A Textbook Case

K Hanna Korossy

Written: 2005

Unpublished; written for fanfic auction

For Babs

            “So, when are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Starsky knew he looked amused but sounded concerned, and that was fine by him. Not like he could keep anything from his partner, anyway.

            “Huh? What?” Well, when Hutch was paying attention, at any rate. He turned away from the passenger-side window. “What do you mean, what’s going on?”

            “Oh, I don’t know. How ’bout the fact that you skipped lunch today?”

            “I wasn’t hungry.”

            “Or that you let me take down Jimmy Greenbean? I saw you itching to do it.”

            “Right, get my clothes dirty, tear my new slacks, collect a few bruises—what’s not to love?”

            “Or how ’bout the way you’ve been holding on to your stomach all day? Either you got knocked up without telling me or something’s wrong with you.”

            Hutch snatched his hand away from his abdomen where it had indeed been hovering, and couldn’t hide a flustered flush. “Starsky, why don’t you mind your own business?”

            “You are my business,” he answered, a touch exasperated. “So, spill it.”

            “It’s nothing, okay? I just have a stomachache. Probably from that sandwich place you dragged me to yesterday.”

            Starsky considered that. “I don’t buy it,” he finally said. “That time you broke your ankle on that chase, took me an hour to figure out you were in pain. You don’t usually bother hiding the little stuff—this isn’t just a stomachache, Hutch.”

            “Okay, Dr. Starsky, then you tell me, what’s wrong with me?”

            “You want the whole list?” Starsky grinned, then sobered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he said patiently, “that’s why you should go see a doctor.”

            “We’ve got two more days before we’re off—if it’s not better then, I’ll go.”

            Which was quite the compromise coming from his partner, and Starsky recognized that. He didn’t know if he should be grateful it had been that easy, or worried that things were so bad even Hutch couldn’t argue it. But it was the best he was going to get, so he nodded. “Okay.”

            “Okay.” Hutch turned back to watch the streets as they passed. Just in time to pull up to Venice Place. He swung his door open and got out with what Starsky noticed were unusually ginger movements. Hutch turned back toward him when the motor cut off. “What’re you doing?”

            “Comin’ in with you,” Starsky answered, pocketing his keys as he climbed out and shut his door.

            “Who asked you?”

            His eyebrows rose. “I need an invitation?”

            Hutch just rolled his eyes. They both knew the answer to that one.

            Hutch peeled away just inside the doorway with a terse, “I’m taking a shower,” leaving Starsky to make himself comfortable. Which he promptly did, as much at ease in Hutch’s place as his own, dropping his holster on a chair as he collected a beer and a book, then flopping onto the couch. He grew immersed enough in Dumas that he didn’t hear his partner come out of the bathroom and get dressed, nothing until the muffled thud in the bedroom.

            Starsky frowned over his shoulder. “Hutch?”

            The answer was unexpectedly, frighteningly weak. “Starsk…”

            He dropped the book and darted into the bedroom nook, to the sight of Hutch hunched over on the floor beside the bed, sweat glistening on his face. Starsky dropped to one knee beside him, hesitantly touching, then clasping one shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

            “My stomach.” It was said through clenched teeth. “Sudden…”

            “I’m calling an ambulance.” Starsky began to rise.

            “No, wait.” A hand plucked at his sleeve, too feeble a grip to hold him and yet all that was needed to keep him there. “I think I know what this is.”
            “Yeah?” Starsky asked warily.

            “Yeah. Here.” He took Starsky’s hand and planted it over the lower right side of his abdomen. “Press down, then let go.”

            “You sure about this?”

            A tight nod.

            Starsky shrugged and did as he was told, pressing and then releasing.

And was instantly consumed with panic as Hutch arched away from the bed, a curse and a cry tangled in his mouth.

“Hutch!” Starsky grabbed for arms, catching Hutch as he sagged back, breathing hard.

