Work Text:
Surviving the Titanic
by Dawnwind
Ken Hutchinson was twelve years old when the Varsity theater on Mesaba Avenue in Duluth replayed the four-year-old movie The Titanic starring Barbara Stanwyck.
His mother took him to see the picture, one of those rare mother-son nights when she was trying to prove that she didn't need a husband to hold her up. That she was fine, dammit, despite the impending divorce. Hutch had always wondered why she'd chosen that movie, of all others, with its dual themes of reconciliation and irrevocable loss.
The cinematic message was not lost on him, however. Nothing was inevitable--and there were always consequences. Marriages were doomed no matter how gorgeous the leading lady, and clinging to a sinking hulk was a good way to drown in icy water.
His parent's divorce became final on April 15, 1957--forty-five years to the day after the Titanic sank. When his mother unfolded the official documents with the judge's signature at the bottom and then poured herself another orange juice and vodka, Ken was sure he felt the polished deck of a powerful ship tilt beneath his feet.
Considering the examples he'd grown up with, it was a wonder he got married at all. The fact that he said "I do" not once, but twice, spoke of something fairly fatalistic inside him. As if to prove a cosmic point, the first marriage was so brief that the ink wasn't dry on the license before annulment made the union simply a footnote in the Hutchinson Bible.
So, did that make Vanessa the first Mrs. Hutchinson, or the second? He'd never quite figured that one out.
Their wedding was the talk of the 1966 Duluth social season. Vanessa made a perfect June bride, decked out the actual white silk Victor Verranza-designed gown that had graced the cover of Bride magazine for the same month. Her parents spared no expense, importing champagne from France to toast the happy couple, and had orchids flown in from the exotic islands of Hawaii for their oldest daughter's bouquet. Hutch stood beside the beautiful vision in white and felt like just another accessory in her bridal ensemble.
It wasn't the wedding he'd have chosen.
Six months into their first year of wedded bliss, he felt the ship list precariously to the right. After he moved his new wife from Minnesota to California, the tilt of the deck was so pronounced that he had to fight constant vertigo.
Life with Vanessa was exactly like a dangerous journey on a storm-tossed sea. There were calms and swells, and then dark, moonless nights of high drama that not even Barbara Stanwick could have rivaled, when the pitch of the deck was so steep that Hutch found himself clinging to his wife so that he wouldn't be swept out to sea.
On more than one occasion, he wondered if swimming near icebergs would really be that much worse.
Their marriage wasn't always a nausea-invoking voyage. He loved being with Van--loved her dry, brittle humor, her intelligence, her love of music and her appreciation of the finer things in life. Van was flawlessly beautiful and knew it. She thrived when every eye turned to her when she arrived at a party on the arm of her handsome husband. And Hutch was glad to have the attention centered on her because he really didn't want to stand out in a crowd. He liked a quiet corner to nurse a drink and chat with someone who read more than movie magazines and Variety.
Vanessa had a college degree but apparently preferred to act the part of the airhead for every would-be photographer and fashion editor in the market for new faces. Her new ambition was to be a Vogue cover model.
To Hutch, that wasn't an ambition, it was vanity. He wanted to do something important, to make a difference. If the four years between the high society wedding and Hutch's decision to become a cop had been a rough crossing with waves cresting the bow, then the period after that was a doomed expedition into uncharted waters.
By the time he entered the police academy, Vanessa already had one foot halfway out of their marriage. By the time Hutch had been partnered with his academy best pal David Starsky for most of a year, he and Van were living in separate apartments.
He kept trying to reinvent their marriage, but that ship had been taking on water for months and the deck was most decidedly on a slant. Nothing had worked--not therapy nor the hope of a child, first naturally and then by adoption. Even the sex, which they were still having, was fraught with submerged dangers that he seemed unable to avoid.
Black and blue were no longer Hutch's favorite colors. He'd started to wonder why he even tried anymore. Why it was so important that they find a way back to the good times when he could barely remember them anymore.
"So you'll be there?" Van said sharply, screwing the back of her gold dangly earring in with a violent twist.
"Yes, Van." Hutch leaned over to grab his shiny black police regulation shoe and to get a look at her long golden legs. The sight still made his balls tight, even after he'd just had mind-blowing sex. "This is your dream. Very few get a page in the Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition in their first year as a model."
"Daniel Sylvester is going to unveil the shot chosen for the cover at eight thirty. There'll be hors d'oeuvres at the publishing firm." She eyed her reflection in the motel room mirror critically and cupped one hand under an ample breast. "I can barely pass the French pencil test anymore."
"What?" Hutch stared at her. The yellow lace panty and bra ensemble was new and looked expensive. Both tiny strips of lace probably cost as much as his uniform did. "Queen V, you're still gorgeous."
The look she gave him would have curdled cream. As if she realized she'd come across too harshly, Van smoothed the lines bracketing her mouth with the French-tipped nails of her right hand and smiled with snide regret. "Another year and I'll need to get them lifted if I want to keep up with the younger brats."
"Van!" Hutch chided, although this wasn't the first time she'd made such comments.
