All the Time in the World

86

A quiet dinner at a restaurant turns violent and Hutch has to save the day.

 

Author’s Note: As many of you will recall, we had an auction last year to raise money for breast cancer research in the name of my pal and yours, Paula Wilshe. Linda H. has been waiting patiently for me to get my head back into the boys, so to speak, and give her something for the money she paid. Thank you, Linda. My heart was just not in it after that horrible day last July. I’m sure that Paula has been disappointed in me, and probably feels, like my sister, that I have forsaken my first love for a new love in another fandom.

Let me assure you, Paula, that this is not true. I just needed time. I love you and I miss you. As the title of my story indicates, I wish it had been possible for us to have all the time in the world. It didn’t happen for us, but I will always hope for it for our guys.

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“What time have you got?”

“What time have I got? What’s the matter, your fancy schmancy watch not working?”

Starsky looked at his partner, irritation evident in both his face and in his reply.

“My fancy schmancy watch is working fine,” he mimicked. “We’re splittin’ up on this stakeout. I just wanted to make sure our watches were synchronized.”

“Oh. Right.” Hutch pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time. “Seven fifty-seven,” he said.

“I got seven fifty-nine. You’re slow by two minutes.”

Hutch looked up and shook his head. “I think you’re more likely running fast.” Hutch smiled as he thought how that applied as much to the curly headed one before him as it did to his friend’s expensive timepiece.

“That’s funny, Blondie. Come on, fix your watch.”

“My watch isn’t off, buddy. Look at the clock.” Hutch tilted his head behind him in the direction of the diner’s clock, positioned just above the register near the entrance.

The diner had a comfortable, welcoming decor, a Fifties motif with chrome and neon enhancing the red, white and black adorning the floors, walls, seats and tables. Photos of movie stars of the era added to the nostalgia of the eatery. It had become one of the detective pair’s favorite hangouts, second only to the Pits as an establishment where they truly felt at home.

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell Joanie about that for a while. Her clock’s been off for weeks.” Hutch shook his head again, knowing he’d lost this battle before it’d even started. He changed the time on his watch and then drained the rest of his coffee.

“Ready to go?” he asked his partner.

Starsky returned a look that said, ‘Ya have to ask?’

“I’ll go pay. Hurry up.” Starsky stuck his tongue out at the back of Hutch’s head as he headed to the men’s room.

“You know, Joanie, your clock is off by two minutes,” Hutch smiled as he handed the owner’s daughter the check and a twenty.

“Yeah, I know. Phil keeps saying he’s gonna fix it, but we’ve just been so busy.” When the detectives started their meals, the place had been packed. But now, after eight o’clock on a Sunday night, it looked as though the pair would be closing the place down.

“I know what you mean. It’s been packed every time Starsky and I have been in lately. I guess you can’t complain about that.”

“Nope. We’re not gonna complain. You know, Ken, we are so glad that you’ve become regulars here. Not that we wouldn’t love seeing you here no matter what you did for a living, but it feels good knowing that you’re cops. Feels a little safer, I guess.”

She handed the change to the tall, good looking detective and smiled shyly.

“We’re glad it makes you feel better.” He stuffed the change into his tight pocket: he laughed to himself as he noticed her admiring the effort.

“All set,” Starsky said as he slapped his partner on the back. “Hey, Joanie.”

“Hi, Dave.”

“Starsk, I’m going to hit the little boy’s room, too. We’ve got a long night ahead,” he said, winking at Joanie as he headed toward the back of the diner.

“Your clock’s off, didya know that?” Starsky asked helpfully.

“That’s funny. Your partner pointed that out, too.”

“He did, did he?” Starsky was thinking at that moment just what punishment he would mete out later to his sly partner.

A customer entered as Starsky continued chatting with the owner’s daughter. She was just eighteen, far too young for Starsky to truly take an interest. He sensed, though, that she enjoyed the good-natured flirting, making sure he kept any possible innuendo out of the conversation, especially when her father or brother Phil were around.

The man squeezed past Starsky’s thin frame, just barely forcing him closer to the counter and very near Joanie’s face.

“We’re going to have to shtop meeting like this, schweetheart,” he joked.

Joanie laughed lightly as she called, “Just sit anywhere you like, sir. I’ll be right with you,” she continued as she headed toward the new customer.

“I could fix this for you,” Starsky offered, walking up to the wall clock.

