Title: Thirty-Nine
Author: Paula Wilshe
Type: Slash
Summary: A trip to celebrate Hutch's birthday has an unexpected problem.
Notes: For Keri, with all my love.
Format: Story
Categories: Committed Relationship, Hutch H/C
Rating: PG
Size: 25K
Date Added: 2002-11-23
Thirty-Nine
by Paula Wilshe
Ken Hutchinson paused in the bedroom doorway, a contented smile tugging at his lips. A rustle and a sigh from the depths of the bedcovers brought his grin to radiant bloom, and he moved quietly closer to the bed. Reaching down, he gently pulled up the wayward sheet and blanket, tucking them carefully around the object of his affection: his partner, his friend, his lover, his life.
He moved his hand then, touching the dark splay of curls, but just barely, wishing to do nothing that might disturb the rest of the slumberer, and indeed even at the hint of touch, Starsky only burrowed deeper amongst pillow and comforter, sighing again, in perfect repose. Hutch felt his own heart swell with love.
It was only natural, Hutch told himself, that he was feeling reflective this morning. Birthdays were the time for that, weren't they? And today he was thirty-nine. Thirty-nine. Entering his fortieth year, one step from a definitive milestone that once might have been unsettling, yet now seemed only one more reason for which to feel gratitude.
He remembered back to his thirty-sixth birthday, how he'd awakened with a feeling of dread that his life was nearly half over and he had not made any difference, any impact upon the world. He remembered that when Starsky had called merrily to wish him well, and to finalize plans for their celebratory evening out, he'd been grouchy and ungrateful and snappish. He wasn't angry with Starsky, of course, and Starsky knew that well. He was angry with himself, with the world around him, with humanity, futility, frailty, and life as he knew it. Burned out, he thought now, although he'd been too far into himself to recognize the symptoms at the time.
He still found it amazing that Starsky hadn't jumped right in the Torino, raced over, and punched him in the mouth. No one had ever known how to handle him better than Starsky. Shit, half the time, Starsky understood him better than he understood himself.
What a difference three years could make.
Hutch had floundered through nearly ten months, moving blindly from case to case, reeling, out of control, which frightened him more than almost anything he had ever encountered in his life. He grew tired of hearing hushed wisps of conversation, What's with Hutchinson? --And he almost convinced himself that it was the rest of the world tilting and not he.
Starsky knew, mostly, although he didn't quite understand. Hutch could see that in his eyes, in his tentative overtures, treading lightly. He hated himself, but he couldn't seem to stop it, and truth to tell, made things worse. Starsky wasn't hurt, exactly, as partners and friends they were far beyond feeling slights of that nature, but he was understandably concerned, and for some reason that pissed Hutch off even more.
Until the day the world stopped.
A few gunshots on a warm May morning changed everything about Hutch's life, that which had gone before, and everything that would come after. Later, as he tried to put it all into perspective, he realized that the feeling of burned out desperation had left him the very moment he'd thrown himself around the end of the car and had seen Starsky lying there bleeding. It was almost as if...as if the very thing he had been dreading had happened...and he did not need to fear it any longer.
He still wondered about that sometimes.
It was, of course, instantaneously replaced a hundredfold with sheer, helpless terror, which did not leave him until the day that Starsky woke up, and did not vanish entirely until the day he brought Starsky home.
And now, he thought with satisfaction, and now.
Starsky's recovery had brought everything down to a base level, for both men. Every veneer, every defense, every pretense was stripped away, until it was just the two of them, working their way back out into the world. Side by side they coped diligently, slowly, carefully, and as the physical healing began to fall into place, the two began to tackle the greater emotional impact they had experienced as one.
Suddenly things had clarified for both of them. They were the world to one another, always had been, always would be. All that was left to explore and to celebrate was the physical manifestation--which they did with great care, greater joy, and little hesitation. Because the progression had been so gradual, nearly ten years in the making, the exact moment of revelation was nearly indistinguishable in the continuum.
But anti-climactic? Not on your life, thought Hutch smugly.
Hutch tore himself away from his other half, and padded back to the kitchen. His birthday, his choice, and the two had once again borrowed Captain Dobey's cabin at Pine Lake for three days. It was a birthday tradition the two had observed for years, and since their birthdays were five months apart, it ensured that they would have at least two brief mini-vacations each year, without fail.