"It's true. Modeling is a cut-throat business. Gain one ounce, and I lose a job." She smoothed her flawless belly and then ran one hand over her tucked butt. Hutch wished it were his hand there but he didn't dare touch her once she'd had her shower. Van didn't tolerate anyone or anything marring her perfect facade. "That little partner of yours waiting down the street again?"
"Starsky's having lunch," Hutch said stiffly, all thoughts of caressing her bottom gone at the mention of Starsky.
"And you had some dessert." Van held out her arms, letting him admire her nearly naked curves. She smiled like a beauty pageant contestant who'd won the crown. "Without all the calories."
"You're worth it."
"I'm late." She checked the gold watch on her slender wrist and shimmied into a tiny mini dress splashed with red, orange and lemon op-art flowers. The bottom of the dress barely cleared the yellow lace panties. Shiny red boots that matched her purse and came to the curve of her knee, completed the outfit.
"Ken, I picked up your best suit at the cleaners." Vanessa put on a fur trimmed black coat and pointed to a hanger covered with a blue plastic cleaner bag. "Change before you come tonight." With those orders, she puckered her lips in an approximation of a kiss, leaving it floating in the air four feet from his mouth when she vanished out the door of the motel.
Hutch ducked his head, imagining the kiss dropping to the carpet at his feet and buttoned his uniform shirt back up.
Eight-thirty. He could just make that if he got all his paperwork signed off quickly and got out of the precinct in record time. Maybe he could bribe Starsky to write up all their reports by promising to pay his bar tab at Huggy's for a week.
He checked his own watch and swore under his breath. He'd taken far longer than the forty-five minutes he'd mentally allotted for the afternoon interlude. Starsky would be chomping at the bit waiting to clock back in from lunch on time.
Adjusting the fit of his holster, Hutch ran out of the hotel room. He almost forgot the suit and had to duck back inside to grab the hanger out of the miniscule closet. Slinging it over his shoulder, he hurried down the block. A chilly wind buffeted the plastic bag so that it snapped like a flag against his back.
A black and white was parked in a red zone on the corner near Huggy Bear's place. Hutch dumped the suit hanger in the trunk of the police car on top of some hazard cones and emergency equipment.
Pausing just before he pushed open the door of the bar, Hutch had to squint to let his eyes adjust to the murky light.
"Got a deuce?" Starsky was saying, his eyes flicking up to meet Hutch's over a fan of cards.
Without a single word between them, Hutch felt his friend's happiness and a certain amount of relief at seeing him back again.
"Starsky, you know I don't!" Huggy Bear groaned.
Starsky drew a card from the deck and grinned, his blue eyes like beacons even in the dim lighting. "Gin." He slapped four twos down on the table.
"Go for one more hand, and your tab is wiped out completely." Huggy gathered up the scattered pasteboards.
"Terrific! But Hutch is here. Gotta go." Starsky grabbed his police cap from the bench seat beside him and centered it on his head. He needed a haircut and his curls corkscrewed out on both sides of the cap, giving him impish devil horns. "I'll give you a ten spot on payday."
"Hey, Captain America," Huggy greeted Hutch amiably, shuffling the cards with the ease of long experience. He fanned them out, inverted the deck and then rifled the cards in the reverse order. "When is payday?"
"It was yesterday," Hutch informed him with a laugh. "Next one's not for two weeks."
"So, let me get this straight." Huggy leaned back in his chair, crossing his long legs comfortably, and regarded them both with a skeptical expression. The red backed cards flashed back and forth between his long, nimble fingers. "What you sayin' is that by the time that payday comes around and you hand over one single Hamilton, you'll have drunk up another twenty bucks worth of my beer and still owe the Bear a ten."
"About right," Hutch agreed, smirking at Starsky.
"Hey!" Starsky stood, tugging at the crotch of his polyester uniform slacks as he climbed out of the banquette. "I don't welsh on a bet."
Hutch found his eyes drawn to the round bulge between Starsky's legs and looked away quickly, the memory of the scissor slice of his wife's legs when she left the motel room cutting through his gut.
"We gotta clock in or Sergeant Helm will have our heads," Starsky groused. He bumped shoulders with Hutch as he walked past. "You coming?"
"Stick around next time," Huggy called out to Hutch. "Unless the wife has other plans."
"You told him?" Hutch hissed at his partner, shame flushing through his chest. He didn't often indulge in a quickie but things had been good, almost great, with Vanessa lately. They weren't living together again, yet, but he had hopes. He was determined not to repeat the mistakes his parents made. Their ship had sailed. His had had a shaky launch--more like a four year cruise through treacherous waters--which had to change for the better. The summer had been a bitch, but as soon as he took the detective exam, he'd get a pay raise and could put a down payment on a house. Van wanted a house.
"Hutch, four days of the week we come in there together for burgers at one-thirty, and then one day of the week--when Huggy knows that we're working cause I don't wear the blues on my day off--I come in by myself, he's gonna ask questions." Starsky looked over the roof of their cruiser, his expression far more guarded than the greeting Hutch had gotten in the bar. "You all right?"
"Why shouldn't I be?" Hutch slid into the passenger seat and grabbed up the radio microphone to cover up his churning emotions. He didn't want Starsky's concern. He hated feeling like he was in the middle between Vanessa and Starsky, prodded and pummeled from both sides, forcing him to have to chose one over the other. "I gotta be at Van's party by eight-thirty. That's when her picture goes on display."
