Capital BT
AN: Thanks go to KejfeBlintz for a quick and lovely beta, and spotting of anachronisms. The migraine and random-comments-following-large-amounts-of-caffeine-and lack-of-sleep were nicked from real life, as was – since I am another plant freak – Hutch's shower scene. Except mine was a banana plant...
Disclaimer: If they were mine, Hutch wouldn't have had The Mustache. The only people I own are Mr Donahue and Melissa. And the reed palm, of course. :)
WARNING: mild language
"In those days you had to get by with ordinary painkillers which were about as effective as a slug of brandy to a man having his leg amputated."
A. Morice, Murder in Mimicry
"HeyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyheyHutch!!!"
Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, a.k.a. Hutch, stifled a groan, put down his pen, and looked up with an appropriate air of dread. "What?" He was not in the mood. They'd spent 31 sleepless hours tracking down the guy who was waiting for them in the cells right now, during which Starsky had not missed a single opportunity to complain about his nagging hunger. Then they'd had 5 hours of interrogating the same guy, with very little success. Hutch hoped a night in the cells might help... soften him up a bit. And on top of all that, he'd missed yet another date with Georgina, who'd broken it off with him when he phoned to apologize, and his new reed palm at Venice Place was looking sickly. It had been a very long day, and it didn't look like it was going to finish any time soon.
"D'you believe in bananas?" His partner, David Starsky, shot him a glowing grin.
Hutch rubbed his forehead. "What?"
Starsky sighed. Why couldn't people listen to him? "Why can't people listen to me?"
"Sta-"
"I said-"
"Stars-"
"If you stopped interrupting me, you'd know that what I was trying t-"
"Starsky!" Hutch slammed his hand down on the desk, and immediately regretted it. What was it about lack of sleep that made you so much more sensitive to pain? And noise?
Starsky pouted. "Well, if you don't want to hear it..."
"Starsk-"
"... I mean, you could've just said..."
I thought I just did. Hutch pinched his nose. "Starsk, I'm sorry." So tired... "Look, why don't you go get some more coffee or something?"
Half an hour later, fighting to keep his patience while confronted by an 8,000 word report and a hyperactive Starsky on his 24th cup of coffee, Hutch wondered whether that had been such a good idea after all.
The next morning, Starsky was awake before his alarm clock, alias Hutch. At least, he assumed he was, because he hadn't had the usual 'Get-up-and-in-here-right-this-minute-Starsk-or-Dobey's-gonna-kick-your-ass-straight-through-next-week-and-out-the-other-side' phone call. Today was a good day. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, and no doubt Jackson would sing like a canary when he and Hutch got to the station.
In one easy movement, he stood up.
Pain. So much pain that at first, Starsky couldn't even think. Couldn't even remember what the word was for this explosion, this horrific fusillade of needle-sharp stakes inside his head, nor imagine what to do about it. He sat down heavily and shut his eyes. Purple cartoons exploded in front of him. Where was his phone? Where was Hutch when you needed him?
Hutch?
But Hutch refused to reply. And then Starsky suddenly remembered that maybe he should pick up the phone. Agony... And... what came next? Oh, yes, dial the number...
Hutch?
It was ringing.
Then what? Right, speak. Right.
"Hutch?" And this time, this time, Hutch answered him.
"Starsky? What're you doing up so early?"
Starsky hadn't realized how painful it would be to speak. "Head...ache. Headache. Hutch. Hurts."
Hutch sounded very relieved. "Is tha-" - he yawned - "-at all? Take some painkillers, Starsk. You've probably had hangovers worse."
And he hung up. He hung up!
But at least Starsky knew his way to the painkillers cupboard even when only semi-conscious. Hutch was right, he probably had had hangovers worse. It was a shame he couldn't remember any, to help him through his hour of darkness.
It was also a shame, he realized, cold horror creeping over him, that he had used up his last painkillers on the last hangover.
