When he wasn't on patrol or dealing with the inevitable paperwork which was
the bane of every policeman's existence, Hutch assigned himself as
Starsky's chief trainer, therapist and general mother hen. The police
department had access to a gymnasium early mornings and, it was there that
he dragged a grumbling, protesting, half-asleep Starsky every day, putting
him through a slowly increasing discipline of exercise specially designed
by a doctor to build up his physical endurance safely.
Isometrics were becoming easier for the man - the tone in his arms and legs was excellent and his stomach was flat and hard. There were several muscles, however, which had sustained too much damage from the bullets to take a great deal of strain. His upper body strength, in both chest and back muscles, was severely limited, causing severe pain whenever he pushed the limits imposed on him. This he found out the hard way. "Okay, Starsk, next is the routine on the nautilus."
Starsky groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Some routine. All I do in yank on a couple 'a pulleys with a few pounds on each one. A ten-year- old could do that."
"Maybe one could, Starsk," Hutch returned reasonably, "but the ten-year- old wouldn't have taken three slugs to the chest either. "
Starsky shot him a dirty look. "I'm bored," he replied crossly. "And this is taking too long. I'll never get back on the Force at this rate." He peered around the gym. "Hey, look! Somebody put up the rings! I used to work out on them in high school!"
Hutch regarded them dubiously. "I don't think you should try it, Starsk. That's going to put a strain on...."
"Strain-schmain," the other interrupted impatiently, "l'm fine."
Before Hutch could stop him, he had taken two running steps and a jump, grasped the rings and hauled himself up. "See... that's..." With an agonized gasp he dropped like a stone, to lie limp at Hutch's feet.
"Had to be a smart ass, didn't you?" Hutch admonished. "Never listen, do you?" He went to one knee and helped the stricken man to sit up. "Bet that hurts, huh?"
A stream of invective that would have done a marine proud was the only reply to that. He broke off moments later with another gasp. "Oh, my God."
"It hurts," Hutch nodded wisely. Deftly he probed the already stiffening muscles, ignoring the winces and howls this elicited. "I don't think anything's torn, but you really should be checked over by a doctor. Come on, I'll take you over to see Dr. Sullivan. He should be open pretty soon. Think you can make it?"
Starsky nodded miserably and endured the well-earned chastisement all the way across town. The muscles had not been torn, only badly strained, but he'd learned his lesson and never again tried to rush the pace of his training schedule. It made for a healthier - if grumpier - Starsky all the way around.
Conner ran his police department far less formally than did Los Angeles. With fewer than twenty men to coordinate, he could afford to be less rigid in structure and schedule. This allowed him to juggle work arrangements so that each man could be used to his fullest potential. Conner exercised this prerogative in assigning Hutch a wide variety of tasks, from answering reports of theft and disturbance to walking a beat when Neil needed a fill in.
At such times, Starsky would hunt his friend up and join him on the routine patrols, waiting patiently while Hutch checked out security at the various establishments around town, his own eyes missing nothing. Then they would walk together through the darkened streets, ever vigilant for trouble. Sometimes they would talk softly, but more often they would go for long stretches saying nothing, content in each other's company and comfortable with the opportunity to guard each other again.
Though this violated regulations, Conner made no objection to this routine; he gave his newest men their heads in this, allowing them the freedom to work matters out between them, reweaving old patterns and ties, and formulating new ones more conducive to their work in this alien environment. A shrewd man, Conner knew he couldn't go wrong by allowing these men the latitude they needed. After all, he was starting with the two best cops on the LAPD. Let them adjust a bit and he'd match his new acquisitions against any police team in the country.
About a month after Hutch had officially joined the Langston Police Department, Starsky began to show up as well, busying himself around the office, familiarizing himself with the files and generally making himself out a useful commodity. Hutch had to laugh at this change in his partner from a man who swore he hated paperwork only a little less than the lowest form of vermin, to the helpful, dedicated perfectionist, typing and sorting with all the diligence of Perry Mason's own Delia Street. Hutch found this no end amusing.
