18
They brought Starsky back up to the small room about four hours later, while Hutch was dozing in a fitful restless way. With the absence of the drug in his system he was experiencing withdrawal from it and felt anxious and at the same time bone crushingly tired. His body refused to let him rest however and when he closed his eyes he was beginning to have flash back memories of men in white coats and a small white room.
The noise of the gurney on the tiled floor and the murmur of voices in his room shook him awake and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He lay in a cold sweat while the infernal bleeping of the machine next to him began to slow down from its staccato rhythm.
Hutch looked sideways at his partner's body as the nurses lay it on the bed and started to attach various leads and tubes to the machinery that had accompanied him. Starsky too had a black BP cuff around his arm and had an IV flowing into the back of his left hand. Ominously there was also a respirator in the room and Hutch closed his eyes and shuddered. Starsky had once woken up with one of those infernal tubes down his throat and had panicked so much that he'd had to be sedated all over again. But now, as he looked, he realised it wasn't hooked up to anything, and he relaxed back on the bed, burying his head in the pillows as the feelings of contrition and blame washed over him in a black tide. His anger started to boil however, when the uniformed officer who had accompanied the retinue came forward and snapped a cuff onto the limp left wrist, attaching the brunette to the bed.
The smaller man was still unconscious and once the nurses had done their job and settled their patient into his room, they left the two men alone. In the quiet of that small room, Hutch steeled himself and took another look at the man he referred to as brother, and the man that he had, to all intents and purposes "killed". He felt sick to his stomach as he peeped around the corner of the pillow and took his first good look at Starsky.
He looked pale, of course. There was a fresh white bandage around his ribs and below it, Hutch could see bruises, large and purple, spreading across his flat abdomen. There were white taped dressings over the brunette's knuckles and fresh cuts on his forearms. But it was the usually handsome face, which seemed to have taken the brunt of the beating. Large cuts bloomed across both cheeks, making the unconscious man look as though he was wearing Indian war paint. There was another, equally big gash over his left eye and that eye was swollen shut, stained with a port wine coloured bruise, bisected by a white butterfly strip closing another smaller cut.
But the bruise that stood out most of all was the purple, blue and black bruise that cut across the curly haired cop's neck enhanced by grazed and abraded skin.
Hutch rattled quietly at the metal handcuff still on his right wrist.
You bastard Hutchinson! They should lock you up for good and throw away the key!
He ran his left hand through his tousled hair and angrily wiped at the tears that were prickling in his eyes.
Who are you sorry for, you sick son of a bitch? For him because you did that to him, or for yourself?
With the bitter thoughts still racing through his head, he turned away from the body in the other bed and closed his eyes against the world, wishing he could plunge back into the oblivion the drug had allowed him. But his mind refused to close down and instead he tossed and turned on his bed, memories of another bed; a cold and hard metal bed beginning to surface. Men's faces hovered above him and he felt the needles jammed against his arm time after time as they pumped the adrenaline into his veins.
And then there was a loud noise. He heard the crowd again and the bright lights of the arena temporarily blinded his eyes. There was another person in the fighting pit with him. Another man that he knew, but at the same time didn't know and the memory of sinking his fists into the hard flesh of that man left him shaking and whimpering on his cot. He flexed the fingers of his left hand, feeling the confining strictures of the white oxide tape around them and the open grazes on his knuckles, the memory of the punches he delivered living on in the fist he made. He swallowed down the bile burning in his throat and almost wished the heart issues he'd suffered had finished him off. He had just tried to beat to death the very man he'd sworn always to protect.
He jumped as he felt a hand on his bare shoulder and thought it was still in his dream. In his fuddled thoughts, Hutch tried to bat it away, but his wrist was still firmly anchored to the side of the bed and he cried out in frustration and helplessness, plunging his head once more into the depths of his pillow. The doctor's hand remained where it was, a comforting and heavy weight, anchoring Hutch back to the present, and slowly, the dreams fell away and he turned over onto his back and looked at the tall black man.
'Memories returning?' M'Benga asked gently.
The blond sighed shakily. 'Gimme something to block 'em' he mumbled through dry lips. 'I can't do this. I don't wanna do this'.
The doctor sat down at his bedside. 'Can't do what? What do you remember?'
The lids closed down over the ice blue eyes. '….remember hitting him' he said in a strangled voice. 'I remember trying to kill him….and I don't want…..shit…..just gimme something, please? Hurts…..hurts too much to remember'.
M'Benga regarded the suffering man, knowing how much it cost him to have to go through not only the withdrawal, but the return of the memories, and he wondered just how much would come flooding back today, and how much he would still need to be told. Hopefully, he thought, the very painful memories may lay dormant until both men were well enough to help each other through.
'Your memories will continue to come back over the next weeks, Ken. And you must always remember that what you did, you were made to do. Perhaps, if the tables were turned you friend would be having these same feelings of recrimination now'.
The blond stole another sideways glance at the figure in the bed opposite. 'How bad is he?' Hutch asked in a small voice.
'He's been subject, I think, to more trauma than you. It seems he was made to fight more times'.
The blonde's eyes flew open. 'How do you know that?'
'We found wrist bands on you both. They gave an indication of what had happened. Yours said….'
