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PART THREE

Hold Out - Part Four

By

SunnyD

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   Gunshots.

   I jerked awake, shivering like a bucket of water'd been dumped over me. I strained to make out what was goin' on in the dining room, but at first I couldn't hear a thing over the thumping of my heart. Three, maybe four rounds. Hutch had to have been one of the ones shooting.

   Right?

   When I finally heard his voice, I nearly keeled over from relief.

   "Theresa! Call an emergency operator. Get the police, an ambulance, and a coroner's wagon down here."

   I thought about all the times Hutch and me have squeaked our way out of tight spots. It's happened more often than I like to think about. Sometimes I'm not sure what bothers me more--the violence and brutality we see every day, or the fact that it doesn't surprise us the way it used to. Especially Hutch.

   Me, I grew up in a pretty tough neighborhood. Even before I was old enough to experience it myself, I saw the way my pop looked some nights when he came home from work. He used to say he'd seen just about everything possible that one human being could do to another.

   Hutch, though, was a different story. I'm not sayin' he was naïve, exactly, just that he tended to always expect the best from people. Comes from those Midwest, farm boy roots, I guess. We both came outta the Academy ready to change the world. The only difference between us was that I had a better handle on just what an impossible job it was gonna be.

   I'll never forget the first time Hutch got the stardust knocked outta his eyes...

   I heard footsteps, and then Hutch was crouched beside me. "It's all over partner."

   I'd guessed as much, but hearing Hutch say the words made it real. I smiled and tried to get rid of some of the worry I could see on his face.

   "I'm hungry."

   At least, that's what I tried to say. Somehow the words came out all tangled together. Hutch leaned a little closer.

   "What's that?"

   I took a breath--which wasn't so easy since it felt like insteada singing, the fat lady was sittin' on my chest. "I'm hungry."

   Hutch laughed, and some of the lines around his mouth disappeared, just like I hoped they would. He patted my shoulder and disappeared again. I didn't mind. The burst of energy I'd gotten with the good news was wearing off, and it was gettin' harder and harder to keep my eyelids up.

   Something pressed against my side and nudged me until I was sitting up straight. Funny--I hadn't even noticed I was startin' to fall over. I cranked my eyes open just enough to see that it was Hutch.

   "Ambulance is on the way, Starsk."

   "Tired."

   Huh. I meant to say something like, "I'm really tired, Hutch." Somehow only one word found the way outta my mouth. His shoulder was solid and warm under my cheek, and I decided it wouldn't hurt to just rest my eyes for a minute...

   "I know you are, but you've got to stay with me. I need to you to hold out a little longer."

   The worry was back, full strength. I could hear it in Hutch's voice. Though the only thing I wanted was to let go, I held on. For Hutch.

   "What happened to the bad guys?"

   Damn. Even I could hardly understand myself. Fortunately, after four years Hutch can read me like a book. Even when the pages are a little out of order.

   "Iceman took a slug to the shoulder. I've got him cuffed and Theresa's friend is keeping an eye on him. Joey's dead."

   Yeah, we've come a long way from those first days in uniform. Still, Hutch's voice could've frozen the Sahara Desert. It just ain't like him to talk about shootin' people like he was discussing the weather. Even if they both had it comin' to them. I wanted to say something to reassure Hutch that he'd done the right thing. Those two made a living out of death, and in my book that made 'em fair game. But I was starting to feel cold again, and it seemed awful hard to make my mouth work right.

   "Hazards...the job." Ours and theirs.

   Hutch must've seen me shivering, because he started fussin' with the coats, pulling them up to my neck. It helped, but the cold I was feeling was like a block of ice inside me that all the blankets in the world couldn't touch. I leaned against him, trying to soak up as much of his warmth as I could while fightin' the urge to sleep.

   Guess I didn't do such a good job, 'cause the next thing I knew Hutch was gone and strange hands were pokin' and jabbin' at me. Fingers curled around my wrist, something soft squeezed my upper arm, and, worst of all, my eyes were pried open so they could shine a bright light into 'em. Felt like a knife shot straight through and out the back of my head.

   Once I made the mistake of letting a pretty lady drag me to this artsy movie where no one spoke English. Two endless hours of nothin' but jabbering I couldn't make heads nor tails of. You were supposed to read these teeny little words at the bottom of the screen to understand what they were saying. I didn't know what the hell was goin' on the whole time.

   That's exactly how I felt now. I could hear voices--could even recognize Hutch's in the mix. But it was just jabberin', and I couldn't make any sense outta it. Hands were tuggin' and pullin' at me until my stomach started doing sommersaults. Then, when I was too loopy to see it coming, they stabbed me in the arm with a needle that must've been at least ten inches long.

   Well, that's what it felt like anyway.

   I'd just begun to slide back into sleep when the hands hoisted me into the air and dumped me onto some kind of bed. Okay, okay, so they tried to be gentle. It still doubled the pounding in my head, and even with my eyes closed I could feel the room spinning. For just a minute I worried about the fact that, despite all the movement, my arm and my back weren't bothering me--in fact, they felt kinda numb. That was my gun hand, after all, and if I couldn't do a simple thing like hold onto my piece, then how could I watch Hutch's back?

   Hutch.

   It's pretty hard to panic when you can't really move or open your eyes, but I gave it my best try. When I concentrated hard I could wiggle my fingers, but someone must've glued my eyelids shut when I wasn't lookin'.

   Then a hand touched my head. Big, warm, gentle. Hutch. I stopped struggling to move and listened to the rumble of his voice. And this time, I could understand the words.