            The murmur did nothing to encourage him, although the uncoordinated pat of his hand helped. “’M all right.” Yeah, like he was believing that. “Just…God…they tell you it’s gonna hurt, but…”

            Starsky shook his head helplessly, one hand sliding supportingly under Hutch’s jaw and ruffling the damp ahir. “What’re you talkin’ about—who told you that?” A beat. “I’m gonna go call—”

            “It’s appendicitis. Textbook.” The words pushed out between pants, but Hutch at least seemed to be catching his breath. “Acute but…not emergency. Just take me to the hospital, huh?”

            Starsky frowned at him, weighing that. Hutch had some medical training and usually knew what he was talking about, nor was he one to gamble with his life. On the other hand, the pasty, damp face beseeching Starsky did nothing to reassure him. He rubbed his thumb against a cheekbone. “You sure about this?” he asked uneasily. “You’re not gonna throw up in my car or anything?”

            He got a painful laugh for that. “Your car’s safe. Help me up.”

            Right. Starsky still wasn’t sanguine about the plan, but sometimes real trust was trusting your partner with himself. He planted a hand under Hutch’s elbow, taking his cue from the man’s breathing and expressions as to how to help him up as painlessly as possible. One arm around Hutch’s waist, the other gripping the hand that rested along Starsky’s shoulder, they made their way across the apartment like old men, with small, shuffling steps, Starsky pausing to grab their jackets on the way out. Going down the steps went easier than he’d expected—apparently only that pressing thing caused the really awful pain, and Starsky had no intention of doing that ever again—but it was a relief to finally get Hutch settled in the backseat of the Torino. Starsky jogged back around and set off for the hospital, fast and gentle.

            Which apparently didn’t escape even a sick Hutch’s attention. “I’m not gonna break, Starsky.”

            “Yeah, well you’re not lookin’ so indestructible, either,” Starsky answered with a glance at the rearview mirror. Hutch looked even paler in the dim lights of the car, but the pain didn’t look as severe. Appendicitis—that wasn’t so bad, right? Some people had it for years before they got their appendix out. “You’re probably gonna have to stay in the hospital overnight—I shoulda brought you some clothes.”

            “It can wait until tomorrow,” Hutch said wearily. “Don’t worry about it. Worry about what we’re gonna have tell Dobey.”

            “What I’m gonna have to tell Dobey,” Starsky grumbled. Yeah, that wasn’t going to go over well. The captain couldn’t argue a hospital visit, but that wouldn’t keep him from raging over having to take Hutch off the schedule for the next two days. Starsky was going to hear a lot more on the matter while he soloed, deskbound. Something else to look forward to.

            Then he caught sight of Hutch’s face again, creased with pain and gnawing at his lower lip, and Dobey’s reaction didn’t seem all that important.

            At the hospital, he pulled up at the ambulance back entrance, and throwing a “be right back” and what he hoped was an encouraging smile at his passenger, Starsky jogged inside. It didn’t take long to snag a nurse and a wheelchair, but he did the transfer himself, peeling Hutch out of the backseat and depositing him gently into the chair. He let the pretty nurse do the pushing then while he walked along, a hand on Hutch’s shoulder.

            “What about your plants?” he asked, mostly for distraction.

            “I won’t be gone that long, Starsky—they’ll probably let me out tomorrow.” Hutch sounded a little stronger now.

            “How ‘bout Calley—don’t you have a date with her tomorrow?”

            He got a jaundiced look for that. “You leave Calley alone—I can talk to her. The last thing she needs is a dose of that so-called ‘Starsky charm.’”

            Starsky smirked back at him. “You’re scared she’ll take one look at me and ditch you.”

            “Sure. And while we’re here, why don’t you have them take a look at that swelled head of yours?”

            Starsky squeezed the back of his partner’s neck, part rejoinder, mostly affection, not surprised when Hutch reached up to absently pat his hand. Even routine surgery was surgery, and there were many places they’d both rather have been, but at least they weren’t alone. There wasn’t anything Starsky had found in their five years of partnership that simple fact didn’t make easier.

