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"Starsky, could you please—" Hutch cut himself off so hard his teeth snapped together.
"Yeah? What? Whaddya need?" Starsky lurched to his feet, and almost staggered the four steps over to the hospital bed, rubbing his eyes.
Hutch looked up at his partner, ashamed and unsure of what to say.
Stop hovering? Stop worrying? Go home and get some sleep?
Hutch himself was steadily recovering, the antibodies he'd received making a noticeable difference every day. There were painkillers and visits from a respiratory therapist to help with the remaining congestion, and extra antibiotics just to make sure that pneumonia, that old standby culler of the weak, didn't have a chance. Sure, there was still pain—he'd coughed so long and so hard that every muscle in his upper body was sore. When he'd told Judith that it felt like he'd sprained his diaphragm, she'd laughed for the first time since he'd gone into the isolation room.
People were doing for him, all the time, but especially Starsky, who couldn't seem to turn himself off, despite his obvious exhaustion. Starsky seemed to think none of the nurses or doctors knew enough about what they were doing to keep Hutch alive unless he was right there to supervise.
It was driving Hutch crazy.
Not because he didn't appreciate what Starsky had done, or was still trying to do. He was certain—somewhere right down deep beside his sprained diaphragm—that if his partner had been anybody but Starsky, he'd have attended his own funeral a few days ago.
What was making him nuts was that nobody was looking after Starsky.
Including Starsky.
He slept—when he slept at all—in the chair beside Hutch's bed, and pretty well any time Hutch woke up, he'd see Starsky watching him with eyes getting increasingly bloodshot and unfocused. Every visit from a doctor or nurse ended with Starsky bombarding them with questions, mainly about what he could do to make Hutch get better faster. All Hutch's efforts to get him to go home, to eat something besides the cafeteria's take-out, to look after himself, had so far failed.
"Hutch?" Starsky's voice was raspy, weary, but threaded with steel. It was a voice Hutch had heard before: the voice of a man who was going to do his duty if it killed him. Hearing Starsky like that made something deep inside Hutch ache with shame. He cursed himself again for being so out of it that he hadn't realized how bad things were getting for his partner.
Yeah, partner. There's two of us in this, he thought. High damn time I started acting like it.
"Come here." He patted the bed. "Just sit down with me a while."
"Don't wanna crowd you," Starsky muttered. "What if—"
"It's okay, buddy." Hutch made his voice very gentle. "I'm doped to the eyeballs, nothing's scheduled for a couple of hours. Let's just get comfortable for a while, hmm?"
Starsky slumped down on the edge of the mattress, still shaking his head.
"Yeah, but . . . " He trailed off, more as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say than that he'd run out of argument.
"C'mon," Hutch coaxed. "There's lots of room. Take a load off. Right there." He tugged gently at Starsky's shoulder, grateful that his exhausted partner slipped sideways without protest. He was nowhere near strong enough to muscle Starsky down if he'd decided to get stubborn.
"Hutch? Shouldn't . . . " Starsky's voice trailed off again, as his body sagged lower, and curled up against Hutch. He tried to push up with one arm, and muttered something, but his eyes were already closed, and his mouth wasn't functioning anymore.
"Yes. It's okay." Hutch lowered his voice, made it a soothing murmur, hoped that the meds would hold and he wouldn't break out in a fit of wheezing right then. "Just come here. That's it."
The tangled curls drooped down onto the pillow. Hutch shifted himself carefully, holding back a hiss as his back muscles protested the change in position. He got their bodies in contact—arms close together, Starsky's bent knee nudging his thigh—and pressed firmly enough that Starsky would feel his presence even in sleep. Starsky turned his head, coughed once, and started to snore.
"My turn," Hutch murmured, and stroked the curls resting against his shoulder. "That's it. My turn now."