Note: This is sort of a sidequel (as opposed to sequel) to A Lying Shame, which really needs to be read first in order to get the full impact of this story. Find it here:
http://leaningbirch.com/lyingshame.htm
Requiescat
by Rae 7/2007
Starsky never knew this, or probably he did and he never said nothing, but sometimes, when he was hurt, or hurtin, Huggy used his key and went to check up on him. Man needed watchin some days, no doubt about it.
Tomato outside, no Starsky inside. Trouble? You just never knew with Starsky. Trouble and him sorta always went hand in hand. Hand in hand in hand if you factored in the Ivory Tower.
Man needed help in the beer-buyin department too, for that matter. Rolling Rock? A&W? What kinda shit was that anyway. At least there was leftover pepperoni. He took the slice, leaving the empty pizza box in the fridge, and juggled a Rock open. One handed.
It's a gift, he
thought modestly. Ain't a bartender for nothing."
Starsky was reading some fat book about onions in a field. It lay spread-eagled on its belly in the middle of the sofa, and he glanced at the back cover, but he wasn't interested enough to see what it was about. He moved it off the couch and took its place, thought about looking for something a little more to his reading taste, but he wouldn't find it in that apartment. That he knew. He ate his pizza and leaned his head back on the couch, figuring he'd just wait a bit and see if the prodigal might return. And if not, whether he should go looking for him. He didn't stop to think why tonight he should consider doing that. Never had before. Dude took care of himself most days, and Hutch did the job when Starsky couldn't.
Or wouldn't.
'Cept tonight, if Starsky'd gone missing, chances were it was because of Hutch, and that's why Huggarini the Magnificent had decided to wait in the wings.
Bad shit all around, this Blaine thing. Probly was more or less doomed to it, living that way. Peter couldn't take all the sneakin and lyin, though. That's where it started: Peter bugged out on Blaine, and then that downward slide for the good detective. Captain John Blaine. Must have been hard on him, being a john, old Johnny. Nick Hunter could spot a john on the slide from a mile away, and Johnny'd been nine sheets to the wind, was the word on the street. An easy mark. Huggy got an image of Nick in his head. How easy it woulda been for him to nail down Blaine. Specially how he looked so much like Starsky. Huggy yanked himself away from that line of thinking. Was a one-way boulevard to Crazytown, thinkin like that.
So then, what's in a name—mark, dick, john, peter . . . He grinned at the thought. Lucky his name didn't have no connotations. He could thank his dear mama for that anyway. If he knew where to find her, that is. Thanks, mama, wherever you are now. He wondered if her life had turned out fine, or if she'd gone for a ride on that same slide into the depths, and what kind of name she'd ended up with. He hoped it had been something nice, like Sweet Alice.
He finished off his beer and set the bottle on a magazine. Some car magazine. Starsky be mad at the wet ring on the cover. Maybe the dude wouldn't notice. Other shit on his mind, etceterah.
How long did he feel like waiting, anyways? No knowing when Starsky'd come home, or if he'd be pleased to find Huggy on his couch. Not if he didn't come home alone, that's for sure. But how likely was that? Man in mourning, man in some serious deep shit mourning, and not just for the loss of his old friend, his old mentor. Looked like Hutch might have bought himself a transfer ticket, way he'd been talking, way his eyes'd been flashing. And Starsky'd be freakin about that, too. Unless he'd told Hutch . . . Jeeze, Starsky, tell him the fuckin' truth, and be done with it all. At least you'll be free. Just, just maybe not the whole truth 'f you get my drift, Starsky. But what would be the point of coming clean if you only washed some bits and left the other bits hidden—dark and dirty and still gnawing at the foundation like a big old rat. He looked at his hands.
He lied to my face, Huggy. I can take a lot of shit from Starsky, but lying? No. Why would he lie to me? If Starsky'd seen the look on Hutch's face at that moment, he'd have been spillin about every lie he'd ever told to anyone, or even thought about tellin.
But Hutch was right. Those two shouldn't be lyin about nothing. Not to each other.
Why would Starsky lie to you? He'd tried to put as much of a giveaway in his eyes as he could, but it wasn't enough. Hutch wasn't even looking up from his beer, so what good were all the sincere and deep looks Huggy could come up with if the man didn't see them. So he said, Think about it. And he'd walked off. He had other customers. Couldn't babysit Blondie all night.
But when he'd gone back to the bar to refill Hutch's glass, there was no Hutch. Also no beer. Also no money. Oh well. He knew where to find him, and sooner or later he'd get paid. One way or another.