   "Easy, buddy. They're taking you to the hospital now. I'll be right behind you."

   Kinda sums up our whole partnership. I've been told I take too many risks, that I tend to leap before I look. It's not like I got a death wish or anything, believe me. It's just that I know, without a doubt, that Hutch'll be right there watchin' my back. It's not so scary to jump when you know you've got a safety net.

   I smiled--at least I think I did. "Just like always."

   The bed I was strapped to started movin', and I knew Hutch wasn't movin' with me. There'd be business to take care of, loose ends to tie up. Fear started to bubble up inside of me, like a soda that's been shaken too hard. I was hurting and helpless, and I didn't have the foggiest idea what was gonna happen to me next.

   Hutch's voice in my head, as clear as if he'd whispered it in my ear. I forced myself to relax. He'd be there. Just like always.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   I've got a theory about hospitals.

   Between Starsky, our fellow cops, and myself, I've spent a fair amount of time in them. Some visits have been nothing more than routine but necessary treatments--stitches, knocks on the head, maybe a sprained muscle or a broken bone. Some have been tense, nerve-wracking vigils waiting for news of life or death. And some, like Pete Briscoe, have been a time to say good-bye.

   My theory, is that while medical personnel want to treat their patients, they'd rather not deal with friends, relatives, and next-of-kin while they're doing it. Who needs us hanging around, pacing and nagging for updates when they're trying to play God? Better we all went home--don't call us, we'll call you. And a hospital waiting room is the perfect example of the conspiracy to try and make that happen.

   Think about it. The furniture could've been designed by the Marquis de Sade. You get a choice of either a molded plastic chair that curves in where your body curves out--and vice versa--or else a rock-hard couch with vinyl cushions that stick to your skin and squeak when you move.

   Then there's the coffee. That's what they call it, anyway. I swear, one day I'm going to run surveillance on the person that fills the machine to find out what they really put in there. I've got a sneaking suspicion there's a large mud pit out back of every hospital for that very purpose. The doctors and nurses certainly don't drink it, they've got a stash of the good stuff in their lounge.

   And if the chairs and the coffee aren't enough to get rid of you, the atmosphere'll drive you screaming from the building in no time. I'm not sure which is worse, the bright white walls that make you feel like you're in a giant refrigerator, or the puke green ones that look like... Never mind.

   And sometimes, if you're really lucky, there's piped-in Muzak so you can listen to watered down versions of top forty hits while you're sitting in the uncomfortable chair, drinking sludge and staring at the walls.

   Of course, I've never been one to let myself be pushed into doing something I don't want to do. So I refused the nurses' offers to get me coffee, sat on the squeaky vinyl couch, and tried hard not to look at the walls.

   Thank God, there was no music.

   I glanced at the clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. Nearly 3:00 a.m. Starsky had been in surgery for almost two hours and still no sign of the doctor. I tried to be optimistic, to think positive thoughts, but I kept seeing my partner's pale, still face as they wheeled him into the elevator, the red bag of blood emptying into his arm obscenely bright by comparison. The ER doc told me he'd lost almost three pints--over half the blood in his body. He never came out and said Starsky was lucky to be alive, but I could read it on his face.

   I'm not good at waiting, especially when it comes to my partner's health. I've been terrible at it from day one, and nothing's changed. It's not something you can improve, like a batting average or your score at the shooting range. If anything, the closer Starsky and I have grown as friends and partners, the lower my tolerance for seeing him placed in danger. Not that the first time was any picnic...

   "Hutch?"

   I startled, the hand on my shoulder like an electric charge. My head flew up from where it had been cradled in my hands and I blinked to focus bleary eyes, amazed I'd somehow managed to doze off. Dobey stood beside me in full office armor.

   "Captain."

   I made a move to get up, but he motioned for me to stay seated and joined me. "How's Starsky?"

   I scrubbed a hand over my face and shrugged. "Still in surgery. The bullet lodged somewhere near his left shoulder."

   Dobey shifted uneasily, his body dwarfing the plastic chair. "He's going to be all right, though. Isn't he?"

   I let my head drop back until I was staring at the ceiling. "The doc thought so, but he was concerned about the blood loss. That and the fact that Starsky had lost feeling in his arm."

   Dobey hooked a finger under his shirt collar and cleared his throat. "I stopped by the station. Saw them booking your man. In case you're interested, his name is Lockly. Tom Lockly. He started out on the East Coast, has a record a mile long. They think he's responsible for the deaths of over thirty people."

   So our killer had a name. Somehow I couldn't think of him as anything but Iceman. Not that it mattered. All I cared about was what was happening behind the double doors across the room. When I didn't respond, Dobey kept talking.

   "I know you don't want to hear this right now, but you did good work on this one. You managed to stop the hit on Monty without a single hostage getting hurt."

   "Except for Starsky." I muttered the words at the ceiling, unable to look at him. Not wanting him to see the guilt on my face.

   Something in my voice must've tipped him off anyway. "Hutch..."

   "Detective Hutchinson?"

   I jumped to my feet and crossed the room, ignoring a brief wave of dizziness as my body protested. An odd feeling of déjà vu hit me while I waited for Doctor Branwell to give me good news. I hoped.

   Branwell pulled a green surgical cap off a head of hair so red it looked orange. His other hand kneaded the back of his neck as he looked questioningly at Dobey, who'd followed me.

   "My captain," I explained. "How's Starsky?"

