TEA AND SYMPATHY

by: Jo-Jo

When even the words of Loretta Lynn's back catalog began to pall, Hutch figured it was time to switch distractions. It had gone and got dark. The single red light from the stereo winked at him just out of reach. The last round of painkillers had long since worn off. Having slid further and further down the couch, he had got to the point where moving anywhere was going to be a major league ordeal. Not to say pain in the butt. Except his butt was about the only part of him that couldn't feel anything right now.

Stranded, hurting, sleepless, in the dark. It was no way to recuperate from a gunshot wound. All he wanted was to be gently bludgeoned by those pills that were somewhere in the kitchen and left to sleep quietly, undisturbed, in his bed. Under his shirt the pad of bandaging felt bunched-up, the lumpy edge of a couch cushion pressing into the torn and stitched-up flesh. Already his head was beginning to whirr in anticipation of the journey upwards. He pushed hopefully down on his elbows but they just gave way on him.

This had to be just about the worst day.

Even the day it happened had brought some benefits. Despite the ricochet that sent a bullet shaving through the muscle above his hip-bone, and his partner's immediate, loud (and wrong) assumption that he'd been shot in the back, the case that had been bugging them for weeks was wrapped up. And although he'd lost a fair amount of blood on the way to the emergency room and been raced into surgery before the accompanying paramedics (or even Starsky) had time to open their mouths, he still came round the same day with the definite impression that Lady Luck had been on his side. Quite literally, as it happened. And then, he had relied on fitness and attitude to get himself out of hospital within a week.

A most co-operative patient! They actually said that. It had been worth a self-satisfied smirk in the general direction of one of Memorial's more troublesome inmates.

Walked to the car after Starsky crashed the wheelchair into a pillar. Could laugh about it even with stitches under his ribs.

There had been a steady leaking-away of his positive attitude and co-operation the last three days at home. Perhaps the whole recuperation thing would have been just about bearable, but then there was Starsky arriving after work with unwanted food, nerve-jangling chatter and the kind of uncontrollable energy that had made Hutch want to be back in the hospital with the excuse of visiting hours to eject him. And if Starsky wasn't jumping around in over-compensation mode he was coming over all Mother Gabrini, doling out glib lumps of sympathy and spouting truisms.

You are turning into your own mother, Starsky. But much less funny. Less funny, less helpful and... uh, less welcome.

Hutch felt he couldn't handle it again. Not with his whole body screaming for respite. He'd gone too far down today. He was going to end up telling Starsky to get the hell out.

No more pizza! It's you that likes pizza, not me! I can't watch anymore of these god-awful movies about zombies, Starsky! For God's sake turn the damn TV off! And I know what time to take the meds, I don't need your stupid color chart, and I don't need all the lights on all the time! Or any more jokes. Or stuff to read that only has pictures in. Or all that sugar in the tea. Or a running commentary about every damn thing that pops into your... Just. Go. Away.

But by the time the sinking of his heart told him he had heard steps outside the front door, the accumulating pain had dizzied him so much he had forgotten the carefully-rehearsed list of essential things that needed saying.

The door opened and shut and then there was silence. Hutch drifted, and when he regained awareness he thought that either his imagination was playing tricks on him or someone had broken in. Either way Lady Luck had skipped town.

A light went on in the kitchen. Hutch could tell it was the one above the cooker.

He attempted to move again, wrongly supposing that his cop's training would kick in, but was completely unable to suppress the whimper that gave him away. There was now someone in the bedroom. What was this? A thief who wanted sheets? The movement had sent him spinning off again. He was trapped with all his weight pressing down on the stitches and the whimper became a moan.

Unexpectedly a hand and an arm slid under his back. No messing about, a quick, gentle movement right under his centre.

"Roll this way," said a voice. "Away from the wound. I've got ya."

The pressure came off at once. Hutch muttered but his mouth was full of wool. The voice did not say anything else, but Hutch found himself being levered from the trap by a strongly-planted body. There were cushions behind his back in a second, and one dropped into his side, tucked expertly just below the bandaging. Then his hand was lifted, palm up, and two pills placed on it. Starsky, gazing at him quietly, handed him a glass of water and then moved away.

There was just the right amount of water to get the pills down. Hutch swallowed them and propped the empty glass on the couch by his knee. It was going to be ten minutes before they began to kick in. He shut his eyes drearily, anticipating the room being flooded with light at any second. Then, hearing the squeak of a cupboard, he opened them again sharply and managed to get out, "No tea."

