Warnings:
Please jump to the bottom of the story if you feel the need to be warned for specific topics.

For Verlaine

A Special Gift

By Tina

Four months ago

"Are you nervous?"

"No, not really."

Hutch took another look around. All these rooms looked the same. A few pictures on the walls, a small desk with an overhead cabinet, a standing weight scale, and one exam table — draped in that worthless, thin wrapping paper. He had to admit, though, a short time ago when Starsky sat there clad only in a paper gown, Hutch had entertained several scenarios which involved him acting like a five year old tearing into his first present under the Christmas tree.

But as he and his fully-dressed partner sat waiting for Starsky's doctor to return, all thoughts of holidays and presents had completely disappeared. Evidently tired of bumping his heels against the side of the table, Starsky sighed noisily and lay down on his back. Within a few seconds, his feet followed as he perched the pair of recently bought Adidas on the last bit of unoccupied surface.

"I think I know what getting a pap smear feels like, Hutch."

"You probably shouldn't let any women hear you say that, or you might really experience something that isn't pleasant." Hutch cringed a bit at that last comment. As the time kept dragging on, he became more convinced they were awaiting dismal news.

"You got any plans after we get out of here?" Hutch asked, trying to ease his mind.

"Not anything in particular. You?"

"I thought we might head down to the pier, maybe take a long walk around the beach."

"You're thinking he's gonna say the same thing…"

Hutch tried to make eye contact, but Starsky kept staring at the ceiling. Resigning his thoughts to what seemed like the inevitable, Hutch replied, "Well, he is taking his fuckin' time. I bet he's out there trying to see three other patients. But, maybe he's late because of another reason."

"My, you're being exceptionally optimistic there, partner."

"And you're not worried about what he might say?"

Starsky stayed silent for a while, then said, "Would it make any difference?"

"…what?"

He rolled his head to the side and looked at Hutch. "How I'm feeling isn't gonna make any difference in what he's going to tell me."

Just then, the door opened. Starsky sat up on the table as Doctor Jennings came into the room.

"Sorry that took so long," he began, "but I was trying to verify your test results."

"So, what's the verdict?" Starsky calmly asked.

Jennings glanced at Hutch, then addressed his patient. "I'm sorry, David, but the all the tests came back conclusive. Your symptoms can be controlled for a while, but eventually you'll need to be hospitalized…"

"How long before then?"

"Well, it's hard to tell. Everyone responds differently—"

"Look, doc, everyone doesn't have what I've got. How long?"

"A few months…maybe longer."

Hutch sat frozen in his seat, all of his attention focused on Starsky. If their places were reversed, Hutch doubted if he could sit there so stoically and think of things to ask. His eyes suddenly met with Starsky's. Surprisingly, there was no fear in his friend's expression, only what could be described as calm determination.

"Can he get it?" Starsky asked, nodding at Hutch.

"I…don't think I know what you're asking," Jennings said hesitantly.

"I think you do, but let me put it into something simpler. We're lovers, so if I fuck him or he fucks me, can he get it?"

"Oh, Starsky…" Hutch muttered quietly, embarrassed only by his partner's choice of words.

"No, it can't be spread by sexual contact."

"Well, at least that's good news, huh, buddy?"

Hutch looked up, not quite recovered from Starsky's previous question. "Yeah, real good news," he mumbled, totally unable to even glance at the doctor now.

Jennings opened the file he was holding and handed Starsky a few prescription slips. "These should keep you comfortable, just remember to drink plenty of fluids and make sure you get enough rest."

"And eat all of my vegetables, right?"

"I'm glad your sense of humor is strong. Not many people have that going for them." Jennings pulled a pen out of his pocket and scribbled some numbers down on a note pad. "I'm sure you have the phone number here at the office, but I'm giving you the number for my call service. If there's anything you need, twenty-four hours a day, just call that number and they'll get a hold of me."

Starsky took the paper and after folding it, stuck the note in his pants pocket. "Thanks, doc," he said humbly.

Jennings offered his hand to Starsky. "I'd like to see you back in a couple of weeks, see how you're doing on that medication."

