That Touch
Starsky lay on the gurney hurting like hell. He was hooked to an IV, with bandages on his arms and a pillow propped under his left shoulder, trying to ease the pressure off his back and hip. That worked some, but now his head was angled sharply so that his cheek rested against his right shoulder. He tried to wiggle to adjust his position a little bit – but no matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable.
"I just hope the other guys are hurtin' more n' me" he grumbled to himself. Starsky sighed, wincing at just how much that small movement hurt him.
He and Hutch had busted some drug pushers earlier that evening. An epic battle of fists and flying bodies ensued. The only problem was that one of the pushers was a 6'5" behemoth intent on not going back to jail. The giant had sent Starsky sailing through the air, throwing him against one of the dumpsters that lined the alley. Silent metal witnesses to the game of good guy vs. bad guy.
Backup arrived, arresting them all, while Hutch attended to Starsky. The last thing Starsky felt was pain washing over him, the last thing he saw was fear washing all over Hutch's face , before his world went black.
"Where are ya Hutch?" Starsky thought, wiggling again to try and get comfortable. Starsky closed his eyes, hoping to get a little sleep, but he just hurt too damn bad.
Suddenly, Hutch was there by Starsky's side, the silent plea having been heard. He touched Starsky's head, drawing his hand through the dark mass of curls. Gently, he repeated the process, pulling the pain and tension out with each gentle draw, with each gentle touch. Starsky snuggled against that touch, and at last he slept, knowing even in his sleep that Hutch was there.
"Sleep Gordo," Hutch whispered softly to his friend. "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."