Starsky had intended to hammer on the door of Venice Place until either he got an answer or his head exploded. Luckily for him, and even more luckily for his head, this proved to be unnecessary, as he reached the door at the same time as Hutch, back from his morning jog.
"Hutch!"
Hutch stared at his partner. His face was gray, his eyes glassy. He wondered whether Starsky had actually driven to- No, Hutchinson. Don't follow that thought. The image of Starsky driving, in this condition, was too scary to contemplate. "What... what's wrong?"
Starsky looked like he was trying to laugh, but the pain seemed to overcome him. "Headache. 'Member?"
The blond man grimaced. "No painkillers, huh?"
Starsky went to nod, then thought better of it. "Ng-hng."
Hutch put his arm round Starsky and helped him into the flat. "I think I've got some aspirin round here, somewhere..."
"I wonder what they did before coffee?"
Hutch blinked. "Do I want to know what you're on about?"
Starsky stirred his coffee, absent-mindedly staring at Hutch's latest morning concoction. This one was a disturbing shade of violet. "Well, it's only 900 years old, coffee"
"Not my coffee, it ain't." The blond chuckled at his own excuse-for-a-joke.
"Yeah, yeah, hilarious Blintz. Hold my sides for me. But you know, before it was invented..."
Hutch switched on the food mixer, while he thought about this. When it had stopped, he turned back round. "Well?"
"Well, they must just've been awfully grumpy in the mornings, that's all. How old are humans?"
"About 90,000 years." Hutch grinned and took a swig of his drink. "Just think, that must be why little old grannies are so wrinkly."
Starsky didn't even honor that comment with a smile. "So that's..."
"89,100 years."
"It may be early in the morning, partner, but I can still count, thankyou. 89,100 years without coffee. How did they get anything done? What did they use instead?"
Hutch looked back down at his concoction and raised an eyebrow.
Starsky followed his gaze. "I don't believe it."
"You just don't understand, do you?"
Hutch rolled his eyes.
"No, listen to me, Hutchinson. You just don't understand. I'm in pain!"
"Starsk, you've been in pain befo-"
"Hutch! Listen! I'm in pain! And this pain's different. This pain... this pain hurts."
Another roll of the light blue eyes. "Starsky, all pain hurts."
"Not like this."
"OK, OK, Starsk. You're in pain. Whaddya want me to do about it?"
"I don't know," mumbled the detective, slightly stung by his partner's evident lack of sympathy.
"Well then, can you just get into the car?" And try not to moan all the way to the Metro?
"I'll drive."
"I'll drive."
"Hutch..."
"Starsk, you are not driving my car in your... condition."
"Fine, we'll take mine."
There was a long sulky silence. Starsky thought about what Hutch had just said.
"My condition? What, d'you think I'm pregnant or something?"
Hutch stared out the window of the Torino, watching the scenery patently failing to pass. "Starsk, I can't believe I'm saying this, but would you please just shut up and drive?"
Starsky pouted. "No."
There was a long silence, punctuated only by yet another sigh.
"I'm sorry, Hutch, but we need to get something straight. I have a headache, right?"
Hutch continued to glare at the stationary scenery. "Right."
"And you think it's a me-grain, right?"
"Migraine. Right." Hutch had only said it was a migraine to shut his partner up. Some use that'd been.
"To-may-to, to-mah-to. Except, it can't be a me-grain."
More silence.
"Well? Don't you wanna know why?"
Hutch wondered, again, whether humoring his partner would mean he would shut up sooner. It hadn't worked so far. "Starsk, can you just drive, please?" He sounded almost desperate now. "I'll even buy you lunch. Your treat."
But even that didn't work. Hutch started to wonder whether something really was wrong with his partner. Maybe it wasn't a hangover after all.
"I said, don't you want to know why?"
Hutch carefully didn't sigh. Again. He limited himself to a weary nod. Why did Starsky get so... belligerent when he was feeling even a little bit... under the weather? "Why?"
"Because it's both sides of my head! So there." Starsky nodded to himself in satisfaction. He looked for all the world as though he had just disproved the Theory of Relativity.
