What Will It Take

Guess where Starsky is? — You got it , back in hospital.

It took all that he had to get himself off the floor and stumble after his partner. He bounced off the walls as he made his way out the door and down the hallway. The world around him was spinning, and it seemed everything he saw was through an out-of-focus lens, with flashing neon sparklers adding to the overall effect.

He fought off nausea, dizziness and a general wish to sink to floor and rest his aching head, but thoughts of his partner kept him moving, if erratically.

Three shots fired in rapid succession pushed him to the limit as he made his way through the stairway door and barely kept himself from falling down the stairs in his confused haste. He didn’t quite make it however, and ended up giving in to the black swirl that fought for mastery of his consciousness.

When he began to waken, his first thought was that he was missing something, someone. What, or who, was beyond rational thought at the moment as various parts of his body shrieked for attention.

The drum in his head slowly gained prominence and drowned out all the others, drawing low groans from him as wave after wave of pain flooded his senses and almost drove him back into oblivion.

A cool hand took his and a gentle soft voice penetrated his agony.

“Mr. Starsky. I know you hurt, but can you open your eyes for me. Do you know where you are? Do you understand what I’m saying? Please, David, try and open your eyes for me.”

He heard the underlying command in her voice and against his will opened his eyes and promptly scrunched them closed, groaning at the intrusion of light.

“O.K. David, I’ve turned the lights down, can you open your eyes for me. Let me see your beautiful eyes David, so I can let the doctor know how you’re doing.”

Once again he obeyed, if only briefly, as the attempt produced a swirling, roller coaster, upside-down world that sent him into fits of nausea, then blackness.

When next he surfaced he seemed more comfortable. Pain was still knocking on his consciousness, and he still felt disoriented, but it was all subdued and manageable. A crack of his eyelids didn’t pierce him with pain or nausea so he completed the manoeuvre to gaze up at white ceiling tiles.

A subtle noise drew his eyes and head to the left way too quickly for his delicate senses to follow, and a groan escaped as pain flared. His attempt to raise his arm and hand to his sore head was blocked by a strong hand restraining him.

“Sh. Easy Starsk. Take it easy babe. You need to relax, let it happen.”

The voice was soothing to him. Its effect was to calm him, and relax the tension beginning to build. He carefully opened his eyes again but couldn’t seem to focus clearly. His vision was distorted and cloudy, only shapes registering in his foggy brain. For reasons that he wasn’t sure of, he began to panic, his feeble attempts to rise and fight his demons only worsening the effects.

“See…why…see…hurts…see…can’t…” He wasn’t sure he was even talking out loud, and even to himself the words made no sense, which only caused his frustration to increase, which in turn caused his symptoms to worsen, and round they went.

Slowly he was brought to reality by the solid presence that wrapped itself around him and whispered softly to him, creating such a strong anchor that he had no difficulty grasping hold and hanging on.

The whispered words stirred something in him whose knowing hid just beyond his reasoning, but he revelled in them and welcomed their comfort.

Time disappeared again and when he was next aware of things, everything seemed to hold still and his eyes functioned normally allowing him to assess his environment.

Unbidden came the thought ‘hospital, again.’

Why he should think he’d been here before he wasn’t sure, but knew it for truth, just as he knew that ‘he’ would be worried. Where was ‘he’ anyway? ‘He’ should be here. The desperation to know where ‘he’ was overwhelmed him and he began to fight his way out of the bed.

His limbs weakly tried to obey the command of his will, and it took long minutes for him to get one leg over the edge of the bed. The rest of his body begged for respite from the return of pain but he only paused when he heard that voice.

“Where do you think you’re going Starsk? You shouldn’t be moving right now buddy, back you go.”

Strong hands, that belied their gentleness, worked at guiding him back onto the bed so that he was once more comfortably resting.

“Thought you’d left me,” he whispered in despair, knowing that his eyes were brimming with tears of panic at the thought.

Those wonderful hands sifted through his hair, and a soft voice tickled his ear.

“Never babe. I’m right here. You’ve got to rest Starsk. I’ll be right here, I promise.”

Before he drifted off to a secure sleep, he forced out the words that his heart knew to be true.

“Love you.”

