First Posted January 7, 2003 at The Pits
Affirmation
By Kaye Austen Michaels
Contact for feedback/critique: kam2003sh@excite.com
Special thanks go to Karen-Leigh for phenomenal editing and encouragement, and to Ellis Murdock for exceptionally talented medical editing.
Affirmation
December 24, 1985
He had never liked silence. No matter what Hutch might say, he wasn't a chatterbox all the time, but he was uncomfortable in sustained quiet. He needed noise, a background soundtrack of conversation, or music, or even the clink and crunch of the street. Maybe it stemmed from his early childhood in a neighborhood that hummed and chattered round the clock, or perhaps it was his stint in the jungle, where quiet could easily precede eternal silence. Whatever the reason, David Starsky stood in the center of his living room, hating the absence of noise, powerless against it.
Christmas Eve. Hutch should be here. It was wrong, unfair, disturbing that he wasn't.
The Christmas tree--an honest-to-God, real live evergreen--sparkled, casting prisms of holiday colors on the mismatched, hodge-podge furniture. Dreidels languished beside the menorah on the coffee table; no one interested at the moment in playing with the brightly decorated spinning tops. Starsky had a new selection of Christmas music that would've filled the void nicely, but he couldn't bring himself to delve into it.
Not without Hutch.
He wondered why he had bothered dressing in green denim and a red sweater. The phone shattered the oppressive quiet and, lunging at the coffee table, Starsky could have kissed the receiver he grasped like a lifeline. "Starsky."
"Will you please come pick up Hutch?" the brassy feminine voice pleaded.
Starsky imagined Hutch in the background making all sorts of rude gestures behind Maureen's back. That image brought a smile to his face, though his eyes remained shadowed, and concern turned his voice harsher than he intended, "What's wrong?"
The Memorial ER receptionist smacked her gum a few times before she whined, "He's a sick puppy, I'm telling ya. Spiking a fever to knock you over and popping Tylenol like it's the newest flavor of pop-rocks. Dr. Mannigan's given him a prescription and told him to go home, but he doesn't wanna, so I'm begging you to come and spring him."
He couldn't resist a laugh despite his instinctive worry. "That's a switch I'm still not used to. I'll be there with bells on, fifteen minutes tops."
"You puttin' those bells anywhere I'd be interested in seeing 'em?"
"Maureen!"
"Hey, a girl can fantasize, can't she? Don't worry: I got the picture long ago. I ain't blond and six-foot-one with a face that'd tempt a whole order of nuns out of the convent. Come get your partner out of our hair, and I'll forgive ya."
Still laughing, Starsky hung up the phone and rubbed his hands together, already dreaming up a scheme to salvage this Christmas Eve and pamper his partner. Partner. Maureen was right. Always his partner.
He'd begged Hutch to stay home, but when had the stubborn idiot ever listened to any concerns about his health? Hutch had unlimited license to fret over Starsky, but reciprocity came at the expense of fierce Hutchinson growling and stonewalling. Hastily unplugging the tree, Starsky made a mad dash for the aging Torino.
>>>>>>
"Aren't you too big to be an elf?" Starsky commented, lounging against the reception desk. The tall redhead presiding over the phones and endless supply of paperwork, and looking nothing like a guardian-at-the-gate in her ultra-tight elf's costume, flung him a withering glance that would've stood most men's hair on end.
Starsky was immune. He offered her a brilliant, conciliatory smile and even ventured a saucy wink.
Maureen's expression told him he could put his smile in his pocket. "You'll get my pointed boot up your tail if you stand there an' bug me. Some of us have to work on Christmas Eve."
Starsky exaggerated a shiver of fright. "Ooh, and that felt boot would just really put a hurtin' on me, wouldn't it?"
Maureen's smile was acidic with scorn. "It's what's under the felt that counts, lover boy."
"I'll uh--" Starsky hid a burst of laughter in a discreet cough. "I'll remember that. Where's Hutch?"
"Hiya, professor," said a far more amenable voice behind him.
Starsky whirled. "I'm saved!" he exclaimed, wrapping an arm around the grinning middle-aged nurse. "Thank God for nice redheads."
Nurse Beatrice, who insisted on the unlikely nickname "Bambi," patted her mop of strawberry curls and shoved at Starsky's ribcage. "Aw, go on with you. You've gone and gotten yourself an ego, professor."
Starsky sighed. "I've told you I don't have the paperwork to back that title up, Bambi. You expect me not to get an ego when a pretty girl like you fills my head with that kinda stuff?"