And – finally! Oh, sweet blessed Jesus! – he started the car.
Hutch was scowling as he entered headquarters. "Starsk, would you please shut up?"
Starsky looked at his partner in shock. "Hutch! You just told me to shut up!"
Hutch hit the side of the vending machine twice. "Yes, Starsk, I just did."
"But- but- Hutch..."
"You got a dime?"
Starsky absent-mindedly produced one, but kept on whining. "Hutch, you can't just tell me to shut up, I'm sick! I deserve sympathy, not grumpy blondies telling me to shut up all the time..."
Hutch stopped listening. This time he hit the front of the vending machine. Hard. "Starsk, you got another dime? It's just swallowed this one up."
Starsky handed over another coin, and, without taking a breath, kept complaining. "...don't know why you always become so grumpy when I'm ill, anyway, just because you're feeling alright..."
There was a promising thump from inside the machine. And then another one. Hutch bent down and picked up two candy bars.
Starsky was still going. "...the world coming to, if you just go around telling sick people to shut up all the time, for all you know I might be dying..."
"Starsky, here." Hutch handed his partner one of the candy bars. And then, when Starsky opened his mouth, either to thank him or continue his objections, stuffed the second one in – wrapper and all.
There was a muffled, "Hey!" as Hutch walked away, and he felt a candy bar bounce off his shoulder.
And even then, Starsky was still moaning. "I'm not hungry now, anyway. I feel sick. It's just not fair, Hutch, I don't know why you can't give me a little sympathy once in a while..."
The blond turned round. "Not hungry, huh? Well, I guess there's a first time for everything."
This time, he caught the candy bar flung his way, and ate it.
Captain Dobey was not having a good day. Edith had put him on yet another diet, people kept phoning him under the strange impression that he was a dentist, IA had been round again with another complaint about one of his officers – although it wasn't, he was pleased to note, Starsky or Hutchinson, for once – and, to top it all off, Starsky was complaining about his headache, and seemed intent on making everyone else's life hell.
"Look, Starsk, all I said was maybe it might just be possible that your migraine-"
"Me-grain."
"-me-grain-"
"Headache."
"-that your headache might conceivably have been caused by the 37 cups of coffee you drank last night."
"39."
"39. Starsk, are you trying to drive me crazy?" There was a brief pause. "Stupid question," muttered Hutch.
"Does this mean I have to give up coffee for good? What am I supposed to do without coffee? He wants me to go on a no-coffee diet!" This addressed to any police who just happened to be sitting there in subdued silence. "Your crazy diets might work for you, punk, but I'm not spending a week without food or water! Where's the coffee machine? Give me that coffee. Give – Me – That – Coffee. Now. He won't let me drink coffee! What d'you want me to drink then, beaver juice? Or are you trying to convert me is that it? I'm only to eat butterfly bones from now on, right? You'll be banning me from pickles, next! Move over, will you?"
Dobey stood up and made his way out of his office. This had to end.
"All right, all right Starsk, you don't need to shout."
"I don't need to shout? You don't need to shout!"
"Starsky, settle down." Dobey's calm intervention didn't seem to have done much good.
"You," Starsky pointed at Dobey over his shoulder, "keep out of this. And don't shout."
"STARSKY!" yelled Dobey. If calm didn't work... Anyway, he'd had more than enough. "Stop that!"
Starsky stopped whining, whirled round from the coffee machine... and immediately regretted it, as misery battered its way through his skull. "Ow. What?"
"That moaning! Hutchinson, can't you do something about it?"
Hutch blinked and whacked the side of Starsky's head as he passed him.
"Hey- aaaaww, Hutch!" he gasped, at another excruciating attack.
Dobey turned away to hide a smirk. "Take him out on the streets or something."
"C'mon, buddy. Let's go."
Starsky yelped as Hutch hit the other side of his head on the way out.
"Starsk?"
