Company

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2001

Comfort Zone 2 (2003)

  Starsky pulled up in front of Venice Place with a swallowed sigh. There were a lot of things—hundreds, in fact—he would rather have been doing than visiting his sick, no doubt grouchy partner. And yet there had been no question of which direction to turn his car after he’d left the station that afternoon.

  It had been clear first thing in the day that Hutch had a fever, his eyes and cheeks flushed, the heat burning up his energy. But it had taken a whole morning of Starsky nudging his partner to take off early before Hutch had finally given in and dragged himself off. Why his partner had been so stubborn to stay and work on paperwork, of all things, Starsky would never know, except that Hutch didn’t like showing weakness. And he didn’t like being told what to do. Like some 3-year-olds Starsky knew, he grinned.

  It was therefore not much of a surprise when he quietly opened the door to find that instead of being in bed, the blond figure was curled up at one end of the sofa.

  “What’re you doing here?” came the weary, almost defensive query at once, even though Starsky could have sworn he hadn’t made a sound.

  He put the bag down he’d brought, followed by his jacket and holster, and rolled up his shirt sleeves as he approached the sofa. So much for a quick visit—Starsky knew he’d be staying a while. “Checkin’ up on you,” he answered mildly.

  “What for?”

  Looking down over the back of the sofa, Starsky shook his head once at the sight. Hutch hadn’t even taken off his jacket, let alone his weapon, yet was shivering. Starsky could sympathize with feeling so lousy you didn’t have the desire or energy to do anything but drop onto the closest piece of furniture.

  “What for?” Hutch repeated, squinting up suspiciously at him now.

  As if he didn’t know. “I wanted to see how you were doin’,” Starsky said patiently. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “I’m tired, not sleepy.”

  Starsky took a step closer. “Need some help?”

  “No.”

  That Hutchinson pride. No, that wasn’t fair, Starsky amended—no man liked to admit needing help, especially with basics. Starsky rounded the couch and crouched down in front of the blond, his mouth quirking gently. “Let me help?”

  Hutch almost rolled his eyes. “Starsky…,” he sighed.

  But he didn’t fight Starsky’s smoothly working off his jacket and then unsnapping and pulling off his holster. Starsky stood and left the room briefly to get the thickest of Hutch’s blankets off the bed, returning to drape it over the curled figure.

  “Better?”

  A very muted “Yes.” Starsky patted the nearest blanket-covered limb and rose, this time headed for the kitchen.

  “Take it easy and I’ll fix you some soup.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I know, but ya still need to eat. It’ll be good,” Starsky promised. No dissent rose from behind him that he could hear, not that it would have dissuaded him. With a smile, Starsky went to examine the cupboards.

  He could make a fair soup from scratch with his mother’s tutelage from his childhood, but there was neither the time nor ingredients for that now. Starsky wanted to get something warm and nourishing into his partner before Hutch dropped off, and so ten minutes and one can of Campbell’s later, he returned to the living room with a warm mug in hand.

  Hutch’s glassy eyes were still on the wall across from the sofa, much as they’d been when Starsky first came in. He sat now in the blond’s line of sight, holding up the mug as Hutch tiredly looked at him.

  The blond frowned. “I thought you said soup.”

  “It is—I thought a mug might be easier to handle than a bowl and spoon. You wanna sit up so you don’t get any soup all over your grandma’s blanket?”

  Hutch glowered at him but shakily pushed himself up, clasping the cover around him. One hand reluctantly reached out for the mug, and then Hutch’s eyebrows rose as he looked inside. “Tomato? I thought you swore by chicken soup.”

  Starsky gave an easy shrug. “Tomato’s good, too—lots of vitamins. Besides, it was all you had.”

Hutch nearly smiled at that, giving the soup a tentative sip instead. Then a longer one as his eyes registered the surprise of how good the warm liquid felt.

  Starsky grinned and left him to it, fetching the bag he’d brought from where it sat next to the door. A minute later, he was back by the sofa in time to reclaim the empty mug and offer in its place a glass of orange juice. At Hutch’s quizzical look, he nodded his head at the glass. “I picked some up on the way here.” Starsky preferred hot tea when he was sick, but Hutch had always gone for the vitamin C. “You take anything for the fever yet?”

  Hutch shook his head and Starsky made a face at him, turning his partner’s hand and dumping two aspirins in it before handing over the juice. He’d figured Hutch hadn’t bothered with medication. The blond was a health nut only until he got sick, then he seemed completely disinterested in taking care of himself, but Starsky wasn’t about to solo for a week while Hutch managed to get well despite himself. His partner’s chagrined look amply said what he thought about Starsky’s nursemaiding, but Starsky could have cared less. He could worry about his partner’s approval when Hutch was back on his feet.

  The glass also drained and the pills gone, Starsky took the empty containers back into the kitchen, then returned to sit across from Hutch, his air of authoritativeness completely vanishing. “How you feeling?” he asked kindly.

  “Lousy,” Hutch murmured.

  “You still cold?” The shivers had abated but Hutch remained huddled under the blanket.

  A shrug. Starsky translated that and retrieved another blanket, tucking it around the figure on the sofa. Hutch’s fingers immediately closed around the edge of it, pulling it in close, and Starsky took advantage of his preoccupation to touch the back of his hand to the detective’s forehead.

  It wasn’t excessive heat, but it was definitely a moderate fever. “You want me to call Jace?” Starsky asked. Luckily, they had a doctor friend who made house calls for them.

  Hutch shook his head, shaking loose Starsky’s touch. “I’m fine—it’s just a temperature.”

  Starsky couldn’t really argue with that. Hutch wasn’t exactly a little kid anymore.

  They sat in silence for a long minute.

  “You want me to turn the TV on?” he finally offered, twisting to glance at the set and then back at his partner.

  Another listless shrug, followed by a cough. Starsky jumped up, returning with more orange juice and flicking the set on as he passed it. It took a few clicks of the dial to find something he thought his partner would like, but he finally settled on a wildlife special on gazelles. This time Starsky sat at the other end of the sofa, facing the TV.

  A few minutes went by, one gazelle meeting a sad fate at the tusks of a boar. “Remind you of Dobey?” Starsky asked, receiving a snort in response.

  Another minute. “Starsky, you don’t have to stay.”

  Even the words dragged. Starsky could only imagine how washed out his partner felt. And easily remember how miserable it was to feel that way when you were all alone. He shook his head. “Same thing’s on at home—I’m not missing anything.” On the contrary.

  Hutch didn’t protest again. By the time the gazelles moved on and a show about meerkats began, he was softly snoring, his feet in Starsky’s lap.

  A nap would do him good, Starsky nodded with satisfaction, and he’d probably be ready for more soup by the time he woke up. They still had one day left of their four-day rotation that week, but Dobey would let them off. Starsky intended to stay where he was. Hutch didn’t need a babysitter, but everyone could use some company when they were feeling miserable. Maybe he could even coax his partner into some board games to take him mind off his being sick.

  Sounded like a plan, Starsky decided. Perhaps misery loved company, but he’d quit being company and had become family some time ago, and what kind of family abandoned you when you were feeling low?

  Content right where he was, Starsky settled in to learn all about meerkats.