Bambi laughed. "You teach at a post-secondary institution, don't you?"
"I suppose the Academy qualifies as such, yeah. Now, please tell me where Hutch is? Maureen isn't cooperating--"
"And we all know how you are when Hutch is ailing," Bambi finished. "I'm just glad we don't have to worry anymore about seeing you come through the Receiving door--"
"Like heck we don't," Maureen corrected. "Just last month he got his fool self hauled in here when he tried to repair their lawn mower--"
"Okay, okay," Starsky threw his hands in the air, abject surrender on his face. "I give. Uncle. Peace. 38th Parallel. Do I hafta search the place or bribe one of you ladies?"
Bambi patted his cheek. "And have Hutch gunning for us? No thanks. He's intense as it is. I think he's in Exam Seven. Follow me."
In passing, Starsky saluted Maureen, who promptly licked her lips at him. Shaking his head, he chided her with a mock-stern frown and won a genuine elfin laugh.
"Don't think I won't tattle to Hutch on you, flirt," Bambi tossed over her shoulder as she guided him through the maze of waiting patients, curtained examination stations, and various ER personnel. "Not that he's in any condition to care right now, poor boy. Practically delirious and wouldn't admit it under threat of cruel and unusual punishment."
"What's going on?" Starsky asked, all seriousness now that Hutch's health was the topic. "He's been having some sinus pain, and I don't think his allergies appreciated the real Christmas tree we decided on this year, but--."
"This is a full-blown sinus infection, professor. I had Dr. Mannigan look at him after I practically hogtied Hutch to take his temp. He needs rest, antibiotics, and rest, in that order." Stopping outside one of the examination rooms, Bambi held up a hand. "Wait here a sec, all right?"
Starsky nodded and tried to control his fidgeting. He itched to get Hutch away from these oddly sick-and-sterile surroundings.
The door opened a minute later, and a shabbily dressed elderly man hobbled out. He sported a sizable bandage on his head but was more interested in the handful of candy canes he clutched. The man turned back and looked in the room. "Oh, and thanks for the candy canes, Doc. Don't have much of a Christmas waiting for me, so this is real nice. Gonna go home and dunk 'em in milk like I usedta when I was a kid." With a wave, he hurried in the direction of the Sign-Out Desk.
Starsky heard Bambi say, barely restraining laughter, "Ready for your next one?"
"Sure," said an incredibly weary male voice. "What've we got?"
"MVA, multiples, Mannigan'll be here in a minute--" At a miserable groan, Bambi did laugh. "Just jerking your chain. This one's easy, promise."
Just when Starsky was about to explode from impatience, Bambi peeked out and gestured for him. "About time," Starsky muttered under his breath and dashed into the room. "Hey, who were you calling easy?" he demanded of Bambi, feigning indignation, but his eyes saw only the delicious, tall and slender blond in green scrubs and bloodstained lab coat.
"Starsk!" The sheer joy on Hutch's face turned Starsky's lower legs to water.
Bambi sighed. "I know when I need to get scarce."
"Bambi, I've told you about that," Hutch said somewhat tersely.
Starsky frowned, smacked back to reality. He always enjoyed the teasing from Maureen and several of the nurses about his attachment to Hutch. Both their assumption and easy acceptance of it gave him a strong married sense that he experienced nowhere else outside the haven of home. Would there ever be a place or time safe from having to hide the obvious?
Bambi wagged her hand at the perturbed resident. "Look, Dr. Hutchinson, if you think you're fooling any of us, you're nuts. But we'd never say anything around the wrong set of ears, and Mannigan's patched both of you up enough times in the past to qualify as your family physician. So relax already, Jeeze." She ruffled Starsky's hair on her way out the door, which she closed with a firm snick indicating their privacy.
Starsky didn't feel the floor beneath his steps, but he must have moved, because he found himself wrapped around his partner and cradling Hutch's feverish neck in his palm as he dropped a soft kiss in the corner of Hutch's mouth. "Man, you're scorching."
"'M fine," Hutch mumbled against Starsky's neck. "Better, now you're here. Somebody call you?"
"Yeah. Maureen the Evil Elf. Threatened me with all kinds of mayhem if I don't take you home."
Hutch tucked his head into the curve of Starsky's shoulder and clung to him, but his voice was firm, authoritative, and also strained with pain. "Can't, buddy. We're swamped. And Bambi might've been joking about an MVA with multiple traumas, but we're likelier than not going to have one before the night's out. That's Christmas Eve tradition round here."