Joanie turned back. “You don’t need to, Dave. Phil will get it. Eventually.” She smiled at the detective, with her eyebrows raised in hope that it might happen some day.

“I’m here now.” He reached up for the clock as Joanie turned back toward her customer.

“Thanks, Dave.” Starsky happily started in on the clock, whistling ‘Whistle While You Work’ as he started making the adjustment.

He was finished just moments later, placing the clock back on its home on the wall. He turned to tell Joanie that he’d finished with the clock when he saw the man who had just entered the restaurant push her hard up against the counter.

“Hey!” Starsky yelled, getting the guy’s attention before he could make another move against the girl.

Before Starsky could take a step or say another word, the man grabbed a napkin dispenser from the counter and heaved it, dead on, at Starsky’s head. The distance between them was clearly within the assailant’s range, as the dispenser hit its mark, square on the detective’s forehead.

Hutch made his entrance from the restrooms to see the guy let loose with the projectile. He knew he was too late to stop the flight, and he hoped Starsky would react quickly enough to get out of the way. His only option was to take the one chance in front of him and jump the large man before he did any more damage.

Hutch slammed hard into the big man, knowing he’d have to give it his all to knock the guy down. The man flew hard into the booth behind him, wedging in just tight enough to not allow his large frame easy escape from the narrow seating area. Hutch pulled his weapon and said, “Stay where you are.” The perp stayed put, sensing the seething emotions beneath the threatening tone.

“Starsk?” Hutch called, not taking his eyes off of the assailant.

“Starsky?” he tried again. He took a quick look toward the register and noticed Starsky just standing there. Hutch knew from the brief glance that something was wrong with his partner. He moved next to the big man in the booth.

“Both hands, on the table. Carefully.” The man did as he was told. Hutch took quick, brief glances back toward his partner, worry growing as Starsky continued to stand by the counter, no reaction evident from the usual bundle of energy that epitomized David Starsky.

Hutch noticed that Ben, the owner, and his son Phil were both now standing behind the counter.

“Ben, come over here. Take these cuffs. Phil, pull over a stool.” Phil brought the requested seat and placed it next to the table. “You, put one hand through the rung. Now!” Hutch looked over at Starsky, whose right hand now held on to the counter, next to the register, just below the clock that Hutch didn’t notice had been corrected. Starsky was holding his gun limply in his left hand.

Something was definitely wrong with his partner. Joanie moved toward Starsky, though with the cuffs now on the bad guy Hutch’s long legs got him to his partner’s side just as the blood started flowing from beneath the curls and Starsky folded toward the floor.

“Oh my God, Dave,” Joanie screamed as she and Hutch eased his partner to the ground. Joanie ran to the kitchen to get cloths and towels and water as her father made his way to the phone to call for help.

The door was pushed open, almost hitting Starsky’s shoulder, and a booming voice said, “What the hell’s goin’ on here, Bone?”

Hutch was kneeling next to Starsky and noticed that the new arrival was directing his question to his bound friend at the booth.

“That guy next to you, he’s got a gun!” the handcuffed one yelled. His newly arrived partner swerved around, pointing his own gun at Hutch’s head. Ben and Phil stood still as the new arrival pointed the gun at the detective.

“Give it up, pretty boy,” the man said, shoving the gun hard behind Hutch’s ear. Hutch showed both hands to the gunman, and then slowly pulled his weapon out of the holster, handing it over.

“I don’t care what you’re here for, but my friend here needs a doctor.”

“Tough. Your friend, huh? He got a gun on him, too? Stand back.”

“I said he needs help,” Hutch pleaded, looking down at the unmoving form of his partner, noticing the blood still spilling down Starsky’s forehead into his eyes and down his cheek, finally forming a puddle on the black and white checkered floor.

The new arrival wasn’t impressed with Hutch’s pleading, and cracked him across the face with the large gun, knocking him off balance. Hutch fell to the floor, holding his now throbbing cheek.

“I said stand back. And get Bone out of those cuffs.” Hutch stood up and moved back. The man felt around Starsky’s chest and abdomen, pulling the Beretta out and leaving Starsky lolling back and forth in his own blood from the rough handling.

Hutch watched as his partner settled again, a terrible feeling of deja vu overcoming him as he thought back to all those years ago in an Italian restaurant. Starsky wasn’t shot this time, but a severe blow to the head could have far worse consequences.