            Well, maybe changing clothes. Starsky examined the one plain picture on the wall in detail while Hutch struggled into the gown the nurse provided. Starsky did chip in to help with shoes when curling down to untie them threatened to topple Hutch off the examination table. Starsky folded the clothes onto a chair in the corner, then leaned with one hip against the table to wait with his partner for the doctor.

            The wait wasn’t long, although the middle-aged man who puffed into the room and introduce himself as Dr. Somerville, looked harried. He ignored Starsky, gave Hutch a perfunctory greeting, then proceeded with his exam while Starsky stood back and craned to see.

            The rebound test, unfortunately, was part of the exam, and Starsky saw Hutch brace for it. He unobtrusively sidled over to the far side of the bed from the doctor and laid a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, not missing the flick of blue eyes over to him. Then came the push and release, and Starsky found himself holding Hutch down when he bucked with a strangled scream. Starsky swallowed hard, and tried not to stare daggers at Somerville.

            At least the man looked apologetic. “It’s all right, Mr. Hutchinson,” he patted Hutch’s shoulder with far less emotion than the grip Starsky had on the other side. “Everything’s going to be fine, you just have an acute case of appendicitis. We’ll get you up to surgery in a few minutes and you’ll be good as new.”

            Starsky traded a roll of the eyes with his partner, but at least Hutch wasn’t gasping like a beached whale anymore. He massaged the shoulder under his hand.

            “Thank you, Doctor,” Hutch said, ever the gentleman, and opened his mouth to say something else when a distant yell came from outside the door. Crashes of metal followed, then more shouting and what sounded like a soft scream.

            All three of them turned to stare at the door.

            “Um, excuse me, gentlemen,” Somerville said distractedly, and before Starsky could grab for him, left the room. The sounds from the hallway faded back into their earlier background hum.

            Starsky divided his attention between his partner on the table and the door. “What do you think?”

            Hutch made a face. “Could just be a nervous nurse.”

            “It’s why she’s nervous that makes me wonder.”

            “You have your piece?”

            Just what he’d been bemoaning. “Nope. I was a little busy keeping you on your feet to worry about grabbing it. You?” he added pleasantly, already knowing the answer. Hutch glowered at him.

Somerville wasn’t returning, the door stubbornly remaining closed.

            Starsky shifted his balance. “I’m gonna go look. You stay here.”

            “Ha, ha,” came the dry rebuttal, then Hutch grabbed for his hand as he lifted it away. “Be careful,” he said sternly.

            Starsky nodded, appreciating it but all business now, and stepped over to the door.

            With a soft click, he opened it and peered into the hallway. In one direction, only empty corridor. In the other…the flit of shadows and snatches of voices caught his attention, and Starsky opened the door wider, moving halfway out into the hallway.

            From that angle, part of the waiting room came into view. Nothing out of the ordinary: a few people sitting on the couches and chairs, one holding a magazine, another a baby. Perfectly normal except for the identical expressions of terror they all wore as they stared at something just beyond Starsky’s line of sight. Terrific. Mouth tightening, he moved forward another foot, trying to avoid any attention and a possible giveaway by one of the scared civilians.

            The gun-waving hand came into view first, followed by the stretcher next to it, a man lying prone on it. Blood dripped off one side in a growing puddle as Somerville and another doctor worked over it. There came a growl from the direction of the arm, and the pieces fell into place. With a silent grimace, Starsky eased back out of sight and returned to the exam room.

            “Bad guy and his bleeding buddy are holding the waiting room hostage so they can get some help,” he announced as he came back into the room. Then he caught sight of Hutch’s strained face. “Hey, you okay?”

            “Think I’m…” He started to retch without further warning, leaving Starsky grabbing for the first thing he could, the trashcan under the exam room table. He held it in place, one hand on Hutch’s back as his partner heaved up bile. The nausea didn’t last long but left Hutch spent and slumping back on the table. Starsky dropped the trashcan and shoved it away with a foot while resting a hand on the spiked blond hair. “It’s gettin’ worse, isn’t it?”

            Hutch closed his eyes and nodded.