"Hey, Starsk," he'd called one morning after an exceptionally large stack of files had neatly disappeared into a cabinet. "Would you like to take a little shorthand, too?" He patted his knee while making little kissy noises.
Starsky flushed and uttered something profane, causing two uniformed patrolmen lounging nearby to burst out laughing.
"He shore do look real purty bendin' over them files, don't he?" one drawled, looking Starsky up and down. "Wonder if he has good legs, too?"
"Stuff it, Murphy," Starsky growled good-naturedly. "And you, partner, if you intend for any of those reports you're working so hard on to ever see the light of day again.."
"Okay, okay," Hutch held up a placating hand, "Man, but you're so touchy these days!"
Starsky slammed the file drawer shut, rattling the baskets stacked neatly on top. "I'm bored... as usual. If I don't get back on the street soon...."
"I know how you feel." The other uniform, Schmidt, nodded sympathetically. "Broke my leg a couple years ago and had to ride a desk for four months. Went out 'a my mind."
Hutch ruffled his friend's hair playfully. "Hang on, ya old fire horse. The time's coming." So Starsky hung on. Under Hutch's tutelage he exercised and walked - then ran, his health and strength gradually returning in good measure. Even Hutch benefited from working out with him, dropping the extra weight he'd been carrying and regaining the trim physique he'd always been so proud of.
Finally the day arrived for which Starsky had waited seemingly a lifetime.
"All right, David, I'm through. You can put your shirt back on."
Starsky waited, but Dr. Jack Sullivan, a handsome, silver-haired gentleman in his early 50's, remained impervious to the air of expectant tension in the room and simply continued to scribble in a scuffed old notebook.
"Well?" Starsky prodded, patience wearing out.
Sullivan's pen crossed one more "t" before he looked up, frowning. "Hmmm? 'Well' what?"
In an unconvincing show of nonchalance, Starsky slipped his shirt across his shoulders before asking the question that just contemplating caused his heart to beat a rapid tattoo. "How am I?"
Sullivan's brow cleared. "How are you? Oh, you mean did I qualify you for active duty yet?"
"Yes," Starsky gritted through clenched teeth, "did you qualify me for active duty yet?"
Sullivan chuckled, fully enjoying his moment. "Well, as a matter of fact..."
Doc!"
"Yes."
"Y-yes?"
"Yes."
"YES!" Eyes shining, Starsky grabbed the older man, enthusiastically dancing him around the room. "Wha-HOO!" Releasing the doctor to collapse into a conveniently placed chair, Starsky bounded from the room, buttoning his shirt as he went. "I love ya. Doc!" he called over his shoulder, leaving the stunned man still gaping at him from the corner.
Starsky literally ran - full out, arms pumping, feet slapping ran - the three blocks to the police station. He skidded to a halt just inside the door and peered around wildly, panting from the exertion. "HUTCH!"
Hutchinson dashed from Conner's office, eyes wide with alarm. "Starsky! What happened?" Four strides brought him across the room before Starsky even had opportunity to draw a breath. He grasped the shorter man by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "What's wrong?"
Whatever Hutch must have expected, it certainly wasn't for Starsky to throw himself into his arms in a wild hug. "I made it!"
"You made what?"
"Whadda ya mean 'what'?" Starsky's smile widened to include the several other officers gazing curiously at the strange - to say the least - tableau. "The doc cleared me. I'm a street cop again! "
It took a moment for this to sink in, then the room exploded into spontaneous cheers and backslapping. Hutch grabbed his friend in a huge bear hug, lifting him clear off the floor. "You made it!"
Starsky returned the hug enthusiastically, then pulled back, face flushed and eyes aglow, to lock gazes with the joy-filled ones of his friend. "You mean we made it," he whispered for Hutch's ears alone. "We." We ...we... we...
Heart singing. Hutch raised his voice to the office, but included the entire world. "Yo, everybody, party tonight at Mario's. Drinks are on me."