Starsky’s recovery from his wounds following the Gunther assassination attempt was now the measure of serious injury where Hutch’s partner was concerned. His nearly miraculous recovery from so many bullet wounds from a high powered weapon at close range put all other injuries his partner had suffered in shocking perspective. Dealing with those other injuries that Starsky had sustained during his career in law enforcement had been some of the most difficult and emotional times of Hutch’s life. His own recovery from Starsky’s wounds that May day was complicated, Hutch’s psyche having suffered nearly as severely as Starsky’s body had. Hutch knew that if Starsky had not recovered physically, he would never have made the emotional recovery needed to come back to the force.

And here he was once again, his partner hurt, though he had yet to find out how seriously. It was killing him not knowing, and the worry of what delaying medical help could bring to someone with a head injury was clear in his every movement. In his every breath.

“Cuffs?” the bad guy demanded.

“This one’s got ’em, John.” Hutch nodded at Phil, who proceeded to unlock the cuffs. Bone got out of his seat and stormed menacingly at Hutch.

“That’s enough, Bone. What the hell happened?” John had patted Hutch down by this point, finding his badge. “These two are cops, ya know.”

“Shit. John, I was just doin’ what you said.” He looked around and realized that Joanie was not in the area.

“Where’s the girl?” he yelled.

“I-I’m here,” Joanie answered softly, coming from the kitchen with her hands full of cloths and a pitcher of water.

“What’d you do back there?” Bone demanded, pulling the pitcher from her arms and slamming it hard on the counter. The violent action made Joanie drop the cloths she had brought in to help tend to Starsky’s wound.

“N-Nothing. I-I just got some s-stuff to help Dave.”

“Is there a phone back there?” John, the new arrival, asked.

“No,” Ben answered. “The only phone is up here.”

“Bone, get back there and check it out. And make sure the back door is locked. We don’t need no surprises.”

“Look, what do you want?” Hutch hoped that he could get the robbers, or whoever they were, to take care of business and get out so that he could take care of his partner, and so that they could all get out of this situation with no further injuries. He looked down at Starsky. It was hard to gauge whether the bleeding had stopped, the smear now on the floor encompassing a wide path and providing a misleading picture.

“Well, Blondie, we’ll take all the money, but that ain’t why we’re here.”

The use of the nickname by this thug sent a shiver down Hutch’s spine.

“Look, if you won’t let me take a look at my partner, could you let Ben or Joanie take a look at him?”

John looked at Hutch, and then at the three other hostages still standing.

“No. You look at him. You stay occupied, you won’t have a chance to think about ways out. Girl, bring that stuff over and sit down next to the cops. You two, come sit on either side of this booth and put on the bracelets.” The father and son did as they were told, as Joanie picked up the cloths and water and sat next to Starsky on the floor.

Hutch was moving the curls away from Starsky’s forehead, trying to find the wound that was causing so much bleeding. He noted Starsky’s too cool skin, fearing that shock had already set in, though being at the entrance might have accounted for some of that.

“Damn it, I can’t see what’s going on here. Give me a wet towel, maybe we can get some of this blood cleaned up and see better.” Joanie soaked a rag and squeezed out the excess water, handing the wet cloth to Hutch.

The blood was thick and caked, and had fallen into both of Starsky’s eyes. There were streams from the blood that had pooled in his eye sockets, the lines of blood falling down from his eyes and over his cheeks toward his neck and the floor. There were other streams of blood that had made their way down to Starsky’s mouth as well. Hutch began to, carefully at first, wipe the blood away. The red fluid was thick, though, and had already begun to harden on his partner’s skin.

“Give me another, Joanie,” Hutch instructed, a slight quavering evident in his voice. The new cloth was worked a little harder over the most troublesome patches, and finally Hutch was able to see the cause of all the blood.

The napkin dispenser hit Starsky with the most unlucky part, the open edge that acted as a knife when it hit the pliable flesh on his forehead. There was a large, deep gouge right at Starsky’s hairline, and it was still bleeding.

“Give me a dry one,” he requested quietly, and Joanie complied, her hand shaking just barely. Hutch would need to remember to tell the girl how brave she had been during the ordeal. If he got the chance.

“You were telling us what you wanted,” Hutch said simply as he continued to administer first aid to his friend. “Joanie, press this firmly on the cut.”

“We’re meeting someone. Didn’t know you would be closing up early.”

“We’re not. We always close at nine on Sunday,” Ben offered.

“Ya didn’t last week,” John practically yelled. “Bone!”

“We had a special event last week. A family birthday celebration.” He looked over at Joanie and smiled. She smiled back at her father sadly, and then turned all of her attention back to the injured detective.

