Anything

Quadromania tag: Hutch did promise him ANYTHING if Starsky was okay.

Written in 2003. First published in the Starsky & Hutch gen zine, “Seasoned Timber 4,” produced by Agent with Style in 2008.

K. Hanna Korossy is a prolific fanfiction writer who has written stories in multiple fandoms, including Starsky & Hutch. You can find more of her fan fiction at Archive of Our Own at this link and at fanfiction.net at this link.

Concussions were not fun.

David Starsky doubted that was any sort of revelation; he had experienced before the nausea, confusion, and a headache that could bring down a hippopotamus. But the body forgot pain, and so this was a whole wonderful new reminder of the joys of traumatic head injury.

And this was Day Three. He didn’t even want to think about how bad Day One had been.

They’d found their serial killer, at least, if the hard way. Starsky didn’t remember much of the confrontation, just his playing a cab driver and his little old lady passenger who wasn’t old or a lady. Hutch had dryly commented later that the cab window had ended up in worse shape than Starsky’s head, but neither of them was meant to forcibly collide with the other.

Hutch he remembered more. With the killer, Fitzgerald, cornering a tottering and exhausted Starsky in a dead-end alley, the detective had been aware enough to realize that that was probably it, but he’d been too weak and hurting too badly to continue to run. Funny, he’d felt more resigned than scared, but maybe that had been the fatigue. The one thing that had really frightened him was Fitzgerald’s flashing, insane eyes, and realizing they were perhaps the last thing he’d ever see.

And then Hutch had roared up…in another taxi? That was a little fuzzy. But a moment later, instead of crazy Fitzgerald, it was Hutch who was standing there, gently checking Starsky’s head, saying…something. Things got even blurrier after that. By the time Hutch had coaxed him down off the crate Starsky had managed to climb, the world was beginning to fade out, one color at a time.

“Starsky, stay with me!”

The only thing that could motivate him more than his partner’s fear was his partner’s love, and both were plainly evident in Hutch’s order. Starsky had tried to obey, he really had, forcing his eyes open even as his legs went watery and he pitched against Hutch, who’d frantically caught him.

“Starsky!”

“I’m tryin’,” he’d protested thickly. Suddenly, he felt so cold, and the shiver that ran through him nearly cracked his head open. He moaned.

“I know you are,” Hutch soothed. “I’ve got ya, just hang on.” And while his voice sounded calmer, Starsky could feel how badly he was scaring his partner.

That gave him the extra push he needed to do the impossible, and Starsky cracked his eyes open again. “I’m ‘kay, jus’ tired. Tell Dobey…I wan’ two days off to sleep.”

Hutch almost laughed. “One look at you and he’ll give you a week.” He was easing Starsky down onto the ground, trying to not jar him, to make him comfortable. Starsky could have told him it was useless; his head hurt so badly, he was barely aware of the effort. He just wanted to sleep. His hand flopped around more than he’d intended, but he’d finally managed to grab a handful of Hutch’s jacket and stared as hard at the double image of his partner as he was able to. “Promise,” he commanded blearily. Nothing else seemed quite as important as just being able to rest a little….

“I promise, I promise,” Hutch reassured him. “Whatever you want, just stick around to collect on it, okay?” One of his hands was on Starsky’s cheek, holding his increasingly heavy head up, the other curled around him to press something against Starsky’s bleeding head. He was in so much pain, unable to see or think clearly, that extra bit seemed inconsequential. But still Starsky could hear the fear in his partner’s voice no one else would, and wanted to say something to help.

His mouth wouldn’t move, though, or maybe his vocal chords. His last bit of energy melted and he’d have toppled if not for Hutch holding him up-holding him-as they both sat in that dirty alley. What had happened to Fitzgerald? And there had been someone else with Hutch…but Starsky couldn’t seem to hang on to thoughts anymore.

“Starsky!”

Hutch’s anxious voice had been the last thing he’d heard, and then even blond and blue faded from his vision, and Starsky’s world had gone black.

There were snatches of memories after, like a disappearing dream: a doctor and a bright light in his eyes and white walls; being propped up against first the car door, then Hutch as they went…somewhere; Hutch grumbling mildly about something as they staggered up interminable stairs; Hutch shaking him awake-over and over-to ask him stupid questions like his name. As if Hutch didn’t know that.

And now it was…afternoon?, Starsky guessed from the lighting that seeped in between the curtains, and his watch claimed it was two days later than he last remembered. He hated losing time like that, but with the way he felt, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing he couldn’t remember much. One more addition to the Starsky Annals of Time Best Forgotten.