            Starsky wet a tissue at the sink and wiped Hutch’s face with it, then found a cup so he could rinse. Starsky didn’t like the effort that took. “Is it supposed to go this fast?” he asked quietly.

            “Depends.” Hutch’s voice sounded brittle. “Sometimes.”

            “Which means we need to get you to surgery.” Which meant they had to do something about what was going down outside instead of waiting for hostage negotiation to work it out. That was usually more Starsky’s style, anyway, going in and getting the job done.

But priorities shifted when your partner was hurting and out of commission. Anything Starsky did would mean leaving a worsening Hutch without supervision. He winced at the thought, then gave Hutch a self-assured smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Another peek at the door revealed nothing more than that the armed bad guy had raised his voice. Snatches of commands and threats were now audible, none of which was a good sign. Starsky stood there a minute, pulling back when someone approached

It was an orderly in hospital whites hurrying nervously down the hall. Starsky yanked his badge out of his back pocket and flashed it at the startled man, then grabbed him by the arm and hustled him into the exam room.

“I need your clothes.”

“What?” Fear and confusion was a muddle in the man’s face.

“Your clothes—strip,” Starsky ordered tersely, already taking off his own jacket.

“But—”

Starsky paused to stare him in the eye. “You wanna deal with those guys out there?”

A mute shake of the head, and the man started unbuttoning his white coat.

“Starsk.”

The weak call had more power to summon him than any bellow. Starsky stepped over to the table as he pulled his t-shirt over his head.

“Do you have a plan or you gonna just charm ’em into giving up?”

Starsky grinned. “Actually, I was thinking about both.”

“Watch yourself.” Hutch was trying to look stern and only managed a pale frown. “No back-up this time.”

“Yeah, there is,” Starsky countered softly, and gave Hutch’s bicep a squeeze before stepping back to the orderly to accept the clothes.

They were big on him, but not obviously so. He nodded at the man when he was done. “You stay in here while I go take a look around. My partner’s got appendicitis—keep an eye on him.”

“I can’t.”

He glared at the man. “Whaddaya mean, you can’t?”

“I’ve got a kid with major blood loss next door—if I don’t go switch the bags, he’s gonna crash. I have to go.” He was already tying a gown on.

Starsky winced, glanced over at Hutch, who nodded. Like there was any choice at all. “Go,” was all he said, and waited for the man to slip out the door before returning to his partner’s side. “No dancin’ or throwing wild parties while I’m gone,” he said sternly.

For all its pain, Hutch’s expression was sheer exasperation. “Would you get out of here?”

They linked gazes for a moment, then Starsky nodded. “I’m gonna move you over to the door—lock it after me.”

Hutch breathed out slowly, nodded once.

Starsky rolled the table to within arm’s reach of the door, patted the blond head again for good measure, and went back out.

He inched along the hallway, staying out of sight as long as possible. Then, squaring his shoulders, he walked out into the waiting room.

“You!” The gun waved at him.

Starsky let his eyes go wide, taking in his opponent as he did. Twenties, white, an addict hurting for his next fix, and waving around a .45 like he knew how to use it. His friend on the stretcher looked just as bad, bloody and groaning. Starsky raised his hands non-threateningly.

“Come here and help.”

He did as he was told, grateful for the unexpected opportunity to get close. He made sure he went to the side of the stretcher the gunman was on, sidling in next to Somerville. Who gave him a wide-eyed look, but after a significant stare from Starsky, said only, “Hold this here.”

This turned out to be a some sort of instrument that disappeared into a ragged hole in the back of the man on the stretcher. Starsky tried not to flinch as he accepted the instrument, even the moment’s let-up of pressure welling up fresh blood in the injury. Starsky quickly clamped down, then detached himself from what he was doing, calculating a plan of attack.

But the gunman was fidgety, flitting in closer only to pull back again, then circle to the other side of the stretcher. Any time someone in the waiting room made a sound, he was on them, yelling at them to shut up, otherwise he ping-ponged between the doctors treating his friend, telling them to hurry and threatening them if the man died. Which, from all the blood, Starsky figured was very possible.