'Designation Green 1. Wins 1' the flaxen haired cop's eyes were closed and he was visualising the wicked sliver bracelet surrounding his right wrist, the words indelibly burned into his brain. He opened them and looked at the ring of slightly paler skin now partially covered by the metal handcuff. 'I remember the bracelet, but I don't remember how I got it. What did his say?'
'Designation Blue 1. Wins 5. It would appear he was on his sixth fight'.
'Yeah, and it might have been his last' Hutch said softly. 'Doc, tell me how this thing worked. I need to understand. Why can't I remember?'
'It will come back in time. For now you need to rest and allow nature to take its course. Its as though your body has been on the highest anxiety levels for over two weeks, and it needs time and sleep to help you recover from your physical and mental injuries'.
'And what about these?' Hutch rattled the handcuff gently. 'I can understand why I need 'em, but not him. Look at him! He's not goin' anywhere. Can't you take 'em off him?' he pleaded.
'I'll instruct the guard to remove them from both of you. We allowed them as a precautionary measure. We didn't know how you would be when you woke up. It's as much for your own protection as anything. We couldn't have you trying to get out of bed in your current condition. But it would appear that the heart abnormality was as a direct result of the drug, so I'll also ask the nurse to get rid of the annoying machine there too' he smiled encouragingly. 'Take your time Ken. Rest and try not to beat yourself up about what happened. No-one could have fought that effects of that drug…no-one!'
'How's my pa….how's Starsky?' Hutch couldn't bring himself to use the word partner. Would the brunette ever trust him again?
'He's resting. As I said he has more extensive injuries than your own, probably as a result of the previous fights. Amongst others, he has three cracked ribs to deal with. The strangulation injury across his neck….'
Hutch paled visibly at the mention, but M'Benga pressed on regardless. 'Could have been much worse. His larynx has been severely bruised, but nothing is broken. The cricoid is in tact, so as long as there is no more swelling over the next 24 hours, he should escape with nothing more serious than a husky voice for a while. We scoped him to make sure, and the respirator is there just as a precaution, but at the moment, he seems to be breathing fairly easily. He'll need your support when his memories start to return. You'll both need to support each other'. The doctor gave a sad smile and walked towards the door.
'Just a minute Doc. What's that supposed to mean? What aren't you telling me?' Hutch shouted, sitting more upright in his bed.
M'Benga paused at the door. 'Later, Ken. Its much too early for this yet. Just rest; sleep and see how many of the memories return on their own. And talk to your partner' he emphasised the last word, and closed the door behind him.
Hutch's mind was a whirlwind of confusion. What was all that about? Of course he'd support his partner if Starsky could bear to have him around. But why would they both want support? He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate as the nurse came into the room, along with Baker, the young uniformed officer the blond knew from the precinct. The young man fumbled with a bunch of keys and apologetically unlocked the cuff from around the broad wrist.
'I'm sorry Hutch. They made me' he looked up shyly as the blond massaged his right wrist.
'S'OK, you were only following orders. Just make sure Starsky's ok huh?'
Baker unlocked those cuffs as well and stuffed both pairs into his pocket as if trying to get them out of sight as quickly as possible. He smiled again and went quickly from the room.
Great Hutchie. Even he can't bear being in the same room as ya. Just go and jump off the ledge huh? Do everyone a favour'.
Hutch submitted quietly as the pretty young nurse disconnected the leads from his chest, apologising as the adhesive pads pulled at the fine hairs over his skin. Hutch ignored her, consumed by his own world of self-loathing and almost wishing for any sort of deep cleansing pain. He needed it; he deserved it. He felt her checking his pulse and BP again and then she left, leaving a deathly quiet behind her.
Without the steady bleep of the monitor, Hutch had nothing else to listen to but the slightly wheezing breaths of the man in the other bed. He'd become so attuned over the years to knowing Starsky's every breath; every nuance of his body. And now, he knew that the brunette was beginning to wake up.
With a feeling of dread, but knowing that he needed to be there, just to witness the reaction, he slowly dragged his tired body out of his bed and padded quietly over to his partner, pulling his drip stand with him. He drew a chair to the side of the bed where he could see the first signs of consciousness and waited, his hand hovering over the limp hand on the bed, unsure whether his friend would want him to touch him, or whether the curly haired cop would recoil from Hutch's presence.
Slowly the wheezing deepened and the eyes below the eyelids started to move. Hutch felt the hand beside him twitch and reflexively, he reached for it, holding it and rubbing a soothing thumb over the back as his friend regained consciousness. The right eye, the one that was not bruised and swollen shut, blinked open and looked straight ahead as Starsky tried to assimilate the feelings his body was shouting at him to understand. The first sight of the indigo blue was both a joy and a burden to the blond and he stole himself for any reaction. He levered himself to his feet and perched on the side of the bed as the single eye focussed and homed in on him.
'Starsky?' Hutch asked softly, bracing himself for the hatred he felt sure must follow.
The dry lips worked and a dry tongue peeped out and swilled across them.
Starsky looked up into the face of his friend, the confusion of the past weeks suddenly dissipating in the warmth of the ice blue eyes, and he locked onto them, feeding of the familiarity as he managed to rasp out two painful words.
'Thank….God'.