Starsky shook his head to try and clear it. Pain exploded behind his eyes. "Dizzy again."
He felt something pressed into his hand. Pills. Painkillers.
"D'you want me to drive?"
Even through the haze of pain, with his eyes screwed up against the light, Starsky managed to shoot his partner The Look That Would Have Killed Medusa. "Are you crazy?"
"Er..."
"No."
"But Starsk, you can't see, you can't function, you don't know which way is up, you're off your face on aspirin-"
"I said no."
"It would really be much safer-"
"No." Starsky slowly, ever-so-carefully opened his eyes. It was painful, but not as painful as the prospect of Hutch driving. Safer? Being a cop wasn't about being safer, it was about catching the criminals. But he didn't have the energy for that particular argument just now, so... "Just shut up so I can drive, right?"
He was so busy concentrating on the world Not Spinning, he didn't even notice Hutch's Look.
Starsky was hungry. Very hungry. So when he saw a store at a gas station he took his chance.
"Starsk, why are we-"
"I'm hungry."
Hutch just sighed. "Right, it's my turn, whaddya want?"
Starsky stared at him. "Are you crazy? I want some real food! I'll get you some lizard tails, huh?"
Hutch sighed again. "Sure, Starsk. No salt."
Starsky chuckled and got out the car.
Ten minutes later, with a gun leveled at his head, he was wishing he hadn't. Alright, stocking masks, guns, and a sack. Yep, this was definitely a 211. And – oh, God – Hutch was still outside, waiting for him. Hopefully he'll have enough sense to keep out of the way. Won't he? Yeah, of course he will – this is Hutch I'm thinking about. He wouldn't barge into a dangerous, potential hostage situation without thinking just because I'm in the middle of it.
Keep telling yourself that, buddy, it might come true...
"You, in there!" One of the stocking-mask-guys gestured to the back of the store with his head. The other one seemed intent on his task of shoveling dollars into the sack.
Starsky, along with another – very definitely female – would-be-customer and the shopkeeper, slowly walked to the back of the shop. If they found out he was a cop, he'd be in Big Trouble. With a capital BT.
Thank God I left my gun in the car. Now he just had to get rid of his badge...
"Move!"
Hutch shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. How long did it take to buy a bit of food? Even Starsky couldn't spend that long in the store without a very good reason. Maybe I should go and check on him...
And at that point, he realized the other cars hadn't moved since they'd arrived. Something's up...
He slowly got out the car and went up to the store door. The blurred silhouettes he could see through the frosted glass weren't much help. Then he heard a shot.
Something's wrong. Starsky!
But wait – if he went barging in there, he'd just make it worse, wouldn't he? Probably. So, instead of talking to himself, he'd be better calling for back up. And then try and find a back way in.
He ran back to the Torino.
Starsky and his fellow hostages stared at the hole in the ceiling. Well, at least now I know his gun's loaded...
"Move, before I shoot one of you, too."
Starsky stumbled backwards, into the very pretty girl's arms. "Sorry. Hi."
The girl smiled as he stood up. She had a very nice smile. "Hi." Very nice legs, too.
They were both roughly shoved into some storage place, alongside the shopkeeper. Stocking-Guy backed out and shut the door, and there was a click as he locked it. The shadow under the door didn't move.
"I'm Dave." He treated the girl to a Special Starsky Smile.
"Melissa." She was tall, blonde, skinny: everything anyone could look for in a girl, really. With big green eyes – although if Starsky was perfectly straight with himself, that wasn't the first thing he'd noticed about her. And she was locked in a cupboard with him. Already, he could feel his headache fading.
"Ahem."
If only they'd been alone...
"Hello, Mr..."
"Donahue."
"Mr Donahue." The headache was back. With a vengeance.
"Much as I hate to interfere with your prospective love life, it may have escaped your notice that we are locked in a storage cupboard. What are you going to do about it?"
Starsky suppressed a sigh. Seven kinds of people. Why couldn't Mr Donahue just have been Type No. 6?