   Branwell smiled and the fist around my heart opened. "He came through just fine. Fortunately the bullet stopped just short of his left lung, or we might be having a very different conversation. As it is, we removed it without incident and we're working on replacing the blood he lost. Barring any complications, like infection, he should be able to go home in two or three days."

   A goofy grin took over my face before I remembered the numbness. "Doc, what about the feeling in his arm?"

   Branwell nodded. "There was a good deal of edema surrounding the bullet that had compressed some nerves. Once the swelling goes down, he should be back to normal."

   I let out a sigh that came from my toes. "Thank God. When can I see him?"

   Branwell hesitated, gnawing on his lower lip. "He's in recovery right now. When I left he was just starting to come around. He's still pretty groggy, but I think he was asking for you." He paused and glanced at Dobey, then me. "It's irregular, but these are unusual circumstances. Considering what Detective Starsky--and you--have been through this evening, I guess I can give you a minute. Just you."

   Dobey wasn't offended. "I'll take care of things at the station. After you see Starsky, I want you to go home and get some sleep. You look terrible."

   I gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir."

   Branwell led me through the double doors to a curtained-off area. Starsky lay on his right side, eyes closed, breathing deep and even. I slipped my hand into his and gave it a gentle squeeze.

   "Hey, buddy. Heard you were looking for me."

   Dark eyelashes fluttered and his fingers tightened. He swallowed and mumbled my name, his voice not much more than a rough whisper. "Hutch?"

   "Right here, Starsk."

   Another swallow and his forehead creased. "Where 'm I?"

   "Memorial hospital. The bullet's out, and you're going to be just fine." I smiled when he finally managed to wrestle his eyes open a bit. "Where did you think you were?"

   "Hell."

   I chuckled, but for some strange reason tears blurred my vision. "No chance of that, buddy."

   "Tired."

   Branwell had moved a discreet distance across the room, but I noticed he was looking at his watch. My cue to hit the road. I leaned in closer. "They're gonna kick me out, Starsk. Get some sleep, you've earned it."

   "'Kay. You, too."

   He was gone before the words left his mouth. I hovered for a minute longer, watching him sleep. Watching him breathe.

   Grateful that finally, finally, it was over.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   Things got real jumbled up for a while. Sometimes I was completely out, back down the black hole. Sometimes I was halfway between the dark and the light, in a gray place where it felt like the world was runnin' at 78 rpm while I was stuck on 33. Words flew over my head like soap bubbles that popped whenever I tried to grab onto 'em. Hands lifted and lowered, poked and jabbed, hurt and comforted. I was hot, then cold; sleepy, then awake. My only clear thought through the whole nightmare was that I wished Hutch was there.

   I remember a siren and the bed under me bumping and shaking, followed by bright lights and loud voices. People kept stickin' their faces in mine, asking me questions I couldn't understand, let alone answer. Another stab in the arm and things got even fuzzier. Someone in a white coat leaned over me, his mouth movin' a mile a minute. Then the hole opened and swallowed me up.

   I dreamed strange dreams, mostly about when my pop was shot. That's a time I try real hard never to think about, 'cause even after all these years it hurts too much. I know how the old saying goes--"time heals all wounds." I think that's a load of bull. Time makes 'em scab over so you don't notice 'em so much. But they're always there, still raw beneath the surface, still painful if you poke them too hard.

   I love Ma, but Pop was everything to me. He was my hero, all I ever wanted to be. I remember watchin' him get ready for work, fastening the shiny gold buttons on his uniform and slipping his gun into its holster. Sometimes he'd take his cap off, stick it on my head, and hold me up so I could see myself in the mirror. We'd laugh about how it fell down over my eyes and covered my ears. "You gotta grow into this uniform, Davey," he'd tell me, then laugh. "I know some cops who still don't fit into theirs."

   If I was all dressed and ready for school, Ma'd let me walk with him as far as the corner. I'll never forget how proud I felt next to him, stoppin' now and then so he could say hello to Mr. Koslowski, who owned a bakery across the street, or old Mrs. DeBari, a widow with six cats and a brownstone on the corner. His big hand wrapped around mine made me feel safe, and I knew he made the people in our neighborhood feel the same way.

   Every night at six o'clock sharp, I'd meet him back at the corner and we'd walk home together. I always wanted to hear about his day, every detail of what he'd done, even the boring parts. Sometimes he'd laugh and tell me stories about the people on his beat and the things that happened to them. Doris, the lady who lived in a cardboard box and spent all day loading a shopping cart with stuff she found on the streets. Jimmy, the snitch who used to be a rich banker on Wall Street before he developed a taste for cocaine. Bosco, who changed shady jobs like most people change clothes, one day selling hot watches out of his car, the next holding cock fights in an abandoned warehouse.

   Those were the good days.

   Other times, when my pop's footsteps were slower and the smile lines were missing from around his mouth, he'd shake his head at my questions. "Been a hard day, Davey. Just walk with me, okay?" And we'd hold hands all the way home without sayin' a word. Sometimes when we got home, Pop wouldn't even eat dinner with us. He'd just disappear into the bedroom while Ma tried to pretend everything was okay, even though she talked too much and her eyes kept wandering over to the door.

   Those were the bad days.

   There were mostly bad days in the weeks before Pop died. Looking back now, I realize it was a sign of things to come. Back then, I just wondered why he was becoming a stranger.

   And then one day I waited on the street corner just like always, only he never came.

