White Sickness

Submission for the “Hutch Hurls” Contest.

Starsky shivered.

Whether it was from the airflow as the emergency room doors slid open and shut as people came and went, or from his fear over his partner’s – his lover’s – health, he wasn’t sure.

How long he sat in the molded plastic chair after they kicked him out of the curtained ‘room’ where Hutch was being poked and prodded, he couldn’t fathom a guess. Maybe a week passed until an elderly doctor called his name. But it was probably only an hour or two at most, he reflected as he stepped tough the double doors leading to the emergency room proper. The doctor, after introducing himself as Dr. Jaycox, led Starsky tough the doors, then stopped to speak with him.

Dr. Jaycox started speaking, but all Starsky heard was white noise. White… Right. White walls, bright white lights, the chill in the air felt white; white coat and hair on the doc, even his skin was pale white. Like a cold, bitter day in January in New York. Not the fresh new snow and crispness of the holiday season. Hutch is like that white: crisp, sparkling, brilliant. Or at least he usually was; not lately.

Starsky couldn’t even say when it started. For several months now, Hutch had been vomiting on and off. It came and went. Sometimes with other symptoms.

Four months ago

Starsky had subdued and cuffed his suspect – one of a pair of dealers for Max Malone, suspected of having a prostitute murdered, when he raced further down the alley to find Hutch in a struggle with the other dealer. The perp was at least 6’4″ and weighed over 280 lbs., and was giving Hutch a run for his money. A punch to the gut and a right hook to the face knocked the detective down, but Hutch swept his legs as he fell, pulling down the perp. Less than a minute later, both detectives had the dealers cuffed and moving toward the squad car that would take them to the precinct for booking.

Suddenly Hutch swung halfway around and threw up.

Several times more that day he emptied his stomach, but an exam in the emergency room indicated nothing more than a bruised stomach.

Two days later he was fine.

Three months ago

Both detectives were at their desks, finishing up their report on an investigation and stakeout of a drug making plant in a run down warehouse. Hutch reached his right hand out, asking Starsky for a specific note and Starsky looked up – immediately becoming alarmed. A small dribble of blood was leaking from Hutch’s nostril.

Starsky handed him a tissue instead of the note and reminded Hutch that this was the third nosebleed in the last two days and that something was wrong. The previous two nosebleeds had been accompanied by vomiting and fever, though there none of those symptoms were present this time.

After promising Starsky he’d see the doctor, the next day Hutch was fine, and he cancelled the appointment.

Six weeks ago

Something woke Starsky up. He opened his eyes to a darkened room and turned to lean over Hutch to see the time on the digital clock on Hutch’s nightstand.

But his lover wasn’t in bed. That’s when Starsky realized what the sound was that had woken him. Hutch was in the bathroom…sick…again.

A muffled groan prompted Starsky out of bed and into the master bath connected to their bedroom. Hutch was bent over the porcelain toilet, placid, pale, and in obvious pain. His right arm lay over his lower torso as he bent over; beads of sweat trickling down his face.

When able to answer Starsky query of where he hurt, Hutch explained that he thought he might have appendicitis. That would explain the sickness, fever, and pain of the last few days.

A quick run to the emergency room, however, cancelled out that theory; and by the end of the week Hutch was back to normal.

Three weeks ago

Tee days after receiving a minor concussion during an attempted abduction, Hutch began feeling ill. Vomiting, headaches, dizziness.

Both he and Starsky thought it might be a delayed reaction from the concussion, but the E.R. doctor was concerned that his symptoms might be more.

With the blond detective’s history of concussions and head injuries, the doctor was worried his brain had reached its limits and Hutch was in danger of having some permanent damage.

Tests, however, proved inconclusive and three weeks later Hutch was still battling on and off bouts of nausea and vomiting. Sometimes with fever, sometimes with pain; sometimes with both.

“Detective?” A touch to his arm turned his attention back to the doctor. Starsky shook the fog of memories from his head. “Sorry?”

“Detective Hutchinson is resting as comfortably as possible right now, his temperature’s been brought down with fluids, and we’ve given him some Compazine to help settle his stomach. We’ve also inserted a saline i.v. to replenish his fluids. He’s already more coherent and in less pain.”

Better. Good. Starsky sighed in relief at the Emergency Room doctor’s words.

“You can go back now. Try to get him to eat something; he’s been refusing. We’re going to keep him overnight to make sure that he keeps the fluids and food down, and that his temperature stays at a manageable level. However, I’d like to suggest that he make an appointment with his regular physician for a more thorough check-up.”

Huh? And just like that the white warmth which had surrounded him only seconds ago, became white ice. “Are you saying it might be something serious?”

The doctor directed Starsky to the curtained cubicle where Hutch lay until they moved him to a room.

“Hey buddy. You’re looking better.”

And it was true, Hutch was awake, more alert and some color had come back into his face.

The furrowed brow and grimace were indicators that the blond was well on his way to his grumpy self. Evidenced by the complaining he started in on when Starsky opened the curtain.

“When can I go home? I hate staying here. Can you talk to them for me?”