Hutch crept round the back of the store, frantically looking for another way in. There had to be one somewhere. And where was Starsky? Was he OK? Had he been shot? Was he lying on the floor of the store, failing to draw in his last breath?
Enough, Hutchinson. Get on with the job.
But even if he hadn't been shot, he was ill – he had a headache, so he wouldn't be thinking straight. He was dizzy – barely fit to drive, never mind negotiate a hostage situation. Because Hutch had no doubt that was what it was. And he had his badge on him.
Oh, Starsky...
Where was the fire escape in this building? Maybe he could get in there...
Melissa was fading in and out of focus. "What's up, Dave?"
She looked awfully far away, but her voice was too loud. What was up with him?
"Don't feel... not... 'm ill..."
Melissa frowned and felt his forehead. Mr Donahue ignored them both.
"You're very pale... and you might have a temperature... I'm gonna call for help."
What was up with her? Had she forgotten they'd been locked in a storage cupboard?
She hammered on Starsky's skull – or maybe it was the door. He couldn't really tell which. "HELP! HELP! WE'VE GOT A SICK MAN IN HERE! HELP!"
"D... don't... shout."
Melissa hurried back over to him and smiled. "It's alright, I'm here."
Starsky tried to grin back. "Me... too." Where was Hutch?
The door slammed open.
"Ow."
"What's going on in here? I thought I told you lot to keep quiet!" Stocking-Guy looked very angry – even through his stocking. And the haze that seemed to have decided to settle in front of Starsky's eyes.
"He's sick!" Melissa cried. "Look at him!"
Stocking-Guy frowned, and gestured at someone beyond the doorway. Stocking-Guy-2 came and held the gun on them as Stocking-Guy-1 inspected Starsky. Starsky was too weak to do anything, anyway.
"He does look sick... and he's awfully pale..."
"Yes!" insisted Melissa. "He might have a fever!"
Starsky now appeared to be shaking uncontrollably.
"You!" Stocking-Guy-1 turned on the forgotten Mr Donahue, trembling in the corner. "Is there somewhere we can put him?"
"O-o-o-office. N-n-next d-door."
"Get up." This was directed at Starsky.
He tried. And hit the ground with a loud thump. "Ow."
Melissa hurried over, totally ignoring the gun pointing at her. "Here, I'll give you a hand..." Sassy, that was the word.
"Get away from him!"
"He needs help. You're not going to give him any, so I will." Melissa seemed awfully calm.
"Get away from him, I said!"
"So shoot me."
There was a long, peaceful, painless silence. And then a shot. Starsky wondered if it had hit his head. That was the only explanation he could think of for the burst of pain echoing round his brain. But Stocking-Guy had just shot the ceiling again. A gentle rain of ceiling plaster fell down.
Another shot. Shit. Either of those shots could have hit Starsky. Or he could be next. Were they just shooting one customer after another? How many customers were there? How long until it was Starsky's turn? Where the hell was that back-up? Were they going to have the sirens going? Would that mean Starsky's life? Or was Starsky already injured? Or dead?
Where could he find a way in? He scrambled onto the roof. Maybe... just maybe...
Starsky lay flat out on the floor, his eyes screwed shut against the light from above. Why had someone stuck him under a skylight? Pain...
There were voices around him, but he couldn't really tell what they were saying. How long had he been lying like that?
Hutch?
"Dave? What's wrong?"
That wasn't Hutch. Where was Hutch? "You got any painkillers? M'lissa?" Yes, that was her name.
And, oh glorious girl, she did. Starsky swallowed them as quickly as he could. How long had it been since the last dose? Too long.
He opened his eyes, just for a second, just to thank Melissa for being wonderful and tell her she was beautiful, and saw Hutch. At least, he thought it was Hutch.
What's he doing up there?
He seemed to be gesturing something. Starsky couldn't understand it. His arms moved around a bit more frantically. Open the skylight. Starsky blinked twice, and slowly nodded. OK, light didn't hurt so much but movement still did.