   In the strangest but most real dream I had that night, Pop met me on the corner and walked with me again. Except this time I told him about the people on my beat--Fat Rollie, and Mickey, and Sweet Alice. He threw his head back and laughed when I described Huggy's money-making schemes, and he slipped his arm around my shoulders when I talked about George Prudholm.

   When we got to our old house Pop gave me a hug. He looked at me for a long time, not saying a word, just smiling. Finally, he took off his cap and put it on my head. And this time it didn't fall down around my ears. He took my face between his hands, the way he used to when I was a little boy. "Looks like a perfect fit, Davey. I'm proud of you, son."

   The beeping woke me up. Loud and high-pitched, it went on and on right next to my ear. My mouth tasted like someone had stuffed it full of cotton balls and my body felt heavy and clumsy, almost like it didn't belong to me anymore. My brain was all hazy and confused, and I couldn't remember where I was or how I'd gotten there. I wanted to open my eyes and take a good look around me, but they weren't cooperating.

   Even though I was mixed up, I knew I needed something. Whatever it was would make things better. Would understand what I was going through without me havin' to explain. Would take away the jumpy feeling in my stomach and make me feel safe. Would stay beside me so I wouldn't have to be alone.

   And then, like the sun shining into a dark room, I remembered what it was. Who it was.

   "Hush."

   My tongue had somehow grown too big for my mouth and my voice had shrunk to a wimpy little croak. I wriggled my fingers but only felt smooth, cool sheets under the tips. Just doing that much was as tiring as if I'd run five miles. I fought to keep from sliding back under, but sleep was like a 1000-pound weight that pressed me into the mattress. The beeping gradually faded until all I could hear was my own breaths.

   Warm fingers slipped into mine and squeezed. At first I thought I was still dreamin', that I was back on the street corner holding my pop's hand. Then there were words, and a voice--not my pop's, but one I'd been anxious to hear.

   "Hey, buddy. Heard you were looking for me."

   I tried to open my eyes without much luck. Even though it seemed like I didn't have any spit left, I swallowed the cotton and tried to speak.

   "Hutch?"

   "Right here, Starsk."

   As dizzy and groggy as I was, I knew where I wanted to be. Home, in my own bed with the comforter tucked up to my chin, all the lights turned off, and an old movie on the tube. A couple of times when I was real sick, Hutch carried the TV right into the bedroom so I could watch it without gettin' outta bed. Kept bringing me aspirin and juice when I needed it, too. He may be a big, tough cop, but he's real good at takin' care of you when you ain't feelin' so hot.

   Instead of home, though, I was stuck under blinding lights with nothing but a skimpy sheet over me. My back throbbed, my head ached, and my throat felt like I'd swallowed broken glass.

   "Where 'm I?"

   "Memorial hospital. The bullet's out, and you're going to be just fine."

   I got my eyelids to cooperate and cracked 'em open a bit. Hutch's face was pretty blurry, but I saw him smile like I'd just done something amazing.

   "Where did you think you were?"

   "Hell." I wasn't even tryin' to be funny, but Hutch laughed. And somehow, that made everything hurt less.

   "No chance of that, buddy."

   I wanted to say more. A lot of questions were runnin' around in my brain. Did they find out the name of Joey's partner when they booked him? Was Theresa doing okay? Had anyone called Dobey? The crazy thing was, I couldn't get those questions to come outta my mouth. It was like they were trapped inside, just buzzing around--like a fly on a window tryin' to get back outside. It got harder and harder to even remember what I wanted to say.

   "Tired."

   Hutch moved a little closer and I realized he looked pretty ragged around the edges himself. "They're gonna kick me out, Starsk. Get some sleep, you've earned it."

   What time was it anyway? Somewhere along the line I'd completely lost track of whether it was day or night. Come to think of it, I really didn't care. It was gettin' to be way too much work to prop my eyes open.

   "'Kay. You, too."

   I opened my mouth to tell Hutch it was all right. That I'd be just fine, so he should go and catch some z's himself and not worry about me.