Again the gunman approached, and even as Starsky tensed to jump him, the man once more swiveled out of reach. Starsky gritted his teeth. Hostage negotiation rarely had luck with hypes, and the man on the gurney was dying, while the dance the gunman was doing meant it could take all night for him to come close enough to take down. They didn’t have the time. Hutch didn’t have the time.

“Send me to get something,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth to Somerville.

“What?” the doctor whispered back, a little too loudly.

“Anything,” Starsky mouthed desperately.

“Um.” Somerville raised his voice. “I need some more sutures.”

“I’ll get ’em,” Starsky instantly volunteered, passing his instrument back and turning toward the hallway.

The gun was instantly before him, tapping his chest. “Why?” But the question wasn’t directed at him, rather at the doctor standing nervously behind him.

“I can’t tie up all these bleeders if I don’t have sutures. The orderly knows what kind.”

The man gave him a piercing look, and for the first time Starsky stared into his eyes. Oh, yeah, they weren’t getting out of this through negotiation. The gunman was in need of a fix, but there was something else in his eyes, something Starsky hadn’t expected. Fear for his friend. And Starsky knew what a motivator fear like that could be. 

“Go on,” the gun shoved him roughly. “Hurry up.”

Starsky went.

He really hoped there were sutures in the cabinet in the examination room, because he doubted the gunman would let him out of sight long. Starsky stopped at the door and knocked once, then said quietly, “It’s me.”

It took a moment, but the lock was turned.

He hurried inside, half an eye on his partner as he scrounged for something that would at least pass for sutures. “How you doing?”

“Swell.” Hutch was down to a whisper now. Starsky tried not to notice. “You?”

“I’m patching up a guy like I know what I’m doing, but at least I can get in close. Few more minutes oughta do it, but I need your help.”

Like he’d ever had to ask. Hutch didn’t waste energy even answering that.

Ah, white packages of sutures. Starsky grabbed a handful from the drawer and turned back to Hutch, taking in the exhaustion and tightness of his face. Starsky didn’t comment, but he did give himself a moment to slide his hand along Hutch’s nape, massaging the tense muscles there. Just in case. He spoke with gentle terseness. “I need a distraction.”

Hutch’s mouth pulled into a grin. “Déjà vu?”

And, scarily, he knew exactly what Hutch was talking about. The parallels to a night in an Italian restaurant—Starsky curled in the back room with a bullet in the back while Hutch faced down the bad guys who had taken them hostage—hadn’t escaped him. He managed an answering quirk of the mouth as he shoved a metal bedpan into his partner’s hands. “This time it’s gonna work. And you don’t have to throw it, just drop it.”

“I can move, Starsk.”

“Yeah, well, not tonight, you’re not. Leave the dirty work to those of us without something ready to burst inside our body, huh?”

“You know…you’ve really got a way with words.” But the conversation was taxing, his voice already thin, and it was time to go.

“Give me three minutes,” Starsky said, and with enough déjà vu to choke a horse, dug out Hutch’s pocketwatch from the pile of his clothes and pressed it into his hand, folding his own fingers around the chilled and stiff ones. “Ten minutes and you’re gonna be up there in surgery.”

“I better be the only one,” Hutch said pointedly.

Starsky flashed him a smug look, and reached for the door. “Lock it behind me.”

He stepped out into the hallway, sutures clutched in his hand. And straight into the gun, leveled now at his face.

It took effort to pry his eyes away from the barrel, into the jumpy grey eyes above it. “What took you so long?” the gunman hissed.

“Had to find the right ones,” Starsky said contritely, and held up the sutures as proof. Behind him, he heard the near-silent snick of the lock.

A precarious moment passed, then the gun lowered. “Get back there.”

Starsky didn’t wait to be told twice.

Somerville gave him a white-faced glance as he took his place by the stretcher again, then took the sutures and ripped open a package. Starsky thought he was putting on a good show until he threaded a needle with one. Starsky swallowed and let his mind wander again, plotting strategy while his hands obeyed the doctors’ directives.

