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‘No way,’ Starsky says, his voice ghost-quiet. ‘Don’t you dare, Hutch, don’t you dare even think about it, not while I’m stood right here.’
Hutch’s face contorts as he says it. It’s not what they do, facing the dark alone. They’re meant to go together, everybody knows that. Not like this.
Hutch is sitting in his greenhouse with his elbows propped on his bent knees, surrounded by life, looking at death. The long barrel of his Magnum is turned about in his own hands, pointing dead between the eyes. Thumbs on the trigger. Set.
Starsky’s never hesitated once in his whole life but right now, he’s soundless and still. Knew it would be bad this time. Not this bad.
He eyes the whisky bottle at Hutch’s foot: half empty, half full. The sweat on his partner’s brow, sticking his overlong hair to his forehead. Everything about him weary, from eyebags to overgrown moustache to some dumb bowling shirt that’s not even clean.
Hutch has been sinking for a long time.
Starsky’s mostly gotten silently mad at him. He sure as hell didn’t fight back. What the hell was he thinking, huh? That Hutch was gonna figure out how to climb out of the hole on his own? That’s not how Hutch works. You have to let him think he’s doing it all by himself, but nudge him along. Like with Van. Like with Kira. His instincts are for shit, but you let him make the mistake and then be there, after. So long as you’re there after, he’ll get there.
Hutch takes a shaky breath, then hefts the gun with his right hand and places the barrel to his temple.
‘I said don’t you dare,’ Starsky tells him.
Hutch doesn’t hear him.
Starsky’s not there to be heard.
‘Sorry, Starsk,’ Hutch whispers, as he closes his eyes and tightens his grip.