Hutch's voice had dropped in volume and intensity with each sentence, and his head rested heavier on Starsky's shoulder. Starsky rocked him gently from side to side, moving his hand to pet through damp strands of blond. "Do you hear yourself, tough guy? You sound and look like you've been in the ring with Hammerlock Grange for six hours. I told you this morning you needed to stay home an' let me take care of you."
"Who's the doctor in this family?"
"When it comes to you, smart ass, I am," Starsky scolded gently. "If you think that medical degree we're proudly displaying in your so-called bedroom takes away my get-Hutch-well privileges, you really are delirious."
"Starsk, I'm on the on-call team here tonight."
"Sorry, Hutch. The orders came down from Mannigan. I'm just your transportation. We're hitting the pharmacy and then we're on our way outta here. Don't you wanna spend the rest of Christmas Eve with me?"
Lifting his head from Starsky's shoulder, Hutch stared at him with pitifully watering, wide blue eyes and snuffled. "Aw, babe, don't. You know I want to be with you, more than anything."
"All right, then." Starsky kissed his patient's flushed, clammy cheek. "Come on, schweetheart, let's blow this joint."
Hutch nosed through Starsky's hair and set his scalp tingling. "You can blow something else if you like…."
Laughing, tightening their hug, Starsky nuzzled the heated skin beneath Hutch's earlobe. "I'd tell you to hold that thought, but your head probably hurts too much to hold anything."
>>>>>>
Hutch shot like a missile toward the master bathroom the minute his feet crossed the threshold. Starsky smiled, knowing his fastidious partner craved a shower. Hutch might skimp on housework and turn his car into a mobile packrat cave, but he took pains with personal hygiene that put some debutantes to shame, and he often complained of feeling grimier after a shift at the ER than he ever had at the end of a day on the streets.
Now that the house was warm and full of light again, Starsky allowed himself to indulge in Christmas music on the stereo. In deference to Hutch's illness-frayed nerves, he selected a medley of classical instrumental carols and left the volume at a soothing background level, humming along while he lit the mantelpiece candles and plugged in the Christmas tree. Satisfied, he carted the pharmacy bag into the kitchen and tracked down the ingredients for his own home remedy.
He had everything within reach on the coffee table and was lounging comfortably on the sofa by the time Hutch stumbled sluggishly into the living room. Eyes foggy and none too focused, Hutch still managed an appreciative smile for the room's décor. "Never slowed down long enough to notice, but you really outdid yourself this year, partner. It's beautiful."
"Thanks. So are you. That goes double if you lose the robe."
Hutch stared at him in total confusion, making Starsky wonder if he'd spoken Yiddish.
Starsky opened the patchwork Christmas quilt he was wrapped in, and smirked. "As you can see, clothing is optional. Care to join me?"
The confused stare was suddenly alert, focused, and burning.
"Y'act like you haven't seen me au natural before."
Hutch wiped a hand over his eyes, rubbed both temples, and finally clutched at his chin. "You look more dangerously X-rated than you usually do, and I don't think the wreaths and poinsettias on the quilt are to blame. Must be the fever." He untied the robe and let it fall in a heap on the floor.
"Yeah, well, I believe in cures you can't offer your patients." Starsky spread his arms and legs to allow Hutch room to rest back against his chest. Thoroughly enjoying Hutch's blissful sigh, Starsky circled the smooth, broad chest with his arms, enveloping them both in the light quilt, and used his legs to massage Hutch on each side from the waist down.
"Damn, this is nice," Hutch murmured. "Have I ever told you how much I love the hair on your legs? Feels like--" he snorted, building up to a joke, then sneezed, ruining the effect. "Chinchilla fur."
"You've gotten kinkier since you went to med school, Hutchinson." Starsky buried his laughter in Hutch's hair.
"Nice," Hutch repeated, yawning, cuddling back closer to Starsky.
"So nice that you'll swallow your pills like a good boy?"
"Sure."
Unwilling to let the opportunity slip by, Starsky leaned to the side and snagged the cup of water from the coffee table. Once he had the cup securely fastened in Hutch's hand, he reached for the two pills. "Here you go. One antibiotic and one decongestant. Make you feel lots better."
"What's in glass number two there?"
"That's for later, greedy. Down with the pills."