            The gunman was on the other side of the stretcher, almost hanging over the shoulder of that doctor, whose face was beaded with sweat. If the gunman stayed over there, it would be hard to get at him even with Hutch’s distraction, and Starsky began a silent prayer: Send him over here. Come on over here, turkey, please…

The doctor he didn’t know finally swallowed. “Would you please move?” he asked the gunman shakily. “I can’t work on your friend with you in my way.”

            Starsky silently cheered him on as the gunman gave the doctor a disgusted look, hefted his gun, and turned toward the waiting room full of people.

Not that way! There had to be less than a minute left of his three.

            Finding the people in the room still adequately cowed and motionless, the gunman gave them a scowl and turned back to his friend and started around the stretcher. Starsky hid his relief, tensing instead in anticipation. Any time now, partner…

            Sometimes he thought they really did have telepathy going between them. At that moment, from the hallway behind them came a loud clatter, making both the doctors jump and the gunman spin in place, staring toward the source of the noise.

            His back to Starsky.

            He moved in speed and silence, one hand chopping at the guy’s arm while the other closed on the .45. Starsky yanked it away decisively, then used it to deliver a blow to the side of the guy’s face. No time now to be friendly. The gunman fell in a heap without so much as a groan.

            “Hold it.”

            A new voice, shaky and raw but determined. Starsky froze, running over what he’d just done and where he might have left himself open, and realized with a sinking heart his mistake. Never assume an opponent who’s down is also out.

            He turned by slow degrees, finger conspicuously out of the trigger guard, to face the man on the stretcher.

            This one looked even younger than his unconscious friend, and the pallor of blood loss did nothing to make him look more formidable. But the arm he was propped up on was solid and the gun was too close to miss Starsky even with its slight tremor. Both doctors had stepped back from the stretcher, and the waiting room had fallen into horrified silence. It was just the two of them.

            “You gonna shoot me?” Starsky asked quietly. This one was in pain, terrified, and unlike his buddy, nonetheless looked like he might be sane. Starsky might have been able to move faster than the kid, but different threats called for different tactics.

            “Maybe. You were gonna shoot Drew.”

            Starsky shook his head. “I’m a cop—I don’t shoot people if I don’t have to. But you see,” he took a step closer, “your buddy Drew, he had a lot of good people hostage here, families with kids, people who didn’t do anything wrong and are scared.” Starsky nodded to one side, his eyes never leaving the wounded man, whose gaze flicked briefly over toward the waiting room.

            “Besides that,” Starsky continued, “I got a sick partner in there who’s gonna die without surgery. So kinda like you and Drew, I’m gonna do what I need to to get him help. We understand each other?” he asked seriously.

            The tremor had turned into a definite vibration. The kid shouldn’t have been conscious, let alone holding a gun on someone. His eyes were cloudy with pain and indecision.

            Starsky eased a step closer. “You shoot me and that’s not gonna help anyone, you or Drew. You put the gun down and these nice doctors’ll take care of you, the right way, not out here with all these folks.”

            “And Drew?” He sounded exhausted, and Starsky thought with a twinge of Hutch.

            “Sorry, kid. Drew’s goin’ to jail.” He didn’t lie if he didn’t have to.

            But slowly the young man nodded, and the gun drooped. Starsky was near enough to scoop it away from him, and sliding the safety on, tucked it into his jacket. The young man slumped back on the stretcher, and Starsky nodded to the doctor on the other side, who quickly called for help and began to wheel his patient away.

Somerville moved to follow, but Starsky grabbed his arm. “Go finish with my partner first.” To his credit, the doctor immediately nodded and turned down the hallway toward the exam room.

            Starsky’s whole body pulled to go with him, but he had a job to finish first. He hadn’t brought his gun, but his cuffs were still tucked in the back of his jeans and he fished them out, snapping them onto the gunman and then onto the railing that ran the length of the hallway. A nurse had opened the emergency entrance and uniforms poured into the room. Starsky pulled his badge out for the first few, nodding at the gunman. “This is one—the other’s bein’ treated, that way. I’ll have a report later.” And with the civilians and gunmen in good hands, he turned his back on all of them and left to check on Hutch.

