’d be if you weren’t in my corner. Thanks for keeping my head on straight. Thanks for everything you did, and for what you wrote. Meant the world. S

A picture postcard of the Tunnel of Love at Coney Island, sent from Starsky to Hutch:

Hey Hutchie,
I’m waking up in the city that doesn’t sleep! Turns out I’m king of the hill, A # 1, top of the heap, just like I suspected. Ma says hi. She thinks your handsome, go figure. Got both pizza and pastrami yesterday, so I can go on livin’. Miss me? Bet you do. See ya next Thurs.
xoxo,
S

A picture postcard of Venice Beach, with a hand-drawn arrow pointing to the sand, saying “You are not here,” sent from Hutch to Starsky:

Hey “Lil Davey,”

Did you know that, until today, NO ONE in the squad room knew that was your hometown nickname? They were so glad I shared.

Tell your mom hello from me, and give her a hug. She has superb aesthetic sense. Also - learn the difference between your and you’re, genius. I’ll help, because I’m your pal.

Thursday,
Hutch

~*~

The bedside chair really was an uncomfortable and ugly one. Dark orange vinyl, for God’s sake. Hutch couldn’t decide whether he hated it or loved it. If he was sitting here, in this horrible chair, it meant he was with Starsky. Though it didn’t always mean that Starsky was with him.

Hutch sat quietly, watching his partner sleep, yet again. Tonight Starsky’s color was wrong, and he was restless, with troubled creases lining his forehead. He looked feverish. Hutch pressed the back of his hand to Starsky’s temple, and cheek, and neck. Too warm.

There was a note clutched in Starsky’s loose fist. Hutch had seen it instantly when he walked in, but he’d put off reading it. Delaying his gratification; saving it as a treat. Finally, he tugged it from Starsky’s fingers and let himself read.

I don’t usually dream when I’m doped up, at least I don’t remember if I do. Had a wierd dream today, though. Or last night. Whenever. You were in it. You with no ‘stache, looking like a baby, like when we first met. You were mad at me because I was wearing a clown suit to work. ?? But you were wearing tights and a cape, so why were you so righteous. Then you made me drink a jug of lemonaid. ?? You had a dog with you. Said I could name it, because it didn’t have a name and you couldn’t decide. I tried to think of one, but nothing seemed right, and wow, that about made me bawl. Got so upset I woke up. Poor dog. Slept, woke up, all day, dark light who knows. When did I dream that? Were you here? I thought I talked to you but maybe not

Hutch rested his head in his hands for a while. Then he hunted around for a pencil and turned over the paper, toying with the frayed edge before beginning to write.

Hell of a dream, Starsk. Was I mean to you in it? I can’t tell. I hope not.

I don’t want you to worry about anything. If you’re lying here worried about dog names and clown suits, it’s going to kill me. Kick this fever, buddy, okay?

I phoned for you in the early afternoon, but no answer. So I called the nurses’ station and Meg said your ringer was off so you could get some sleep. (Had to laugh at that, since sleeping is all I see you do. It’s good though. Right now, sleeping’s your job. Keep up the great work.)

Speaking of jobs, one of the San Fran detectives assisting on the case came down today, so I couldn’t get away as early as I wanted. I’ll be late again tomorrow, just so you know. I’m sorry.

God, I want to talk to you. I need to hear your voice. I really miss you. And they’re spelled weird and lemonade, moron.

Love,
Hutch

Hutch slid the note beneath Starsky’s hand. Stifling a yawn, he shifted a bit in his terrible chair, seeking a more comfortable position, then reached over and grasped Starsky’s wrist lightly, keeping hold. He let himself doze for a while, knowing that Peggy, Starsky’s night nurse, would be kind when she found him.

~*~

A note Hutch found written in the dust on the side window of his LTD:

WASH ME

A note Starsky found written with a bar of soap on the window of his Torino:

REPAINT ME

A note Hutch found written in the dust on the rear window of his LTD:

WASH ME
then send me over a cliff and buy a decent ride

A hand-written note Hutch found exactly one week later, folded inside the glove compartment of his newest car:

Hey, gimpy. How’s the leg.
You scared the ever-livin’ shit out of me, I hope you know.

Hutch, I’m sorry I wrote what I did on your car. I didn’t mean it.
Please don’t roll this one over a cliff, babe. I spent a good 20 bucks
on this heap and don’t want to waste my dough.

S

A note from Hutch, left in Starsky’s coat pocket, after Vanessa’s murder case was closed:

You risked everything for me, partner. Everything. Thank you.

