SquidgeWorld Archive

writer's note: this is a missing scene from Shootout.
It assumes that an hour of serious bleeding and two gunshot wounds
are nothing to sneeze at.
-molo

Hanging On by Morgan Logan (logan117666@yahoo.com) The rain pattered against the office window; a depressing, plaintive sound. Detective Kenneth Hutchinson sat on the floor, leaning against the old brown couch, his eyes focused on nothing, waiting. Outside the office, a babble of hysterical voices blended into meaningless chaos. Sticky, warm wetness against his palm brought him back from his thoughts; he pressed more firmly on the cloth-covered flesh beneath his hand, wincing when he heard a soft moan. "Hang on, partner. Please, just hang on," Hutch whispered. Only the rain replied. ~ ~ ~ In the hospital, the night hush was broken by the sound of arcane machines beeping softly in a dissonant concert. Hutch checked the time. Fifteen minutes remained until his next window of opportunity. He sighed and shifted in the uncomfortable seat. Looking down, he noticed he was rubbing his hands together. They were still stained brownish-red, with startling cracks of white where the creases broke the skin. In the flurry of their arrival, the shouted instructions, the urgent bustle of activity, there had been no time to worry about one man standing like a shadow against the wall of the corridor; his trembling, dirty hands clenched together and his pale blue eyes intent on the center of all the activity. Later, they had tried to get him to attend to himself, drink something, sit down; but he was a mute wooden statue, not easily moved. He was finally dragged by his captain to where he sat now, staring at his dirty hands. He sighed, again, and rose to find a bathroom. In the harsh florescent light his face looked almost green; eyes shot with red and lids swollen tight. His lips were bloodless and tense. He looked down and rinsed his hands. The dark color spattered the white porcelain before dissolving under the water. He rolled up the stiffened sleeves and lowered his forearms under the flow, then he dried his hands. At 2:55 a.m. on the dot, Hutch rose to drift down the hallway to the ICU. There, the doors were fastened open so as not to interfere with the busy activities of saving lives; or, at least, of monitoring the progress of their decay. There had already been one code blue in the room next door. He had heard the desperate activity; the chorus of terse voices methodically outlining every attempted measure. Until the defeat. The noise gradually lessened as the dedicated professionals abandoned their failure. Then all was still. He had listened, his heart thundering in his chest, breath shallow and rapid, as if this were a deadly fight in some dark alley where the enemy had the high ground and Hutch was running low on ammo. He turned to stare at the monitor and the reassuring jagged marker of a heart still beating. This one thing he had fought for, in that savage hour between eleven and midnight. And won. He drew a deep breath and felt his pulse start to slow. A nurse came in and brushed him away. He went unwillingly, taking a long look back for an imprint, a mental snapshot in case this visit was to be the last. Each visit could be the last. He walked with slow steps back to the waiting area. ~ ~ ~ Six a.m. found Hutch collapsed in the visitor's lounge. It was further from the ICU than the waiting area, but with more comfortable seating, including a set of three armless chairs bolted together to form a sofa, of sorts. Hutch had tucked his jacket under his head and was lying on his right side. On his back, he would have been too long for the makeshift bed; and on his left was the lump of his Magnum, a reassuring weight but an uncomfortable cushion. Hutch was dreaming. A giant device constructed of large wooden cogs and thick steel chains stood before him. A great lever jutted out from the contraption, and Hutch knew if he laid his hand on it, the wheels would groan and start turning ponderously, and Hutch would be bound to the machine; responsible for cranking it and keeping it turning forever. He feared being crushed by the huge, jagged wheels in their inexorable motion. But the choice was already made; he grasped the lever and pulled. He awoke with gritty eyes and a dry mouth. He panicked and looked at the clock. 6:55 a.m. Time for another visit. At this hour, there was more activity as shifts changed and surgeries began. Hutch was almost anonymous as he slipped past the nurses' station to the room. As always, upon first sight, he felt a tremendous relief; something within him not believing that the worst hadn't happened in his absence, even though the nurses knew where to find him, in case.... But, no, everything was fine, or as it could be under the circumstances. He ghosted up to the bed, cautious not to disturb precious, healing sleep. He stood, but did not touch; he never touched, fearful of upsetting some careful balance, some deal he had unconsciously made but was now determined to honor. He just stood. And watched; the slow rising and falling, the occasional twitch of a limb. And he listened; to deep, painful breaths and semi-audible sighs; to the clicking and humming of helpful machines. And he waited. His gut churned from too little food and too much coffee; his back ached from the odd sleeping position and the constant sitting. His head throbbed, his clothing was dirty and his skin itched; a catalog of irritants that were all utterly inconsequential next to the persistent painful pressure in his throat; a tightness born of the effort of damming the flood of dread, rage, fear and grief that threatened to burst forth. And always, beneath it all spoke the small, pleading voice that had endlessly repeated itself since this nightmare began. Hang on, partner. Please, just hang on. A subtle change made him lift his weary head from where he stooped over the bed railing. He focused on two deep blue eyes gazing at him groggily. Starsky was awake. "Hey, Hutch. How you doin'?" he rasped. Hutch smiled, his eyes bright, and swallowed back the flood. "Oh, I'm hanging on, partner. Hanging on." finis ~ ~ ~

Nominated for a 2004 Torino Award for "Outstanding Missing Scene/Epilogue" by the Bay City Library

note: I set myself the assignment of only using Starsky's name once, and only using a few lines of dialog. the result: Starsky became the black hole, the strange attractor around which Hutch orbits. -morgan