He blinked. It was late, but he'd fixed it so he didn't have to close up at the Pits, so maybe he'd just catch some zees . . . He settled himself with his legs sprawling, hands clasped on his belly like he was holding flowers, and maybe that's how he'd look someday . . . and . . .
"Huggy," Starsky said.
"I'm awake," Huggy said. And grinned, because he wasn't very.
"Sure you are." Starsky grinned back, but it was the tiredest grin Huggy'd seen in a long time. "What are you doing here? It's . . ." He peered at his watch. "It's late."
"Waiting for you. Thought I'd just see if you was okay."
Starsky looked down at his feet, and then nodded his head like he'd finished taking inventory. He bent down and shoved Huggy's feet off the coffee table, and flopped down next to him on the couch. Put his head back. Closed his eyes.
"You told him." Huggy didn't have to ask. Here was Starsky, home alone. Not a good sign.
"I told him." Starsky opened his eyes and looked at Huggy sideways. "Don't worry. I left that out."
"Wasn't worried. But I thought if you told him at all, you'd tell him that, too. Why didn't you?"
Starsky looked like he ws trying to come up with some kind of reason, but he couldn't. All he said was, "You ever think about it anymore, Hug? All these years?"
"Not more than just a little bit of a flash, when I see you looking at Hutch sometimes, and it reminds me . . ." He stopped. "I'm glad you told him. Needed tellin. But you should a told him all of it." He looked down.
"He knew already. About Blaine, and last night, I mean."
"Got a brain, don't he, under all that pretty."
Starsky laughed. "Yep, all that pretty."
"He break up with you, then? Gone?"
"Break up? Huggy!"
"Well, you know. Where is he? Thought he'd a followed you in."
Starsky rubbed a hand over his face. "He went home. He's fine with it. I should've known he'd be fine. I'm the one . . ."
"You fine now, though, right?"
He looked too tired to be fine. "Will be after I take a shower."
Huggy sniffed. "Yeah, please. Go take a shower."
Starsky sat up, grunting a little, apparently unoffended. "You'll wait? Make coffee."
"I'll wait."
Huggy figured he'd be waiting a while. Curly had a lot of years of crap to wash off. But Starsky was back before the coffee'd even finished brewing. He had on some cutoffs, and nothing else. Huggy made an effort not give him the once-over. Not that Starsky would have noticed. He'd stopped noticing stuff like that a long time ago, and Huggy'd got used to it, and didn't care no more. At least, not care like care, just, it didn't matter anymore. He'd moved on long since. But sometimes . . .
Starsky noticed this time, though. "God, Huggy. I didn't think . . . I'm sorry. Shit." He went away and came back with a blue t-shirt on.
Huggy laughed at him. "You some bigassed egomaniac, ain't you?" He pushed a mug across the table. "Sit down, white boy, you red all over."
Starsky grinned and sat. "You ever wonder if things—our whole lives—might have been different, if Blaine . . ."
He couldn't say it, for godsakes. All these years, Huggy thought, all these years and the man still couldn't say it. He could though. Might as well do it. Clear the decks, set Starsky free. Least he could do after all . . .
"If Blaine hadn't caught you and me . . ." Turned out it was harder to say than he'd thought. He swallowed. "You and me . . ."
"Yeah. That. You and me. And if he'd made something of it. If he'd been different." Starsky looked at Huggy's eyes. "I think about it sometimes, too, you know. I'm glad we're . . ."
Neither of them seemed to be able to complete a simple sentence. Didn't matter, though. Huggy didn't need him to say the words.
"Yeah. Me, too." He drank some coffee, and watched Starsky drinking his. He still added sugar, still chopped at the grains in the bottom of the mug with his spoon. "Me, too, Davey."
"Davey. You haven't called me that in a long time." He smiled into Huggy's eyes, and said his name.
"Didn't think you even remembered," Huggy said. "Nice to hear it. Been a long time since anyone's called me that, come to think."
"Johnny always talked about you by your name."
"When you tell Hutch about . . . the rest of it, you tell him my name, okay?"
"I will." He lifted his mug in a kind of toast, and Huggy clinked his against Starsky's. "To Johnny," Starsky said. He drained his mug. "Hungry? I think I got some pizza."
"Uh, nope. No thanks. On a diet."
Starsky gave him a look and went to the fridge. Reached in for the box. Shook it.
"Huggy!"
But Huggy was already out the door, safely on the other side.
"See you tomorrow, Curly," he yelled, not caring about waking any neighbors. "I'll make you an omelet . . ."
He could hear Starsky's laugh even as the door slammed shut behind him. It sounded good, and Huggy grinned as he trotted down the stairs.
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