   I meant to say all those things, but I got a sneakin' suspicion I fell asleep instead.

~~~~~ Hutch ~~~~~

   "Well, good morning, Detective Hutchinson. Here to rescue your partner from our evil clutches?"

   I grinned at her--the determination and persistence of a pit bull and a razor sharp wit concealed by 5'4" of curves and a mane of long black hair. She leaned against the nurses' station, arms folded and eyes twinkling.

   "Good morning, Nurse Chapman. I figured you might be ready for me to take him off your hands."

   Vickie raised an eyebrow with an unladylike snort. "You have a gift for understatement, Detective. One more day of listening to his theories on what they put in the rice pudding, and I might just have to shoot him myself."

   The slight curve of her mouth and the softness in her eyes contradicted her words. I'd watched the verbal sparring between Vickie and Starsky with amusement. It was obvious to me that there was a strong attraction on both sides, and I had a feeling Starsky would wind up getting a little "outpatient" care.

   "Is he ready to go?"

   Vickie smiled. "When I left him about ten minutes ago he was going to put some clothes on--without help, of course. He told me he's been dressing himself since he was three and doing just fine. Once I get Dr. Branwell to sign the release paperwork he'll be all set."

   I sucked in a long breath of air and nodded. I guess the relief must've shown on my face, because Vickie laid a hand on my arm and gave it a quick pat.

   "I know that fever must have been frightening in light of how weak he was, but considering the time lapse between the shooting and when David finally received treatment, it really wasn't unexpected. Dr. Branwell will leave him on that antibiotic for the next two weeks to be sure there's no reoccurrence of infection. He's also prescribed something to help with the pain."

   Two days earlier, about twenty-four hours after his surgery, Starsky's temperature had suddenly gone through the roof. A change in medications had quickly knocked it back down, but not before I'd been given a good scare.

   "He doesn't like the pain pills. Says they make him fuzzy," I told her.

   Vickie rolled her eyes. "So what if they do? It's not like he's going to be making a speech to Congress or performing brain surgery. That arm is still causing him a lot of pain, pain means stress for the body, and stress slows the healing process. He needs to take the pills--no arguments."

   I smirked at her. "No wonder he wants out of here. I can see the patented Starsky charm won't work on you."

   She chuckled, the affection now unmistakable. "Oh, it works. It just won't get him off the hook." Her expression turned serious. "Keep an eye on him, Ken. It's obvious he doesn't want to admit just how badly he's been injured. You're going to have to be careful that he doesn't overdo and hurt himself."

   "Don't worry. Over the last four years I've become an expert at watching over him." I tipped my head in the direction of Starsky's room. "I'd better see how he's doing."

   "I'll let you know when I get the paperwork from Dr. Branwell. Shouldn't be long."

   I touched my index finger to my forehead and headed down the hallway. Starsky's room was the third on the left. I rapped lightly on the door with my knuckles.

   "Starsk? It's me."

   "C'mon in."

   I sensed frustration in the growled words. Nudging the door open with my shoulder, I slipped inside. Starsky had managed to pull on a pair of navy sweatpants, a white cotton tee shirt and his blue Adidas. He was in the process of trying to struggle back into his sling, grimacing and swearing under his breath.

   "Hey, buddy. How 'bout I give you a hand with that?"

   I'd tried to keep my tone casual, but Starsky still bristled. "I'm not helpless, I can do it myself."

   I stepped close enough to put a hand on his shoulder. "Of course you can. But I'm here, so why should you?"

   He stopped wrestling with the straps and looked up at me for the first time. I raised my eyebrows and a moment later his shoulders slumped. "Yeah. Okay."

   Together we adjusted the sling to comfortably support his arm. By the time we were finished, Starsky was panting with exhaustion and pain. I eased him back onto the bed and he collapsed gratefully against the pillows.

   I poured some water into a paper cup and placed it into his trembling fingers. "You all right?"

   Gulping it down, he glared at me over the rim. "I swear, if someone asks me that question one more time..."

   I held up my hands, palms out, and backed up to take a seat in the chair. Starsky set the empty cup on the tray table and swiped at his forehead with his arm. He looked over at me and his eyes narrowed.

   "What's up with you?"

   I had a pretty good idea what he was talking about, but I played dumb. "Huh?"

   Starsky leaned toward me, scrutinizing me from head to toe. "You look like crap. I thought when you left early last night you were gonna go home and get some sleep."

   "I did."

   Well, the first part anyway. I was back at Venice Place and tucked into bed by 9:00. The problem was that every time I drifted off to sleep lately, I was plagued by nightmares where I relived the ordeal at Giovanni's over and over again. Except in my dreams things didn't turn out so well. Sometimes Starsky quietly bled to death in my arms. Sometimes when I fired at Joey I wound up killing one of the hostages instead. And sometimes Iceman and Joey executed Monty and then each of the rest of us, one by one. Starting with my partner. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, shaking like a leaf, and it would be a very long time before I was able to get back to sleep. Only to have it happen all over again.

   Starsky looked at me for a long moment, and when he spoke again his voice was very soft. "I pretty much left you high and dry on this one, Hutch. I'm sorry you had to go through it alone."

   His words unlocked a lot of emotions I'd managed to bury. I tried to respond, to brush him off with a wisecrack or a joke, but my throat closed up. Starsky, never one to let me off the hook, pressed a little harder.

   "I know how worried you must've been, how scared. I gotta admit, I was pretty scared myself."

   I closed burning eyes and turned my face away. I'd been determined not to let him know how much the shooting had affected me, to deal with it on my own. He'd gone through so much, and the last thing I wanted was to add my pain to his. I should've known I couldn't hide anything from him.

   "I know you, Blondie. I know you've probably gone over that night a million times in your head and kicked yourself for every little mistake you think you made. But I want you to remember two things." Starsky was silent until I turned back to look at him. "First, I trusted you to get us out of there. And second, you didn't let me down."

   Deep inside of me, the chunk of ice that had formed when I saw Starsky bleeding on the floor finally began to thaw. I mustered a weak smile. "I had help, you know. Without Theresa I'd've never gotten my hands on that gun."

   Starsky shifted restlessly in search of a more comfortable position, but his face lit up. "Yeah, she turned out to be one tough lady. She dropped in after you left yesterday, to see how I was doin'. Said to tell you she was sorry she missed you."

   A question that had been bothering me popped into my head. "Speaking of Theresa, what exactly did she promise you? And what's it got to do with me?"

   Starsky's blank stare became a lopsided grin. "Let's just say once I'm back on my feet you're finally gonna get that veal--on the house."

   That smile was contagious. "Yeah?"

   "Yeah." The grin faded from his lips, but I could still see it in his eyes. "I'd say you earned it, partner. But if you'd rather stick to scrambled eggs, I ain't gonna argue with ya."

   Never let it be said that I missed an opportunity. "Not gonna argue, huh? Is that a promise? Because Vickie just gave me some pretty strict orders for you once we get out of here."

   Starsky scowled. "I can just imagine. Hutch, that lady is dangerous. Not only is it impossible to win an argument with her, she's so damn beautiful you don't care if you lose."

   I'd heard a whoosh of air as Starsky was speaking and the door opened to reveal the lady in question, several sheets of paper and two amber vials in her hands. She winked at me, then turned a smug smile on my partner.

   "Figured that out all by yourself, did you, Detective? You must have the crooks shaking in their boots."

   Starsky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. "Oh, God, what now? Please tell me you're here to spring me from this place."

   Vickie put on an insincere pout. "We're all crushed you want to leave us so soon. We were just starting to really enjoy your sparkling personality."

   Starsky looked at me. "See?"

   Vickie walked over to hand me the papers and vials. "That's his meds and a list of what he can and can't do over the next week or so." She turned to Starsky, all the teasing gone from her expression. "Let him help you, David. You're not up to nearly as much as you think you are. I don't want to see you back here." She chuffed a soft laugh. "At least not that way."

   Starsky blinked, thrown off balance for a minute, then turned on the 1000-watt grin. "You got it, sweetheart."

   Vickie shook her head and walked to the door. She paused to look back at me. "There's a wheelchair right outside the door. He's all yours, Ken. Good luck. I've got a feeling you're gonna need it."

   Starsky made a face and scooted to the edge of the bed. I thought he was going to stand up, but he just sat there and looked at me.

   "Starsk? Something wrong?"

   "I just... I appreciate everything you're doin' for me, Hutch. I don't ever want to make you think I take it for granted. And I don't want to take advantage of you either."

   I moved over to sit beside him. "Starsk, for a while there I really thought I'd lost you. I'm just glad you're still around for me to help."

   He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Yeah?"

   "Yeah."

   A pause, and I could tell he was struggling to say something that didn't come easy. "Then can I ask you a favor?"

   I sighed. "Didn't you just hear what I said? Of course you can."

   He ducked his head, chin to his chest. "Could you...tie my shoes?"

   For the first time my gaze dropped down to really look at his feet, and I mentally kicked myself. I'd been so careful to bring Starsky clothes that he wouldn't have to button or zip, but I'd completely forgotten the laces on his shoes.

   Instead of answering, I simply knelt down and tied the straggling laces. Then I stood and stuck out my hand so he could steady himself as he slid off the mattress. I could tell from the way his body tensed that just that simple movement caused him pain, but he squeezed my fingers and let go.

   "Thanks, Hutch."

   I pulled the same trick he'd used on me earlier, not speaking until he looked me in the eye. "My pleasure, Starsk."

   And it was. If the shooting had done nothing else, it had reminded me that every day is a gift. I wouldn't soon forget that lesson.

   I got the wheelchair, and Starsky settled himself with a small, relieved grunt. We were halfway down the hallway when he spoke, and even though I couldn't see his face, I heard the smile.

   "Hey, Hutch?"

   "Yeah, Starsk."

   "Remember that time you carried the television into my bedroom?"

   I grinned. My pleasure.

