INTERREGNUM
by Ellis Murdock
Starsky soundlessly observed his dozing partner from the bedroom door, wanting very much to adjust the blankets to cover an exposed section of back; not daring to for fear of awakening him from much-needed slumber. "You don't make this easy, you know that?" A whisper that skirted only the very edges of the audible realm, it was a lament lodged at no one in particular.
This latest 'flu bug had, not surprisingly, claimed Starsky first. Since the shooting, he had come to expect that--just another fact of life now. Although it kept its visit relatively short--in Starsky's case about five days--intensity more than made up for brevity: it had been five days of hell. Hutch's almost fanatical devotion to taking care of his partner had virtually ensured he would succumb next but, true to form, he remained steadfastly in denial until the symptoms were so overwhelmingly obvious that no amount of pretense could disguise them. Fine. The gargantuan task facing Starsky now was to find the weak spots in the wall Hutch erected around his own vulnerability and penetrate it enough to at least reciprocate a little. Starsky sighed. Stubborn--
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a muffled sneeze from somewhere deep within the recesses of the covers.
"Gesundheit," Starsky said cheerfully as he approached the bed. "Twice."
The second sneeze materialized about a second later, and Hutch rolled over and scowled, the seriousness of his expression greatly undermined by the undignified snuffling sound he made as he breathed.
"You're not supposed to sneeze with the 'flu. You know that? I didn't sneeze."
"Allergies." Hutch's voice had been virtually absent for nearly a day, though he retained a sort of froggy whisper.
"Oh." Starsky laid his forearm against Hutch's still-too-warm forehead. "That explains it. Y'sure it's not just the rebellious side of your nature standing up and saying 'hi'?"
"Go 'way."
"Hey, is that any way to talk to the guy who went to three stores after midnight just to find you the cough medicine in the pink bottle? Don't know why … it doesn't seem to work much better than the blue kind."
Hutch hacked a few times, unintentionally but effectively illustrating the point. "Better," he protested meekly.
Starsky made a face as he settled himself on the edge of the bed. "How about some soup? Think you could keep it down? I've been working on it for hours out there--"
"Opened a can," Hutch grumped, pointing to a box of cough drops that would have required a stretch to reach.
With moderate effort, Starsky swallowed the desire to fight back. Aside from the fact that Hutch was patently miserable, Starsky also carried too many memories of his own behavior from less than two weeks previous to respond in kind. Hutch had--for the most part--accepted the demands, complaints, and general attitude with good cheer. It was Starsky's turn … an automatic response borne of years of practice. Standing up, he nudged the box of lozenges nearer the bed, and prepared to head back out to the kitchen, turning in the doorway. "Did not." He folded his arms in mock defiance and leaned against the hardness of the doorjamb. "I'll have you know it's a Ma/Huggy recipe hybrid: 'Bride of Chicken-Noodle-Other-Stuff'."
The revelation seemed to wick the bile from Hutch's demeanor, leaving something very like contrition in its wake. "Did?" he croaked.
The sound of a tiny section of wall crumbling was almost audible, and Starsky had to remind himself that it was just a start--jump at it too quickly and Hutch would stubbornly retreat fully behind it once more. He nodded. "So, you think you're up to trying a bowl? I kept it light."
Guiltily, Hutch brought both hand up to his throat. "Later?"
"Okay. If you don't want soup, how 'bout something else? No offense to ginger ale, but if you don't get something that qualifies as food down you soon, you're gonna forget how to eat. Frozen yogurt? That should be easy enough on the throat. What do you want?"
Hutch appeared to consider that option for a moment, his expression turning more hopeful. Finally, he rotated his right wrist until his hand was pinkie-downward, made a ring with thumb and index finger, and poked his left index finger up through the ring.
Starsky watched the unusual display of personal sign language with thinly veiled amusement, but made no comment as Hutch repeated the move. By the third, increasingly impatient try, Starsky could no longer contain his laugher. "I don't know exactly what that means, Hutch, but if it's what it looks like it means? Not on the menu today."
Hutch reddened, and this time it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fever. Glaring, he snatched the notepad from the night stand--knocking over an empty glass in the process--scrawled something furiously, and thrust it forcefully toward his partner.
Still smiling, Starsky straightened and slowly closed the distance between door and bed, righting the glass before taking the pad. "Oh. Yeah, I got the kind of frozen yogurt that you push up through the tube thing. There are other kinds?" Teasing the unwell was a dangerous game, but when done properly the payoff was worth every bit of the risk. Starsky grinned as a smile Hutch apparently couldn't repress transformed his features, and another section of wall collapsed. "Be right back. You need a refill of ginger ale while I'm at it?"
Hutch nodded.
"'Kay." Hutch's hair wasn't really mussed enough to warrant the hand Starsky raised to smooth it, but that wasn't the point of the gesture, anyway.
Starsky whistled as he set up a makeshift tray: fresh box of tissue, ginger ale, acetaminophen, yogurt pop, crossword puzzle, and the silly card he'd found at the only all-night drugstore stocking the seemingly rare 'Dextrolixer' cough syrup, all carefully arranged in turn.
Hutch was already propped up in bed by the time Starsky returned, his eyes simultaneously brightening and widening at the sight of the tray. "Starsk …"
"Save your voice." Starsky grinned. "I'll give you and your yogurt some time to be alone together. Just ring the bell when you're through, or if you need anything. All right?"
Hutch grabbed Starsky's wrist. Apparently not. "You want some company?"
Another nod.
Progress! "Two conditions: you scoot over, and I get first lick on the yogurt stuff."
Hutch obliged on both counts, dropping his head forlornly against Starsky's shoulder as the wrapper came off the yogurt.
"Still feeling lousy, huh?"
"I hate my life."
"Aw, you'll feel different after you try my soup."
Hutch raised his head, staring at Starsky with an expression somewhere between wary and baleful.
"Better! Okay? You'll feel better. Jeez. Here I am, slaving over a hot stove just to make you a pot of soup, and this is the thanks I get."
Hutch's eyes managed to convey the answering smile, even as his mouth worked on the frozen treat. "Should go …" He gestured toward the living room.
"Why? It hasn't changed since the last time you were out there, and that trip wasn't exactly a terrific success." A rhetorical question only, Starsky already knew the answer: Hutch felt guilty staying in bed. "You know what Ma used to tell me when I got sick? Sometimes it's the body's way of makin' sure it gets some time off. It might be a little better if you'd stop fighting it so hard."
Hutch sighed and leaned back, not drawing away as Starsky edged nearer. "Okay." Shoulder to shoulder, the last stone of the barricade fell.
"Okay," Starsky murmured. "If it helps any, they say that when you can't stand it another minute, the flu's about run its course. Three days for you now … that would be about right." He leaned forward and claimed the crossword magazine. "You gonna want to go right back to sleep after you finish eating?"
Hutch shook his head.
"Great! Maybe we can work a few of these. How about I give you the answers and you write 'em down?"
There is a definite limit to teasing the unwell, but Starsky was smart enough to duck before the ginger ale could reach its target.
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