Shaking the offered hand, Starsky said, "Sure, if I'm not out climbing Mount Everest or something."

Jennings smiled. "Take care of yourself, David." Turning to Hutch, the doctor shook his hand, also. "Try to keep him from doing anything too crazy, all right?"

"I'll try, doctor, but I can't guarantee it."

Present Day

Hutch dashed out of the bathroom. The fact that he still had a face full of shaving cream didn't matter. Reaching the kitchen, he quickly saw the source of the noise he'd heard. A broken glass of orange juice lay on the floor with Starsky gazing at the mess from his tenuous, half-seated position on a chair by the kitchen table.

As Hutch came closer, Starsky lifted his head, looking like a lost child.

"What happened?" Hutch asked, as he bent down to pick up some of the larger pieces.

"I don't know, I think maybe I blacked out or something."

"Do you feel sick?" Hutch studied his lover's face more closely, but considering Starsky's present condition, he didn't look too pale.

"No, more like really dizzy."

Hutch quickly placed the glass pieces on the table and stepped over the puddle on the tiled floor. Reaching Starsky's side, he put his hand on the brunet's forehead.

"You don't feel warm," he said. Keeping one hand on Starsky's shoulder, Hutch knelt in front of him. "How's your vision?"

"You want the truth, or just a good answer?"

The lop-sided grin made Hutch smile, but the blank stare in his partner's eyes was all the response he needed.

"C'mon, let me help get you back to bed."

"Hutch," Starsky moaned, "I've been in bed since yesterday. I'm tired of being in that damned room."

"You didn't seem too sick of it a couple of nights ago."

"And you didn't have a face full of shaving cream either. Honestly, Hutch, you look like some blond, psycho Santa Claus."

"Oh, I do, do I?" Hutch reached over and grabbed a towel lying on the counter. After wiping his face, he asked, "I look any better, now?"

"Naw, just fuzzy."

"You mean 'furry?'"

"No…"

Hutch recognized the edge in Starsky's voice. "All right, I think you'd feel better if you lie down. How about the couch, instead?"

"Fine."

Threading an arm around Starsky's back, Hutch helped him stand and navigate around the puddle and into the living room. Over the last few months, Starsky's sense of balance, along with his weight, had slowly diminished. The leaner body made it easier for Hutch to handle him, but harder to accept the fact that Starsky was losing his fight to stay alive. He guided Starsky onto the couch and let him get settled.

Hutch returned to the kitchen and cleaned up the spilled juice. He made sure that he hadn't missed any stray shards and then filled another glass to take back to the couch.

He nudged his butt onto a small ledge of cushion by Starsky's thigh and tried to place the glass into his friend's hand.

"I'm not thirsty," Starsky said, and laid an arm across his forehead.

"You gettin' another headache?"

Starsky barely nodded his head.

"Bad?"

Another slight nod.

"I'll go get your pills—"

"Hutch, don't bother," he muttered.

"Starsk, you've gotta take them."

"No. Please? Just give me a few."

"Okay, babe."

Hutch knew Starsky meant time, not medicine, so he left the glass on the coffee table and decided to finish his shaving. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, Hutch tried to ease the razor around his chin, but he couldn't fight the emotion anymore. Dropping the razor, he leaned against the sink and let the tears flow freely. He stifled each sob so that Starsky couldn't hear through the opened door. Every symptom the doctor had warned them about was now showing up. Headaches, nausea, blurry vision…coma, death. The last two were just waiting for their inevitable arrival.

He thought back to all the days they'd been given since Starsky was diagnosed. Each one had been filled with as much life as they could cram in, but it still wasn't enough. Hutch wasn't any closer to being able to say goodbye to his best friend than he was four months ago. If he could only find something tangible to lash out at, something specific that was responsible for this nightmare. But the enemy he sought was in Starsky, manifesting and growing, and he couldn't harm a thing in that beautiful soul.

The only other responsible entity he could wage war against was equally as elusive. God, a Higher Power, the Divine Being — whatever people called him by — didn't seem to be around.