“Didn’t find no phone back there. Door’s locked.”

Hutch had yet to have the chance, or been able to completely focus his attention, on the two assailants, his concern for his still unconscious partner and the safety of the other hostages far outweighing that option. He hoped that once he got a better look at them both, something would come back to him from either their own cases or other cases that the BCPD had worked, for of one thing there was no doubt: these two were definitely career criminals.

“Nnnnuh.” The sound was like music to Hutch’s ears.

“Starsk, hey. Are you waking up?”

Starsky kept his head firmly on the floor, even while trying to use his legs and arms to force himself from his prone position.

“No, no. Stay put.” Starsky sagged back down and went disturbingly quiet.

“Starsky, come on, stay with me.” Starsky stirred again, and blinked his eyes. Hutch could tell his partner was having trouble focusing. He wasn’t surprised: the hit he took would definitely have caused a serious concussion, and possibly a head injury far more severe. In any event, he would be seeing double, or worse, for some time.

“Hussch?” he asked, worry creasing his features, a deep furrow forming between his eyes as he tried to get Hutch focused in his eyesight.

“I’m here. How do you feel, buddy?”

Starsky didn’t answer, and kept his eyes closed longer than Hutch liked.

“Joanie, can you get me a bucket or a pot? He’s gonna be sick, sooner or later.” The sad look in Hutch’s eyes tore at her heart. Joanie looked up at John, who was clearly the one in charge in this duo.

“Go get it. Bone, watch her.” Joanie left for the kitchen, followed closely by the large man.

“What’s wrong with him?” John asked.

“What’s wrong with him? He got hit by a flying projectile,” Hutch seethed, grabbing the dispenser from the floor at his side, pushing the napkin holder up for John to see the skin and hair on the sharp edge of the metal dispenser. “He’s got a gash two inches thick and about half that deep. He’s got a concussion and he could have a fractured skull and he needs to get to a hospital.”

“Well, he ain’t goin’, so you better do what you can for him. I want him moved out of the way. And you,” he said, pointing at the owner, Ben Miller, I want some of these lights out. Don’t need no people thinking you’re still open. Where’s the lights?”

“It’s kind of complicated,” Ben answered as his daughter rejoined the group, a plastic bucket in hand.

“Husssch,” Starsky called, his face now beaded with sweat as he swallowed back his body’s impending desire to expel the contents of his stomach.

“I’m here, babe. Let me sit you up a bit,” he said, knowing he would need Starsky more upright should he begin to vomit. Things were bad enough—he didn’t want Starsky to aspirate as he threw up and cause more trouble later on.

“What do you mean it’s complicated?” John yelled.

“Ooooh, my head.” Starsky leaned his head into his partner’s shoulder, seeking out the always comforting feel of his best friend’s touch.

“Hey, can you keep it down. With a serious concussion, everything sounds like it’s ten times louder than it is.” Hutch knew the chances were slim that their captors would care, but he figured it was worth the try.

He held Starsky’s back up and rubbed it, knowing that the action might move the nausea along, but also aware that his partner was going to throw up sometime soon anyway: he might as well get it over with, hoping that the effort might make Starsky feel a little better.

“The lights are turned off by the switches in the fuse box. But they’re not numbered, and I won’t remember which ones to flip without looking at the box.” Ben hoped the lie would buy them some time. He knew that while his daughter was in the back getting water and rags for Starsky, she also pushed the emergency button that Starsky and Hutch had them install in the front of the diner, as well as in the back, near the storeroom. He knew the police were on their way. It was just a matter of time.

And he knew Hutch knew it, too. The two detectives had insisted on the installation, and they sat with the family one night talking about contingency plans should the unthinkable happen. They discussed how the best line of defense in a situation like this was not to have a gun hidden, as so many store owners mistakenly, and often regretfully think, but to remain calm and level-headed.

“Bone, undo them and get those lights off.”

Starsky was breathing heavily now, the spinning room causing the nausea to increase.

“And damn it, I said get him away from the door.” John pulled Starsky up quickly, surprising both Hutch and his partner, who immediately began puking all over the bad guy’s chest. John pushed Starsky away in disgust and attempted to swing his gun at the sick detective. Hutch anticipated the move and swung hard at John’s gun hand, with the hoped for result—the weapon flew out of the assailant’s hands and landed near Phil, who had been left handcuffed at his seat. He leaned down and grabbed the gun, as Joanie just barely eased Starsky’s fall to the floor.