This year Starsky had insisted upon spending his three-day weekend up north in Gilroy, and Hutch shook his head as he remembered the previous March. He had never seen anyone as enthusiastic about garlic in his whole life, but the weekend had been undeniably terrific--fun, relaxing, and had supplied him with enough ammo to tease Starsky for years to come. And they both knew a lot about garlic now, should it ever come up in casual conversation.
Hutch poured a large mug of coffee and looked around for his sneakers. It was going to be a gorgeous day, warm enough for shorts, although the early morning held the chill of the mountains' autumn that they would never see down in the city. He pulled a sweatshirt over his head, mussing his hair, and not caring, then balancing coffee and his book, headed outside to find a quiet place to enjoy the early morning sunshine.
Choosing a likely spot about halfway around the lake, Hutch shaded his eyes from the brightness, and considered his options. There was half of an old dock, worn and splintered, although it appeared to be anchored well. When Hutch tested it tentatively with his foot, however, in bounced just enough to persuade him that should he choose to perch there, he might be swimming before the day was hot enough to warrant it.
Fair enough.
Looking around and down and up, he decided against the damp ground, and scrambled into the arms of a gnarled oak tree whose branches hung languidly above the water. Finding sturdy footholds, good enough to balance the coffee in one hand, and the book in his teeth, with a few steps and tugs he found himself cradled against the trunk, tickled by cool green leaves, and a branch that was big enough to straddle comfortably.
He settled back with a sigh of utter joy, and closed his eyes as the breeze ruffled through his hair, rippled across the water, pushed the clouds across the sky. It smelled clean and fresh and invigorating, just one more reason to firmly believe that this birthday just might be the start to the best year of his life.
Hutch wondered idly if Starsky was waking up yet, but a quick glance at his watch told him that it was still not quite seven--which, on a day off, made the possibility highly unlikely. Just as well, Hutch considered, with a lascivious grin, Starsk might need the energy later. He yawned and stretched and shifted on the branch. As he leaned back, the coffee cup began to slip out of his fingers, and reflexively he tried to catch it. The awkward movement heralded a crack that sounded like a gunshot, but before Hutch had time to register the sound, his only awareness was that he was falling, fast, hard, hurt....
~*~*~*~
Starsky rolled over languidly, his body thrumming with sleep, and he knew without opening his eyes that Hutch was no longer on his side of the bed. Liquid golden sunlight poured through the window, and even through eyelids that he tried to squeeze shut, it was loud enough to let him know that he wouldn't be falling back to sleep. He hung a wrist in front of his face, and squinted balefully at his watch. Seven a.m. Ridiculous.
On the other hand, he realized, as he slowly came to wakefulness, it was Hutch's birthday. Smiling at the sunlight, which had seemed intrusive only a moment before, he was glad that Hutch's day was going to be so beautiful. He shrugged his way out of the covers and stretched, pulling on the pair of shorts he had dropped on the floor the evening before.
He was unsurprised to find that Hutch was not in the cabin--indeed he would have been stunned to find his partner inside the darker dwelling on such a bright morning. He heard several cracks and a thud and a splash from outside and smiled, knowing that Hutch was probably splitting logs for the fireplace and had lost another one to Pine Lake.
But then he heard something. A faint--was it a call? A bird? An animal? Hutch?
He tore out of the cabin and down the steps, scanning the lake in front of him quickly, but seeing no sign of his tow-headed partner. He winced as his heel came down hard on a sharp stone, wishing he'd thought to grab shoes before he'd dashed outside. A hundred feet down the path beside the lake, his heart nearly stopped as he caught sight of Hutch hanging on to the old broken dock with one hand, clearly compromised, long wet bangs hanging over his face.
Without hesitation, Starsky crashed into the water, legs churning and arms pushing aside great gobs of lake as he thrust himself into deeper water and began to swim toward Hutch. He reached the end of the dock just as Hutch let go, and grabbed him under the armpit just before he went under. Holding him up, Starsky pushed the wet hair out of his face, than ran a hand across his own forehead to move dripping curls so he could see.
"What the hell happened?" he gasped breathlessly.
"F-fell," Hutch hissed, clinging to Starsky with all his might.
"Off the dock?"
"No, tree," Hutch sucked in a deep breath and held it.