            Meeting a frustrated Somerville at the door. “It’s locked and he won’t answer.”

            Oh, yeah. He’d forgotten about that part. Starsky moved up close to the door and knocked. “Open up, Hutch, it’s me.”

            Silence. No lock turning, no response, not even a shift of movement.

Fear of a whole different nature than in the waiting room rose in Starsky. He banged on the door with a fist this time. “Hutch!”

Still nothing. Starsky turned to the doctor. “You got a key to this?”

“I can call down for one. Security—”

Too long. His mind sang it; his body breathed it. All of it had gone on too long and even with something as benign as appendicitis, time could be fatal. Starsky stepped back and kicked hard.

It took two blows for the door to splinter, another to slam it open. Even as Somerville stared at him in shock, Starsky propelled him into the room.

Oblivious to the commotion around him, Hutch lay still and unconscious on the table by the door. Starsky stared at him in dismay as the doctor frantically began his treatment and called for help. The appendix had burst; Starsky knew it. Had known it as soon as he hadn’t gotten any response at the door, but he’d still hoped. And now, because of some stupid hypes and really lousy timing, Hutch would be fighting for his life. Again.

Starsky turned away with a jerk, and his foot nudged something. The bedpan, lying on the floor where it had been dropped. Hutch doing his job, too. Starsky grimaced, and gave the pan a kick that sent it skittering across the floor and under the desk. It wasn’t fair.

It was what he kept thinking as they rushed Hutch out of the room to surgery, and Starsky turned with heavy steps to make some calls. It really wasn’t fair.

The uniforms and detectives kept them away, respectful of Starsky’s preoccupation, but he heard little bits nonetheless. The people in the waiting room, recovered from their shock, kept wanting to send him gratitude and praise, and there was more than one “Thank God that officer was here” expressed.

It was funny how relative “fair” began to seem.

The surgery took over two hours, and then they let him sit with Hutch in Recovery, which they didn’t usually allow. Starsky didn’t know if it was in appreciation of what he’d done or a sign of how ill his partner was, but he had his suspicions. The way the surgeon couched even his hope in cautious terms gave Starsky an idea just how close it was, and the sight of his partner did nothing to reassure him.

But he knew the drill, taking his seat by the recovery bed, threading the long, cold fingers through his. Holding on to Hutch’s body as if it might tether the life in him, too, because there was only so far Starsky could back him up in these fights. But he could stay, and hang on, and he did, through the move to the ICU, through the slow burn of the expected post-op fever, through the silent hours that followed.

Until Hutch stirred, and exhausted eyes cracked open to stare in confusion first at the wall, then at him.

Starsky grinned tiredly back, squeezing the now-warm hand in his own. “You’re okay, Hutch. Your appendix burst, but they fixed you up.” He knew from experience how hard it was waking up in a hospital, not even knowing where you were, let alone how you got there.

Chapped lips moved, finally forming sound. “Hostages?”

His grin grew. “All safe. We got ’em, partner.”

“Maybe Dobey won’ be mad.”

Starsky snorted. “Cap’n’s ready to give us a medal. Don’t worry about it, Hutch, just get some sleep. You got a couple more days’ worth before they let you outta here.”

Hutch blinked at him, surprised Starsky by murmuring a heartfelt “sorry,” and falling back into sleep.

Sorry? For the long recovery? Or for not being able to stay awake? Or…oh. For what Hutch had seen in his face, because he’d been on that side of the bed before, too. Because it really was hardest on the ones you left behind.

Starsky rubbed his fingers between Hutch’s, voice husky as he whispered, “’S okay.”

Not because it hadn’t scared a couple years off his life, or because he would have been okay if the outcome of the surgery had been different. But because you did what you had to for someone you were worried about, even holding a waiting room full of people hostage, and one person’s Not fair was another’s Thank God! Which he was repeating inside now, too. All in all, not a bad deal.

“’S okay,” Starsky repeated quietly, and, for the first time in two days, wholeheartedly meant it.