Written in big letters across the same note, and slipped into Hutch’s pocket:

ALWAYS

A note delivered by a nurse to a perfectly-healthy Starsky:

Dear Starsk,
Close but no cigar.
Love, Hutch
P.S. How much of a cut did you promise Dobey and Huggy?

A note delivered by a nurse to Hutch’s hospital room the very next day:

Dear Hutch,
Just so you know, your snide little love-note nearly killed me yesterday. “Close but no cigar.” Christ. That about describes it, doesn’t it? Too damn close. You’re a loon, eating cold clam soup out of a tin can, like that’s not disgusting, and then botulizing the hell out of yourself. Hiding from me, even though you were getting sick. I would have won our bet fair and square, you know, I didn’t need you handing me a win on a poisoned plate.
Get well soon, turkey. I mean it.
Love, Starsk

~*~

Throughout the day, a haze of exhaustion had hovered at the edges of Hutch’s consciousness. He was grateful that his schedule was demanding and the work exhilarating, because if he relaxed for one moment, he knew he’d nod off. The need for sleep was tugging at him insistently by the time his last meeting ended. He declined the offer of a beer with his departing San Francisco colleague and headed straight for the hospital.

He was turning in a confused circle in Starsky’s empty room when Peggy found him and took him up to ICU.

Now, as he straddled a straight-backed chair and stared through the window at Starsky, Hutch had a terrible feeling of déjà vu. A terrible feeling that all the time and progress, all the hard work and healing, had been nothing but a dream, and it was May 15th again, and Starsky was slipping away.

Hutch’s eyes were dry and gritty, and his muscles ached. He yearned for his orange chair by Starsky’s bedside. He wanted to sit there with his hand on Starsky’s arm, talking to him or watching him sleep. He wanted to read a note that was funny, one that wouldn’t break his heart. Not like the one Peggy had given him, which she had taken from Starsky’s hand late that afternoon.

In a weak, unrecognizable scrawl, it said:

Hutch Hutch if you were here Id tell you, but you know
give you my boots Hutch remember?
You are my best

Hutch sat motionless for a long time. Then he rubbed his eyes tiredly and patted his pockets, finding the pen he’d finally remembered to bring and a bunch of folded sheets he’d torn from his legal pad today, specifically for his evening note to Starsky.

Hi Starsk,

Quite an infection you’ve cooked up, huh? I got an update from Peggy, and it sounds like you had a lousy day. I’m sorry it was rough. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.

You know, if you were awake right now (and actually lucid instead of delirious), you’d give me a little smirk and ask, “How do I look?” You tend to do that whenever you’re a mess. I can hear you say it. Wish you’d wake up and say it.

You look terrible, buddy. Normally, I’d take a jab and add, “Just like always.” I’m not going to do that, though. No jokes tonight. No sarcasm or half-truths or outright lies. I’m going to be nothing but honest now, because you deserve it, you’ve earned it, you’re worth it, and you, partner, are everything good I’ve got in this world. Yeah, you heard me.

When you wake up, you’ll read this letter and roll your eyes and tell me I’m a sap and a softie, but I don’t care. You know damn well I mean it. You don’t even need me to spell it out for you, do you?

Years ago, after Bellamy’s poison, when time was really running out, we didn’t need words at all. We said a hell of a lot to each other in silence, and I’ve never forgotten that conversation. One of the best of my life, and one of the worst. It’s still true, too, all that we said. Only more so, which is hard to imagine. You meant everything to me back then, so how can you mean more to me now?

Starsk, when they took you away that day I felt so sick, trying to tell myself it wasn’t finished, it wasn’t the end, that I hadn’t just seen my best friend alive for the last time in my life. And since May I keep feeling that exact same way, over and over. My God. I don’t know how to do this anymore, I can’t keep feeling this. I really need you. I need you.

Keep your god damned boots, okay? Why did you write me a note trying to give me your boots again? What are you trying to do to me? Christ. What kind of note is that. What am I supposed to do with it. What am I going to do with you? What am I going to do without you whe

Shit. Screw it. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I think I’m afraid to stop writing, because if I stop writing, if I stop talking to you, then it’s like you’re not with me. It’s like you’re gone.

Starsky, don’t leave me.

I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks. I know I haven’t slept well for a long time. And you do nothing but sleep. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep until you wake up.

Remember the night I brought you stuffed veal? I want to do that again. (Dobey and Huggy say hi, by the way. They don’t know you’re back in ICU. I haven’t told them. I haven’t told anyone. Is it bad that I can’t do that? I don’t have it in me.)

I want to do that night over again, maybe without the sprinklers. I want to see you laughing. I need to hear your voice.

I I I I I want I need I feel. It’s all about me, apparently.

How are you? Ha ha.