Hutch felt the blow, but battled back with his opponent, landing one solid punch to John’s stomach, and finishing him off with a clean hit to the face. John toppled over, his body sliding hard to the ground, his face landing in the puddle of Starsky’s vomit.

Hutch bent down and checked his partner. The dry heaves wracked his body, each convulsion sending daggers of pain into Starsky’s already pain-ravaged head. Joanie continued to massage Starsky’s back, and tried to hold a cold compress to his forehead. His partner’s shivering made that task difficult, Hutch noted.

Unfortunately, Hutch needed to leave Starsky one more time, as Bone was still loose in the back. He doubted that the big man hadn’t heard a commotion going on out in the diner. Hutch was concerned for Ben’s well-being, knowing that the second assailant had his Magnum in his possession.

Hutch quietly made his way over to the kitchen door. The swinging door that was so common in eating establishments was closed; the porthole would not have allowed much visibility, even if it had been safe to try to look through it. Though he knew the cavalry was on the way, what he did not know was how long Ben had with the man.

Hutch shoved the door open and threw his body across the threshold, diving for the ground and rolling to protect himself from potential gunfire. He hid behind the not very solid protection of a rolling cart, looking around the room to see where Ben and Bone might be.

What he saw brought mixed feelings to the detective: the back door was wide open, and Ben was unconscious, leaning against the walk-in refrigerator.

“Ben, hey, you okay?” He asked, quickly finding a strong pulse. The owner stirred, and opened his eyes to the concerned face of Ken Hutchinson.

“Ken, is it over?”

“I think it is, Ben. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. He hit me with that gun of yours. I pretended he got me worse than he did, though I think he really did get me worse than I think,” the owner laughed nervously. “My head’s killing me. Is everybody okay?”

“The bad guy, John, he’s out cold. Joanie and Phil are fine. I need to check on Starsky. Can you get up?”

“Yeah. Give me a hand.” Hutch helped the older man up, and then both headed into the diner.

“Daddy!” Joanie yelled, running to envelope her dad in a huge hug. “Oh, daddy. You’re okay.”

“Joanie, he’s got a little bump on the head,” Hutch said, just before a familiar voice was heard through a megaphone.

“Detective Hutchinson, everything under control in there?” Captain Dobey and the troops had arrived.

Hutch waved them in and headed to check on his partner.

“Hey, buddy, how’re you doing?” Hutch pulled Starsky away from the downed bad guy and the nasty puddle. “Feeling any better?”

“Not really,” he said. Hutch was happy to see his partner even barely lucid. “What happened? Did we finish the stakeout?”

“We never started it, buddy. What do you remember?” Starsky screwed his face up in an effort to remember, but even that effort visibly brought on more pain.

“Never mind. You’ll remember later. Why don’t you just take it easy. Lean up against me while we wait for an ambulance.” Hutch embraced his friend, gently laying Starsky’s head on his own shoulder, the pair propped up against the counter, long legs splayed before them.

“Don’ need a ambul’nce,” Starsky slurred through a yawn.

“Yes you do.”

“Don.” Several seconds went by, Hutch noted, as Dobey took over the scene and allowed the two detectives to rest up from the evening’s activities. He knew they would now be behind on the case they were working, the stakeout would have hopefully put them in better shape to make an arrest in the case they were working. He looked up and noticed Dobey looking his way. His boss grinned, and Hutch smiled back. Despite all of his bluster, their captain cared for them a lot, often treating them as sons. Sometimes that worked against them, but not this night. Hutch felt that warmth now from his superior: he figured it was the last he would see of Captain Dobey for the next day or so.

“Time izzit?” Starsky asked, sleep beckoning, though Hutch knew his job for the next while would be to keep his partner at least nominally awake.

“Late,” Hutch replied.

“‘at’s no answer,” Starsky countered.

“Do you need to know?” Hutch asked, keeping the conversation simple and easy to help keep his charge calm and as comfortable as possible.

“Like to.”

Hutch laughed lightly. “I know you do.”

Starsky heaved a long sigh, resting comfortably next to his friend. Hutch noticed the shivering had stopped, and the lethargy was helping his partner not feel the pain so much. He let the man who meant so much to him rest, the siren in the background heralding the approach of the ambulance.

