June 18th- Lingering Anxiety by Crazy Kate

Author’s Note: A special thanks to Dawnwind for editing this story. You’re fabulous, lady.

And a big thanks to Flamingo and her staff for putting all this on. You guys are great!

I wake up early. The sun is rising and its rays are slowly creeping through Hutch’s bedroom window and hitting me on the face. I groan because it’s annoying. Hutch’s bedroom is never dark enough to let you sleep past sunrise, but he likes it that way.

I blink a coupla times, and consider rolling over to block the sun and catch a few more winks, but Hutch is settled real close to me. I hate the thought of moving. It isn’t too often that I’m the one who gets to hold him.

It’s been four weeks since Hutch recovered enough from the plague to be discharged from the hospital. I can hardly believe that much time has passed. Seems like just yesterday I was standing outside the hospital room window watching him slowly slip away from me.

I will never forget how powerless I felt, or how stupid the whole thing seemed. Out of all the dangerous life-threatening situations we’ve been in over the years, the one that was going to tear my partner away was a stupid virus. It didn’t seem right at the time, and it still doesn’t.

I shake my head and sigh as more memories come rushing back. I really shouldn’t think about it anymore. That was then and this is now. And now is definitely better.

Then, I was forced to watch him die. Now, I’m lying in bed, with his head close to my heart, thankful he’s alive.

I lay there for another minute. Just long enough to breathe in the clean smell of his hair, and feel the warmth of his body next to mine, before slowly removing myself from his grasp to gently get out of bed.

I tucked him in under the blankets, sneaking a peek at the alarm clock. It’s only 7:30, and he’s got another forty-five minutes of sleeping before he greets me with those gorgeous eyes of his.

That’s that way things are now. He sleeps more and I sleep less. Not that I’m complaining, ‘cause I know he needs his rest. He tires so easily these days. Even though he denies it, his body still trying to bounce back to the way he was before.

Of course, Hutch says he’s fine. He’s back to work and his ridiculous fitness schedule. He’s packing so much shit into every single day, like he’s unconsciously thinking that each one may be his last.

I try tell him he’s doing too much too soon, but he just dismisses me with the phrase he’s been so eager to throw around.

I’m gonna live, Starsky.

There’s a hint of stubbornness in his eyes every time he says his new found motto. It tells me not to push too hard. It tells me to let him be. Which, funny enough, seems to be my new motto.

Let him be.

My own reminder to step back. Not to push too hard. Give him room to breathe. Let him think I don’t know how much he really needs me.

Don’t get me wrong. There are times when I know he needs me. Times when he’s hurt or destroyed, and he needs me to hold him and tell him everything is gonna be all right. Moments like that are far and far between, and they never seem to last too long. Then, before I know it, he’s back to his know-it-all persona.

Right now, that persona is insisting that he’s going to live.

Hutch may be living, but he’s exhausting himself doin’ it. If I had my way, he’d be spending less time living and more time slowing down and relaxing. I try to help him out as much as I can, as covertly as I can, but he’s a rescuer, not a victim, and he doesn’t do well with people helping him. Not even me.

Lingering in his small kitchen, I throw on a pot of coffee on the stove and think about making something good for breakfast, like pancakes. But I dismiss the thought.

Hutch doesn’t eat the ‘junk’ food I suggest for breakfast, as much I wish he would. His clothes are still fitting looser than I like, and they’re not gonna get any tighter if he insists on only eating his health food crap.

Let him be.

I grab the morning paper from outside the front door and settle into the greenhouse with a hot cup of coffee. It isn’t much later when Hutch emerges from the bedroom. He’s not wearing anything besides his boxers and I frown at the sight of his ribs. Maybe I should have forced some pancakes down him after all.

He stops just outside of the bedroom to let out a big yawn. With his blond hair sticking up, he heads to the bathroom. I pull myself away from the sports section, grab my empty coffee cup, and walk to the kitchen for a refill.

I’m facing the counter, spooning sugar into my coffee, when I hear the toilet flush and the door open. Then the sound of his bare feet padding up behind me on the hardwood floor.

“Mornin’,” he says, his voice scratchy from sleep. I smile as he hugs me from behind and places a kiss on my cheek.

“Mornin’.”

He wraps his arms around my waist as I turn and reach up to tame his unruly hair. He looks tired. I wish he would have slept a little longer.

“How long have you been up?”

