by Ellis Murdock

3 November, 2001

Regarding his red-eyed, wheezing, and thoroughly tetchy partner with as much compassion as he could muster, Hutch counted to five and made a valiant attempt to swallow his ever-growing impatience. "How about a game of trivia? Your choice."

"Not in the mood."

"Okay." Hutch exhaled loudly and felt his jaw tighten another notch. "Well, let's do a quick review, shall we? Television's out because it's too boring. You're tired of my voice, so we can cross off both reading and singing. Your eyes are too blurry to read to yourself. The radio doesn't play anything good. Monopoly is--what was the problem with that one? Oh yeah: you don't want to play until we find the race car." He shook his head. "I dunno, buddy. We seem to be down to a choice between thumb wrestling and getting hammered."

Glancing up briefly from where his fingers were busily picking at the covers, Starsky shrugged. "Ma always gave me warm milk with nutmeg," he offered hopefully.

"And I'm sure it's the textbook cure for insomnia. Unfortunately, milk and pneumonia don't mix." Hutch paused thoughtfully for a moment, then brightened. "Although…how do you feel about soy?"

Starsky glared. "Are you--? Don't do this to me, Hutch. Never antagonize a man who hasn't slept in three days. You have no idea what I'm capable of right now." Resuming his vicious attack on the lint pills dotting the blanket, he added morosely, "If this tea doesn't do the trick, just kill me, will ya?"

The obvious answer--the one Dr. Linville had himself suggested just a few hours before--wasn't going to be received well at all. Then again, at this point, what would? Rubbing Starsky's leg very lightly through the covers, Hutch said softly, "I know how you feel about this, but the Ativan might still be the best choice."

The ensuing coughing fit effectively laid that particular argument to rest for good, not that he had really expected Starsky to seriously consider it, anyway. The almost obsessive determination to stay off an addictive substance was hardly a foreign concept to Hutch. Although--in this case, at least--what would be gained by a few hours sound sleep would likely far outweigh any possible negatives. Hutch felt his irritation begin to abate as sympathy once again resumed its dominant position in the conflicting whirl of emotions…it was hard to be annoyed with someone in such obvious misery.

"Damn," Starsky whispered, when he could breathe again. "You'd think I'd be so worn out, this wouldn't be a problem. If I could just do something physical…."

Hutch chuckled. "I know what you're thinking and, effective or not, we can rule that out. For a while at least."

Starsky pulled a face. "I'll have you know I was thinking about shooting hoops, or running around the block, or something." He folded his arms in a display of mock disdain. "Shows what you know."

"Well, you've only been home for a little over seventy two hours, but if you're looking to return to the hospital, a good physical assault might be a more satisfying ticket back in."

Starsky's eyes widened. "How's that?"

"It would satisfy the hell out of me right now if I was the one doing the pounding."

Starsky rolled his eyes at Hutch's bright, innocent smile, but after a brief silence his expression turned serious. Slapping a hand down on Hutch's knee, he squeezed gently as he spoke. "I'm sorry. I'm a lousy patient and I know you haven't been getting any more sleep than I have. Hell, my hacking could probably wake the dead--no insult intended," he added quickly.

"Pneumonia's no fun, and you're handling it better than I would," Hutch assured, matching his partner's tone. "I just wish I could think of something that would knock you out for a while. How about an inhalation? If you could break some of that up, maybe you could rest a little more easily."

"Nah. Just…I don't know how t'say this, Hutch, but there's something about the quality of your voice tonight that's like fingernails on a blackboard. Just go and close the door, will you? Maybe total silence'll do the trick."

No longer able to plausibly deny defeat, Hutch rose from the bed with a sigh and headed for the door. We may as well try it your way, he thought grimly. My bag of ideas is officially empty. He turned as a thought occurred, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it abruptly. Grabbing the notepad and pencil from its home on the nightstand, he jotted: 'Call me if you need me,' then teasingly tapped Starsky on the head with the pad.

