Work Text:
Please
(Sweet Music Man 3)
by TLR
Plot: Following James Gunther's hit on Starsky and Hutch, Starsky wants to return to the police force, but Hutch doesn't, so now what?
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Prologue
Starsky’s badge was back in his hand. His gun too, put in his shoulder holster as he came from Captain Dobey's office. Six months of rehab after Gunther’s bullets tore through him, and he’d fought his way here--fit enough for duty, strong enough to face the streets again. Now all he needed was his partner.
Hutch appeared in the squad room doorway, arms folded, not even trying to smile. He figured this was coming, he just didn't think it would scare him so much. He thought Starsky would change his mind at the last minute. He'd wanted to talk it over with Starsky, but Starsky always changed the subject or had something he suddenly had to do.
It was near lunchtime, so there weren't many officers in the squad room.
“Doc says you’re good to go, huh?” Hutch asked.
“Yeah. You know the old saying. Can't keep a good man down.”
“I understand where you're coming from. But, you're on your way from Dobey's office, and I'm on my way in.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“If you for one minute think I'm happy about this...”
“There's another old saying. If you fall off a horse, you get back on.”
Starsky walked over to their shared desk and looked for any new messages or reports, then sat down.
Hutch stepped over to the desk too, but set his chair very near Starsky and sat in it, leaning toward him confidentially, his voice softening. “I can’t do it anymore, Starsk. Not after this. I can't watch you take another bullet… or worse. My God, you flatlined. I can't lose you like you lost your pop. I’ve been thinking about it, and seeing you here, right now, just seals it. I'm turning my badge in, and I'm leaving.”
Instead of Starsky looking mad, he looked wounded. “This is us we’re talkin’ about.”
“I know.” Hutch glanced down. “And as crazy as it sounds, I don't know what else to do that feels right, that feels like being your partner. I've been mulling it over and... I don't know... I've been thinking about music… singing, getting away from here, breathing, doing something completely different. You could come with me. Road manager, PR guy, photographer, whatever you want. We’d still be together. Just… not here, doing this.”
Starsky watched his bowed head, then moved his own head no, slowly. “I can’t, Hutch. I got somethin’ to prove. To myself. To Gunther. And I’d rather do it with my partner, but if you’re not gonna be here, I’ll prove it by myself.”
The goodbye was quiet but heavy, what felt like a physical splitting in half, two friends holding on for a little longer before letting go.
“Are you sure?” Hutch asked.
“I'm sure.”
Hutch stood, tears in his eyes, hoping last minute that his leaving would help Starsky leave too, his way of protecting his best friend one last time.
But it didn't work. Starsky stood too and gave him a tight hug, fighting fierce emotions.
::
At the airport, Starsky clapped a hand on Hutch’s shoulder and handed him his guitar case. “Knock 'em dead, Blondie.”
“Take care of yourself, Gordo. And tell that new partner of yours to watch your back or I'll come looking for him.”
When Hutch boarded his flight, Starsky watched until the plane was a mere dot in the clouds.
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A week later.
The empty chair at the desk he used to share with Hutch already looked like it belonged to someone else. His new partner Burke was showing up today. It would be somewhat bitter and not even a little bit sweet. He just hoped he didn't unleash any lingering resentment onto the guy. Burke knew nothing about what went down. Well, maybe some, as cops talk amongst themselves. But Burke didn't deserve it. He deserved a fully present partner.
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Miles away in a hotel in Mexico, Hutch set his guitar case in the corner and stared out at a skyline blending into the desert dusk, wondering what Starsky was doing back in Bay City, missing both partner and city much more than he thought he would.
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“Nice to meet you, Burke,” Starsky said shaking his new partner's hand. “I hear you're good.”
“Big shoes to fill. I'll do my best. Hutchinson told me he'd come hunt me down if I didn't.”
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Under a fading pink sky, Hutch leaned against a stucco wall in Mexico, tasting a spiced and smoky taco, smiling to himself at how Starsky would’ve tackled him for a bite.
