Chapter 2

By the time his shift had ended, Starsky was ready for a pizza, a shower and bed. He was exhausted and was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He had called Gretchen earlier and canceled their plans for that evening, promising to make it up to her that weekend.

As Hutch pulled up in front of Starsky's apartment, he glanced at his unusually subdued partner and said, "You okay?"

"Yeah, just beat. Too many double shifts this week." Starsky said with a crooked smile. He knew that Hutch had a fiercely protective nature when it came to Starsky's health and well being. It was one of the traits he shared with his friend. When either one of them was hurt or sick, the other one was right there by his side, nursing him back to health. But, sometimes the big blond could go a bit overboard and Starsky was in no mood for any of Hutch's 'mother henning'. He just needed a good night's sleep. "I'm gonna order a pizza, take a shower and hit the sack."

"Okay," Hutch said with a hint of hesitation in his voice. Starsky was tired, that much was obvious. Hutch was too. Still, he couldn't help worrying. He knew that Starsky tended to ignore any signs of illness, often pushing himself beyond his limits, and there was a particularly nasty strain of the flu going around headquarters. So many fellow officers were out sick that meant that both men had been working double shifts almost all week. He made a mental note to keep an eye on his partner for the next few days for any signs that he might be coming down with it.

Starsky climbed out of the car and slowly trudged up his steps. Hutch watched until the brunet disappeared inside, closing the door securely behind him, before pulling away from the curb and heading for his own apartment where his plans for the evening were the same as his partner.

Inside his apartment, Starsky barely made it to the sofa before collapsing on the cushions with a heavy sigh of relief. He closed his eyes as a momentary wave of dizziness washed over him. He was so exhausted, he could feel it in his bones. His stomach rumbled with hunger but picking up the phone and calling for a pizza to be delivered sounded like too much effort and he simply didn't have the energy. His eyelids dropped heavily and closed. Soon he was sleeping soundly, slouched in an awkward position on the sofa.

The soft thud of the morning newspaper hitting his front door startled Starsky awake. He gasped as his neck and back protested the night spent on the couch. Carefully shoving himself to his feet, he slowly made his way into the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower would work out all the kinks. He pulled off his clothes and let them fall in an untidy heap on the bathroom floor.

Reaching into the shower stall, he turned on the water, adjusting the spray to the temperature he preferred. A light steam began to fill the air as he stepped beneath the soothing spray. He turned his face up into the mist of water and closed his eyes, letting the water wash over his face and curls. The water ran down over his torso, easing and relaxing his tense, strained muscles. Finally, he soaped up his body, cleaning himself thoroughly, and shampooed his thick dark hair.

Turning off the water, he stepped out of the stall and reached for a thick terrycloth towel that was draped over the rod on the wall. He swayed unsteadily as another wave of dizziness swept over him, accompanied by an unexpected surge of nausea. Choking back the bile that threatened to spill from his throat, he took several deep breathes until he had the nausea under control. Grabbing the towel, he dried himself off briskly and stepped up to the sink to finish his morning routine. Bright feverish eyes stared back at him from the mirror, accented by a slight flush on his cheeks. Shit! This was no time to get fucking sick. They were short handed enough as it was. He knew that he would have to be on his guard to keep Hutch from finding out that he wasn't feeling well or the big blond would insist on dragging him off to the doctor.

With the utmost care, he brushed his teeth and shaved. Retreating to his bedroom, he pulled on a pair of his favorite blue jeans and a red tee shirt. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he put on his shoes and socks. He paused for a moment when he had finished so that he could catch his breath. The simple act of dressing had left him feeling tired and lightheaded. Shoving himself to his feet, he trudged towards the kitchen to put on some coffee.

He drank two cups of coffee and forced down two slices of lightly buttered toast. He hoped that the food would decide to stay down and not make a repeat appearance anytime soon. Grabbing his shoulder holster from the peg he hung it on at night, he slipped it on and fastened it securely. He pulled out his weapon and checked the chamber to make sure it was loaded and that the safety was on before slipping it back beneath his right armpit. He shrugged into a light windbreaker to conceal his gun and headed out the door to pick Hutch up for work.

He pasted a smile on his face when he pulled up in front of Hutch's apartment building at Venice Place. The big blond was waiting at the curb and slid into the Torino with a cheerful greeting. Starsky grunted in reply and pulled back out into the early morning traffic.

"What's the matter, Starsky?" Hutch asked "Not enough caffeine this morning?"

"Something like that." The brunet mumbled, keeping his eyes on the road and avoiding eye contact with his partner. The nausea had subsided but he still felt lightheaded with a throbbing ache in his head that seemed to have settled in at the base of his skull. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day. He knew that he wouldn't be able to conceal the fact that he wasn't feeling well from Hutch for very long. He was too perceptive and too tuned in to Starsky's normal behavior.

He did manage to keep it hidden from Hutch for most of the morning but when Starsky declined lunch, Hutch knew that something was wrong. Starsky never turned down food. He cast a sharp glance at this partner, immediately noting the pallor to his olive complexion and the weariness in his sapphire eyes. When he reached out to check Starsky's forehead for a fever, the brunet swatted his hand away in irritation.

"Knock it off, Hutch." He growled "I'm fine…it's probably just a touch of the flu that's been going around."

"You should be at home in bed." Hutch chided him gently "I'm going to tell Dobey you're not feeling well and log us out early."

"Aww…come on, Hutch…" Starsky whined plaintively. Ignoring his protests, Hutch reached for the mike concealed under the dash and pressed the transmit button, requesting to be patched through to Caption Dobey.

When Dobey came on the line, Hutch said,

"Cap, it's Hutch. Starsky's not feeling well. I think he's coming down with the flu that's been going around so I'm going to take him home."

"Alright," Dobey growled, his normally gruff attitude hiding a soft spot for his two favorite detectives. "And you tell him to keep his ass at home until he's better. I don't need him spreading it around to the rest of the squad. We're short handed enough as it is."

"Yes, sir." Hutch said with a satisfied grin at his partner. He hung the mike back in it's usual spot and leaned back in the seat, keeping a careful eye on his partner as Starsky turned the Torino in the opposite direction and headed towards his apartment. Despite his grumbling, Starsky really didn't feel well at all and going home sounded like a good idea after all.

By the time he reached his apartment, Starsky was feeling too ill to put up much resistance when Hutch insisted on helping him into his apartment. He leaned heavily against his partner as Hutch guided him inside and to the comfort of his bed. He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, not even noticing when Hutch began undressing him so he would be more comfortable.

While Starsky slept, Hutch gathered up the things he might need to help Starsky through a bad case of the flu. Towels, extra blankets and sheets, cold medicine, a thermometer to check his temperature and aspirin. He knew that there should be several cans of soup in the kitchen cabinet, along with an assortment of broth, and juice in the refrigerator. Despite his tough, street-wise exterior, whenever Starsky was hurt or sick, Hutch turned into a real softie with a gentle, loving touch. It was a side of the big blond that few people other than Starsky was ever allowed to see.

When his preparations were complete, Hutch pulled the tall wing backed chair into the bedroom and sat it at the foot of Starsky's bed where he could watch over his ailing friend.

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