Cold Cure

Hutch is feeling under the weather.

With thanks to C_C for the beta.

This was written for Hutchlover as part of the 2005 Secret Santa exchange on the Me&Thee list.

“Hutch, will ya please just give it up and go home where you belong?” Starsky’s tone was a mixture of exasperation and concern as he glared at his pathetic-looking partner seated opposite him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Starsk. We’re ankle-deep in overdue reports, and you know Dobey is threatening hell and damnation if we don’t get at least half of them finished and on his desk by the time we log out tonight. There’s no way you’ll get them done if I go home. Anyway, it’s only a cold. Quit fussing.” Hutch’s defiant statement was somewhat undermined by the fit of coughing that overtook him just as he finished speaking. When he could breathe again, he found a cup of water being shoved into his hand, followed by a couple of aspirin.

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Starsky. “If it’s only a cold, how come you’re looking like a limp dishrag? And sounding like a bronchitis ward just moved in? Never seen ya look gray before. You belong in bed.”

Tossing back the aspirin felt like he’d just taken up sword-swallowing, but Hutch was nothing if not stubborn. Ignoring his partner, he bent his head over his notebook and tried to decipher what he had written. Unfortunately, this particular report was overdue by several days—well, okay, rather more than a week—and with his brain feeling as if it had been muffled in a very heavy blanket, he was having trouble remembering anything about the incident he was now supposed to be writing up. It was unfortunate, too, that his normal method of note-taking at the scene of a crime was abbreviated, to say the least. Usually, his recall was excellent, so he relied on his jottings simply as an aide-memoire, filling in the detail from memory later. He hadn’t expected his memory to turn to sponge that was more hole than substance.

“Uh, Starsk, d’you remember anything about the Fernandez case?”

Even to his own ears, Hutch’s voice sounded painful. Clearly only restraining himself with a great deal of effort from commenting on this, Starsky gritted out, “Which case was that? Was that the guy killed for an ounce of heroin, or the domestic?”

“The domestic.”

“Nope. You took all the notes on that one.”

“Great,” Hutch’s voice gave up altogether halfway through the word. Tightening his lips to suppress another cough, he rolled the paper out of the typewriter, flipped through his notebook to a different page, found another file and began to roll in a new report form.

“Uh, what’re you doin’?”

“What does it look like?” A bit of voice was back, but not reliably. He was beginning to sound like a boy in the throes of puberty. “I’m starting on another report.”

“What about the Fernandez one?”

“I’ll get back to it a little later.” Grimly, he began to type.

By the end of their shift, Hutch could think of only one thing. Bed. This was Friday night, they had the weekend free, and he had had all sorts of plans. Bed was one of them; in fact, bed had featured fairly prominently in nearly all of them, just not quite the way it did now. Now, he would settle for just plain bed, with one occupant, and lots of sleeping.

Feeling a hand close around his upper arm, he jerked out of his semi-doze and looked into eyes darkened by sympathy.

“C’mon, pal. Time for us to go.”

Silently, he struggled to his feet and followed Starsky out of the building and into the Torino. He was glad it wasn’t too far. His legs had unaccountably lost about 80% of muscle tone since he woke up this morning, and were complaining about having to do any work at all. At any second, he felt, they might just withdraw all activity and dump him on the ground. It was a relief to sit down. Putting his head back, and twisting slightly to try to ease his aching back, his eyes drifted shut even as he heard the engine start up.

Next thing he knew, he was being half-pulled out of the Torino and supported into their apartment. Starsky walked him straight to the bedroom, and propping him up with one hand began to undo his pants.

“I had such plans for the weekend,” Hutch mourned, as he felt his lover’s hands on his bare skin. The cold touch made him shiver.

“Yeah, me too. Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check, huh? C’mon, let’s get you under the covers. You’re burning up.”

Hutch curled up gratefully under the covers, hardly noticing as Starsky piled an extra blanket on top of him. He felt thoroughly miserable, his pounding head made worse when he closed his eyes only to see fever-lights hopping and dancing in dizzying displays that hurt.

“Hutch? Hutch!” Forcing his eyelids apart just a crack, he saw Starsky hovering over him.

“Sit up just a minute and let me get these down ya. Then you can sleep.”

Struggling up onto one elbow, Hutch took the pills his partner was holding, and chased them down with a glass of cold orange juice. It felt wonderful on his throat, but he lacked the energy to say anything, slumping back down and crawling as far under the covers as he could go.

He was hot; so hot, and his body itched inside his skin, and there was a desperate need for something that he could not articulate. His gut spasmed and twisted, and he cried out in anguish.

A cool hand touched his forehead, anchoring him back inside his body. Was it better or worse this way? It was hard to tell. With one portion of his mind, he hated feeling like this, but another part craved the sensation that had brought him to this state, the mindless wonder where even a piece of rope around his wrists could be a thing of fascination.

He heard a voice saying his name, but it was so remote he couldn’t latch on to it. If only he could wrap himself around that sound, he knew it would pull him out of where he now was, but he was too weak, his will too ineffectual, to try. Groaning, he sank back into the swirling, needy darkness. Other voices echoed in the boundaries of his hearing, voices he had not thought to hear again. Gillian, murmuring of red balloons, Van, shouting at him, Grandfather, his voice soft and loving. But ever-present, even as he tried to listen to the others, was one familiar voice that he knew was always with him. Its sound was muffled but soothing, and at last he managed to concentrate on that one voice. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone lulled him into a restful sleep.

The feel of cool, damp cloth against his skin brought him fleetingly to consciousness, but the dark dreams beckoned him down again, and even the familiar voice was powerless this time. He shook and groaned as he relived past nightmares, desperately trying to find an escape from the visions. A jarring thud brought him half awake, and he felt roughness beneath his cheek.

Then warm hands were holding him, heaving him upwards in a flood of dizziness and lowering him onto softness. Coolness brushed against his face again, and he turned towards the sensation. The darkness surrounding him was just that; only darkness, no longer populated by swarms of memories. Sighing, he allowed it to take him.

When he woke, it was to darkness, and a hot, crumpled bed. He blinked for a minute, trying to work out whether he felt ill or really ill, before a coughing jag settled the question for him. Really ill. He heard rather saw his partner come into the room, and blinked up at him.

“Hey. You doin’ any better?”

“Oh yeah, I’m just having a ball here.” He regretted the sarcasm even as the words left his mouth. He waved one arm weakly in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry. It’s just—” Another fit of coughing chose that moment to attack, and by the time it was done, he had no breath left to continue.

“No problem. At least you’re coherent now. As coherent as you ever get, anyhow,” Starsky added, kindly. “Let’s see if we can get you more comfortable, huh? How about I straighten the bed up a little and get ya something hot to drink—maybe some of that tea you like, with honey and lemon? How does that sound?”

“Sounds great”, Hutch croaked.

“Okay,” and Starsky immediately began to tidy the bedcovers and fluff up the pillows, all the time keeping up a running commentary in the style of his least-favorite nurse from his long stay in hospital following Gunther’s attack. It took Hutch’s mind off his aches for a least a minute. The tea helped some too, when it finally arrived.

But what helped most was Starsky stripping off and snuggling next to him. He might not have managed to fulfill any of his plans for this weekend, he reflected as sleep overtook him again, but at least his constant was there.