"Whoa." Starsky raised his own voice even louder. "Drinks are on his partner. You're going to have to get used to the fact that, after all this time, the 'Dynamic Duet' rides again!"
***
Isometrics were becoming easier for the man - the tone in his arms and legs was excellent and his stomach was flat and hard. There were several muscles, however, which had sustained too much damage from the bullets to take a great deal of strain. His upper body strength, in both chest and back muscles, was severely limited, causing severe pain whenever he pushed the limits imposed on him. This he found out the hard way. "Okay, Starsk, next is the routine on the nautilus."
Starsky groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Some routine. All I do in yank on a couple 'a pulleys with a few pounds on each one. A ten-year- old could do that."
"Maybe one could, Starsk," Hutch returned reasonably, "but the ten-year- old wouldn't have taken three slugs to the chest either. "
Starsky shot him a dirty look. "I'm bored," he replied crossly. "And this is taking too long. I'll never get back on the Force at this rate." He peered around the gym. "Hey, look! Somebody put up the rings! I used to work out on them in high school!"
Hutch regarded them dubiously. "I don't think you should try it, Starsk. That's going to put a strain on...."
"Strain-schmain," the other interrupted impatiently, "l'm fine."
Before Hutch could stop him, he had taken two running steps and a jump, grasped the rings and hauled himself up. "See... that's..." With an agonized gasp he dropped like a stone, to lie limp at Hutch's feet.
"Had to be a smart ass, didn't you?" Hutch admonished. "Never listen, do you?" He went to one knee and helped the stricken man to sit up. "Bet that hurts, huh?"
A stream of invective that would have done a marine proud was the only reply to that. He broke off moments later with another gasp. "Oh, my God."
"It hurts," Hutch nodded wisely. Deftly he probed the already stiffening muscles, ignoring the winces and howls this elicited. "I don't think anything's torn, but you really should be checked over by a doctor. Come on, I'll take you over to see Dr. Sullivan. He should be open pretty soon. Think you can make it?"
Starsky nodded miserably and endured the well-earned chastisement all the way across town. The muscles had not been torn, only badly strained, but he'd learned his lesson and never again tried to rush the pace of his training schedule. It made for a healthier - if grumpier - Starsky all the way around.
Conner ran his police department far less formally than did Los Angeles. With fewer than twenty men to coordinate, he could afford to be less rigid in structure and schedule. This allowed him to juggle work arrangements so that each man could be used to his fullest potential. Conner exercised this prerogative in assigning Hutch a wide variety of tasks, from answering reports of theft and disturbance to walking a beat when Neil needed a fill in.
At such times, Starsky would hunt his friend up and join him on the routine patrols, waiting patiently while Hutch checked out security at the various establishments around town, his own eyes missing nothing. Then they would walk together through the darkened streets, ever vigilant for trouble. Sometimes they would talk softly, but more often they would go for long stretches saying nothing, content in each other's company and comfortable with the opportunity to guard each other again.
Though this violated regulations, Conner made no objection to this routine; he gave his newest men their heads in this, allowing them the freedom to work matters out between them, reweaving old patterns and ties, and formulating new ones more conducive to their work in this alien environment. A shrewd man, Conner knew he couldn't go wrong by allowing these men the latitude they needed. After all, he was starting with the two best cops on the LAPD. Let them adjust a bit and he'd match his new acquisitions against any police team in the country.
About a month after Hutch had officially joined the Langston Police Department, Starsky began to show up as well, busying himself around the office, familiarizing himself with the files and generally making himself out a useful commodity. Hutch had to laugh at this change in his partner from a man who swore he hated paperwork only a little less than the lowest form of vermin, to the helpful, dedicated perfectionist, typing and sorting with all the diligence of Perry Mason's own Delia Street. Hutch found this no end amusing.
"Hey, Starsk," he'd called one morning after an exceptionally large stack of files had neatly disappeared into a cabinet. "Would you like to take a little shorthand, too?" He patted his knee while making little kissy noises.
