Pattern for Love

It was cold, even in the sunny physical therapy room of Bay City general hospital. That weird week between Christmas and New Year’s when the world seems to be confused as to which way to go.

Starsky certainly felt like that. The shooting two weeks ago had left him with weakness in his left arm, although the wound was healing well. He had to regain his strength if he wanted to be back on the force, able to shoot. Which was a no brainer. Of course he did.

Lyndsey, his PT, had pushed a small cart aside to grab a couple of weights. The cart was piled with an assortment of activities. Painting supplies, crafting clay—lo, and behold, a tangle of yarn and knitting needles.

The yarn was light blue, the color of corn flowers, summer skies, Hutch’s eyes. Starsky pulled the needles out of the jar, feeling his mother’s hands on his, teaching him to cast the yarn on, the winter he had the measles and then whooping cough. She’d taught him to knit. He’d rarely done any projects since that long ago convalescence but, suddenly, the desire bloomed under his breast bone.

A scarf for Hutch, to keep him warm until Starsky could be back on the job with him.

“Oh!” Lyndsey said with a big grin. She pushed bushy black curls off her forehead and placed the weights on the floor. “While not as demanding on the biceps and triceps, knitting is a great activity to get some movement back into your arm.”

Starsky nodded absently, assessing the blue yarn.

“Do you know how?” she asked.

“Been a long time,” he said, his fingers already proving it was like riding a bike. The muscle memory was there. Looping the end of the thick yarn around one needle, he cast on about five stitches with slightly awkward style before getting the hang of it again. The repetitive movements did aggravate his left shoulder and arm slightly, but it wasn’t horribly painful. More like dredging old memories up from a deep well.

“Great!” Lyndsey approved. “You know what you are doing. What are you going to make?”

“A scarf,” he answered, casting on a dozen more stitches with much more dexterity.

“That’s a great goal. Why don’t you take that whole skein home, and the needles. I’ll copy out a couple of exercises for you to do before you leave.”

~~**~~

Hutch arrived at Starsky’s place about ten to six with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn.

Looking up from his book, Starsky laughed. He’d put a hot pad on his left shoulder to ease the muscle strain, but to be honest it felt good. He’d set a goal and completed it in one day. The finished product lay folded on the coffee table beside the snippets of leftover yarn. “Went to KFC, I see?”

“Court ran long, the thread on my shirt snagged on the door handle when I was leaving, and there was a fender-bender on the 405—“ Hutch started in on his rant, dumping the bag with dinner on the coffee table so he could get plates. He looked cold, miserable, and annoyed.

“Made something for you,” Starsky said softly, that love for the irascible man wrapped around his heart. “Lean over.”

“What?” Hutch crouched to let Starsky wrap the blue muffler around his neck. “You made this?”

“Physical therapy, for my arm.” Starsky touched the soft wool, his fingers caressing Hutch’s neck. “And for you.”

“What would I do without you, huh?” Hutch melted into his arms, laying his head on Starsky’s left shoulder.

It hurt very slightly, but the joy it gave Starsky was proof that love could cure almost anything.

FIN