PART 4
(FLASHBACK)
Hutch wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked through the front doors of the Bay City Memorial Hospital early one morning and began to make his way to Starsky's room on one of the upper floors. It had been almost two weeks since Starsky had awoken from the coma, and although he had now made sufficient enough progress that the doctors were as sure as they could be that he would eventually make a full recovery he was still currently stuck in the ICU whilst they waited for a bed to become available for him in one of their rehabilitation units. The last conversation Hutch had had with Marion – who'd been the first nurse to be assigned to his case, and had given him around the clock care throughout the first few dark days following Gunther's assassination attempt – she'd told him that he was responding well to the treatment they were giving him and that in her opinion his recovery could be considered nothing short of miraculous.
Hutch didn't believe in miracles – a belief in the unsubstantiated had always been Starsky's department – but in this case he'd had no choice but to agree with her. He'd watched his partner claw his way back to him from death's door, as day by day a body, so broken it had initially seemed to have been beyond repair, had slowly started to knit itself back together again.
Hutch himself hadn't escaped the effects of the failed assassination attempt on his own life. He looked down at his wrist – the stitches had been removed over a week ago, but the wound was still concealed beneath a layer of sterile dressings. The blade, which has sliced through his flesh like a hot knife through butter, was bound to leave a scar – but Hutch had a feeling that the emotional scars they'd both acquired as a result of the trauma of that day would be even harder to get over. Starsky hadn't started talking about his own pain yet, but Hutch was sure he could see it in his eyes, despite the smile on his face.
Hutch's morning visits to the hospital had become just another part of his daily routine – just as essential as brushing his teeth or shovelling a couple of slices of wholegrain toast into his mouth before leaving the house. Normal visiting hours didn't start until early afternoon but Starsky's medical team appeared to have made an exception as far as Hutch was concerned. They'd seen the impact his continued presence had had on their patient's recovery, and Marion especially – who'd witnessed Hutch's own turmoil first hand in the days immediately following the shooting – hadn't wanted to compound his suffering any further by denying him access to his partner. In fact she knew the only reason any of them kicked him out at the end of the day was because of their serious concerns for his own health.
Captain Dobey had made Starsky's doctor aware of the unique nature of the bond the two men shared when he'd first been admitted to the ICU – that both of them had neglected to take care of themselves in the past when the other's life had been on the line. Even now Hutch was aware of the fact that Starsky's medical team had continued to keep a much closer eye on him than they probably would have done under normal circumstances. There was always an extra glass laid out next to Starsky's water jug in the morning, the nurses always made sure that a spare plate and an extra helping of food was added to their patient's trey every meal time – especially once they'd noticed that Hutch appeared to have lost a little weight – and on evening's when they'd been unable to persuade him to go home, even after visiting hours were over and long after Starsky had fallen asleep, they'd laid out pillows and blankets for him in the hope that this might coax him into getting some much needed sleep. He was exhausted. Marion knew that a few of the nurses saw kicking Hutch out at the end of visiting hours as the only way to force the Detective to take a break – a necessary cruelty – but she'd noticed that in this event he'd returned the following morning looking even more tired than when he'd left, and she was worried. She knew he couldn't keep pushing his body in this way indefinitely, something would have to give sooner or later.
It should have come as no surprise to Hutch therefore that she paid him a little extra attention when she encountered him in the corridor – looking even more pale than usual – on this particular morning, as he made his way up to Starksy's room. He hadn't been feeling well for the past few days, and despite the sunshine and rising temperatures there seemed to be a chill in the air which made him shiver. He greeted her with a small half-smile, which his heart wasn't really in, and hoped that she wouldn't notice his stiff gait and the way that he walked slightly hunched over to try and shield himself against the cold which seemed to have settled in his bones.
His injured wrist throbbed badly – worse in fact than it had done on the day he'd received his knife injury – and it was making it hard for him to use his left hand.
Driving had been difficult and painful that morning as a result of it.