“Not long,” I say.

He tries to ruffle my hair, but I avoid the touch and hand him the cup of coffee from the counter instead. He smirks at me as I peel off the counter and return to the newspaper outside.

I sneak peeks at him through the window while he makes his morning shake. My stomach churns when he adds a double dose of his liver whatsis and drinks the concoction down. I’m secretly grateful he’s long since given up on tryin’ to get me to drink the stuff. Disgusting.

Hutch tops off his coffee before joining me in the greenhouse. Placing his cup on the table, he grabs my face with both hands and plants another kiss on me before settling on the bench.

I fight the urge to tell him to go put on some socks or at least a t-shirt. It’s chilly this early in the morning, and he shouldn’t be outside in boxers and bare feet. I don’t give a shit if the greenhouse is covered or not.

Let him be.

And then, well, then Hutch drops the bomb on me.

“I bought a motorcycle,” he says with a grin. His eyes are big, and shining with excitement. He looks like a kid after he got a bag of candy the size of his head.

I don’t share in his excitement. I’m too shocked.

“What?” I sputter, coughing as the coffee goes down the wrong pipe.

“I bought a motorcycle.”

I want to reply, but I can’t because I’m too busy choking on my coffee. He looks at me, his brows narrowing with concern, and pats me half-heartedly on the back.

“You okay?”

Terrific.

“Why would you do a thing like that?” I croak. Somehow, I already know what he’s going to say.

Because I’m gonna live, Starsky.

He doesn’t say those words this time, though. He changes it around a bit.

“Because life is short.” He shrugs, and his eyes leave mine as he smoothes his palm across the table. His next words are almost a whisper. “And I’ve always wanted one.”

“Yeah?” I mumble. I want to be supportive. I know I should be supportive, but I can’t help the uneasiness that settles in my chest.

Don’t get me wrong. I like motorcycles too, but not the thought of my beautiful blond ridin’ around on one. Especially not in this town.

Hutch is clumsy. He trips over everything—including his own feet. It’s one of the things I love about him, but in this situation, that sort of awkwardness could be deadly.

Let him be.

I’m not sure if he’s realizing I’m havin’ a hard time or if he’s just feeling touchy-feely, but either way he throws his arm around me and pulls me close.

“Motorcycles are sexy, babe,” he says with a grin. He caresses the top of my hand.

“Yeah, but that really isn’t the point.” I pull my hand back, cross my arms stubbornly, and wonder if he’ll pick up on how worried I am.

He doesn’t. With a smile plastered on his face, he hitches his leg over his knee, and leans back. Our shoulders press together, and I wonder how he can act like this is no big thing. How can be so unaware of how I would feel about him riding a motorcycle?

Let him be.

I can’t, not this time.

He’s gotta know where I’m comin’ from, right? I mean, that time he was footing it to save Joanna Haymes and I showed up on that little Kawasaki, he gave me the third degree, too.

Got enough gas? Check the oil? How about the chain, is it tight enough? Air pressure?

He was nervous as shit thinking of me riding off on that thing. That was only for an afternoon. He’s talkin’ about having one and riding it every day. I really don’t think I can handle this.

“Besides, I’ll take you on rides,” Hutch adds in that low sexy growl of his. The one that he knows always gets him what he wants, at least from me.

Not this time.

“What do you need a motorcycle for?” I pull away from his arms and stand up. I need some space between us to deal with this. “How are you gonna drive us to work on a motorcycle?”

Hutch crosses his arms over his bare chest. He tilts his head and lifts his brows. I just know he’s gonna say some smart-ass remark.

“Didn’t I just tell you I’d take you on rides?” He chuckles.

I scoff at his suggestion.

He’ll take me on rides? To work? Yeah, no thanks. I have an image to maintain, and riding on the back of my partner’s motorcycle is not a part of it. Boy, I can hear the guys laughing now.

I will let him make love to me. Let him pull me out of the way when we’re on the job and he thinks I’m in danger. I’ll let him take care of me when I’m sick and coddle me when I’m hurt, but ride bitch on the back of his motorcycle? Never.

“I don’t want you to buy a motorcycle,” I say firmly.

Hutch takes a drink of his coffee and stares at me. I feel locked in place by the intensity of his eyes. For a second, I think he might be catching on how scared I really am, but then the corners of his mouth lift and he grins widely.

“Too late,” he says with a shrug.

