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Paula Wilshe

   I ought to go home. I'm well aware of that. Hell, it's almost midnight, and I've got to be back here first thing in the morning. The docs usually make their rounds between eight and nine, and Starsky wants to have all the preparation and paperwork done before that, so as soon as they come in and sign the release papers, we can leave. I don't blame him one bit, although if he calls to wake me up at five a.m. as he's threatened to do, I can't promise I'm going to be happy about it.

   Not because I want to sleep in, especially, although I admit, I am tired. Beyond tired. My eyes are burning, and every time I try to focus on something, they start watering. I think it's been weeks since I've had an uninterrupted night's sleep, and I don't really see that getting any better in the foreseeable future.

   It's a funny thing about a hospital at night, you know? Everything's different. The sounds are all muted, but they're there, the beeps and the footsteps and the overhead pages. Maybe they try to turn things down a notch so the patients can get some rest, I'm not sure, although since they're waking everyone up every few hours for temperature and blood pressure checks anyway, it seems kind of a moot point.

   I guess it's nice that they make the effort. Maybe you can get used to anything if you're here long enough. I look over at Starsky, and he's out, turned on his side, curled up, sound asleep for the duration. I guess they gave him something to help him sleep, he'll need all his energy for tomorrow, I imagine.

   Tomorrow.

   Not that he'll be expected to do anything, nothing more than he's been doing here, I mean. He'll sign some papers, listen to what the doctors have to say, I'll take him home. His home. We decided that last week. Both our places have steps, but his bedroom is a little bit away from the rest of the apartment, in other words, he's got a door that closes, so it will be easier for him to rest without being disturbed if I'm cooking, or watching television, or sorting laundry or something.

   If you want to know the truth, I'm kind of relieved we're going to stay there. My place isn't feeling like home to me right now. It's the place where I go sometimes, after work, after the hospital, open the mail, water the plants, and try to catch a few hours of sleep. Sometimes after I do that stuff, I head over to Starsky's anyway.

   If anyone asked me, I'd tell them that I'm trying to keep things going over there, you know, pay his bills, water his plants. That isn't true, of course, I mean, I am doing those things, but that's not why I stay there sometimes. No one's asking, though, so I don't have to tell them it's because, if I'm not at the hospital, it's the one place that feels like Starsky to me.

   Starsky knows. I'm sure of it. The other day he called there looking for me before he called my place, or the precinct. I'm pretty sure he understands why, too, although we haven't talked about it. Maybe the rest of them understand too, I don't know, and I don't really care.

   This morning I did some grocery shopping, and then I hauled a bunch of my own plants over to his place. I've got a couple weeks off from work starting tomorrow, and I don't want to have to leave him alone for any reason, so getting ready for that seemed like a good idea. It also gave me something to do.

   Isn't that so stupid? I'm a grown man, been on my own for a very long time. Got a career, or what's left of one, my own place, friends…but I've been walking around the last few weeks just totally rudderless. Like I'm missing my left arm.

   I look over at Starsky on the bed, and I lean forward to pull the covers up higher on his shoulders. He gets cold so easily, although the docs say that will pass as he gains more ground, starts to build up his strength. He kind of smiles in his sleep, and nestles into the blankets. I can't help myself, I let my hand just rest on his arm for a while. I tell myself that I'm doing it to comfort him, to keep him warm. I know that's not true. I know that right now, in the hospital, when it's almost midnight, I need it more than he does.

   I'm yawning now, can't help it, and what I'd really like is to spend the night right here. I don't think any of the nurses would say anything at this point. I've spent enough nights on this chair in the last few weeks that most times they just ignore me. Sometimes I wake up and there's a blanket tucked around me, which I take as a sign that they don't mind my being here. Maybe I will stay.

   Most people hate hospitals. I think I used to. I don't anymore.

   A few of us were talking in the squad room the other day, and someone said they hated hospitals because they're scary places full of sick people. And people die there. It was weird, I didn't really answer the guy, because I couldn't put into words the way I feel every night when I'm driving over to visit with Starsk. I make that last turn onto Santa Monica and I can see the lights of the hospital kind of glowing in the distance. To me, it feels warm, protected, safe. My partner is there. He's going to live. They're taking care of him when I can't. It feels like a haven to me.

   I started to say something about the beep of the heart monitor being kind of comforting in a way, and the guy looked up at me as if I'd just told him I eat kittens for breakfast. I laughed it off, but I could feel myself blushing, I must have sounded like some stupid kid. Minnie was there, she'd just brought me some files, and she squeezed my shoulder real hard, and I knew she understood what I was trying to say.

   She'd been to visit Starsk often enough to know that those first few days…well, we weren't sure if the monitor would stay beeping at all. Can you imagine that deafening silence if it wasn't? I don't like to think about it, and I refuse to, mostly. Except at times like right now, when I'm so damned tired.

   There isn't any beeping now, of course, he's been off the monitor for a week and a day, I think it was the morning before we had our little middle of the night veal and antipasto party. We were the talk of the hospital, we were all a little drunk and a lot giddy, and the sprinklers went off. Not one nurse yelled, if you can believe it, not even the one who'd been hunting Huggy down for an hour. She's like a lumberjack, that one, big and brusque, and efficient. She's real protective of her patients.