"What happened to you?" Doctor Maybrouk had asked him, noticing the deep laceration to Hutch's wrist as the small group stood outside Starsky's hospital room - the man within having now been stabilised. Hutch hadn't realised it, but he'd been dripping blood all over the floor.
"Oh, it must have happened when those two goons jumped me in the hospital parking lot." He'd explained. "One of them had a knife."
"Well, this is bad." Doctor Maybrook had observed, as he'd gently lifted the handkerchief Hutch had tied around it as a makeshift bandage, before quickly replacing it again and placing his hand firmly over the top to apply pressure to the wound, holding Hutch's arm at chest height to try to stem the flow of the bleeding. "It's going to need stitching."
Noticing Hutch sway slightly at this however and recognising that he'd looked a little feint he'd started to guide him over to the nearest seat.
"To be honest I didn't realise how bad it was at first." Hutch had confessed, allowing himself to be led by the doctor and feeling somewhat relieved when he felt his weight taken by the chair. He'd been so out of it after his adrenaline fuelled dash to the hospital, following his phone conversation with Captain Dobey, that he had hardly even taken notice when a tray bearing the apparatus needed to suture the wound had been wheeled out into the corridor on a small trolly, and the doctor had started carefully stitching and dressing it. It had only been later when it had started to hurt.
Marion stopped him as he wished her a good morning – his voice slightly strained as he struggled to keep up his pretence of normality – and tried to pass her by, avoiding her hard stare.
"Are you alright Detective?" She asked him with a frown. She still hadn't got out of the habit of addressing him by his rank, despite the fact that he'd asked her to call him Ken – all the other nurses did, just as they called Starsky Dave – but he figured it was a professional courtesy which Marion found hard to break. He forced his smile until it was a little wider, and tried not to grimace.
"I'm fine thanks Marion." He nodded – surprised by how uneasy his voice sounded. He had a headache. The walk from his car had left him feeling weak and dizzy but he cleared his throat in an attempt to compose himself and stop his voice from shaking. He hadn't quite counted on his body following suit however as he was suddenly wracked by a violent shiver, which made his whole body shudder and he had to clench his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. "How's Starsky doing this morning?" He asked her in an attempt to change the subject.
"He's doing very well." She nodded, still holding Hutch in a gaze which was beginning to make him feel uneasy. All he wanted was to see Starsky – as soon as he made it to his room he could collapse into the chair next to his bed and rest there – all he needed was a little sleep and he knew he'd be alright. "Doctor Mabrouk is very pleased with him. He had a good night, thanks to the morphine," Marion informed him, "and his appetite seems to be coming back. He's eaten a good breakfast this morning." She smiled.
Hearing this was like music to Hutch's ears. Starsky was still weak and had spent most of the past couple of weeks sleeping. Very little of the time Hutch spent with him was passed in actual conversation, but he hadn't minded. Sleep hadn't come easy to him at home either, and so he had spent a lot of time sleeping himself – lulled initially by the sound of the heart monitors which had sung to the rhythm of Starsky's heartbeat and had let Hutch know that he was still alive, and then once they'd been removed the gentle hum of his partner's breathing. Starsky had always had the appetite of a hungry horse. If he was starting to show an interest in food again then Hutch knew that his friend was well and truly on the mend – which, he was beginning to realise, was more than could be said for himself. The world around him suddenly swam in and out of focus, and Hutch blinked to try and clear his blurred vision – he was beginning to think he really might be unwell. The pain in his wrist was building, and now his whole hand was on fire.
Hutch was sweating again, despite the cold – he could feel it trickling down the back of his neck. Beneath his jacket his shirt was wet with it, and as it dried and went cold he had to fight another fit of the shivers. Unlike Starsky his breakfast had been anything but hearty that morning, he hadn't felt much like eating and so had just grabbed a cup of coffee before leaving the house – something he was now beginning to regret as he felt it slosh around inside his churning stomach.