"Tree? What tree?" Starsky's free hand came up and ran quickly and clinically through Hutch's wet hair, looking for lumps or bumps that might explain disorientation. "You hit your head?"
"No," Hutch let the breath out slowly. "The tree, up there." He nodded toward the oak. "I climbed it...branch broke, and I..." His teeth began to chatter, although Starsky felt momentarily reassured that he was, indeed, oriented if not alert.
Noting the shivers, Starsky pulled them up against the dock. "...Get you out of here," he promised, his voice strained as he tried to get a better grip on Hutch. Slowly he moved them both back toward the place where the dock was still sturdy, then moved one hand to the back of Hutch's shorts in order to hoist him up. Hutch placed one hand on the dock and tried to help, although his effort was minimal.
Once the two were sprawled soaked and heaving on the warm, weathered wood, Starsky scrambled up and hovered over the blond, scanning with eyes and hands and intuition for damage. He stopped short as he caught sight of a jagged laceration, mid-thigh, which oozed blood that, mixing with lake-water, dripped down from the wound.
Hutch reached a hand down toward his leg, instinctively, and Starsky grabbed hold of his wrist to keep him from touching it. "Hang on, partner, you've got a pretty good cut down here."
Hutch sat up slowly, pulling his wrist away from Starsky and placing his hands on either side of the leg, pushing to squeeze away the pain, although his effort resulted only in forcing the blood to flow more quickly. Hutch looked down for a moment and, as the color slowly drained from his face, bit his lower lip to keep from crying out or passing out, whichever came first.
"It looks like a stab wound, Hutch," Starsky said, hoping to keep his own stomach under control. "Did somebody--?"
"Nnn...." Hutch shook his head. "It was...I think...from the...wood, from the dock, where it's..." He blinked at Starsky. "It felt like a knife though," and he began to shiver in earnest. "I thought it was still in there," he added.
"No," Starsky answered, putting an arm around him, "nothing there, but we do need to clean this out and you're going to need stitches."
Hutch sucked in a great gulp of air and held it as the pain tore through his thigh. "Well, shit," he said, voice reed thin. He bit his lip again. "Shit."
"Let's get you up, then," Starsky said briskly. He stood, then bracing himself, reached down to help Hutch to his feet. "Do you think you can walk?"
"Yeah," Hutch said, leaning on him as he struggled to get himself upright. "No," he amended, as his knees buckled, and he found himself sitting back on the dock. "I'm sorry," he said, shivering again, "Give me a minute, okay?" He leaned his head down against Starsky's arm.
"Not a problem," Starsky responded easily. "I got you covered." He leaned down, and in one fluid motion, had scooped Hutch up into his arms, one hand under his bent knees, the other supporting the long back.
Hutch's arm flew instinctively around Starsky's neck, even as he gave voice to his protest. "No, Starss, too heavy..."
"Just shut up." Starsky grinned at him, "When you breathe hard it makes you heavier."
Indeed, the weight as great as his own felt nearly feather light as Starsky carefully trod the path back to the cabin. He was mindful of stones and debris in the path, afraid that he'd drop Hutch should he encounter another sharp jolt to his already bruised heel. Huffing, he eased Hutch down on the steps of the cabin, then hovered over him protectively.
Hutch hunched forward, hands on either side of the injured leg, as his body was wracked with chills in earnest.
"Don't move," Starsky told him firmly, as he raced up the steps and into the cabin. Shedding his own wet shorts as he moved, he quickly gathered a sweatshirt, dry shorts, a towel, and a blanket for his partner, and paused for ten seconds to pull on a pair of his own dry jeans and a tee shirt. "Y'okay, Hutch?" he called through the screen door as he fumbled with the laces on his sneakers. He rummaged through the first aid kit, pulling out a sterile gauze pad, and a roll of gauze wrap, then called out again. "Hutch? Y'okay?"
"Yeah," Hutch returned, although his tone was unconvincing.
Starsky pocketed the car keys, which he'd tossed on the table the evening before, and moved quickly back out to the porch. He crouched down next to Hutch and wrapped an arm around the sodden shoulder, giving a quick hug of reassurance. He leaned over and placed a light kiss on Hutch's' temple. "You ready to get going, huh?"
"Going," Hutch repeated, uncomprehending.
"Going," Starsky confirmed. "Mountainview Hospital has an ER, right?"
