December 13th- Christmas Rhetoric by Kerrys2Boys

Am I gonna sit here all night and wait?

Wait for what, Starsky? If you mean Christmas morning – you’ll be waiting a while.

No dumb head, an answer, Hutch, an answer for God’s sake.

It wasn’t a question. You just pointed out that it’s less than a few days to Christmas, which it is.

Not that. Not the bit about Christmas – but the question, Hutch. I only pointed out the bit about Christmas to drive home the point. The point to the question. The one you didn’t answer.

Oh? I was supposed to answer you? I thought that was a rhetorical question you posed.

Always gotta be the smart ass, Hutch, don’t ya? I don’t even know what ‘rhetorical’ means – well not for sure, anyway. So how would I ask you one of those?

I’m not being a smart ass – just think it’s a question with no answer – or not one meant to be answered – rhetorical – at least not one that I have anyway.

You didn’t even try. You didn’t even give it a moment’s thought. You just plain out ignored me.

Where the hell is that frozen bag of peas I know I had stashed in the back of the freezer box?

Like you just did again – see?

See what, Starsky?

Totally ignored me. Ignored that I said you didn’t even try to answer the question.

No – I believe I said that I had no answer to that question. Besides I didn’t say anything else because I’m looking for the peas – the peas I need right now because my leg is on fire.

You need more than damn peas to help that leg. Have you taken those pain killers the doc gave you yet?

Don’t tell me you used it in your damn pizza sauce last night?

Why would I need frozen peas for pizza sauce, huh? And who puts peas in pizza sauce? Jesus – peas in pizza sauce!

Well they’re not – oh – got ‘em. Stuck to the roof of the freezer – frozen solid. Need to de-frost this hunk of shit some time….

Sit down will ya’, and put that leg up like you were told to do. I’ll get the damn peas out – and I’ll grab the bottle of painkillers. You look fit to drop.

I’m fine. Better than you look after the four beers you threw down in the last twenty minutes.

It’s the only way I could cope. It’s like those psychological things, ya’ know – mechanical things – what are they, Hutch? You know – like the shrink is always talking about in our sessions?

Mechanisms, they’re called Coping Mechanisms, and you’ve got nothing on me where they’re concerned Starsk. I’ve become the master of them all since….

Don’t go there, Hutch.

Go there? Some days I don’t think I ever left there.

Stop it. This is not about me. I’m sitting here in pretty good shape.

Yeah, and it was a long fuckin’ road to get you to that shape.

I’m trying to talk about you.

Thought we were talking about you – you and your coping mechanisms.

Only because of what you keep doin’ to me that makes me need to use ‘em. I’m doin’ just fine – I am just fine until you blow my mind with worry. Just lookin’ at ya’ is still makin’ me nervous.

Then don’t be – it’s over and I’m in one piece.

One piece I nearly had to scrape up off the street. I just keep seein’ ya flyin’ through the air.

Well, I can tell you it was a damn sight better flying through the air compared to when I hit the ground.

I hate your funny-man humor shit more than your smart-ass shit. You know that?

Just trying to diffuse things here, buddy. Have another beer. You’re too wound up.

I’ll be less wound up if you swallow these painkillers and they help to put some color back in ya’ pretty face. You’re whiter than that Minnesota snow ya’ love so much.

Wish I had some of that snow and ice right now to pack around this leg. Where’re my peas?

Stuck solid to the roof of the freezer.

Told you that already.

You need to defrost that piece of junk you call a fridge, Hutch.

Told you that, too. Doesn’t help me with my lack of frozen peas though.

Jeez, will ya’ just forget the goddamn peas. When those painkillers start to work, I’ll run downstairs to the restaurant and ask that nice French lady for a bag of ice. She likes you – I’m sure she’ll give me a whole ice bucket full.

Think she likes me enough to put a bottle of French champagne in with the ice?

Even if she did, you can’t drink it – not with those pills.

So I get pills and you get beer. Hardly fair.

Be serious. You’ve got an injury. You know the rules Blintz, the one with the injury never gets the beers. Anyways – beer hasn’t helped me none.

‘Anyways’?

Here it comes. What did I say now?

Just that ‘anyways’ is not a word, Starsky.

Oh – quit the high-brow shit. You know what I’m askin’ here. You know what I mean. Don’t give me that Hutchinson stuck up act, will ya? Not tonight, not tonight, okay?

Okay. No Hutchison stuck up shit – just for you, Starsky. Promise. Though – I’m not sure what it is you want me to tell you. And, I’m not sure how tonight is any different than any other night.

That’s the whole freakin’ point, Hutch. That’s the problem.

What’s the problem?

The fact that tonight is no different than any other night. Bad things happenin’ to us. Bad things happenin’ to you. Look at you – all banged up, with frozen peas on your leg.

…Actually, I’ve got no peas.

Hutch!

It’s not all that bad. Doc said it would heal over – granulate in. Looks worse than it is. No muscle damage, just skin and maybe a bit of fat – sort of flayed off.