Marion looked him up and down, immediately noticing the sudden change in the Detective's demeanour. It was like playing a game of chess, he thought, with someone who was a much better player than he was, but who was trying to spare him his feelings. She could prolong the game to create the illusion that he was still in control of the situation, but sooner or later Hutch knew that she was going to win.
As he turned to leave she reached out gently to take him by the arm and turn him back around towards her, inadvertently brushing her hand against his injured wrist as she did so. This prompted a pained yelp from Hutch, who instinctively backed away from her with a grimace, cradling his left hand close to his body. She looked at him, his sudden reaction having apparently taken her as much by surprise as it had him. The violence of it had left him feeling drained, and what little composure he'd had instantly left him, as beads of perspiration glistened against his pale skin. His breathing was heavy as his heartbeat like a drum inside his chest.
"Detective." She sighed, fixing him with a no-nonsense glare. "Let me take a look at that wrist of yours!"
He hesitated for a moment, waiting for the soreness to subside somewhat. It felt like he'd been holding his wrist over an open flame, and there was also pain in his armpit – suggestive of a swollen gland. His stomach started doing somersaults again and he looked at her with defiance in his eyes. He didn't need her to tell him that his wrist was probably infected, he'd recognised the signs himself easily enough – but getting it tended to hadn't been top on his list of priorities.
When she didn't back down however he realised he was beaten – there was no point fighting with Marion on the matter, and no purpose to it save for his own stubbornness. Finally he relented, holding out his arm gingerly for her to take a look. He really needed to sit down.
She didn't even have to remove the bandages to see the beginnings of a small red welt peeking out from beneath the gauze. Lifting the layers of sterile dressing back a little with a careful finger she observed a significant amount of swelling and as she pressed down gently on the tender and spongy tissue she could feel the heat radiating from the skin beneath her fingertips. Hutch instinctively flinched again, tearing his hand away from her grip. She used this moment to her advantage, and he suddenly felt her palm against his forehead.
"You're very hot Detective." She observed with a concerned frown as she felt the burning furnace of his fever. "Let me find an empty consulting room and we can take your temperature."
"I'm alright really," Hutch's protests were quite futile however, "there's no need for that. I just want to see Starsky."
"Which you can do once I've checked you over!" Marion declared, in a voice which conveyed that she would not take no for an answer. "You're burning up Detective! Now I know that you're worried about your partner but I can assure you that he is doing fine! I've checked on him this morning, and as I have already told you he had a good night and has eaten a hearty breakfast. It's you I'm more concerned about at the moment!" She told him.
He just stood there looking at her. The shivering had become more obvious now and his mind had turned to contemplating his options. He could always refuse – he knew that she couldn't force him to consent to an examination, but then he wouldn't put it past her not to tell a doctor, and if Starsky found out it would only worry him. In the long term he decided it was probably for the best just to let her take his temperature and get it over and done with. That way they'd probably just give him a prescription for anti-biotics and he could get on his way. He nodded. She regarded him for a further moment, hands on her hips, but then – realising that there was no longer need for her to be quite so tough on him – she relaxed, and sighed in mock infuriation. She smiled and he returned the gesture half-heartedly.
She bade him to follow her and Hutch trailed along behind up the long corridor until she came to a door which read 'Exam Room Two'. His legs were starting to shake badly, but he didn't want to let her know that he was feeling quite so weak and so he pushed himself to try and keep up. She knocked lightly on the door, but when she received no response from within she gently opened it a few inches. Seeing that it was empty she beckoned him inside and closed the door behind them. It was a small room with a bed in one corner and a desk with two chairs up against the far wall. There were cabinets, presumably containing various medical supplies, lining another wall and an empty trolley tucked out of the way behind the door. She indicated towards one of the chairs for him to sit down and Hutch was grateful to finally be able to take the weight off his feet.
"How long have you been feeling like this Detective?" She asked him, going to one of the cabinets and taking out a thermometer, before returning to his side. He looked at her.