Hutch swallowed the pills in silent compliance, groaning only at the movement of his head, and hardly stirred when Starsky pulled the nearly empty glass from his hand and returned it to the table.
"Ah, man, you're just feeling pummeled up there," Starsky said, aching dully in sympathy. "I'll bet even all that feather-soft blondness is heavy right now. Lay that head back down where it belongs."
"Guess I am…worn out…." Hutch whispered. He nestled his cheek against Starsky's jaw and yawned again.
"It's not just the sinus infection making you feel like that. Am I right?"
Hutch's entire body tensed in Starsky's arms; the stonewalling had begun. Surprisingly, he didn't try to vacate the couch or put distance between himself and his partner. "All right, where is it?"
"It?" Starsky thought maybe he should locate a thermometer and re-check Hutch's temperature.
"Your crystal ball. You're naked and out of hiding places. I know all about your orifices by now, and even your mouth isn't that big."
"Orifices? Orifices! Ugh. What is it with you tonight?" Starsky made an effective, slobbery raspberry on Hutch's neck. "It's the hide in plain sight tactic, lover. My other balls are so big, well, you get the picture."
Hutch groaned. "Oh, man. Man, that was bad. God, that one hurts worse than my head."
"My discriminating sense of humor's not the subject here, Hutch. I heard you when Bambi pulled your leg about that incoming trauma. What had you sounding like your life force was being pulled out your toenails?"
Pulling Starsky's arms tighter across his chest beneath the quilt, Hutch interlaced their hands and let out a groan of a different nature. "Hell of a time for a career crisis, right? After dropping over a hundred thousand dollars in tuition. Loans, Federal Aid, property sold in Minnesota that had been in my family since colonists first crossed the Ohio Territory. I decide to have a career crisis on a night when my brains are too scrambled to think me out of a paper bag."
"Career crisis!" Starsky was stunned.
"I graduated from medical school nineteen months ago exactly," Hutch said as if Starsky hadn't been along for the whole ride. "Almost two years. What the hell am I doing, Starsk? I'm forty-years old, in the first real year of residency. I was a thirty-nine-year old intern, for God's sake, and it damn near killed me."
"What're you saying?" Starsky asked sharply, cruising past concern at full speed toward worry.
"I'm saying the odds are stacked against me. I'm a forty-year old, burned-out ex-cop trying to do the work of fresh-faced twenty-six year olds bursting with idealism and boundless energy. And I have to watch my step, because a doctor widely known to be in a same-sex relationship would have a hell of a time making it in Emergency Medicine in this current climate. With all my time spent swimming upstream and trying to avoid rocks, what the hell good am I to my patients?"
"Hutch."
"I went insane six years ago, and you--you just let me."
"Let you!" Only Hutch's hold on his hands kept Starsky from jerking away in surprise.
"You sure as shit didn't try to talk me out of it. I remember the day I told you I wanted to go to med school. You kissed me, made love to me, and when we were lying there all covered with each other, you said you'd sell your newly repaired Torino, hock everything you owned, bust up your savings CD, and max out your credit line to help with tuition. And that was it. Next thing I knew I was prepping for the MCAT and filling out applications."
"Seemed like the perfect way to respond at the time."
"You always say something like that!" Hutch shouted. "What's wrong with you?!"
"Wrong with me?" Starsky demanded. "How the hell did this get to be about me?"
"You should've told me I was having an early mid-life crisis, should've taken me to Mexico and gotten me wasted for a couple days until I came to my senses--" Hutch raised his hands and waved them helplessly. "Why aren't you practical when I need you to be?"
"Now wait just a minute. Leave me outta this. Hutch, it wasn't a mid-life anything. Fifteen years ago, you had a certain look on your face when you talked about being a cop. And seeing that look, I knew I'd do anything short of witchcraft to keep you carrying a badge. Somewhere along the line, that look disappeared…until the morning you told me you wanted to be a doctor. And it was back, full force, all over your face. How could I not support something like that?"
Hutch snuggled on his side between Starsky and the sofa cushions, and the change in position brought Starsky the gently erotic sensation of fingers toying through his chest hair. "Ah, Starsk, I love you. I love you 'til I'm crazy with it."
"Besides," Starsky said, trying not to choke up and lose his mind to his lower body. "I knew what gotcha started with all the med school thoughts, and it made me feel good."
The hand stilled in the center of Starsky's chest; Hutch was once more a rigid board at his side. "What--what're you talking about?"