Starsky gave a wolf-whistle that irritated Hutch. "You seen the proofs yet?" He put on his turn signal and piloted the car out into early afternoon traffic.
"No, the whole thing is kept under wraps until tonight," Hutch said, thumbing the talk button on the mic. "Dispatch, this is Adam-9 clocking back in after code seven."
"Copy that, Adam-9," a Midwestern twang answered over the radio.
"Didja even get to see the bathing suit she wore?" Starsky asked. "Some of those models are nearly nude."
"No, but Van told me it was blue with little--uh..." Hutch gestured at his chest, not sure how to phrase it. Van had said she'd worn a bikini with a blue sequined handkerchief halter that barely covered her ta-tas. She'd giggled seductively when she told him that and let him cover her ample breasts with both of his hands.
He'd had a hard time coming to terms with the fact that she'd had an affair with her photographer during the shoot in La Jolla, the same Daniel Sebastian who was hosting the party tonight. Van had promised that the whole thing was in the past and that Sebastian had pressured her, insinuating that unless she slept with him, she wouldn't get any pictures taken.
Hutch was never sure whether to believe her or not. Never sure whether Van was playing him. He thought he was smarter than that, that he couldn't be used, but somehow he had a huge blind spot where Vanessa Rutherford Hutchinson was concerned.
"Blue with sparkly stuff on the top," he said finally.
"Hutch," Starsky chuckled. "You sure got a way with words. So you two are on solid ground again? This isn't last summer all over again?"
Anger flared in his gut. He raised a hand to slug Starsky for the insult, barely aware of the action. He caught himself just in time, the image of his fist striking his partner was frightening. Starsky's face was a mixture of shocked sympathy and street-punk tough that Hutch's fogged brain translated to you'd better not hit the me when I'm driving but I was out of line.
"Hey!" Starsky interrupted anything Hutch was about to say. "Not my business." He focused on the traffic in front of them, his eyes flicking to the sidewalk to watch for potential illegalities.
Hutch let out a pent up, adrenaline-fueled breath, his heart beating like a jack-hammer. Fuck, where had that anger come from? Starsky was his best friend. He'd had been more than supportive all summer when Hutch and Vanessa had gone through the preliminary motions for divorce proceedings. He didn't deserve to get dumped on.
Swallowing his pride, Hutch said carefully, "You have every right to ask." He didn't bring it up, but Hutch was more than aware that he took his lousy moods--often a direct result of Van, out on Starsky. "We're still trying to make things work, but it's a day to day thing."
"Like AA?"
Starsky was baiting him, Hutch recognized the technique. Starsky was willing to get yelled at if it cleared out some of the pent-up anger Hutch could feel trapped inside. When had his life gotten so out of control, especially when he worked so very, very hard to control every aspect? Van ran rough-shod over him, and he let her. Starsky--God, he never knew just what to make of Starsky.
The first time he'd seen his future partner, Starsky had shorn his curls the day before, leaving a close-cropped head of hair that still seemed determined to resist regulations. He'd looked young enough to pass for a senior in high school even though Starsky was less than a year out of 'Nam. Because of his feisty nature and a wariness of authority. Hutch had pegged him for a trouble maker, especially when Starsky began to ask questions and challenge the teaching staff on a regular basis. But his quick intelligence, good-nature and elfin charm had won Hutch over faster than he'd expected. Hutch wasn't sure he could ever pin down what had drawn the two together, but by the time they graduated as full police officers, David Starsky was his best friend.
Starsky still managed to surprise him--like today. It took guts to direct Hutch's anger onto himself, and a certain cocky nerve.
"You think I'm like some kind of alcoholic?" Hutch flared.
"You said it, not me," Starsky shrugged, pulling the car into a convenient parking lot where they could observe a corner that was popular with local drug dealers. "I just think that...sometimes, you don't see clear when she's around. Like spending time with Van on your lunch hour, not your smartest move, college boy."
"Fuck off, Starsky!" Hutch snapped, slapping the dashboard instead of the face next to him. Starsky just raised an eyebrow in what had to be one of his most annoying, nonverbal comments ever. Hutch knew exactly what he was not saying, and seeing himself from his best friend's perspective was humiliating. "If you felt like that, why didn't say something before?"
For once, Starsky didn't come back with a flip comment. He chewed the inside of his lip, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as if he didn't plan on answering at all.
Hutch studied his partner's profile, using Starsky's deep and abiding friendship to center himself. There had to be a middle ground here, somewhere to moor the boat safely but he'd run aground a long time ago. All he wanted was a happy life with a wife, a best friend and a career he could be proud of. It seemed as out of reach as the stars from the deck of an old fashioned schooner--something to chart by, but mysterious and far off. Every time he broached the subject of his future with Van, she reminded him of the law studies he'd talked about and then abandoned. She'd wanted to be the wife of a high powered corporate attorney who charged fifty dollars an hour.
Every time he was with Starsky, Hutch yearned to be the captain of his own craft, working side by side with his partner, investigating crime and putting right the wrongs of Bay City.
Somehow, what he wanted had gotten lost.