"Ohhhh," Hutch nodded slightly. "Yeah, I guess we do—I think they have one, didn't we—" he stopped and hissed slightly as the wound throbbed. "—were there a couple of years ago, weren't we?"
"Yeah, we sure were," Starsky spoke as he worked, gently tugging the soaking sweatshirt up and off Hutch's chilled frame. He rubbed Hutch's back and shoulders briskly with the clean towel he had brought, then carefully eased the dry shirt over Hutch's head. Hutch moved slowly, but was able to put his own arms into the sleeves, and pull the warm covering down over his chest and back.
Starsky picked up the blanket and draped it around Hutch's shoulders, then, and Hutch gratefully clutched it closed. "Thank you," he breathed.
Starsky used the dry edges of the towel to work at the drips and tracks of blood that were smeared all over Hutch's leg. He refrained from trying to put pressure on the wound, it wasn't spurting by any stretch of the imagination, and he was afraid that he might increase the risk of infection by using anything other than sterile cloths or wipes. When he had cleaned the area as much as he dared, he pressed the gauze 4 x 4 against Hutch's thigh with his thumbs. Hutch inhaled sharply, but did not speak. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Starsky soothed.
He reached for the roll of bandaging and, holding the dressing in place with one hand, began to wrap the bandage around and around until it held the pad securely. His eyes flicked up to assess Hutch's pale face. "You still with me, birthday boy?" he asked.
Hutch smiled wanly, eyes closed. "Yes, I'm here."
"Good. You wanna have a slice of cake before we go?" He reached up and feathered Hutch's hair back with gentle fingers.
Hutch managed a slight smile. "Not unless you want me to throw up in your car," he answered.
"Speaking of which," Starsky teased, "you aren't getting in there with wet shorts either. I love you, but not that much. I brought dry ones out. You think we can get you changed?"
Hutch's head came up and his face flushed bright pink. "Out here?"
"Why not?"
"Because...well...because...." Hutch gestured to the front and side.
"Hutch," Starsky offered fondly, oddly touched by his partner's modesty, "who's gonna see you? A rabbit, maybe? There's no one else up here, come on."
Hutch gripped the railing tightly and, with Starsky's help, was able to stand. "It feels better now that it's wrapped," he said tightly.
"I'm sure it does," Starsky answered, easing Hutch's shorts down so that he could step out of them, then holding out the dry pair and pulling them up carefully over the dressings. "Sometimes I think it's just the thought of it that makes you feel weird, never mind how much it hurts."
"Yeah," Hutch agreed. "I can walk this time," he said, his voice a bit firmer.
Starsky picked up Hutch's arm and draped it across his own shoulder, then wrapped a supportive arm around Hutch's waist. "We'll go slow," he cautioned, "and we won't hop, just in case the rabbits are still watching."
~*~*~*~
"Lean forward a little bit," Starsky urged, and when Hutch complied, he tucked an extra pillow behind his back. He lifted Hutch's heavily bandaged leg carefully, and slipped another pillow just under his knee, gentling the leg back down, and patting Hutch's stomach lightly when he was through. "How's that feel?" he asked.
Hutch smiled up at him drowsily. "Better than you will ever know," he answered.
"Good. You still cold?"
"A little," Hutch admitted, and Starsky took that as his cue to pull up and tuck bedclothes with great care and affection. Hutch regarded him somberly. "Do you have any idea how much I love you?" he asked.
Flushing, Starsky covered with a joke. "I'll bet you say that to all the boys," he teased.
"Oh, no," Hutch said emphatically, "only the ones who take me to bed and cater to my every whim."
"Well, partner," Starsky offered with a laugh, "unless your every whim includes a light diet and a bunch of medications, you're pretty much out of luck."
"Terrific," muttered the blond. He crossed his arms over his chest and feigned a pout. "But I'm really hungry, I want regular food, not light food." He looked up through his eyelashes, a gesture he knew would usually garner the desired response from Starsky.
Starsky leaned over and placed a light kiss over each eye. "That's not gonna work on me today, Hutch, sorry. You puked your guts out in the ER, and you nearly threw up in my car both going and coming. I'm real firm on this one."
"It was just from the--fine," Hutch sighed. "But I really am hungry."