Hutch spent countless hours pleading and begging, which had all deteriorated into cussing and swearing at the Almighty, but to no avail. From his knowledge of religion reaped from attending countless Sunday school classes, Hutch realized that prayers weren't always answered…at least not in the way expected. Despite that, he felt the real reason was God just didn't have time for sinners. No, strike that. God didn't have time for homosexuals. So much for all that 'hate the sin, love the sinner' garbage. And by that reasoning, the statement of 'greater love hath no man have, than to lay his life down for another,' was just pure bullshit, too. Shaking his head, Hutch placed the razor back on his face. He'd have plenty of time to argue over why these things didn't make sense when Starsky…when he was gone.

Finally finished, Hutch quietly returned to the living room, not wanting to wake Starsky in case he'd fallen asleep. Standing a few feet from the couch, Hutch took in the peaceful look on his lover's face. With his eyes closed, and both arms resting on his chest, Starsky's hands were curled and tucked just under his chin. For a few moments, Hutch watched the rhythmic rise and fall of his partner's chest, marveling, as he always did, of the miracle that shared his life.

Deciding to search inside the refrigerator for something to prepare for lunch, Hutch headed for the kitchen, but stopped inexplicitly. He looked back at Starsky, and was suddenly struck with the urge to be at his side. As he found a spot wide enough to sit on, Hutch brushed his hand lightly across Starsky's head. Sleepy lids began to flutter, then opened, revealing tinges of crystal blue eyes.

"Hey, buddy. You doing okay?" Hutch asked, watching Starsky's eyelids flicker a few more times.

"Hutch? That you?"

"Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry I woke you. You go back to sleep, okay?"

"Hutch?"

Starsky's gaze seemed distant and unfocused, and Hutch wondered if he was having more vision problems again.

"I'm right here, babe. Can't you see me?"

A few more blinks, and then his Adam's apple bounced.

"I can't see anything," Starsky uttered painfully.

Hutch drew back, unable to think of what to say. He took hold of Starsky's hands, grasping them firmly.

"Hutch, I'm scared."

The words tore through him, heightening his own fear. Clearing his throat, Hutch said, "Maybe we should go to the emergency room."

"No. Please. I don't want to die in a stupid hospital," Starsky groaned.

"Starsky, you're not dying—" Hutch caught himself, "you're not going to die…not today. You hear me?"

Starsky started to smile, but it fell back into a worried frown. "Hold me," he said.

Hutch released his grasp, then leaned forward so he could gather his lover in his arms. Starsky pressed his hands against Hutch's chest.

"No, hold me down there," he begged.

Wanting to oblige, Hutch laid a hand on Starsky's stomach, then slipped it under the elastic waist band of his sweat pants. Finally locating his target, Hutch glided his hand around the soft shaft. He watched Starsky's eyes narrow as he tightened his grip, and using his fingers, started to massage the underside of the hardening penis.

Starsky's upper body jerked. "Oh, God…" he whispered with obvious pleasure as both thighs began to twitch.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Hutch said, "Babe, you sure you want me to keep going?"

Starsky swept his hand blindly across the top of Hutch's shoulder and rested it along the back of his neck. "Make me come, please?" he moaned, stroking the blond hair.

Compelled to finish, Hutch quickened his ministrations. He watched as an orgasmic wave built up and then flowed through his partner's body. Starsky's final climax produced a small spurt of cream and a short, but exhilarating shudder.

It was enough for Starsky to lay spent. Trying to catch his breath, he said, "That one…almost got me to heaven."

The humor in his words lost their appeal as areas of tightness developed on Starsky's face. Placing a hand on the pale forehead, Hutch said, "I think you need to take your pills, buddy."

Starsky lowered his hand onto Hutch's thigh, then moved it towards his groin. "You want me to do you?" he asked, ignoring the last comment.

Aside from Starsky getting well, that would've been the only thing Hutch wanted right then, but he couldn't allow selfishness to override well-meaning intentions.

Softly, he said, "All I want from you, I already have," then bent down and kissed Starsky's forehead, eyelids and finally, his mouth.

When Hutch leaned back, the look of content on his friend's face was priceless.