   Before we knew what was what, she'd ushered Huggy and Dobey to the door and called them a cab. She sent me down the hall with a cup of hot chocolate, and a clean pair of scrubs, ordering me to change, because, "Coming down with pneumonia from lying around in wet clothes isn't going to help your friend any."

   I did go change, and by the time I got back, she had Starsk in dry pajamas, fresh sheets on his bed, and the two of them were laughing and polishing off the last of the stuffed veal. She spent some time with us that night, there were only a few patients on the floor. Really cool lady. I think I slept here that night too, actually.

   I wish she was on duty.

   Because tomorrow…

   Tomorrow everything changes. And I know I'm not ready. You want the truth? Don't laugh. Right now, I'm more scared than I've ever been in my life. Tomorrow, it's all on me. Everything. You can't even imagine, someone who is as self sufficient and strong as my partner being like this.

   I mean, sure, he's so much better than he was, but it's still a far cry from…from before. I know he'll get better. Right now he gets winded trying to take the wrapper off a straw. He needs help with almost everything—that's no big deal, he and I have done those sorts of things for one another over the years so many times, we don't even think about it.

   But then I think maybe I should think about it. I mean, what if I miss something important? What if something goes wrong? What if he doesn't tell me how much he's really hurting? What if…

   I feel like it's the night before the first day of school.

   Then I wonder, will it ever all come back? Will he ever be able to be my partner again? Starsk says absolutely, he knows it for a fact. The docs say maybe, but they don't know. No one knows. I don't know.

   If he does make it back to the force, well, will he ever be able to cover my back? More to the point, will I ever be able to let him?

   Will there ever be a time when I won't have to be strong?

   I feel like the only person in the world who is awake. I look at my watch, and the hands have crawled past midnight. So it's not tomorrow anymore. It's today. I sigh and rub at my eyes. They hurt so much, and they're watering again, so I leave my hand over them to try to block out a little bit of the light, my elbow leaning on the bed.

   And then I feel a thumb running lightly over the back of my hand, and a soft voice says, "What are you still doin' here, huh?"

   I make a noise which I hope passes for a chuckle. "Too tired to drive home," I say. "What are you doin' awake?"

   He squeezes my hand. "Too excited to sleep right, I think. Is it after midnight yet?"

   I nod and squeeze back. "Mm hm. Just."

   "Wow," he blinks. "Few more hours and we're on our own, huh?"

   I paste on a sunny smile, even though I know it isn't fooling him, even though you'd think he could barely see me in the dim light of the room. "You got it, partner," I say cheerfully, "No more me and thee and the nurse and the doc and the x ray tech and the pharmacist and the—"

   "Nope," he sighs contentedly. "Just us." He narrows his eyes. "You're not gonna pull dumb shit like wakin' me up in the middle of the night to take my temperature are you?"

   "'Course not, dummy," I assure him. "You can sleep right through, undisturbed." Which we both know is a lie, because once the pain pills start to wear off, it's always a clock watching struggle till he can take another one…massive damage hurts. He's usually good for about four hours at a stretch, though, which is something.

   "You scared, Hutch?"

   As usual, Starsky is not standing on ceremony, he's gone right to the root of the problem. "A little," I admit. "You?"

   "No," he says, and I truly believe him. "I'm through the worst of it. I don't think the next few months are going to be fun and games or anything, I mean, I'm well aware of that, but…I'm through the worst of it."

   I laugh a little bit. "I wish I was," I tell him.

   Starsky hitches himself up higher in the bed. "You feel like it's all on your shoulders, don't you?" he asks, reaching out and squeezing one of mine.

   "No, of course not, I—"

   "I wish I could take it off you," he says.

   What I wish is that my damned eyes would stop watering. Maybe it's the air conditioning in here. I clear my throat. "Starsk, don't even say that," I tell him. "You know I don't mind any of this. It's enough to me just having you back, knowing you're okay."

   "I am okay," he says. "Or I will be." He squeezes my shoulder again, and scrunches around in the bed to get comfortable. "Thing is," he sighs, "there's a lot I can't do right now."

   "You don't have to do anything," I laugh, and this time I'm sure he's not fooled, because it doesn't sound like a laugh at all. "You just have to be alive. I'll do everything else."

   "But there are things you can't do," he tells me seriously.

   "Like?"

   "Like…not worry, like…let go, like…relax, like…talk about what's botherin' you when it's botherin' you…"

   "You think?"

   "I know. But here's the great thing. I might not be able to help you carry the groceries up the steps, or drive, or," he grimaces, "take a shower by myself. But the things that are botherin' you? They're exactly the things I am able to do, that I can help you with…the things I can fix."

   I can feel a tear, just one, running down my cheek. "You think?" I ask again.

   He brushes the tear away with his thumb. "I know," he says, as serious as can be. "We're gonna be all right, Blintz, both of us.

   His face slowly relaxes into a brilliant smile, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and it's just…it's absolutely contagious. I feel myself start to smile too.

   Maybe he's right.

THE END