"Op'n sk'ligh'."
Stocking-Guy-1 stared at him like he'd asked for the moon. "What?"
"Open the skylight."
There was no response.
"I'm sick. I need air. Open the skylight." He coughed, pathetically – a trick he often used on Hutch. He called it the Sympathy Cough, and it always worked.
Stocking-Guy-2 opened the window.
Starsky shut his eyes again when he saw the blond mass descending towards him, so he didn't see what happened next, but when someone landed on top of him, he opened them again. "Hutch?"
Except it wasn't Hutch, it was Stocking-Guy-2. He rolled over and pinned the guy down with his own weight. "You're under arrest, pig! Ow."
He could hear a cough from Hutch.
"Pig?"
"Yeah. What?" Starsky grinned sheepishly. "I've always wanted to say that."
Hutch laughed. "You too, Buster!"
Starsky looked up at his friend. He had Stocking-Guy-1 pinned to the wall and one hand in his back pocket looking for his cuffs.
Hutch wasn't even looking at his friend, but he could feel the raised eyebrows on his back. "...what?"
Stocking-Guy-2 chose this moment to put up an ineffectual fight and try to fling Starsky off him. Starsky was not going anywhere. He was now lying flat out on top of Stocking-Guy, who had both hands pinned to the floor above his head.
"Can you give me a hand over here, Hutch?"
Hutch cuffed the guy to the desk and walked over. "Yep."
"Get my badge, will ya?"
"Where is it?"
"In there." Starsky nodded in the general direction of...
"Where?"
He wiggled his bum. "In there, I told you."
"Your pocket."
Starsky shook his head.
"...Boxers?"
Starsky nodded.
"You get it."
If Starsky could have turned round and fixed his partner with a glare, he would have. "I can't. Only got two hands, remember?"
"Well, grow another one," Hutch grumbled, still staring at Starsky's backside with a mixture of fear and apprehension, as he rummaged around in his jacket. "Here's my badge."
"Handcuffs?"
"Here." Hutch tossed them onto the floor next to Starsky and Stocking-Guy. "Now, read him his rights."
"You read him his rights!"
"Why? I read them last time. It's your turn."
"I," grated Starsky, able to at least turn his head this time, albeit awkwardly, "have a headache."
He put the cuffs on Stocking-Guy and stumbled away.
"Hey, Starsk!" There was no reply. "Starsk!" he yelled, but to no avail.
Hutch pulled Stocking-Guy to his feet.
"Starsk, what was your badge doing 'in there' anyway?"
Everyone else seemed to be fine. Melissa was buying some milk from Mr Donahue. Stocking-Guys 1 and 2 had been arrested. No-one had been shot, although there were some holes in the ceiling. And Starsky...
Starsky was curled up in Mr Donahue's storage cupboard, trying not to whimper. Movement still hurts, then.
Hutch crouched down next to him. "What's up, buddy?"
"Pain."
He frowned, and rummaged around in his pockets. "I think I've got some more aspirin in here somewhere..."
This time, Starsky frowned. "No." He wrinkled his forehead. "Had some."
Hutch looked round, clearly feeling a bit helpless. "Can I get you something?"
"Water."
"Anything else?"
Starsky tried to smile. "M'lissa's phone number."
Hutch rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling Starsky up with him. If he was picking up girls, he must be fine.
And that was when they heard the police sirens.
Noise, Starsky noted, was also still painful.
"Hutch..."
There was something in Starsky's tone. "What? Are you OK? What's wrong?"
"Make it stop, Hutch."
Hutch glanced at his partner and was immediately at his side. "What is it?"
Another heartfelt plea. "Just make it stop."
"What?"
"Feel dizzy. Pain." There was a small, pathetic giggle. "Purple explosions. Like cartoons."
A small frown appeared between the blond eyebrows.
"Know you hate cartoons." Starsky leaned heavily on his friend – just in time, as his knees gave way, and they both sank gently to the ground.