Let’s talk about you for a while (in relation to me):

You are my best friend. Best I’ve ever had.
You understand me better than anyone else in this world, yet you still like me.
You have always been there for me, always come through for me.
You are a man I admire, and I am honored to know you.
You make me laugh, you make me happy.
You sleep too much.
You need to wake up.

Now, back to me:

I love you.

I’ve told you that a couple times, and I’m saying it again. I’m writing it down. I love you, Starsky. I miss you. Wake up.

Want to know something? Of all the notes you’ve left me over the years, I have a favorite. Want to guess? Okay, I’ll give you a hint. It’s the only one you ever wrote in lipstick.

I’m looking at the sheet of glass that separates us right now, and I am remembering what that message meant to me. I think it may have saved my life.

Could I save your life with a note on your window? What should it say? What do you need? I can’t believe HUTCH would do the trick, though I could try it. Maybe it should be another STARSK, to remind you what a fighter you are.

I could draw a big heart to make you laugh. I could draw your hand making a rude gesture. I could write this entire letter in lipstick on your window, if it would help. I could write ME & THEE.

Hutch put down the pen and flexed his hand. He stood, stretched his sore back, and watched Starsky for a while, his forehead against the glass. Then he sat back down and went on writing. He wrote all night. He wrote for two more days.

~*~

Scrawled on the back of a mimeographed report, passed back and forth during a morning briefing:

Hey Blintz -- Knock Knock

Oh, God. Really? Who’s there.

Hutch

Hutch who?

Gezundheit! HA! Just made that up.

You’re hilarious.

A Christmas card sent from Starsky to Hutch:

Happy Holidays, Blondie! How’s Minnesotta? Say hi to all the Hutchinson’s. Saw this card and thought of you up there in the snow. Sucks that your not here. Huggy and me are doing the big day together, but it won’t be the same without you and your dumb presents.
Ho Ho Ho, S

P.S. See you next year.

A New Year’s card sent from Hutch to Starsky:

Starsk,
I’ll probably see you at the airport before you get this, but still. Thank you for sending me an obscene card at my parents’ house. They are really impressed by the snowman and his big carrot dick. Mom says she always thought you had more class. I told her you have no class, so she knows that now. You’re welcome. Happy New Year.
Love, Hutch

P.S. The card makes me laugh.
P.P.S. It’s spelled Minnesota, moron. Also, let’s have a talk about apostrophes.

~*~

It was late afternoon, and Hutch was feeling edgy. When he’d learned that Starsky was being released from ICU, he’d dashed away for a quick shower and another dose of black coffee, and now here he stood, outside Starsky’s hospital room, both over-eager and hesitant to enter. It seemed like years since they’d seen each other. He actually felt shy.

With a quiet tap on the door, Hutch walked in. Starsky turned his head and looked up at him, and Hutch felt his face bloom with an uncontainable smile. “Hiya, stranger,” Hutch said.

Starsky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do I know you?” he asked. His voice was faint and scratchy, and it was so good to hear him speak that Hutch couldn’t keep from laughing.

“We’ve met. It’ll come back to you.”

“Ahh, I remember you now,” murmured Starsky. “Didn’t recognize ya, ‘cause you look like shit.”

“Thanks, pal. You, on the other hand, look like a real prince.”

“I got bullet wounds and an infection, what’s your excuse?” Starsky was pushing weakly at his blankets. “Get in here,” he said. “Bring any veal?”

“Nope.” Hutch kicked off his shoes, lifted the blankets, and slid into bed. He groaned as he lay down, resting his head carefully near Starsky’s.

“Do you ever sleep?” asked Starsky. “Seriously, you look like someone’s grandpa.”

Hutch sighed and closed his eyes. “A handsome, sexy grandpa, though.”

“Eh,” shrugged Starsky, sounding unimpressed.

“Here,” said Hutch, holding up a fat bundle of folded papers. Some pages were legal-pad yellow, some were white with a ragged spiral-notebook fringe. The pink and green sheets were outdated notices that Hutch had pulled off of a bulletin board. He’d covered the backs of those with writing.

“Thanks.” Starsky took the bundle. He seemed to know exactly what it was, and he smiled. “Guess you been busy. You gonna sleep for a while now?”

“Yeah. I’ll sleep, you read.” Hutch shifted a bit, cautiously, and settled into a comfortable position, his temple on Starsky’s shoulder, his arm over Starsky’s stomach. “You good?” he asked.

“I’m good.” Starsky patted Hutch’s arm. “Glad you’re here.”

“I missed you, too,” yawned Hutch. He lay still and listened to Starsky’s quiet breathing and to the rustling of paper, then he let himself drift away.


~The End~