When he finished it off with a bit of Tequila, he found some stationery in a desk drawer and sat down to write Starsky a note.
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~Dear Starsk,
I’m in Mexico, singing in cantinas, trying to make the crowds like me half as much as the police barbecues did. You’d love it here. The food, the music, the pretty ladies. I know why you want to stay in the city, but why not come on down and hang out with me? I'll teach you some more Spanish.
Wish you were here.
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A light breeze carried the faint smell of grilled onions from the street vendor outside Huggy’s, but Starsky hardly noticed. A song came on the jukebox, one Hutch used to hum between bites of salad, and now Starsky sat through the last verse before leaving. Sitting in a back booth, he replied to Hutch's note.
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~Dear Hutch,
Thanks, but I’m still getting used to a partner who ain’t you. Why don’t you come back to Bay City and sing at Huggy’s? He said you could have a permanent spot. Less travel, better food.
Your better half.
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A couple of days later, Starsky was watching his new partner sit in Hutch's old desk chair, and felt a lump rise in his throat. Sometimes he found himself running his hand along the back of it when no one was sitting in it.
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With snow falling on the cabin steps, Hutch plucked at his guitar in front of a wood stove, pausing mid-chord when he realized he was playing the first notes of a Jim Croce tune Starsky used to hum all the time.
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~Dear Starsk,
I’m in Minnesota now, long-term gig. Staying in a cabin by the lake. You should come. It’d be like old times at Pine Lake. Fishing, smores, plenty of places for you to take pictures. No paperwork, no bullets or devil worshippers.
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On a muggy summer night, Starsky drove onto the lot of a carwash under the dim glow of a streetlamp. Waiting his turn, his eyes drifted often to the empty passenger seat. It hurt more than he could ever describe, and the only person who would understand was on the other side of the country. Starsky realized maybe Hutch had had a good idea at the time. Maybe he should've gone with him.
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~Dear Hutch,
Seems like you keep gettin’ farther and farther away from me. You know I’m your biggest fan, but you need to come back home for a while. You’ve been gone too long~
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~Dear Gordo,
Knew you missed me! How about we meet in Pittsburgh? You can catch a show, we’ll sightsee. I can’t joke around with the opening act like I can with you. The gigs are pouring in. Come on, how about it?~
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Under a metallic color sky, Hutch scanned the sidewalk before a show, unconsciously searching for familiar dark curls in the crowd, thinking, Wouldn't it be great if Starsky surprised me?
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~Dear Hutch,
Glad you got gigs, but Bay City crooks miss ya. I got court cases up to my neck. Besides, I met a hot lady named Missy. We’re spending time together so… ~
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~Dear Starsk,
I know what you mean. I’ve got ladies lining up here in Columbus for autographs, would you believe it? I'm making BIG money now! Getting ready to sign a contract. Lots of offers. You’d like this stuff. You could even sing with me now and then, or play guitar. It’d be fun. How do you like the demo I sent you? I wrote that song just for you, partner!~
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Starsky loved the demo. He turned the tape up full blast and sang along as he drove the streets of Bay City:
I know what I did wasn't fair
But I hope one day you'll see
I didn't just do it for me
I did it mostly for thee
At the crossroads of life
Where the road often bends
Choices don't always make sense
But I'll see you there again
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~Dear Blondie,
Nope. Columbus ain’t for me. But thanks for the demo. You sound good and the song just gets me where I live. And you're right. I'd make a good backup singer for you. Me and my new partner NotHutchBurke are kickin' ass~
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~Dirtball,
It's been too, too long. Your ma makes the best homemade bread and chicken soup. Starsk… I'm in trouble. Some drunk guys jumped me outside a gig. Broke my arm, couple of ribs. Can’t play for a while. Not sure I want to be a performer anymore. It's more dangerous than police work, ha, oh it hurts to laugh. Please come to Brooklyn. Help me figure this out~
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~Dear Hutch,
Tell Ma to make extra soup and bread for me. On my way~
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The end