A shower was bound to help, and Starsky stumbled blindly into the bathroom, shedding clothes, some of them bloody, into a heap and climbing into the shower stall.

Dragging his hands through his wet hair, his fingers encountered a square of gauze taped to his forehead and he wearily avoided it. Hutch could re-bandage it, if needed; Starsky had no doubt his partner was around somewhere. For someone who wasn’t so fond of letting others take care of him, Hutch made one heck of a determined nurse.

Sure enough, by the time Starsky finally came out of the shower, the dirty clothes were gone, replaced by neatly folded sweats. With a tired grin, Starsky climbed into them and went out into the living room.

Hutch looked up from the couch and the book he was reading, to give Starsky a cheerful smile. “Afternoon. You ready to rejoin the world yet?”

“Long as it doesn’t include food, noise, or light,” Starsky muttered back, rubbing at his forehead. The shower had felt good, but maybe waiting a day or two to tackle the rest of life wasn’t a bad idea.

Hutch rose from the couch with an ease Starsky hated him for at that moment, setting the book aside. He read Starsky’s books more often than the brunet did. “Could you handle some tea and toast?”

Starsky considered that. Actually, that sounded bearable, and he shrugged an agreement.

“Okay.” Hutch nodded at him. “Let me change the bandage before you get your stitches wet, then I’ll fix you something.”

It was easier to let himself be moved to the couch and seated than to protest, and a moment later Hutch was fussing with the gauze with a touch so light, Starsky couldn’t help but think again his partner would have made a good doctor. Or maybe he was just gentle in general with those he cared about.

Which reminded Starsky. “Hey, ’bout the other day….”

“Which one?” Hutch asked easily.

“In the alley. Didn’t you promise me something?”

Hutch tore off a piece of tape and gave Starsky the roll to hold. “You were all worked up about getting some time off to sleep, so I promised you I’d talk to Dobey.”

Starsky frowned, disappointed. “That all?”

His partner slowed in mid-motion of taping the gauze. “Why, what did you think?”

“I thought you, uh, promised me whatever I wanted if I was okay,” Starsky said with a hint of sheepishness. It sounded stupid when he said it. He’d probably dreamed the whole thing, and Hutch would never let him forget it.

But Hutch wasn’t laughing. There was a pause, then he went back to what he was doing, his motions deliberate and newly brisk. “You were fading out on me, dummy. I’d have promised you the presidency to keep you there.”

The disappointment grew into something keener. “So you didn’t mean it,” Starsky’s voice fell.

A moment of silence. Then, “I meant it.”

Starsky brightened immediately. “Anything I want?”

Hutch put the last piece of tape on and sat on the coffee table across from Starsky, eying him warily. “If this is about me getting rid of my car or going to some new greasy spoon with you-”

Starsky shook his head, winced at the way his brains sloshed with the motion, and brushed aside Hutch’s querying look with an answering one of his own. “I’m not gonna make ya pay up, don’t worry. I just wanted to know if you meant it.” He grinned.

Hutch abruptly leaned forward, as serious as Starsky was teasing, eyes intent. “I don’t know why you’re asking me this, but I’ll tell you, once. When I saw the cab window, I thought you were already dead. Because of me, in fact, but that wouldn’t matter much if Fitzgerald killed you. Even when we found you in the alley, you looked like you were already half gone. Nothing else was as important to me as your being okay, Starsky, got it? And if you didn’t already know that, I’m gonna take you back to that alley and dump you there myself.”

Starsky blinked, speechless.

“So,” Hutch stood, sweeping up medical supplies with one hand, “you want anything else besides tea and toast? I brought some orange juice.” All trace of his intensity from a moment before was gone, replaced by the no-nonsense babysitter Starsky knew too well.

Starsky dumbly shook his head.

“Okay, one breakfast coming up,” and Hutch disappeared into the kitchen without another word.

Starsky stayed on the couch, faintly embarrassed, quietly touched, and mushily warmed to the core. They rarely talked about it, but he’d known how Hutch felt before his partner ever said it. Still…it meant a lot. Hutch had promised him anything, but Starsky already had all he’d ever wanted.

He’d have to return the sentiment soon, and make sure that Hutch wasn’t feeling guilty about unknowingly foisting the disguised Fitzgerald on Starsky. If maybe expressing himself a little less obviously than his partner had. Starsky wasn’t sure they were ready for that much straight talk.

He was feeling amazingly better, though. With a stupid grin, Starsky sat back on the couch to wait for the food and the best company he could have asked for to share it with.