"I can't make you do anything you don't wanna do," Starsky said slowly. "Which makes me wonder why you..." he stopped, glancing at Hutch with an enigmatic expression. "The detective exam's coming up and if the brass got wind that you were--uh--"
"Getting fucked," Hutch said succinctly, clenching his jaw so hard that his temples throbbed.
Starsky looked him straight in the eye and nodded once, "I just don't want you messing up your chances for a gold badge."
Starsky never held him back. And he never got in Hutch's way. Like a true friend, the one person on earth that Hutch truly felt had his back, Starsky wanted what was best for him.
Hutch wished Van could see him the way Starsky did, and knew for certain that she never had. So, had he ever seen her that clearly?
Hutch watched a trio of midday hookers argue over the advantages of a prime space of sidewalk in front of the local liquor store. The tallest one might or might not be a woman. "Is that Twinkle in the leather shorts over there?" he asked, feeling a tightness in his chest loosen up.
"Think she--or he--went to Germany for those lederhosen?" Starsky began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a specific pattern.
"All I can say is that she needs to wear warmer clothes in December," Hutch said, trying to identify the dum, dum, dum rhythm. "I can see the goosebumps from here."
"We could bust them." Starsky was putting his whole body into his percussion. He bobbed his head, bouncing his knees as he hummed under his breath. "Get 'em off the street for a couple hours until their pimps come get the girls, and I use that term loosely. They'd get warm and a decent meal."
"When has anything the jail kitchen ever served qualified as a decent meal?" Hutch strained hear Starsky's tune. Dum, dum, dum. "Jingle Bells!" he cried.
"Took you long enough," Starsky said dryly. "Looks like Brandi with an 'I' just found shelter for an hour." The petite girl with dark roots showing through her dyed blond fluff bent to chat with a man driving a dark green Mercedes. "He must be stupid or blind to do it right in front of us."
"I'll go . . ." Hutch started, grabbing his cap just as the radio squawked.
"Adam-9, a 211 in progress at Sukker Liquor."
"That's down the street!" Starsky was out of the car before Hutch could catch up the mic and reply.
"ETA less than a minute, Gina," Hutch rattled off quickly, watching his partner race down the sidewalk. He ran with wild abandon, in an ungainly style all his own. Never could stop Starsky from leaping into the fray.
A uniformed cop bursting out of a patrolcar had effectively broken up Brandi-with-an-I's possible business deal. The Mercedes took off abruptly in the opposite direction, nearly knocking the poor girl over. Twinkle and Sassy were helping Brandi up when Hutch slid across to the driver's seat and roared out of the parking lot for the half a block drive to Sukker Liquor.
Starsky's sprint had proved far more effective than Hutch would have ever imagined. He'd apparently barreled right into the thief just as he was exiting the corner store, scattering the cash in all directions. Starsky had a skinny runt of a guy on the ground and was already cuffing him when Hutch got out of the car.
A crumpled ten dollar bill, caught up by the brisk winter wind, blew right into Hutch's palm when he raised his hand to greet his partner.
"Give that to me!" A grizzled old codger with bloodshot eyes snatched the money out of Hutch's hand and added it to the wad of bills he clutched. "Cops are as bad as the robbers, taking what don't belong to them!"
Some pedestrians grabbed stray greenbacks as they blew like leaves in the wind. Hutch pointed directly at one gentleman in a three-piece suit who had the decency to look embarrassed. He dropped the ten, nearly tripping over the prostrate thief in his haste to get away.
"You the owner?" Hutch asked the old man politely, getting out a pad to take notes. As usual, he didn't have a pen.
"Darned right! I'm pressing charges, you hear?" The old codger raved. "That's the fifth time in two months--half the time you cops don't even listen to me."
"This is Danny the dimwit." Starsky pointed to his prisoner still languishing at the curb. "He's robbed you before?"
"That dimwit's in here twice, three times a week," the old man continued. "Always stringing along a line like he'll pay me on payday. This ain't Wimpy Burgers. I had enough and he pulled a piece on me!" There was a gun draped with two one dollar bills lying a few feet from Danny's hand.
"Saturday night special," Starsky said to Hutch, handing him a pen without being asked. "No bullets." He nudged Danny with his toe. "Danny, you forget something this morning?"
"Didn't have enough t'buy a nickel bag," Danny whined, hunching his shoulders. "You think I can afford bullets? Life's hard, man."
"And then you die," Hutch finished the axiom. "Could I get your name, Mr.--" He looked expectantly at the liquor store owner.
"Why you want that?" he asked suspiciously, scuttling around the walkway searching for any last bills.
"So you can press charges?" Hutch asked, feeling a headache coming on. Was the entire world made up of lunatics?
"Adolph Sukker," the man spat on the sidewalk and pulled himself up to his full height, which might once have been five foot six but wasn't any longer.
Hutch heard Starsky mutter, "His name is Adolph?" as he loaded Danny into the cruiser.
"Mr. Sukker," Hutch said formally. "Can you accompany us down to the station to give a full statement and press charges?"
"Can't leave my shop! It's prime business hours--people always want a bottle of Johnny Walker Red or some fine Frenchy brandy at Christmas time." Sukker stomped back into his cramped shop and stuffed the recovered cash back into the till.
"How much did Danny take?" Hutch asked, losing hope that this might be an easy bust. The cold wind kicked up again, threatening to take his cap off his head and he jammed it down tighter.