My mouth falls open. He has no idea how worried I am. Either that or he’s too focused on the idea of his new wheels to really care.

Forcing a deep calming breath, I fight back a scowl and the urge to pace the greenhouse. I’m worried and Hutch’s attitude is pissin’ me off. I wish he would really talk to me about this.

“What do you mean by that?” I demand.

Hutch looks at me for a second, and I can tell he’s considering his answer. Which he should, especially if he went and bought one without tellin’ me first.

“I mean,” Hutch says in the firm tone he uses when he’s already made up his mind.

He uncrosses his arms and moves to stand in front of me. His eyes narrow and his face darkens. I know whatever he’s thinking about saying he better just not, because it won’t be good.

“It’s already done,” he continues, low and serious. “This is happening, Starsk. And I don’t need your support or your permission.”

Let him be.

I try to abide by that phrase. I really do, but I’m angry that he thinks it’s okay to say something like that to me and pissed he’s already made up his mind about the bike. How can he make this choice without even talking to me about it?

Why is this bothering me? I shouldn’t be having this much anxiety over a stupid motorcycle.

“The hell you don’t!” I yell, the words tumble out before I can stop them.

Instantly, his mouth pulls into a thin line and his blue eyes narrow with anger.

And then… Well, then, we fight. The details aren’t important, but let me just say it wasn’t a good one. Yelling, name callin’, the whole shebang.

It ends a little while later, when I leave his apartment in a huff. I slam the door on the way out, and his neighbors give me a funny look as I pass them on the stairs. I’m beyond caring at that point.

Let him be. Let him be. Let him be.

The phrase does nothing to ease my mood, even when repeated. But the walk to the Torino does. I’m parked a couple of blocks from Venice Place and the walk gives me an opportunity to cool down and really think about why I’m so mad about Hutch getting a motorcycle.

My anxiety isn’t over the bike. I know that. I mean what guy in his right mind doesn’t want to ride a motorcycle?

No. My fear is everything I’ve been avoiding and not dealing with since Hutch got sick.

It’s the stress I felt while looking for Callendar. The helplessness and pain that was suffocating me when Hutch was dying. It’s the fear and anxiety of losing him, and the joy and excitement of knowing he gets to live.

It’s everything and nothing at the same time.

My nervousness has nothing to do with him and everything to do with me, and that’s when I know. I don’t want to lose him. Not to some stupid plague, and not to some dumbass motorcycle accident.

I’m sitting in the driver’s seat staring out the windshield when Hutch raps his knuckles on the window of my car. It startles me, and I jump. He motions for me to unroll the window, and bends down to meet my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

I can tell he feels bad about our fight. I do too.

“Please come back inside,” he whispers softly, reaching through the window to rub my arm.

I bite my lip and consider the offer. I’ve never wanted something more or less in my life. The argument is over, and we both know he’s getting the motorcycle. I know why I’m so worried about it, and as I look into Hutch’s big eyes, I realize he knows, too.

“You’re wearin’ a helmet.” I eye him seriously.

“Of course,” Hutch agrees with a small smile.

He opens up the Torino’s door and ushers me out. We walk back to Venice Place and he throws his arm around my shoulder, pulling me close.

“I’ll be fine, Starsky,” he whispers in a comforting tone. “You’ll see.”

XX

Thursday, after a long day of work, I give Hutch a ride to the dealership to pick up his motorcycle.

The sky is dark with impending rain and I have to stop from suggesting we pick up the bike another day. Maybe tomorrow, next week, or better yet, never.

Let him be.

Hutch is full of excitement, but he’s tryin’ really hard to contain himself. I pull the Torino into a parking spot in front of the building. He throws his door open and jumps out before I even have a chance to put the car in park.

Getting out of the car, I look at the other end of the lot. Parked in the parking space outside the entrance of the shop is a motorcycle with a SOLD sign.

Hutch is standing next to the bike, running his long fingertips across the handlebars. He has a look of awe on his face I know I’ve never seen before.

The motorcycle is gorgeous. Even I have to admit that. The shine of the chrome is intoxicating, and it’s this terrific shade of blue. I smile to myself when it hits me just how much this bike suits my partner. The damn thing looks like it was made for him.

“Well…” Hutch says shyly. He looks at me for approval. “It’s a Honda Goldwing. New this year.”

Not knowing what to say, I smile at him.