"Will do."

Settling down on the couch with his book, Hutch idly wondered how long this latest experiment was destined to last. The answer wasn’t long in coming. He felt, rather than heard, Starsky approach from behind after only ten minutes, and didn’t bother to look up before he spoke.

"Thought you were resting."

With his sleep-tousled hair and slightly askew blue robe, Starsky resembled nothing so much as a child awakened too soon from a nap. Wrapping the robe a little tighter around him, he plunked down on the couch close alongside his partner and sighed.

"M' tired of resting," he complained softly.

Hutch briefly glanced up from the book and, fitting his right hand against his partner's neck, began massaging gently. "You look just plain tired to me."

"Yeah. That too. 'Sides, I thought maybe a change of scenery might help."

Starsky moved a little closer and dropped his head down on Hutch's shoulder, sniffled, then peeked at the book. "Whatcha readin'?"

"The Cultivation, Care, and Feeding of the Boston Fern: An Enthusiast’s Guide."

Starsky raised his head for a moment, trying to gauge by Hutch's expression if this was a joke. He decided it wasn't, sighed again, and reclaimed the shoulder.

"Bet it's a real page-turner, too. Honestly Hutch, how d'ya read this stuff without lapsing into a coma?"

A smile just quivered at the edges of Hutch's mouth. "How can you ask that? It's got life, death, and re-potting--all anyone could possibly want in a book." Glancing up at his partner's long-suffering expression, he chuckled softly. "Well, good. If you're so bored, maybe you'll go back to bed like you're supposed to, huh?"

"Don't wanna. Just read it out loud--it'll probably work even better than the Ativan," he retorted with a snort.

"What happened to 'the quality of my voice' shredding the one nerve you have left?"

More than life. "Oddly enough, Starsk, one doesn't have a lot to do with the other. I didn't shoot you when you threw up on me, did I? That should count for something."

Balancing the book momentarily on the armrest, he helped ease Starsky down. "Feet up," Hutch directed, deftly retrieving the afghan from the back of the couch.

Starsky obeyed and allowed himself to be settled and tucked in, his head and shoulders resting neatly on the pillow atop Hutch's lap. "Enlighten me, Oh Horticultural One."

Hutch began, but instead of reading straight, chose to lend color to the text by presenting it with all of the drama of a Shakespearean play, ad-libbing as he went. It had the desired effect and the resulting laughter was contagious: both men were soon in an undignified tangle, giggling helplessly. Definitely one of the more pleasant ways to release the tension that had built over the past week and a half.

"Stop it, Hutch. You're makin' me cough," he finally protested.

"Good. You need to get all that junk out of your lungs somehow." Relenting, Hutch made a stab at composing himself. Wiping his eyes, he resumed reading--straight this time--in the soft, low tone that he knew worked on his partner almost as well as hypnotism.

Within fifteen minutes, Starsky was well and truly out. How is it that every problem we face these days seems to be resolved by hanging onto each other for dear life? He frowned. Theses days? No, surely that wasn't right. He shook his head. Maybe that's been the answer all along. Hutch put down the book and let his hand brush back the curls from the other man's comfortingly cool forehead, grateful that the most recent crisis to hit their lives seemed to be nearing the end of it's course. Well, babe, we made it over this hurdle intact. What's next on your list that we haven't already tried? Drowning? Plane crash? Banishing the thoughts as quickly as they came, he tucked them neatly back into the file that visited him most often in nightmares.

Leaving the book on the armrest, Hutch draped one arm across the back of the couch, wrapped the other protectively around a blue-robed one, and leaned back. A voice within cautioned him of the sore neck that was sure to follow, but he ignored it. The warmth and closeness of the somnolent being in his arms was worth all that and so much more. Smiling at the thought, he allowed himself to join his partner once again and finally drifted into a well-deserved, deep, and blessedly restorative sleep.

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