"Never count it until closing time, ya idiot!" Sukker sneered, shoving the cash drawer closed. A five dollar bill was caught over the edge of the drawer and stuck out like a little green flag.
"Then what are we gonna charge him with?" Hutch asked, trying very hard not to whine.
"Hutch, c'mon," Starsky called. "Mr. Sukker, come down to the Ninth Precinct tonight, if you can, or tomorrow morning. Ask for Ken Hutchinson or David Starsky, and we'll take your statement. Meanwhile, Danny don't mind staying overnight at our nice hotel since it's supposed to be near freezing tonight."
"Yeah, yeah." He fixed his beady, reddened eyes on Hutch. "You gonna buy something, towhead, or just stand around taking up space?"
"No drinking on duty," Hutch said stiffly. Although cold bottle of beer might cut his headache right in half. "Remember, if you don't make an official charge, Danny will just be back in here next week."
"I'll stock up on the Boone's Farm Strawberry wine." Sukker cackled at his own wit.
It took most of the afternoon to book Danny in. With the cold snap looming, many homeless drug addicts and desperate street people had chosen jail as a relatively safe place to sleep, causing a penny-ante crime wave. The holding cells were jammed with bodies and their ripe odors gave the whole booking area a pungent aroma.
"Could use some gingerbread and evergreens down here." Starsky pinched his nose. "We got two more hours on, Hutch. You want to cruise the downtown first or out near the docks?"
"Merry Christmas to all," Hutch sighed, batting aside the lone decoration some joker had pined up above the camera used to take arrest photos. Santa and his tiny reindeer swayed and twisted on fishing line. "Don't care, just as long as I get out on time. Van will have my head and serve it up on a platter for dinner if I miss her big night."
"Docks, it is," Starsky decided. "Not so much going on there after the ships are done loading. It'll be quiet for a change. Or we can swing by Sukker's and buy a bottle of champag-nee."
"Champagne," Hutch corrected with a slight smile. He knew what Starsky's game was. Distract and deflect to keep Hutch from obsessing on the upcoming high-society soiree. "I'm sure the magazine can afford its own champagne. And the 'g' is silent."
"Then how come there's a 'g' in the middle at all, if you don't say it?" Starsky started up the ignition of the police car and backed out of the parking area.
"There's a 'g' in right and you don't say that either," Hutch countered.
"And in gnome, that city in Alaska," Starsky signaled a turn, completely straight-faced.
Hutch groaned. Starsky sucked him in every time and with such finesse. Hutch didn't mind looking gullible, he just wasn't going to admit that to Starsky. Maintain a dignified appearance at all times, that had been the credo his mother had handed down to her son. Dignity garnered respect.
Except that Van had stopped respecting Hutch long ago, no matter what he did or how dignified he was in public. And Starsky respected him, period. There didn't have to be a reason.
They'd made two laps through the streets bordering the docks, watching teamsters and sailors leaving for home, when the police band called out, "All cars in the area, domestic disturbance at 918 Bayfront Drive."
"Dispatch, this is Adam-9, we're two blocks over," Hutch responded, flipping on the siren. "Take a right, Starsk."
The whooping wail nearly drowned out dispatch's answer. As the car swerved around the corner onto Bayfront, Hutch felt the sickening gravitational pull and watched the world shift off its axis. Without even looking at his feet, Hutch could feel the deck slanting at a steep pitch and sensed the icebergs looming on the horizon. Disaster seemed imminent although he couldn't have explained why if he'd tried.
Number 918 proved to be a two-story apartment building trimmed with rusty gold tinsel and a wooden Santa faded to a pale pink version of the beloved figure. It wasn't difficult to discern who had called the police. A woman stood out front, gesturing urgently when Starsky cut the siren and the motor.
"Come in, they're at it again! One of 'em's gonna kill the other one!"
"Ma'am?" Hutch asked, climbing out of the car at exactly the same moment as Starsky.
"I'm the manager, Gladys Parks." She stabbed a stubby finger at the second floor windows. "Libby and Doug Makepeace--all they do is scream at each other and throw things. I know he has a gun. He shot at the neighbor's cat last week."
"Damn," Starsky said quietly and called for backup. "This could get ugly."
"Mrs. Parks, you stay here and tell the next officers where we are." Hutch took a deep breath. "Second floor?"
"Apartment 2B," she clarified, pulling her ill-fitting sweater closer around her fireplug figure. "It's freezing out here."
Hutch glanced at his partner, reading the caution in Starsky's eyes.
"Be careful, Starsky," he said unnecessarily.
"Nothing happens t'me," Starsky said, advancing up the interior stairs with determination. "I was born under a lucky star, pal."
A crash followed by an eerie shriek came from above and Starsky took the last few steps two at a time with Hutch on his heels.
Hutch sidled to one side of apartment 2B, staying out of line of the front door in case there was a frontal attack, and flanked Starsky's position on the other side. He was taller, he went high and to the left and Starsky went low and to the right. For now, they would just use techniques for calming and defusing the situation.
"This is the police!" Starsky called out. "Libby and Doug Makepeace?"
"Go away!" a decidedly feminine voice yelled.