The first thing he saw when he next woke was the beautiful blond angel he recognized as protector, guardian and lover. He smiled with peace and contentment, and waited in perfect serenity for the sleeper to wake.

He felt amazingly pain free and clear headed. His eyes didn’t react to the bright light of the sun streaming in his window, and he was mildly hungry.

Pieces of the past began to filter to the front of his mind and he put together a vague picture of what had caused his latest visit to this wonderful place. A tentative exploration of the right side of his head confirmed a remembered attack of some sort, and severe pain.

But beyond that, his memory was missing important facts. Why was he here? What had he done?

The panic began to rise again but he fought it back, his eyes on the blond sleeping so innocently, yet tensely, in the chair not far from his bed.

David. His name was David, David Starsky. And he was a cop, that’s right, a cop.

He felt amazingly proud for having remembered that much. His eyes still locked on the blonde, he decided not to push himself, and to let the memories return quietly.

Visions of comfort and trust and love breezed into his heart, as he allowed himself to relax into the strange euphoria that having the blonde near instilled in him.

Suddenly he was blinded by pain as the scene before him shifted and was replaced by a grungy, ill-lit room where two gorillas were taking turns at pummelling the hell out of him, and he was defenceless to stop them. He struggled desperately to fight back, to escape, to find Hutch, but each time he made a successful move he was grabbed and flung against a wall and it just kept happening, over and over.

His fight continued in his hospital bed, the fear making him wild, his cries rousing the blonde.

Slowly he came to himself as the strength and warmth of the arms that surrounded him forced their way through the sheets of pain and fear that held him. That soft, wonderful voice assuring him he was not alone, he was protected and he was loved.

Oh how he was loved! He clung to that body, drinking in the security, trying to glue himself to it so he would never be alone again, never be deserted or betrayed.

Once he was quiet, those gentle hands settled him back into his bed, then slowly caressed his face and up into his hair while that angelic voice continued to bless him with its knowing and its passion. He slept.

He woke to darkness, calling out for Hutch, wanting to know he was not alone. And Hutch called back, letting him know he was there, standing guard. He slept.

It was a glorious day! The sun was beaming its warmth and life into his room; his mind was clear, not too fuzzed up by drugs; he was a tiny bit hungry, and he remembered what had put him here. And he was alone.

But that was O.K. Hutch was probably just getting another coffee, or maybe someone had taken pity on him and let him grab a quick shower in the staff change room. They’d done that the last time he was here.

He took stock of his body: head and neck sore; chest, ribs and stomach areas quite sore; legs seemed O.K., and, expect for the intravenous feed, his arms just felt weak and a bit lifeless.

He tried controlled movement and decided that was definitely a bad move–sore changed into hurt. Damn. Probably meant he’d be here for a few days.

He sighed and begrudgingly settled back.

What will it take to get me through this time, he thought. And the answer walked through the door.

“Hey, sunshine, how ya doing?”

“Hutch! Fine, buddy, just fine. Where ya been?” said a weak voice he barely recognized as his own. His body obviously hadn’t caught up with his mind.

“Just grabbed a shower and some brunch.”

Hutch moved up to the bed, his hand reaching automatically to pat gently at a shoulder then rest on his forehead for a moment. Commanding blue eyes searched deep into his, searching for hidden truths. He seemed satisfied at what he saw and, with the biggest, sappiest grin on his face, he dragged a chair over and plunked himself down. It wouldn’t do to dwell on the obvious.

“You get those goons?”

“Oh yeah. Blakewell’s dead, and Monson won’t see the light of day in our lifetime. You want anything?” Checking his watch, Hutch continued, “Nurses won’t be around for another half-hour at least.”

“Drink?”

“Sure thing, just a little though.”

“How long?”

“This is day four, buddy.”

“Ah Hutch, I’m sorry.”

Hutch just looked at him, the shadow of the last four days clearly visible. Then the look softened and all the shadows disappeared as if by magic, to be replaced by a mysterious, powerful wonder. And he remembered.

Remembered telling Hutch he loved him. Not the usual ‘I love you, brother, partner, friend’, but the passionate words of a lover.

For just a moment he faltered, then watched as that face came dangerously closer, lips lightly touching his.

“Love you too, Starsk.”

The world continued on its way, completely ignored. This was a much better place to be, a better place to heal and grow old. This is what it would take, only this.