* * * *

A couple of hours in the emergency room, some painkillers and an antibiotic for the deep cut, and Hutch was allowed to take his partner home. Dobey had stopped by, letting the blond half of his best detective pair know that Bone had been caught and that he could pick up his gun when he made it back to the office. On Tuesday. Dobey had insisted that Hutch spend the next day with his partner, though the suggestion was clearly a courtesy, as there would have been little hope of getting the detective to do anything else that day.

Hutch had spent the overnight hours alternately dozing, reading, and forcing his partner up to check that there were no negative neurological effects of the concussion. Starsky had vomited twice more after being loaded into the ambulance, once in the transport and once after he’d been moved to an examination room. Some Compazine had been administered to help with the nausea, once all the tests and films came back proving that there were no other problems than the moderately severe concussion.

Hutch had insisted on no overnight stay, that he would observe his partner as well if not better than the hospital staff. The hospital staff, for its part, knew these two well, and recognized the commitment the pair had shown toward one another in the past; there was no denying the truth in Hutch’s statement.

Though each attempt to wake his partner was like raising someone from the dead, Hutch was glad to note that Starsky easily went back to sleep each time, with no evident pain. The injection they had provided at the hospital would wear off soon; it was a far more powerful drug than the pills that they had been sent home with. Starsky no doubt would be needing them once he awoke.

“Time izzit?” Starsky asked sleepily.

Hutch smiled as he raised his head from the book. “What is it with you and time?” He rose from the chair and went to sit beside his partner, pushing Starsky’s hips in to make room for himself on the sofa.

“Don’t like to waste it,” he replied, the underlying sentiment far more meaningful than the words might suggest. Though Starsky had always been a thoughtful and sensitive man, since his recovery from Gunther’s bullets he had been far more likely to express out loud the feelings that in the past were more often expressed in actions rather than words.

Hutch put his hand on his partner’s chest, comforted to feel the strong beat of his friend’s huge heart. Starsky lifted his hand up to Hutch’s face, silently noting the nasty bruise left over by the pistol whipping he’d received the previous night. The quiet, shared touches helped both men to understand that each would be all right. They sustained the touch and the eye contact until it was time for Hutch to take action.

“Well, in that case, let me take a look at this hard head of yours, and then let’s see if we can get you up and fed.”

“Thanks, ma,” Starsky kidded.

Hutch proceeded to do the doctoring of the wound, making sure it didn’t look inflamed and remained clean. Starsky watched, the pounding of his head telling him that his partner had done some fancy maneuvering to get him released the previous night. He remembered little of the time in the hospital, or the trip back to Hutch’s. And he knew he was at his partner’s place without looking around, the spring from the sofa digging into the normal spot just to the left of his spine.

Hutch looked down at his partner’s face and found him smiling.

“What’s so funny?”

“You. What’d you do to get them to let me go last night? I don’t remember nothin’ since I told you that your watch was off and my head feels like there’s a chorus line of elephants tryin’ out for Radio City. D’you have to give up your first born or somethin’?” Starsky yawned, knowing he would only have a few minutes with his best friend before his body told him it was time to get back to sleep.

Hutch grinned. He was glad for Starsky’s memory loss, for now; Joanie had told him that Starsky knew about the comment about the clock. Hutch preferred that Starsky never remember that—there was no telling what revenge his partner would cook up for something he held as dear as his watch.

“I’ve got some pills for the tap dancing elephants. Let’s sit you up for a second.” Starsky let his partner do most of the work, the strain of just pushing off the seat to get in an upright position causing daggers to flash before the injured one’s eyes.

“Just take it easy,” Hutch said, noticing his partner’s features had gone slightly pale with the effort. “You’ll feel better in a few seconds.

Starsky knew this to be true. This was not the first concussion his partner had nursed him through, and if he had anything to say about it, it wouldn’t be the last. He didn’t seek them out, but getting banged around was inherent in the job they did. So long as he stayed on the force, doing the work he loved with the most important person in his life by his side, then he would gladly suffer a dozen more concussions.

Though hopefully the next one would be a mild one.

“Here. Takes these.” Hutch handed two pills to his partner, and a glass of water.

Starsky put the pills in his mouth and said, “That reminds me.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll take care of that after you eat.” Hutch went back to the kitchen and brought back Starsky’s breakfast.

“Ah, a man after my own heart,” Starsky said, as he dove into the bowl of Cocoa Krispies, overloaded with sliced bananas.

You don’t know the half of it, Hutch thought as he watched this dearest of men enjoy another disastrous meal.

Hutch was always amazed at what a person would do in the name of love.

The End