Hutch laughed, briefly. It sounded like concussion, but-
"Starsk? Did you bash your head?"
There was no reply.
"Starsky?"
"Thinking."
A long pause, during which Hutch tried to move into a more comfortable position, failed, and nearly landed on his back, long legs in the air and all.
"No."
Hutch's frown deepened. "Are you sure?"
"... yes."
There was another long pause, and Starsky whimpered. "I'm dizzy, Hutch."
"I know, I know... it's OK, Starsk, you're alright."
"You know that feeling... it's like that feeling when you're about to go to sleep, and you're spinning round and round and round and then you can't stop, and it's like you're lying down, and you just can't stop, and it's like that Hutch, and I just can't stop!"
"I'm here, Starsk. I'm here."
Starsky looked up at his partner in fear and confusion. "And now you're spinning too, Hutch! Make it stop, Hutch, please, just make it stop..."
How long they sat like that, Hutch didn't know. It felt like 89,100 years, but was probably nearer 900. And then Starsky looked up, and blinked. Twice.
"Y'know something, Hutch? It's gone. Stopped." Just like that. He stood up, and looked surprised when Hutch didn't immediately follow. "What's up?"
"Well, it may surprise you to know, but I've been sitting here for the past eternity with a ton of burrito on my legs, which have sort of gone to sleep. So excuse me if I don't instantly leap into action."
Starsky's lips moved. "A ton of bu... HEY!" he exclaimed, suddenly getting the jibe. "Just for that, I won't give you a hand up." He walked away. "Come on, man!"
"Hutch!" Starsky poked his head round the door of Venice Place. "Hu-utch!" He could hear water running, and Hutch seemed to be talking to someone... but if he had a girlfriend in the shower... well.
"In the shower," came the muffled reply. "Five minutes."
Starsky nodded – unnecessary, dummy. Hutch can't see you – and got himself a beer. He moved some muddy plant pot and an odd sock off the couch and sat down. Hutch really was a slob.
By the time the shower stopped, Starsky had been reduced to flicking through one of Hutch's plant books. He hurriedly stuck it back on the coffee table and stretched out on the couch. "How much longer were you planning to be in there? I thought you'd never finish."
He heard the door open, but didn't turn round. "'Ey, Hutch."Now he turned round. "Fancy a- what the hell is that?"
Hutch was almost entirely hidden behind a very large plant.
"It's a plant."
"I know it's a plant. What're you doing with it?" Hutch grinned and opened his mouth. "And no cute answers!"
"It needed humidity. So I took it into the shower. And you're looking so much better already, aren't you, my darling?" This last comment was apparently directed at the plant itself.
Starsky could feel a smile approaching. "Y'know, Hutch," he stood up and put one arm over his partner's shoulders, earning a faceful of leaves for his trouble, "I thought it was supposed to be beautiful women you took into the shower with you. Or can you not tell the difference any more? Mind you, Mara was a bit green last time I saw her..."
"She had food-poisoning, Starsk. Thanks to your semi-barbecued hamburgers, I might add."
"Oh! And that'll be why Abby just drank water all the time! She ate sunlight, right? And I have to say, Jeanette did seem to have a thing about flowers in her hair..."
Hutch's mischievous smile made an appearance and he started singing."If you're going to San Francisco be sure to wear some flowers in your hai-"
"OK, OK, I surrender!"Starsky raised his hands. "No more cheesy songs-that-get-stuck-in-your-head-forever, please!"
Hutch's grin widened and he took the plant back outside.
Starsky's mind seemed to have wandered quite far afield by the time he wandered out onto the balcony to join his be-towelled friend. "There's nothing quite like an armed robbery, is there?" Starsky beamed at the world outside. His headache was gone, he wasn't being held at gunpoint any more, and – most importantly – he had a date that evening with the lovely Melissa. Life was good.
"Starsk?"
"Mmhmm?" He turned his head to acknowledge his partner.
"You got any painkillers? I've got a splitting headache."