“Sorry, babe. They’re keeping you overnight. Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

“Yeah, but I was hoping you’d convince him otherwise.” Hutch batted his eyelashes like Starsky always did when he wanted – and usually got – his own way. All to no avail.

Starsky knew what Hutch was trying to do. He knew his lover so well. “Lame attempt, Hutch. You know you can’t emulate the patented Dave Starsky ‘innocent’ look.”

“Emulate, Starsk? Is that the word of the week?”

Starsky didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead he remarked on how good Hutch appeared to be doing with some food and fluids in him.

Which brought Hutch back to his original complaint. “I hate that they make you wear these damn gowns.” He grumbled as he tried to shift the flimsy cotton further down his thighs. “They barely cover anything.”

“I know.” Leered his lover.

“Stop that. I’m in no shape for any of that. Haven’t been lately.” He trailed off an apology.

“That’s why you’re staying overnight! Beside that doesn’t matter.” Starsky paused. “Well, it does. But finding out what’s been making you sick is more important than making love.”

Hutch put a palm over his own forehead. “Man, I must really be sick. I thought I heard you say sex wasn’t important.”

“It isn’t.” Starsky leaned over his lover to give him a kiss. “Making love is. And when you’re better, that’s what we’ll do.”

Two weeks later, after no more bouts of sickness, the medical tests came through all negative. “Perhaps it was just some bug that wouldn’t let go,” said Hutch as he drove home with Starsky from the doctor’s office. “That’s what I told you in the first place. All this wasted time and the poking and prodding – for nothing.” He grumbled.

“Hey, you wanna chance your health, that’s fine. But I ain’t chancing it.” Starsky glanced over at his partner tough pensive eyes

Several hours later, after dinner had been eaten and cleaned up, they sat together on the couch watching ‘The Greatest American Hero’, warm and comfortable, Starsky was hopeful for something a little wilder than the mild, gentle sex that had been the norm the past few months. When all of a sudden Hutch jumped off the couch and ran to their first floor bathroom. Starsky, alarmed at Hutch’s sudden paleness, followed and opened the door.

“Damnit, Starsky! A little privacy please!” Hutch’s voice was strained and pain-filled.

“Sorry, babe. I thought you were throwing up again.” Starsky’s voice was embarrassed and worried at the same time.

“That’ll be next, I’m sure.”

And Hutch’s prediction proved correct. Anticipating oncoming stomach upset, Hutch got little sleep, and later that night the rumbling and cramping started again. He grabbed the waste basket placed next to the bed, rolled over and vomited what was left of dinner.

Without saying anything, Starsky, senses always alert lately to the sound of Hutch getting sick, got up and went to the kitchen for some orange juice to replenish Hutch’s loss of liquids. I guess this is the “in sickness” part of marriage vows. But I wish we’d figure out what’s causing all this, deal with it, and fix it.

This bout lasted less longer than some of the others, but Starsky still insisted that he not go into work the next day. Both men were frustrated and tired of the ups and downs of the mysterious illness affecting the blond half of their partnership.

“Sick again, Cap.” Responded Starsky to Dobey’s question on the location of his partner.

“I think it’s time you stared looking into your case files. Something’s obviously affecting Hutchinson. And if it’s not physical or mental, then it’s coming from an outside source, and you need to look at those who might have it in for him.”

“Could something or someone be poisoning him?” Dobey suggested.

“The doctor’s say no. At least nothing’s showing up in his blood work.”

Hesitantly, Dobey brought up another idea. “Starsky, have you even considered that it might be….” He trailed off, and looked up at his detective. This was one bomb he didn’t want to drop. He hoped he was wrong, but if not, then they’d deal with it and move on.

Dobey shoved a manila folder toward his detective, sitting opposite his desk. There was no case file name or number on the tab, but when he opened it up and saw the various loose sheets of paper, he knew exactly what – whom – it pertained to.

“Son of a …It never occurred to me.” He whispered under his breath. Looking up, he apologized to his Captain for his almost profanity. “Sorry, Cap.”

Letting it go, Dobey asked him what he was going to do. “You’ve got to track them down. I thought for a while that they’d gone underground, disappeared somewhere else. But if it’s this gang behind Hutch’s illness, they’re back – and with a vengeance. You need to find them. Find their hiding places and put a stop to it, or the next time…”

“Yeah…” Starsky didn’t want to think about the next time. They’d come close enough to losing each other permanently, over the years – shootings, plagues, abductions and crazy ladies being some of the causes.

As he left Dobey’s office to investigate this latest lead, the shivers began again.

Why was it always them? If it wasn’t Hutch, then it was him they were after. Never any other cops. Detectives like Simmons or Babcock or Tedesco, or even street cops like Glassman or Baker never got the pain and suffering that he and Hutch were the subjects of. Even Dobey – well there was that once that Dobey took a bullet to the side, and another time little Rosey was almost kidnapped – but those were rare instances.

The white ice became white heat as Starsky stormed off to Records, Minnie – anyone to help him track down these sickos.

Damn fanfic writers!