"Who needs tea?" said a humorous voice right next to him. Starsky's eyes glittered at him through the dimness.

Still Hutch waited for the snap of the TV going on, the sudden launch into a rundown of today, the wild narrative swings of Starsky's scattergun approach to conversation. An immense fatigue flooded him. "Want to go to bed," he said feebly.

"I know," was all his partner said. He took the glass away and held out one hand in an encouragement for Hutch to move. Gritting his teeth, Hutch slid his feet on to the floor and immediately felt defeated. But he did not have to do much else. Starsky got down to his level, put one of Hutch's limp arms round his shoulder and got them to standing. As his stiff limbs unfolded, Hutch felt the sure, light touch of Starsky's hand across the bandaging, keeping all the surgeon's good work intact. Then he walked them both across the room to the bathroom door without saying another word. He detached himself and stood with his hands lightly on Hutch's upper arms, just waiting to see how steady he was standing.

Hutch stared at him. Never in his life had he known Starsky bring calm into a room. Doors shuddered on their hinges when he arrived. Atmospheres vibrated after a collective sharp intake of breath. Starsky always upped the tempo because... well, upping the tempo was what he did best.

Or have I been getting you all wrong, all this time?

Hutch was overwhelmed by his circumstances. Overwhelmed by being given just what he needed, at the moment he needed it most, when he hadn't even realised he needed it and when it was the last thing he expected. He pitched forward, wrapping his arms around Starsky's neck, falling into him with all his weight, hugging as hard as his protesting body allowed. At that moment he knew no other way to express his gratitude. Starsky just took the weight and hugged him back. Then he pushed him gently into an upright position.

"Rough day, huh?" he said.

Hutch made a noise halfway between a sigh of frustration and a groan of pain.

"Yeah well..." Starsky said. "I knew, soon as I walked in." He gave a small shrug. "I've had days like these, remember."

For sure Hutch remembered. Flying bullets in an Italian restaurant. Who knew better than Starsky about this stuff?

He tottered into the bathroom. When he came out and walked slowly and carefully into the bedroom, he found the bed all made up with fresh sheets and a plumped pillow. A small smile came to his face.

"Never had you down as a chamber-maid, Starsk."

He was giving permission for a wisecrack, but Starsky just patted the pillow.

Hutch noticed that everything had been put within easy reach. His meds. A drink. The lamp switch. The telephone.

"There's stuff in the kitchen if you get hungry," Starsky said.

"What stuff?" Hutch asked, suddenly suspicious, lowering himself down on the mattress.

"Stuff I got from your guru," Starsky replied. "He mixed up some gloop and a few pots of nasty-looking... bits. If you're lucky there may even be a touch of South American Hoot Owl's beak in there."

"You went to the...?"

"Uh-huh. I saw the Maharajah himself." Starsky grinned. "Don't get too excited. This deal is one day only." He turned to leave the room.

"Where you going?"

"Well, figured you need some peace and quiet."

"You're not staying?"

"It's OK," Starsky said. "I'll be back in the morning. I trust you to call me if you get in trouble."

"I..." began Hutch.

"Yeah, yeah. Tell me about it tomorrow. Sleep well."

He paused at the front door and gave Hutch a look that dared him to try and articulate what had just happened. As the door closed Hutch lay back. He was way too tired to consider anything. He'd have to pick the sweetcorn out of this some other time. A satisfying numbness was creeping into the site of the bullet wound that, had it been just a centimeter or two to the left, would maybe have killed him. He leaned over gingerly to the lamp and a soft darkness filled the room. Changing the habits of a lifetime without missing a beat, Starsky had switched everything else off as he left. Hutch eased himself into a halfway comfortable position under the clean sheets. He was starting to feel spaced and sleepy, but there was still a clear corner of his mind.

As he let his eyes drift shut he acknowledged Lady Luck again, but this time it was not for the centimeter she had given him. It was more because she'd thrown in his way a man who spent half his life making out his brain wasn't equally as big as his heart.

Yeah right... Well... blind me with your comic-book wisdom, buddy, but I happen to know better.

He also happened to know he was going to get shaken awake by the sound of his door shuddering on its hinges in the morning.

It was all going to be so different tomorrow.

Lucky again.

FIN