THE YAMAMOTO REFLEX

by: Callisto

" Starsk, you're blowing this way out of proportion." Hutch had just had his hand batted away for the second time.

"Am not." Starsky winced as the paramedic eased blood-stained denim aside to get a closer look. He stopped Hutch's reflex towards him with a glare.

Hutch held his hands up, but he was on the edge of smiling, and that was something Starsky's huff was not going to tolerate. No way, no how. Not when he was lying on a gurney in an ambulance, with a bunch of twisted metal -- make that twisted platinum -- reminding him how much the day's little adventure had cost him.

He came up with the only thing he could; it said it all and could not be wailed loud enough as far as his outrage went.

"Hutch, it was a Yamamoto!"

Even the paramedics froze.

He turned to the one working on him, "It was a Yamamoto. Beautiful thing, y'know?" His head went down and his voice faded, the last of his adrenalin used up. "A beautiful thing," he whispered, woozy. "Y'know?"

"Uh, I wouldn't know, sir, I have a bicycle."

A snort of laughter, followed by sounds of someone being urgently hustled out.

Hutch dithered about two seconds more behind the ambulance before he peeled off and went for the left turn. A little late and fast, but that was because he didn't want to go where his ridiculous conscience was telling him he should. That stunt, the one his partner had seen fit to throw such a tantrum about, had possibly saved both their lives. If Bagley had gotten the drop on him back in that house, who knew how long his partner could've limped around holding him off? A watch? For breathing and walking around? Fair exchange, buddy. Any damn day.

The flicker of his own indignation helped.

He saw the sign, pulled over and realized in a heartbeat that his indignation really didn't matter, he was going to do this. He sat a second, sighed, and wondered what the time was, and why he couldn't get a partner with cheaper fixations. The irony didn't escape him and he managed a small smile. Probably just enough time to do this, curse Bagley one more time as he did, get to Starsky's apartment and then swing by the hospital to make sure his partner at least left with pants on this time.

"Here. Managed to choose the least crummy ones."

Starsky caught the jeans one handed from the gurney where he was sitting up. He studied Hutch a moment.

"Badge and gun?"

"With you, dummy." Hutch relaxed a little. Words were coming his way, Starsky was talking to him again. He eyed the bandage. "How's the leg?"

"Buncha stitches. Hurts."

Too monosyllabic and downcast for Hutch's taste. He took a breath and steeled himself for what he was about to do.

"Well, this should take that mind of yours elsewhere." He threw a small box down near Starsky's left hand and put the Hutchinson finger right into his partner's face before he could react. "And so we're clear? It is most definitely not a Yamamoto with a zillion altimeters and a platinum band. Nothing wrong with a couple of dials, one alarm and a good old-fashioned silver--"

"You got this for me?" Like an eggshell he was afraid of dropping, Starsky turned it in his hands.

The change in demeanor was total, instant and heartfelt, and Hutch remembered again why he would often be poor around this man.

"Yes, I got this for you, you can wear it on your hot date with Joey. Now can we not make a big deal--"

Too late. He had been grabbed and hugged, fiercely around his middle.

"Starsk,"

"Shut up." Muffled.

Hutch put a hand on the curls against his ribs and smiled. "How's the leg feel now?"

"Better." He got let go.

"Hey." A hand on his arm kept him from stepping back. Starsky looked up. "This time I get to leave with a little dignity, huh?"

Time.

It stopped for a second now as it had raced then.

Hutch squeezed an arm right back. "You do, Starsk. And not a motorcycle in sight."

End