~~~~~ Starsky ~~~~~

   "This has gotta be the worst slop I've ever tasted. And I'll eat anything--ask my partner. Who do they got workin' in the kitchen, Adolf Hitler?" I dragged my spoon through the soupy gray glop they tried to call cream of wheat and looked up at Vickie with what Hutch calls my "kicked puppy" face. "C'mon, Vickie. Can't you smuggle me a donut or a bagel?"

   She finished reading something on my chart and stuck it back on the hook at the end of the bed. "Well, it's obvious you're feeling much better. I won't even try to talk to you about balanced nutrition because I know it would be a lost cause."

   Jeez, she was gorgeous when she was sarcastic. I wondered if she'd be willing to give me a little one-on-one therapy when my arm was feeling better.

   "Cold pizza?" I suggested. "Talk about nutrition--that represents all the major food groups."

   Vickie rolled her eyes but a laugh slipped out. "You are impossible, you know that? Good thing you're getting out of here today."

   I shook my head. "Admit it, darlin'. You're gonna miss me."

   "Is your partner picking you up?"

   "Yeah. He should be here soon. Okay if I go ahead and get dressed?"

   Vickie nodded. "Dr. Branwell has your release paperwork. As soon as he signs off you can hit the road. Here, let me help you with that."

   She came around the side of the bed and unbuckled the straps on my sling. I couldn't stop myself from wincing at the sudden throbbing in my back and arm. I'd moaned and groaned when they put the thing on, but now I could see why. I supported my arm by hangin' onto my wrist, while Vickie carefully removed the sling and laid it on the bed.

   She looked me up and down and frowned. "You'd better let me help you. Getting a shirt on over that arm isn't going to be a picnic."

   "I don't think so. I've been dressin' myself since I was three years old. I do just fine on my own."

   Vickie folded her arms. "Honey, you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

   I tried to fold mine until my shoulder reminded me it was a bad idea. "Maybe you've seen the make, sweetheart, but not this particular model."

   She laughed out loud, and I really, really wished I was in better shape. "You win, Detective. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."

   I waited until she was out the door and then slowly slid off the bed. My legs wobbled and little sparks danced in front of my eyes. I clutched at the mattress for dear life and told myself I was not gonna let Vickie find me passed out on the floor. After a minute I felt steady enough to reach for the sweat pants and tee shirt Hutch had brought me the night before.