"I don't know." He shrugged, his response noncommittal. "A couple of days maybe." It wasn't really a lie – the pain had started almost a week ago, but he honestly couldn't say when it was that he'd started to feel unwell – he certainly hadn't felt as rough as he did now. She gave the thermometer a shake and he opened his mouth obligingly as she popped it under his tongue. Whilst she waited for it to take the required reading she placed two fingers to the side of his neck to check his pulse before resting his injured arm on the table as she proceeded to unwrap the bandages from around his wrist. Hutch flinched a couple of times, and she looked at him sympathetically.
"Sorry." She apologised, as she removed the final layer of dressings a little more gently. "Do you need something for the pain?" She asked him, but he shook his head – unable to speak with the thermometer still clenched between his teeth. She took it off him and looked at the reading as he glanced down at his wrist – which was very red and swollen along the site of the injury.
"One hundred and three point nine." She frowned. Hutch looked at her. He didn't have the energy left to keep up his pretence any longer. His stomach was doing somersaults again and he felt like he was going to be sick. He lowered his head onto the desk with a moan. He may not have been a medical professional, but he knew enough from his advanced first aid training to know that a fever of 103.9 was serious.
"That's not good is it?" He asked her weakly.
"Well, it's a bit not good Detective, let's put it that way." She told him. "Any other symptoms I ought to know about?"
"Sick, cold," He confessed, "I just feel very tired." He shook his head.
Hearing this she made her way back over to the cupboard from where she had taken the thermometer and took out a sick bowl, which she placed on the desk in front of Hutch. He just looked at her listlessly, making no attempt to move.
"I want to get a doctor to take a look at you." Marion was telling him. "By the looks of it you're nursing a pretty serious infection, and we need to try and bring your temperature down before it gets any higher."
"I was meant to come in a couple of days ago to get the dressing changed," Hutch explained weakly, "but the appointment completely slipped my mind. Do you think that might have caused this?" He asked her.
"No Detective," The nurse smiled kindly with a shake of her head, "I don't think one missed appointment could have caused an infection like this, but it was a missed opportunity to catch it earlier." She told him.
The depths of his lethargy and fatigue had taken Hutch by surprise however, now that he had taken the weight off his feet – his body felt heavy like lead. He felt as though the fever had melted a few brain cells, turning his mind into soup and by the time he looked up to tell her that he didn't need to see a doctor she'd gone.
Marion had taken her opportunity to step out into the corridor without protest. She looked one way and then the other, but the hospital was still reasonably quiet at this time in the morning, and seeing nobody else around besides a couple of other nurses and a hospital porter she began to make her way in the direction of the nurses station. It was rare for patients to develop infection in a wound once it had healed and the stitches had been removed – the danger was usually presented by an open wound left exposed to the elements – but it wasn't unknown to happen, especially in cases where the patient hadn't completed a full course of anti-biotics. She suspected that this hadn't been very high on Hutch's list of priorities these past weeks.
She noticed Detective Starsky's own physician, Doctor Mabrouk, exit a patient's room a little further up the corridor, and he started walking away from her. She quickened her pace a little and called out to him before he turned the corner. He stopped and turned around to face her, looking tired, but there was a kindly smile on his face.
"Difficult patient?" She asked him as she approached.
"No," He told her, "just another typical morning in emergency medicine." He'd only been on shift a couple of hours and he already felt wearied. "How can I help you nurse?" He asked her.
"Doctor it's Detective Hutchinson." She told him, and the mention of Hutch's name immediately grabbed the doctor's attention. "I'm afraid he's quite unwell. I know you're busy, but whilst you're here I really think you ought to see him. I think his wrist might be infected."
Doctor Mabrouk nodded, and as he followed Marion into the consulting room the two of them were just in time to witness Hutch reach for the sick bowel Starsky's nurse had left on the table for him, before his diaphragm contracted and he vomited violently. Marion was by his side in an instant, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder, even though as a nurse she knew that there was very little medically she could do for him until his stomach finished emptying itself of its meagre contents.
"Hello Detective." Doctor Maybrouk smiled as he closed the door behind him. "How are you feeling?"