Starsky flushed and uttered something profane, causing two uniformed patrolmen lounging nearby to burst out laughing.
"He shore do look real purty bendin' over them files, don't he?" one drawled, looking Starsky up and down. "Wonder if he has good legs, too?"
"Stuff it, Murphy," Starsky growled good-naturedly. "And you, partner, if you intend for any of those reports you're working so hard on to ever see the light of day again.."
"Okay, okay," Hutch held up a placating hand, "Man, but you're so touchy these days!"
Starsky slammed the file drawer shut, rattling the baskets stacked neatly on top. "I'm bored... as usual. If I don't get back on the street soon...."
"I know how you feel." The other uniform, Schmidt, nodded sympathetically. "Broke my leg a couple years ago and had to ride a desk for four months. Went out 'a my mind."
Hutch ruffled his friend's hair playfully. "Hang on, ya old fire horse. The time's coming." So Starsky hung on. Under Hutch's tutelage he exercised and walked - then ran, his health and strength gradually returning in good measure. Even Hutch benefited from working out with him, dropping the extra weight he'd been carrying and regaining the trim physique he'd always been so proud of.
Finally the day arrived for which Starsky had waited seemingly a lifetime.
"All right, David, I'm through. You can put your shirt back on."
Starsky waited, but Dr. Jack Sullivan, a handsome, silver-haired gentleman in his early 50's, remained impervious to the air of expectant tension in the room and simply continued to scribble in a scuffed old notebook.
"Well?" Starsky prodded, patience wearing out.
Sullivan's pen crossed one more "t" before he looked up, frowning. "Hmmm? 'Well' what?"
In an unconvincing show of nonchalance, Starsky slipped his shirt across his shoulders before asking the question that just contemplating caused his heart to beat a rapid tattoo. "How am I?"
Sullivan's brow cleared. "How are you? Oh, you mean did I qualify you for active duty yet?"
"Yes," Starsky gritted through clenched teeth, "did you qualify me for active duty yet?"
Sullivan chuckled, fully enjoying his moment. "Well, as a matter of fact..."
Doc!"
"Yes."
"Y-yes?"
"Yes."
"YES!" Eyes shining, Starsky grabbed the older man, enthusiastically dancing him around the room. "Wha-HOO!" Releasing the doctor to collapse into a conveniently placed chair, Starsky bounded from the room, buttoning his shirt as he went. "I love ya. Doc!" he called over his shoulder, leaving the stunned man still gaping at him from the corner.
Starsky literally ran - full out, arms pumping, feet slapping ran - the three blocks to the police station. He skidded to a halt just inside the door and peered around wildly, panting from the exertion. "HUTCH!"
Hutchinson dashed from Conner's office, eyes wide with alarm. "Starsky! What happened?" Four strides brought him across the room before Starsky even had opportunity to draw a breath. He grasped the shorter man by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "What's wrong?"
Whatever Hutch must have expected, it certainly wasn't for Starsky to throw himself into his arms in a wild hug. "I made it!"
"You made what?"
"Whadda ya mean 'what'?" Starsky's smile widened to include the several other officers gazing curiously at the strange - to say the least - tableau. "The doc cleared me. I'm a street cop again! "
It took a moment for this to sink in, then the room exploded into spontaneous cheers and backslapping. Hutch grabbed his friend in a huge bear hug, lifting him clear off the floor. "You made it!"
Starsky returned the hug enthusiastically, then pulled back, face flushed and eyes aglow, to lock gazes with the joy-filled ones of his friend. "You mean we made it," he whispered for Hutch's ears alone. "We." We ...we... we...
Heart singing. Hutch raised his voice to the office, but included the entire world. "Yo, everybody, party tonight at Mario's. Drinks are on me."
"Whoa." Starsky raised his own voice even louder. "Drinks are on his partner. You're going to have to get used to the fact that, after all this time, the 'Dynamic Duet' rides again!"
***