   Vickie was right, gettin' dressed was no picnic. My back throbbed and my arm ached like an animal with big, sharp teeth was doin' its best to gnaw it off. When I tried to bend over to slip on my pants, all the blood rushed outta my head and I actually did wind up sitting on the floor. Thank God, Hutch was smart enough not to bring my jeans. They're snug enough that I'd never've been able to haul 'em up to my waist one handed, let alone zip or snap them. The tee shirt was the worst. Yeah, I didn't have to mess with the buttons. But gettin' it up my arm and over my head hurt so bad I had tears in my eyes by the time I'd finished.

   I shoved my feet into my shoes easily enough, but there was no way I could tie 'em. First of all, I'd have to bend all the way over just to reach them; and second, I couldn't manage the laces with one hand. I fished the sling off the bed and wrapped it around my arm, but the buckle kept slipping between my fingers until I was ready to scream.

   I knew all I had to do was ask for help. Why not? Was I crazy? One punch of a button and I'd have a beautiful woman at my service. A woman who'd definitely given me some vibes she was interested in me in more than just a professional way.

   I couldn't do it.

   It's always been easy for me to give help but just about impossible to ask for it. I guess a shrink might say it's because of the way I had to be strong for Ma when Pop died. Asking her for anything during those days was unthinkable; she could barely hold herself together. Even though I was hurtin', I loved her too much to burden her with my troubles. I had to be strong for her, for Pop.

   Old habits die hard.

   A knock on the door, followed by Hutch's voice. "Starsk? It's me."

   "C'mon in."

   I gritted my teeth and tugged at the buckle, only to have it twist out of my fingers. I called it several words I'd picked up in the army, not bothering to look up as Hutch walked into the room.

   "Hey, buddy. How 'bout I give you a hand with that?"

   See, I knew he was gonna do that. I had a pretty good idea what Hutch must've gone through in that restaurant, fighting for our lives without back-up from me, and the last thing I wanted was for him to think I was still useless.

   "I'm not helpless, I can do it myself." It came out a lot meaner than I intended.

   Hutch didn't mind. "Of course you can. But I'm here, so why should you?"

   The fact that he didn't get mad even though I deserved it just made me feel worse. And he was right. What was the point to me killin' myself when he was right there? I gave in, but it didn't feel good.

   "Yeah. Okay."

   It was disgusting how easy the sling went on with two hands. I let Hutch buckle me up, help me back onto the bed, and fluff my pillows. By then I was panting like I'd run a marathon, and I hurt bad enough to take one of Vickie's happy pills.

   Hutch handed me a cup of water. "You all right?"

   I was so damn tired of being an invalid. Of people stickin' me with needles and taking my blood pressure and making me eat stuff I wouldn't feed my dog--if I had one. And I was sick to death of the questions.

   I took a swig of the water. "I swear, if someone asks me that question one more time..."

   Poor Hutch backed off and went to sit in the chair. I looked over at him, meaning to apologize, and all of a sudden I saw it. He looked awful. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked too pale and too thin.

   "What's up with you?"

   He gave me this blank look that he uses when he doesn't want to answer me. "Huh?"

   Now I knew I was onto something. I looked a little closer. He'd showered and shaved, but his shirt was wrinkled and the pants had a rip at the bottom. Definitely not like my neatnic partner.

   "You look like crap. I thought when you left early last night you were gonna go home and get some sleep."

   "I did."

   Yeah, right. He might've dragged himself home, but it sure didn't look like he'd gotten much sleep. I thought again about what it must've been like for Hutch with so many people depending on him. Especially me, who pretty much just laid there and bled. Oh, yeah--I threw a pitcher. Right.

   Ever since I've known him, Hutch has been too hard on himself. He'll make excuses for anyone if he thinks they need it, but he'll never cut himself any slack. Knowing him, I figured he'd probably find some way to blame himself for how things went at Giovanni's. He shouldn't've let Lockly get the drop on him. He should've stopped Joey from shootin' me. He could've done something sooner to get me help.

   All of that was bull, but that didn't mean he hadn't thought it. That overblown sense of responsibility is what makes him a good cop. It's also what sometimes makes him moody and depressed.

   "I pretty much left you high and dry on this one, Hutch. I'm sorry you had to go through it alone."

   He didn't answer me, but I could tell I was getting somewhere. So I kept going. "I know how worried you must've been, how scared. I gotta admit, I was pretty scared myself."

   Now that was an understatement. There was a point when I was pretty sure Hutch was gonna need a new partner. But as scared as I felt, it was all outta my hands. I couldn't help those people--hell, I couldn't even help myself. I had to trust Hutch for that. And I did.

   Hutch had turned away from me, a sure sign I'd struck a nerve.

   "I know you, Blondie. I know you've probably gone over that night a million times in your head and kicked yourself for every little mistake you think you made. But I want you to remember two things." I waited, forcing him to look at me before I'd finish. "First, I trusted you to get us out of there. And second, you didn't let me down."

   I've got a mouth on me, and I've stuck my foot in it more times than I like to think about. But every once in a while I say the right thing. Hutch stopped hunching his shoulders and even smiled a little.

   "I had help, you know. Without Theresa I'd've never gotten my hands on that gun."

   My back was killing me. Sharp flashes of pain were shootin' all the way down to my fingers and changing position didn't help. At the mention of Theresa, though, I had to grin. What a surprise she'd been.

   "Yeah, she turned out to be one tough lady. She dropped in after you left yesterday, to see how I was doin'. Said to tell you she was sorry she missed you."

   "Speaking of Theresa, what exactly did she promise you? And what's it got to do with me?"