"Let's do this," Starsky offered, "let's have a real easy lunch and see how it goes. As long as it stays down, we'll go with our original plan for dinner, how's that sound?"
Hutch considered for a moment. "And cake," he said. "You never made me your mom's apple cinnamon cake before yesterday, and I want to have some before it gets stale."
"Deal." Starsky reached down and smoothed the bangs off Hutch's forehead, then closed his eyes for a moment.
"What are you doing?" Hutch asked curiously.
"Savoring."
"Saving what?"
"Savoring, Blondie. The moment," Starsky explained.
"Which one," Hutch asked. "We've had so many to choose from this morning."
"Ah, this one," Starsky told him, a grin lighting up his features. "This one," he repeated in a softer voice.
Hutch looked around him. "I'm in bed," he pointed out, "my leg is on fire, but I'm still freezing, in addition to which, I'm starving and," he picked up Starsky's hand and kissed the knuckles it to soften his words, "you won't feed me. I ask again. What's to savor?"
"Every single second that we're together and happy and relatively well," Starsky told him sincerely. He pointed to Hutch's leg. "That will heal," he said, "and we're here, away from home, and we'll have a beautiful, afternoon and evening together." he looked quickly at Hutch, "A quiet afternoon and evening," he emphasized, "and I'm going to savor every single second."
Hutch rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn. "Well," he acquiesced, "if you put it that way.... okay."
"You want lunch now?" Starsky asked him. "Or are you more tired than hungry?"
"It's a toss up, but," Hutch mumbled around a wide yawn, "all of a sudden I can't keep my eyes open."
"Then sleep," Starsky told him, "and I'll have lunch ready when you get up."
"That sounds good," Hutch murmured, scrunching into the covers. "And cake, I want the cake," he reminded his partner. "Did you remember to get candles?" he asked, opening one eye.
"No, shit, damn it, I forgot," Starsky answered. "Shit."
"Duzzn't matter," Hutch closed the open eye. "'S the cake that matters...not thirty-nine candles that're gonna set the cabin on fire...." he nestled his head to the side, pulling the blankets up over one cheek.
Starsky patted him lightly. "That's true," he agreed. "Hey, Hutch?"
"Mm?"
"You never did tell me how many stitches you got."
"Whassit matter?"
"It matters," Starsky insisted. "It could be our lucky number from now on, or...."
"Thought our lucky number was two," Hutch broke in.
"Yeah, but if we play the lottery or something, we might need more than one lucky number. So, what is it?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Hutch answered around a yawn.
"Aw, come on, Hutch," Starsky cajoled. "If you don't tell me I'll hold back the presents."
"Presents?" A smile tugged at the corner of Hutch's mouth.
"Yeah. Quiet ones." Starsky squeezed his shoulder. "Now, come on, how many?"
Hutch opened both eyes and blinked at Starsky seriously. "Thirty-nine," he said.
"Thirty-nine?"
"Thirty-nine."
"Thirty nine stitches on your thirty ninth—oh, man...." Starsky faked a shiver. "That's just creepy, Hutch."
"C'n I go to sleep now?" Hutch asked him.
"Yeah, sure," Starsky said, quickly backing toward the door. "I'll just, uh, you know, start lunch."
Once the door was closed and Hutch was alone, a smile of contentment bathed his face, lightening the lines of pain, smoothing the stress from his features. Not the way we'd planned the day, he thought, but he's right. Could have been worse, and I couldn't feel safer, couldn't feel more loved, more cared about, happier.
We both have someone we can depend on, someone to carry the world for us when we can't, and there's a hell of a lot of security in that.
Suddenly Hutch's eyes flew open and he blinked several times, then pushed himself up on an elbow. "Starsky? Starsky!" he yelled. "You didn't—did you—carry me up from the lake?"
Starsky appeared in the doorway, puzzled. "Yes. Why? You don't remember?"
"I—" Hutch rubbed his forehead. "I think I forgot." He sat up higher. "How'd you do that?" he asked, "I'm bigger than you."
Starsky flexed his neck and back muscles as if they ached terribly. "Why do you think I suggested a light lunch, dummy?" he asked, grinning.
Hutch regarded him accusingly for a moment, then lay back against the cool sheets once more, and closed his eyes, the cloud of bliss and serenity washing over him once more.
Thirty-nine. It sounded like heaven.
The End
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