Just skin and fat? Sorta like – what? Flayed off? What are you? A side of beef? A butcher’s carcass?

Human flesh is not much different than another flesh, Starsky – we all bleed.

Oh, that just makes me feel a whole lot better, Blondie.

You heard him, Starsky.

Who? Who’d I hear?

The doc in ER.

Oh, you mean that opinionated, stick-up-his-ass, undergrad?

He was a qualified intern. Has to be to be working in the Emergency Department of a hospital, Starsky.

Sure didn’t look like it to me…

It’s nothing serious.

What’s not serious? The fact that they’ve got adolescents running our hospitals?

You know what I mean. My condition – my leg. Nothing serious.

Says who? What would he know? The kid wasn’t old enough to sweat yet, let alone treat my partner. Telling me it was all right to bring you home when ya’ should’ve been put in a bed for the night, not allowed home to give me misery like you are.

Will you stop being dramatic? It’s the damn beer talking now. You’re just emotional. Two weeks ago this was you – you with that grazed temple from the bullet.

Yeah, but my flesh wasn’t ‘flayed off,’ and I didn’t get tossed up in the air and bounced on the blacktop like you after some hit-and-run driver did a number on you with his front fender.

I’m alive. I’m okay. It’s alright in the end, Starsk.

No, it’s not. In the end, it seems to be getting worse and worse. I’m damn tired of watchin’ bits of you get broken and bent. I’m tired of watchin’ you like this – getting smaller and smaller every week as this job wears ya’ down.

And you don’t think I feel exactly the same way watching you?

I know you do. I know for sure you do, Hutch. But –

But what?

You just don’t ever seem to be able to ask the question. The one you said had no answer. The one you won’t ask me because you’re too afraid.

Too afraid of what, Starsky?

Too afraid of asking me what you’ve wanted to ask me for the entire past year since I came back on the force.

If you know the question then why do I need to ask it?

Because, Hutch, because if you ask it out loud, look me straight in the eye when you finally do, I’ll have to give you an answer.

It’s a hard question, Starsky. Even harder to ask. I don’t want to hurt you anymore than you’ve already been hurt. You deserve so much more than you’ve had in the last eighteen months.

And you deserve to finally leave the place you haven’t left in the last eighteen months. You’re never gonna stop worryin’ about me are you, Blondie? Not while we do what we do.

No. No, I won’t. But here’s the thing, Starsk. You’re really no different than me. You worry about me just the same.

And if we stopped this? Stopped this life where you get tossed in the air and pounded into the blacktop by a hit-and-run car.

– A life where you get taken down in a spray of bullets and I can’t do a damn thing to stop it?

Well, yeah – the same I guess. What then? What then, Hutch?

I know I’d still worry. Every day, every hour, every minute. Seems to me that every waking moment I’m quietly terrified of losing you. Cop or not. For me, the fear of losing you is always there.

So, if you asked me to give up being a cop? If I said yes, that I’d do it for you – then what, Hutch?

Then I’d stop worrying about you being a cop, but I’d still worry – in different ways – but just as much.

Just like if your flayed skin and torn muscles get put back together, I’ll still worry about you, too.

Yep. I’m sure you would. Face it, Starsk, we’re a hopeless pair.

No hope for us at all, Blondie?

Nope. Not one bit. Not while we keep loving each other the way we do. Not when I wake up beside you every morning and remember how much I love you all over again.

…Hutch – hell…

Not like right now when I’m sitting here with my leg all banged up and all I can think of is showing you how much I love you….

Christ, Hutch, you’re making me all misty-eyed here. You know when you start up that romantic talk you turn me into soft mush…

I like you soft and mushy just as much as I like you hard and tough.

Hard?

You heard me.

Hey, cut it out. You keep that talk up and I won’t be fit to go downstairs to get your ice.

Maybe if you get over here just a little closer I won’t need that ice.

Like this ya’ mean?

Like that.

Close enough?

Not quite close enough, but getting there – just let me….

Hey Hutch….

Hmnn…what, babe?

Maybe I’ll make sure that nice French lady downstairs puts a bottle of champagne in the bucket of ice after all.

Oh?

Yeah – because – Oh God, that’s good, Hutch…. Umm – we’ve got something to celebrate.

We do? Starsky, just let me…there….oh Christ…ahh, we do?

Yep. We can celebrate that I’ve still got you – a bit flayed up and all – but still got you. And, you’ve still got me. Patched and rebuilt – but still here. Still here for another Christmas. Together.

I’ll toast to that – when we get the bubbly. In the meantime, David Starsky – I’ll just have to find something else to toast with –

Like…like what?

Like this damp, very damp, succulent moist flesh under my tongue. Who needs champagne when I’ve got you, Starsk?

Hutch?

Hmmm? What, Starsk?

From now on, I’m gonna be asking you a lot more rhetorical questions.