"Libby, we have to make sure everything is okay between you and Doug . . ." Starsky raised his voice to be heard through the door. "Mrs. Parks said that . . ."
"Ain't none of her business what me and Libby do!" A man shouted. "I'm gonna kill that bitch!"
"Don't come near me, you bastard!" Libby screamed. "Just leave!"
It was difficult to know whether she'd directed the last at her husband or Starsky and Hutch.
"Libby," Hutch called out. "I'm Officer Hutchinson of Bay City Police Department. If you could open the door, then we could talk. . ."
A single shot rang out and Hutch jerked back, his hand going for the gun holstered at his waist. The bullet hadn't come through the door, but Starsky was no longer waiting on protocol. He smashed a shoulder into the barrier and popped the door open with a crash.
A second shot took Starsky to his knees in the fraction of a second before Hutch made it into the apartment behind him. There was no time to check to see if his partner was injured. Hutch held his hands away from his body to project an aura of peaceful resolution, all the while trying to see what was going on with Starsky.
Starsky was moving, one hand on his forehead, but he was clearly dazed.
"I'll kill her!" Doug Makepeace shouted, swinging a .45 wildly between a clearly enraged woman with a swollen black eye and the cops.
"Fuck off, you asshole! You think I care what you do?" Libby screamed and threw an ashtray at her husband. "Get out!"
Doug ducked the heavy glass projectile and squeezed out a shot that shattered a lamp. Libby screeched in frustration and charged him blindly.
"Please, put down the gun." Hutch tensed, sure that violent waves had just crashed over the deck of the ship, but no one else apparently noticed. It was just a split second of distraction, but it was enough for Doug to shove Libby at him and make a dash for the window.
Libby tripped over Starsky and lay sprawled on the ancient linoleum. Attempting to get around them both, Hutch felt like he was running in place, unable to get any forward momentum while his whole world was plunging irreversibly into frozen waters.
Hutch stretched out the way he used to on the track in college, when he was striving for a blue ribbon in the relay races. Using every inch of his long arm, Hutch reached out for Doug Makepeace's wrist as if it were a baton. Doug struggled to open the casement window, waving the gun in the direction of the others.
Hutch latched onto Doug and twisted hard, feeling the violent shift of wrist bones under his grasp. The gun dropped to the floor and Doug howled, turning fast enough to slug Hutch in the head.
Lights dimmed and black shapes slithered across Hutch's vision, his ears ringing.
"Hands behind your head, asshole!" Starsky shouted, holding his police-issue weapon in the academy approved pistol grip, right hand wrapped around the left one holding the gun. "You are under arrest. Get away from my partner--now." His voice was nothing Hutch had ever heard before, a deep, guttural command pitched low and soft. The blood running down the left side of his face only made Starsky scarier, some terrible specter rising from the grave.
Libby shrank away from him, her eyes still angry but wary now, too, like a feral dog's.
Still barely able to focus, Hutch jerked right, elbowing Doug in the chest, which finally made him fall back.
"Fucking cop, you broke my wrist!" Doug complained, but without a gun, he'd lost his edge. "That's brutality!"
"Hands behind your head!" Starsky insisted, keeping his weapon trained stiffly on Makepeace.
Hutch could see that Starsky was wavering, the adrenaline-infused energy about burned out. Giving thanks for his own returning wits, he pulled out his handcuffs and snapped them around Doug's wrists. The right one was reddened, but as much as the prisoner was wiggling his fingers, Hutch didn't think it was broken.
"The doctor will check you out after you're booked," Hutch told him, just as more police poured into the tiny apartment. Six people in the narrow room ratcheted up Hutch's feeling of imminent doom as if the arriving officers only prolonged the inevitable.
"Hutchinson?" Jerry Gonzalez asked, surveying the room with a bemused expression. "Looks like you got the situation under control."
"He broke my damned wrist!" Doug repeated, baring his teeth.
Gonzalez's partner had already hauled Libby to her feet. She was fighting him, totally irrational now that she'd been separated from her husband.
"You can't just bust into our place like that!" she screamed, pummeling at him, but he was far larger than she was. "I know who you are!"
"Did you take something, ma'am?" Rogers asked, managing to grab one flailing arm and securing it behind her back with his cuffs. "Drugs? PCP? Cocaine?"
"What are you? Narcs?" Doug snarled when Gonzalez came close.
"Took you guys long enough," Starsky groused, trying to reholster his gun. His hand kept missing the mark and he almost dropped the heavy weapon on his foot.
"Hey." Hutch caught Starsky's gun and slipped an arm around him so that he could sit on a grungy looking armchair. Even though Starsky was as pale as a corpse under the garish splash of gore on his face, he grinned, playing cocky to cover the weakness. Hutch could see right through the ploy.
"There was a big rig accident just at the off-ramp onto the freeway," Gonzales said by way of explanation. "Snarled up traffic in all directions. Rig went over on its side." He hooked his hand into the curve of Doug's cuffed hands. "On your feet, Makepeace. You must remember the drill."
"I gotta get him to the hospital," Hutch said, uninterested in what had delayed their response. His whole body was quivering, his belly clenched into an iron ball. He couldn't take his eyes off the blood matting Starsky's curls. "You two book the battling Bickersons?"
