Part 16

When Hutch awoke the next morning both his bed sheets and his pyjamas were soaked with cold sweat, and his head throbbed with unforgiving severity. He rubbed at his tired eyes wearily, and put a cool palm to his temple, before reaching for a couple of aspirin and swallowing them down with a mouthful of water from the half empty glass on the coffee table. He still felt sick to his stomach, and as the room began to spin – stomach doing summersaults as all four small walls danced rapidly by – he steadied himself gingerly against the couch until it had passed. He thought wearily about the irony of the situation; he'd got himself into this condition worrying about Starsky – although nothing else had appeared to matter at the time – and now Starsky was beginning to grow in strength every day, whilst if anything Hutch only felt worse. He was no good to anyone.

The smell of breakfast cooking drifted on a wisp of air from the small kitchen, and peaked his curiosity. He wondered if Huggy had returned early, but was surprised to see Starsky already up and dressed, and leaning over the small hob in kitchen as he craned his neck back to look behind him. His friend had one arm outstretched, resting against the adjacent unit. Despite the dizziness which still plagued him Hutch was on his feet in an instant, pulling on the same pants and green t-shirt he'd worn the day before.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked in surprise as Starsky turned to face him.

"Morning." Starsky smiled cheerfully back at him, taking in his exhausted and pale complexion with poorly disguised concern. "How did you sleep?" He asked.

"Restfully." Hutch lied, rubbing at his temples with a pained frown. "What are you doing?" He asked him.

"Making breakfast." Starsky chirruped, observing the paler of his friend's complexion, the dark shadows under his eyes, the clammy sheen to his skin and his tired and sunken appearance.

"Starsky I'd have done that for you." Hutch sighed beginning to make his way over, but Starsky's crooked grin stifled any further words on the subject. He shrugged.

"I've been up an hour already." He explained. "Besides I was bored, and hungry, and I didn't think toast and pancakes could hurt… do you want some?" He offered.

But Hutch shook his head, taking a clean glass from the washing board beside the sink – piled high with dirty cutlery – and filling it with cool water from the tap. "No thanks Starsk." He declined. "I'm not hungry."

Starsky aimed a disapproving look at him, and Hutch averted his partner's gaze, which he noticed was also saturated with undertones of concern. He took a long sip of the cool liquid from the glass in his hand and got the distinct impression that he was going to have to attempt to eat some breakfast, whether he wanted to or not.

"Hutch, the doctor said that you need to eat!" Starsky scolded. He took another long, hard look at his partner and noticed Hutch grimace as the ice cold water caused a wave of pain to shoot through his abdomen, and his stomach muscles tensed. His friend then poured the rest of the liquid down the drain. "If you don't eat you're only going to get weaker and make yourself ill again."

"And you should be resting!" Hutch suddenly snapped, his usual level headed and calm demeanour starting to wane as his patience was somewhat tested by another wave of nausea. But Starsky just calmly held up his hands to stifle his friend's outburst, and Hutch once again managed to regain control over his frayed emotions.

"Sorry…" He sighed.

Starsky nodded in silent understanding, he understood all too well how Hutch had suffered as a result of Gunther's attack, and, with a heavy heart realised that as much as he had hoped for a speedy recovery for Hutch is was going to take time for him to feel safe again – just as his own battered and worn body was nowhere near fully recovered yet.

"Tell you what…" He smiled, noticing the expression on the blonde's face fall. "I'll rest if you try to eat some breakfast." He offered.

Hutch sighed, fearful that his digestive system couldn't take any of the food Starsky had enthusiastically prepared. The curly haired brunette observed the pain – both physical and emotional – in his partners liquid blue eyes, and it cut him deeply. He felt a slight twinge of guilt over the compromise he had tried to reach, which felt more like emotional blackmail under the circumstances, but the mantra 'cruel to be kind' came to mind, and finally Hutch nodded uncertainly in agreement to his partner's terms.

"Shall I finish these off?" He asked, indicating the pan of sticky pancake batter now slowly solidifying over the flickering blue and orange flames of the small hob. But Starsky shook his head. It was clear to anyone who looked at him that he was still far from recovered. He was still deathly pale – with just a hint of colour to his cheeks – he drew in breath gingerly as though each one hurt his fragile lungs. The continuous movement of his diaphragm caused his wounded ribs to throb, and they ached constantly, and he walked with a stiff gait. But Hutch smiled meekly, reassured that he was at least showing some signs of improvement and he was gaining in strength every day.

"Nah…" He smiled. "I can manage, they're almost done… besides you always spoil them, with your low fat, high in fruit and fibre malarkey. For once I want a full fat breakfast, something to really set me up for the day, not the mouse droppings you serve up…"

"They're not mouse droppings, they're raisons Starsk!" Hutch exclaimed with mock indignance at this, and stifling a small laugh at his friend's banter. This quickly turned into a choking cough however.

"Why don't you sit down?" Starsky frowned. "You look like you haven't slept a wink!"

Hutch continued to hover reluctantly over the hob beside his friend however, struggling to catch his breath again after the coughing fit which had gripped him. It took another hard look from Starsky to prompt him to relent, and he made his way over in the direction of the small dinging table.

"You remember you've got your appointment with Doctor Maybrouk later?" He asked him, as he pulled up a chair and sat down carefully. His stomach had started to throb, but at least sat down Starsky couldn't see him gently rub and cradle his painful abdomen.

"Yeah." Starsky nodded, turning off the hob as the pancake batter began to develop a crispy caramel tint, and dishing up two plates of the rich delicacy, before placing one of the dishes in front of Hutch.

As the rich aroma of treacle and syrup assaulted his nostrils however Hutch's stomach muscles began to spasm in retaliation and a hand immediately shot up towards his mouth as the bile began to rise in his throat and he started to dry heave. Realising immediately what was about to happen he threw his chair back in a screech of wood against wood and made a mad dash towards the bathroom. He got there just in time before throwing himself to the ground and vomiting into the toilet bowl. Sitting on the cold floor of the bathroom, it was only a matter of seconds before Starsky joined him, and his friend knelt down stiffly beside him.

"Ah Hutch," He sighed, rubbing his friend's back in a series of gentle soothing circular motions. "That's alright… cough it all up… let it all out." He grimaced.

"I'm sorry…" Hutch choked as he heaved again violently into the toilet bowl, his whole body terse with the exertion and his forehead and cheeks beaded with sweat. There wasn't anything left to bring up from his now empty stomach however, and as the convulsions of his diaphragm and abdomen gradually began to subside Hutch finally relaxed, sitting with his back to the toilet – exhausted.

"Looks like we've both still got a long way to go, hey buddy?" Starsky sighed as got to his feet and took a flannel from a hook over the sink, running it under the cold tap. He handed his friend a damp cloth to wipe his face on, before bending down to sit beside him, and wrapping one arm around Hutch's shoulders – pulling him into his reassuring embrace.