He throws one leg over the seat and sits down. He plays with the break levers and taps the speedometer before grinning at me. “What do you think?”

I sigh. He’s so excited. I want to tell him it’s terrific, but I don’t. Seeing him on the bike makes me realize he’s actually going to ride it, and the nervousness is setting in again.

Let him be.

“It matches your eyes,” I say quietly.

Putting my hands in my jacket pockets, I avert my eyes and scrape my sneaker against the pavement.

“I knew you’d say that.” Hutch laughs.

A sales guy pushes through the glass door to the shop. Hutch turns and nods at him.

“Mr. Hutchinson,” the man says with a smile. “You ready to take her home?”

“Yep.” Hutch squeezes the brake levers once more before hopping off.

“We just have a few pieces of paperwork for you to sign. Then we’ll hand over those keys,” the man says cheerfully.

Fifteen short minutes later, all the paperwork is signed and the motorcycle belongs to Hutch.

I stand in the parking lot, between the bike and my car, biting my upper lip and tryin’ real hard to suppress a frown. Hutch holds his shiny white helmet in one hand and pats the pockets on his flannel shirt with the other.

Let him be.

My anxiety is getting worse, and so is the weather. I look warily at the sky; there isn’t any rain but the clouds are still threatening. I consider Hutch and his outfit choice doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation.

Dummy didn’t even think to wear a leather jacket—any jacket for that matter—and Lord knows he’s got enough of ‘em lying around. If you’re gonna ride a motorcycle, you’re supposed to wear a leather jacket.

“I forgot my sunglasses.” Hutch sighs in frustration.

“Here take mine,” I say, pulling the glasses from the pocket of my blue windbreaker.

He gives me another one of his huge smiles as he slips the aviators on.

“You want my jacket, too?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

His brow furrowing, Hutch looks at me. I can’t see his eyes from behind the dark lenses of the sunglasses, but I don’t need too. I know he’s understanding how nervous I still am.

“No,” Hutch answers softly. He reaches out and clasps the back of my neck. “I’ll be fine, babe. Don’t worry so much.”

“Okay.” I nod. “But be careful… And go slow… I’m gonna drive behind you the whole way home. That way, if anyone wants to honk ‘cause you’re goin’ too slow, they’re gonna have to go through me first.”

Hutch gives me a lopsided grin, then a big smile.

“Babe, nobody is going to honk at me,” he assures. “I think you’re forgetting that I was raised in the mid-west. I rode a lot of dirt bikes as a teenager, and I’ve had my motorcycle endorsement for years.”

“Yeah,” I mumble.

He sits on the bike and, just like that, Hutch is leaving the parking lot.

True to his word, Hutch wears a helmet on the way home. True to mine, I follow behind him to serve as a buffer between him and the other cars. I’m nervous at first, watching him move through traffic.

The rain never comes. It isn’t until I see Venice Place that I notice the clouds have all but disappeared and the sun is trying hard come out again.

Hutch parks across the street from the building. I pull in the space in front of him. I take a second to watch him through the rear-view mirror.

Patting the tank of the bike, Hutch bites his lip to contain his joy. But a second later he can’t hold back his grin. He is so happy, and, suddenly, I’m happy for him. In that moment, my anxiety leaves me completely.

I get out of the Torino and lean on the trunk. Hooking his helmet on the handle bar, Hutch smiles at me, then jumps off the motorcycle. His motorcycle.

“You see?” he laughs, walking toward me. Grinning ear to ear, he grasps me on my shoulders, and gives me an excited shake. “Do you feel better now? I told you, you don’t have anything to worry about.”

I don’t say anything. I just stand there.

I’m taken aback by his beauty and passion for this random thing. His blue eyes are shining with joy and his smile’s contagious. I don’t think I’ve seen him happier.

And a new thought crosses my mind.

I knew what the motorcycle meant to me and it was nothin’ good. But now I understand what the motorcycle means to Hutch

It’s way more than just silly phase or a response to a near-death experience. It means freedom and joy, and bunch of other things Hutch doesn’t like to talk about. Some of them I understand and others I never will.

I hate the motorcycle because I worry about him dying. Hutch loves it because it makes him feel alive.

As much as I’m terrified thinking about him weaving in and out of traffic, without any steel protecting him, I’m gonna stay quiet. I’m gonna support him riding that stupid bike for as long as he needs me to.

Because he’s going to live, damn it.