"Won't be the first time. Ironic last name, Makepeace. I don't think he ever has," Gonzalez commented and Hutch thought that he might have to slug him.
Not now. Some other day, when he least expected it.
"How you doing with Libby, Barne?" Gonzalez asked cheerfully.
"She's higher than a kite." Barney Rogers jumped back just as she snapped her teeth, trying to bite him. He shoved her ahead of him out the door. "Libby, what'd you take?"
"Where's Doug?" she ranted. "He's such an asshole, I don't care if he drops dead."
"You bitch!" Doug called to his wife. "I ain't the one who bought the stuff!"
"They're always like this." Gonzalez rolled his eyes. "You want me to call an ambulance, Starsky?"
"Yes," Hutch said first.
"No," Starsky waved his hand and winced. "I can walk, it's nothing."
"We'll keep you two in the loop on the arrest and the paperwork." Gonzalez jerked his head in the direction of the door, prodding Doug. "C'mon, genius. With any luck, you and the wife'll spend Christmas behind bars--in separate cells."
"Starsky!" Hutch grit his teeth, the sloping deck that only he seemed aware of made him want to grab for some support beam and hang on. Bucking up, he located a handkerchief in his pocket. "You just got shot."
"Yeah?" Starsky asked sarcastically. "Feels like I got a bullet in the head."
Hutch pressed the cloth to Starsky's head, concerned when it turned red immediately. He remembered reading somewhere that scalp wounds bled a lot. Starsky already looked a pint low judging from the splashes of blood on the floor and his uniform shirt.
"Don't press so hard!" Starsky protested. He batted Hutch's hand away but kept the makeshift bandage where it was. "I can walk on my own." He insisted and swayed getting out of the chair.
"Sure you can." Hutch steadied him with one hand around his waist, feeling unsteady himself. "Good thing the bullet didn't scramble your brains any." He felt responsible. How did he salvage this from the wreckage? How could he have prevented Starsky from getting hurt? "You couldn't duck?"
"Duck? And miss an opportunity to get a date with one of those ER nurses?" Starsky made a bad attempt at a leer, which only made him look gruesome. He grunted from the pain and leaned more heavily on Hutch, just for a moment. "You said something about a ride?"
"I'll drive this once." They wobbled walking side by side, and by the time they got to the stairs, Starsky as capable of walking on his own. Hutch took the lead, keeping an eye on his partner.
The front door of the building was still open, letting cold air into the lobby.
"Wind's out of Alaska. Almost feels like Duluth on a day like this." Hutch shivered when he stepped out of the building, grabbing at his cap as an Arctic wind tugged at his hair and clothes. The Titanic was taking on water, irreparably damaged. He could almost hear the sharp crack of an iceberg calving into the frigid seas.
"Hutch?" Starsky pressed the handkerchief against his head, blinking blood out of his eye. "You coming? Even if they take me ahead of all the drunks drying out in the ER, it'll be hours before I get patched up and out of there."
Hutch stood close by when Starsky slid into the car. He'd never get to Van's party at this rate. There was no way he was going to drop his partner at the ER and hightail it to a cocktail party when Starsky was bleeding. "Do you ever feel like you're going down for the third time?"
"All the time, blondie." Starsky eased back into the seat. "Uncle Al used to say, 'just get back into the boat and row like hell."'
Surprised at how closely the analogy worked with his own personal shipwreck, Hutch laughed bitterly. "He might just be a very wise man." He pointed the police car in the direction of the nearest hospital.
"A wise man would never have held an electric light bulb too close to a oil leak in an old Chevy. Blew a hole in the engine block and burned off his eyebrows and mustache." Starsky cracked a smile. "Looked like Elmer Fudd after his rifle burst open when Bugs plugged the end with a potato."
"I remember that one." Hutch nodded, imagining Van's reaction when she discovered he was going to miss her debut. That would be a explosion heard round the world. He could already feel the water lapping at his ankles as the hull plunged deeper into the ocean.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Don't you have that shindig to go to?" Starsky asked when they were cooling their heels in the ER trauma room waiting for the results of the x-ray. The morphine had put him in a giddy mood and he hummed absently under his breath. "What time is it, anyhow?"
Hutch eyed a large wall clock that made a loud click every time the hands moved. "Seven forty-five." If he left this minute, threw on his suit, and drove to the publishing firm in the police cruiser, he could probably just make Van's debut on time.
Heavy cross-town traffic, the time it would take him to change into his good suit and the fact that he wasn't supposed to use the black and white for personal business ran through Hutch's mind, and he dismissed all of them. If he'd really intended to go, he could have dressed already and called for a cab. There was something far more important here--someone far more important.
Starsky. He wasn't leaving Starsky.
"I'm not going." The sense of swinging free of the wreckage eased something heavy and suffocating in his chest. He'd climbed into the lifeboat and was going to escape the sinking ship. The sensation of landing safely away from the smashed hulk of his marriage was almost buoyant, like floating on a suddenly calm sea.
"I thought you wanted to see Van get her picture in the magazine." Starsky looked over at him in surprise.