Seeing a grimace appear, Hutch cupped the side of Starsky's cheek with his hand. "Hey, no more fooling around," he said, fear starting to build inside him again. "You need to see a doctor."

"No," Starsky pleaded, darting unfocused eyes, "Just hold me…all of me."

Hutch enveloped Starsky in his arms, squeezing him as tightly as he dared. He felt one shudder, then a release of air, and finally…stillness.

Two weeks later, Hutch plodded through the rooms of his apartment. Everything that reminded him of Starsky had been carefully packed and put away, except for one framed picture of them standing on top of the Torino. Hutch kept that on his bedroom dresser. While he didn't need the picture to remind him of a different time, he felt it befitting that Starsky was the first thing he saw when he woke up and the last thing he thought about before he went to bed.

During the last several days, friends had come and visited. Some had stayed for hours; a few even stayed overnight, but tonight would be the first time Hutch had been alone for the entire day. He went into the kitchen and grabbed the now half-empty bottle of Scotch, taking it with him into the living room. He plopped down on the couch and scanned the room's perimeter. As he had done many times before, he imagined Starsky walking out of the bedroom, a sly grin on his face, or going into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers, then joining him on the couch to watch another mindless movie.

But that's all these were, just fleeting images of someone he loved. The blinking lights on the Christmas tree drew his attention. Tomorrow would be filled with trips to see Huggy and a Christmas day dinner at Dobey's, but for tonight, Hutch had only memories and a liquor bottle to keep him company.

As the hour approached midnight, Hutch weakly raised the bottle towards the tree in a vain attempt at a toast.

Before forcing one last gulp of alcohol down his throat, Hutch slurred out loud, "Here's to you, pal. Sorry I don't have the guts to join ya."

"Ah you big, blond dummy…what're you sayin'?"

Hutch instantly froze. Keeping his head still, he tracked his eyes left and right but didn't see anything. Slowly, he turned around and looked behind him and across the room. Nothing. He looked at the bottle's remaining contents and figured that maybe, for once, he had drunk too much.

"I guess it's time for the pink elephants to show up," he muttered.

"I hope you're not callin' me a pink elephant, are you?"

Hutch shot up, and immediately let go of the bottle, thinking nothing of it crashing to the floor.

"Starsky!? Is that you?"

"You know, for someone always claiming he was the brains of the outfit, you sure are losing your touch."

Turning around from side to side, Hutch yelled, "Starsky? Where are you!?"

"Here, Hutch. I'm right here."

Frustrated, he stumbled around the couch, still not seeing anything. "I can't see you!" he cried out.

"That's because I'm in your heart, exactly where I belong."

Hutch stopped and placed a hand on his chest. To his amazement, it felt very warm there.

"Oh, my God," he whispered out. "I've missed you, so much…" Hutch paused, feeling a buildup of tears.

"I know, I've missed you too, but you've got to quit thinkin' about joining me."

"Oh, God…you…you can hear my thoughts?"

"Sometimes. Just for once, though, listen to me, will you?"

Hutch felt himself smile, but he had to know one thing. "Starsk, are you okay?"

"I'm fine. But you've got to let me go."

Confused, he asked, "Why? I love you, Starsk…and it's lonely here without you."

"If you really love me, then you gotta let go — it's holding you back from doing what you're supposed to."

"Doing what?"

"That, you need to find out for yourself. Hutch, I can't stay any longer."

"No! Starsky, please. I can't take you being gone!"

"Hutch, when you think of me, am I smiling?"

"Yes, you're always smiling," Hutch recalled fondly.

Suddenly, everything felt still. Hutch pressed his hand harder against his chest, but the warmth had cooled down. The combination of alcohol and exhaustion quickly took their toll and he sagged down to the couch. The blinking lights on the Christmas tree drew his attention, and soon he became mesmerized by their hazy glow, made even more surreal through tear-filled eyes. He laid his head down, thinking about his earlier pleas to God, and couldn't help but realize how the most important one had just been answered.

"Thank you — I'm glad he's still being loved," he whispered, then quickly fell off to sleep.

"It's all about love, Hutch. Always has been, always will."

FIN

Warning: Character death. Back to top