   Something strange happened to me then. For a minute it was like I was back in the office at Giovanni's. Confused, hurting, scared... Theresa hadn't been the person I wanted takin' care of me, but she was all I had. And talking to her about Hutch helped me think of something other than the bullet in my shoulder and the lousy odds of us gettin' out alive. Just a stupid little promise of a veal dinner, but it was something to hang onto.

   A grin snuck onto my face. "Let's just say once I'm back on my feet you're finally gonna get that veal--on the house."

   Hutch smiled right back "Yeah?"

   "Yeah." It hit me again, how my stubbornness about eating Italian had landed us in a mess that could've cost us both our lives. "I'd say you earned it, partner. But if you'd rather stick to scrambled eggs, I ain't gonna argue with ya."

   Hutch pounced on that one, started givin' me grief about how I should follow Vickie's orders for my convalescence. It was pretty clear that my Florence Nightingale had already read him the riot act about what I could and couldn't do once I got home. Of all the sneaky, underhanded...

   "I can just imagine. Hutch, that lady is dangerous. Not only is it impossible to win an argument with her, she's so damn beautiful you don't care if you lose."

   Remember what I said about puttin' my foot in my mouth? Make that stickin' it halfway down my throat. While I was expoundin' on Vickie she comes waltzing into the room.

   "Figured that out all by yourself, did you, Detective? You must have the crooks shaking in their boots."

   "Oh, God, what now? Please tell me you're here to spring me from this place."

   "We're all crushed you want to leave us so soon. We were just starting to really enjoy your sparkling personality."

   I turned to Hutch, who was no help at all. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. "See?"

   Vickie handed him some papers and a couple bottles of pills. "That's his meds and a list of what he can and can't do over the next week or so."

   I was hunting for some kind of wisecrack about pushy women, but when she turned to look at me the smirk was missing and those big gray eyes had gone soft. "Let him help you, David. You're not up to nearly as much as you seem to think you are. I don't want to see you back here." She laughed and her cheeks turned pink. "At least not that way."

   I just stared at her for a few seconds, wondering if she meant what I thought she meant. Then I realized I was gapin' at her like a fish, so I smiled. "You got it, sweetheart."

   She shook her head and walked to the door, but I'd seen the corners of her mouth turn up. "There's a wheelchair right outside the door. He's all yours, Ken. Good luck. I've got a feeling you're gonna need it."

   She was just kidding, of course, and I heard Hutch snicker. All of a sudden, though, it didn't seem too funny. I mean, Hutch had been through plenty himself the last few days. And now he was stuck playin' nursemaid to me.

   Come to think of it, what would I have done without him? I couldn't even tie my damn shoes right now, and gettin' dressed had almost made me keel over. No way could I handle being on my own, that was for sure. But we'd never even discussed it. I'd just assumed Hutch would take care of me. And obviously so had he.

   "Starsk? Something wrong?"

   I had to force the words out. My chest had gotten tight and my eyes stung. "I just... I appreciate everything you're doin' for me, Hutch. I don't ever want to make you think I take it for granted. And I don't want to take advantage of you either."

   He didn't say anything right away, just came and sat down next to me on the bed. "Starsk, for a while there, I really thought I'd lost you. I'm just glad you're still around for me to help."

   I couldn't look right at him. I don't handle it well when things start gettin' emotional. "Yeah?"

   "Yeah."

   But for me it was a big deal. It was admitting I couldn't do it alone. That I needed him.

   "Then can I ask you a favor?"

   Hutch sighed. I still couldn't look at him, but I knew he'd have on that face. The one that says, "We covered this already--where were you?"

   "Didn't you just hear what I said? Of course you can."

   I stared down at my feet and those damn laces that dangled on the floor. "Could you...tie my shoes?"

   My biggest fear was that he'd crack a joke. Hutch's sense of humor can be brutal sometimes, and I've had more than one girlfriend ask me how I put up with it. The answer is simple--he's my best friend. He's there for me whenever I need him, no holds barred. He'd die for me without thinkin' twice about it. What's a little sarcasm compared to that?

   But this time was different. I was trusting him with something I'd never really given anyone before. I wasn't sure what I'd do if he threw it back in my face.

   Hutch didn't say a word, just got down on his knees and tied my shoes. When he stood up he held out his hand so I could slide off the bed without fallin' on my face. I knew he'd hang on as long as I needed him, but I squeezed hard and let go.

   "Thanks, Hutch."

   When he didn't answer me I looked up. Huh, he learned that one from me. He looked me straight in the eyes and smiled.

   "My pleasure, Starsk."

   And just like that, it was okay. And I knew it would keep being okay, even though I'd hate being dependent on him for the next few days. We're partners, after all. It's our job.

   Normally I hate the wheelchair rule. I've been known to whine and complain the whole way outta the hospital about how I'm not helpless, I've got two perfectly good legs, and so on. This time, though, I was awful glad to sit my sorry butt in that chair and let Hutch drive. All I wanted was to get home to my own place with my own bed. No cream of wheat, no doctors, and a television that actually worked.

   And that reminded me...

   "Hey, Hutch?"

   "Yeah, Starsk." His voice sounded warm, like he was just as happy as me.

   Good.

   "Remember that time you carried the television into my bedroom?"

   Maybe I could get the hang of this asking for help stuff. Couldn't hurt to practice.

THE END

Author's note: Many, many thanks to my editors, Barb and Lisa, for their time and skills. You helped me make this story the best it could be. And my heartfelt appreciation to all of you who reminded me you were waiting for this one. You'll never know how much your encouragement meant to me.