"I didn't." Hutch knew without reservation that it was true. He'd never wanted that, just as he'd never wanted a glamorous life filled with parties and superficial conversation. There was no substance there. The life he was making with Starsky held real meaning--today he'd helped a shopkeeper after a robbery and saved a couple from murdering one another. That none of them had thanked him, or even acted grateful for his intervention didn't matter. He'd helped people, and in the process, helped himself to see what really mattered. "She wanted that. I think she wanted a different husband, too."
"Ken instead of Hutch?" Starsky said succinctly, his tone light and neutral.
Hutch inhaled. "Yeah." Two very different people--a husband and a cop.
"Her loss then." Starsky rolled gingerly onto his side so that he was facing Hutch. "Sorry about that, Hutch." He reached out with one hand to the nearby pile of his clothes on the counter and nearly fell off the gurney.
"Hey, what the heck are you doing?" Hutch pushed him onto his back.
"My mouth tastes terrible." Starsky had gone very pale. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply, and then twisted around to gaze at his clothes again. "I got some candy in my pants pocket but I can't reach it."
"You can't eat unless the doctor says you can."
"Just something to suck on. I won't swallow. Give me my pants?" He put out his lip like a petulant child.
"Okay, you big baby." Hutch did as he was asked, relaxing into the novelty of not feeling like he was on the verge of an oceanic disaster for the first time in years.
Starsky fished out a familiar tube of hard candy and extracted a red one. "Want a Lifesaver, Hutch?"
"No." Hutch grinned. "I already have a lifesaver." And he was looking right at him. Slightly banged up at the moment, but still the only person who could get Hutch safely back into the harbor.
Starsky fiddled with the wrapper, sucking audibly on his candy. "You gonna start the divorce thing up again?"
"On Monday," Hutch said quietly, and for the first time ever, the thought of actually divorcing Vanessa didn't make him want to pull on a life vest and hunker down for the collision.
"Christmas week." Starsky started to drum his fingers on the edge of the gurney and this time Hutch recognized the holiday tune immediately.
"Then maybe I'll get something that I always wanted this year." He felt like he ought to be mourning the lost of something hard won and yet he was strangely content, at peace with decision. Somehow, he didn't really foresee that much opposition from Vanessa either. Their ship had left the dock a long time ago, he just hadn't wanted to accept it.
"I always wanted a train set, like Paddy O'Flarrity who lived down the block." Starsky hummed Jingle Bells, still tapping his fingers in time.
"My mother took us on a cruise the year she and dad got divorced," Hutch said. The memory of that lonely Christmas had stuck with him ever since. He and his sister had been the only children on board the ostentatious ship, and he'd dreaded the evenings alone in the cabin while his mother partied with the captain and other adults. Karen would go to sleep, and Hutch had lain awake listening to the creak and groan of the vessel plowing though the water, sure that it would hit an iceberg and sink like a stone.
"Sounds great." Starsky winced at the pull on his sore temple and prodded at the gauze dressing the nurse had put there.
"It wasn't, and don't touch that." Hutch pulled his hand away. "I wanted Christmas at home, with family and a turkey dinner."
"Me, too."
They'd never discussed their religions before--that was one of those subjects, much like politics and family scandals, that Hutch had been taught to avoid. "Aren't you . . . Jewish?" he asked carefully, not sure how to approach such a potentially volatile topic.
"Jewish but not exactly kosher." Starsky seemed unconcerned that Hutch had trod on socially unacceptable grounds. "Christmas is kinda different, though, you know? It's just--Christmas. Having fun and opening presents and eating." He formed a peaked roof with his fingertips touching, one elbow bracing him on the gurney. "Paddy's mom had this little nativity scene in their kitchen and I'd never seen anything like it when I was six. She gave me the scoop about Jesus and all of those shepherds while loading me up on sugar cookies, and then my mom gave me the Jewish version--why we didn't see Jesus quite the same way the O'Flarritys did." He bit down on his bottom lip, riding out pain that was completely obvious to Hutch.
"Old Testament and the Gospels. Two different ways to worship the same basic tenets." Hutch eyed Starsky critically. He was holding up well, but it had been several hours since he was shot and all he'd gotten was a single injection of morphine and an x-ray. "You want me to call the doctor?"
"I'll live. Ain't going nowhere and I got good company." Starsky held out his hand. "Seems t'me that the both of us want the same thing. A couple of presents, a tree, and a little more than burgers for dinner on December twenty-fifth. You in?"
"I'm in." Hutch clasped Starsky's hand, something warm and vast filling up the empty places inside him. Van would have been appalled at the idea of two men holding hands in a public place. His mother would have given a disapproving shake of her head. Hutch didn't care in the least. This was where he wanted to be. "Except, we're assigned a twelve hour stretch that night, since we have the least seniority and no kids."
"I'll bet Huggy'll be serving turkey sandwiches, dressing, and all the trimmings for Christmas at the bar and we can exchange presents parked near the BC library where they got that fifteen foot tree all festered with lights," Starsky said, his eyes bright and slightly spacey from the drugs.
Hutch didn't even try to correct Starsky.
No ornate tree decorations like some picture in a magazine. No overly expensive gifts wrapped at the department store. No tension filled dinner where he and Van sat unspeaking through the main course only to have sex for dessert, and then sleep in different beds.
Just simple pleasures with the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
"That's living," Hutch.
Far better than simply surviving.
FIN