"Lousy." Hutch groaned as he sat back in his seat once the contractions of his stomach muscles had subsided. He was shaking but quickly composed himself, as Marion took the soiled bowl to dispose of it, and quickly replaced it with another – although Hutch thought he was done with being sick for now.
"What's his temperature?" The doctor asked the nurse, as he approached and gently took the detective's wrist within his probing fingers. Hutch flinched as the older man placed the back of his hand to the tender flesh – it was hot to the touch.
"One hundred and three point nine." She told him. Doctor Maybrouk looked concerned.
"One hundred and three point nine!" He frowned.
"Yes doctor." She affirmed with a nod.
"Pulse rate?" He requested.
"Around one hundred and five." She stated – they were working as a team now, switching to full medical mode and working together just as they would in the emergency room. Hutch knew that was slightly elevated but that it could have been far worse with a fever as high as he had. He was still shivering but refused to submit to the pain and fatigue. Starsky would start to worry if he didn't show his face soon. Dobey had granted him a period of compassionate leave, and so he couldn't use work as an excuse for being late.
Doctor Maybrouk nodded.
"We need to bring his fever down." He sighed. "Marion, can you get me seventy five milligrams of intramuscular diclofenac, and I'm going to start a lidocaine drip and run some penicillin." He told her. "After that give him five hundred milligrams of aspirin every six hours, but we'll need to keep an eye on him for internal bleeding." He told her seriously, looking more intently at Hutch – beyond his obvious pallor his eyes were already slightly glassy and glazed from the fog of fever, and he was clearly exhausted.
"He doesn't look like he's going to be able to walk very far." He observed. "Perhaps bring a wheelchair too before we find him a room."
"Doctor, I just want to see Starsky." Hutch groaned. He realised that his pleading was futile though – Starsky may have been due to be moved out of intensive care soon but he was still weak and therefore vulnerable to infection. Hutch knew that what he had wasn't contagious, but he also realised that the chances of them letting him see Starsky in his current condition were slim. He could feel the fever wrapping itself around his brain like a snake now, his head was beginning to hurt again as though the snake was squeezing him and for reasons he didn't at that moment understand he suddenly started to sob. Had he been more alert to it he might have realised that delirium was beginning to set in, and that this was weakening his resolve against the pain and infection – but that it was also allowing the emotions that he'd suppressed over the past couple of weeks to work their way back up to the surface.
"Doctor," Marion interrupted him as the older man was about to say something, "there's a second bed in Detective Starsky's room. Perhaps, given the circumstances, it might be best if we let him rest there for a while." She suggested, remembering how important Hutch had been to Starsky's recovery.
Starsky's first concern upon waking from the coma had been for his friend – he'd needed to make sure that he was alright, and to let him know that he was alright too – Marion had seen the look in Starsky's eyes that day. He'd been unable to speak – unable to move – but he'd blinked and smiled at his partner, reanimating the blonde detective with a sense of purpose to replace the benumbed suicide mission he'd been in pursuit of since the day of the shooting.
"It might help both of them to know that the other was there." She added.
Doctor Maybrouk looked at Hutch – the man had managed to compose himself again, wiping the tears from his eyes along with the sweat from his face. The outburst of sobs had ceased as quickly as it seemed to have come from nowhere, adding credence to the doctor's belief that he was probably now experiencing periods of delirium – but he seemed lucid enough again for the moment. He nodded in agreement as Marion withdrew from the room to get the required supplies for the IV.
Hutch felt suffocated by the feelings he'd been fighting with since the day of Starsky's shooting – the fear of losing his best friend, anger at the people who had done this to him – to the both of them – the overwhelming feeling of pure joy which had swelled in his heart when Starsky had woken from the coma, followed by the emptiness of not knowing what came next. But most of all he'd been consumed by the guilt that Starsky had been the one who'd taken Gunther's bullets – whilst he'd escaped unscathed. It made him feel angry – angry in a way that Hutch had never felt in his life before, and it scared him because he didn't know whether, after this, anything could ever be the same again.