Starsky rolled over, risking an inelegant fall off the sofa or an embarrassing tangle in the quilt, and sandwiched Hutch's troubled face in warm hands. "Come on, Hutch. Every day you took care of me during my recovery, I saw more of that caregiver in you come closer to the forefront. Without the shit on the streets to confuse you, it was only a matter'a time before you realized you could use all that inside you to help other people."
Hutch looked anything but happy.
"And it was okay. It was more than okay, Hutch. It gave the--the shooting a silver lining. God, you've got no idea how good it felt to see a dream your parents had ruined for you, when they made it all about status and money, suddenly come back to life again and mean something, partly because of me."
Hutch sat up straight in the cramped space so quickly that his hands flew immediately to grasp at his head and he moaned like a wounded animal poised to lash out at any offering of solace.
Untangling himself from the quilt Hutch had abandoned, Starsky sat up behind his aching partner and massaged the tight shoulders. "Hutch. Babe…."
"No, Starsky! I love what you're saying, I love that you see it like--like the optimist you are when I'm not interfering. But it doesn't solve the problem. I'm crazy trying to build a career on a knee-jerk reaction to almost-- losing you. I wanted to know everything so that no matter what might happen to you down the line, I'd be able to handle it. Take care of it. Take care of you! And I'm waking up now to the enormity of the situation, to the cliff I've walked off--"
"Bullshit," Starsky said with purposeful rudeness. "You make this all about me and it could rip us apart, 'cause when you're tired, or you have a shitty day at the hospital, I'll be the enemy when you get home. We're not working together anymore, Hutch, so we gotta be even more careful what we bring home at the end of the day."
"That's my point! I didn't even think back then what this could do to us. Hell, for the last five years, I've given you a tenth of my time at best--"
"That tenth runs circles around anyone else's hundred percent. And you know it. It wasn't easy shakes for me to shift down from the streets to teaching, either, but it's what I wanted, and sometimes you caught the short end of that stick. Those were lean, rough years, I'm not saying otherwise, but we were in it together. Partners like always. That's commitment, Hutch. That's what it takes. We've got it."
"But have I got what it takes? In that ER day after day?"
Starsky wrapped his arms around Hutch and scrunched up tight against him. "Of course! Christ, what're you so afraid of? You graduated fourth in your class. You landed the Emergency Medicine Residency at Memorial. Not bad for a burned-out ex-street cop."
Hutch trembled, and his hands came up to squeeze Starsky's forearms to the point of leaving tiny marks. "You have no idea what it's like being supervised by the doctor largely responsible for saving you that--that day. Working so closely with him. Trying to live up to that level. The pressure. Knowing he'll probably be the one overseeing my first…multiple gunshot police victim…when all I'll be seeing on the table is…is…." Hutch broke down, shuddering.
"Oh, baby, my Hutch, let it go…." Starsky held him fiercely, determined to be a warmer, healthier blanket than the fever lending Hutch's skin the sheen of sweat. "You'll be fine. I know you. Hey, would I have offered to bet all my worldly wealth and credit on you if I didn't know I was backing a winner? If you'd taken me up on it, I'da done everything I said."
Hutch shook his head, defeated. "You can't predict something like this. If I'm going in there with some twisted motive like needing to relive your trauma through someone else and exert the control I couldn't when you--"
"Stop it, for Chris'sakes!" Starsky lovingly but forcibly turned Hutch in his grasp for a look in his eyes. "Don't do this to yourself. Mannigan's tough, I'll bet, but I also know he believes you've got the goods. Bambi thinks you're Dr. Kildare, Kelly Brackett, and Marcus Welby all rolled into one, and she's seen doctors come and go since you were in uniform. Lighten up for a change, let someone else lead the league in self-flagellation."
"I'm trying to make a life decision here, if you don't mind!" Hutch fired back angrily.
"There's no decision to make. Hell, yes, you've got what it takes. Tonight, sick as a dog and fed up, you still had a way of making a sad old man's Christmas brighter. More than the handful of candy canes did that, I'll betcha. Last week you caught that woman's-- what was it?-- aneurysm some other doc had passed off as cramps from stomach 'flu."
"All right!" Hutch tilted his head back against Starsky's shoulder. "We'll table this discussion until I can out-argue you."
Starsky laughed and pressed his lips to Hutch's wispy blond sideburn. "Okay. I'll pencil in a block of time somewhere around December, 2020."
Hutch growled, but let the taunt go unanswered. He nodded at the coffee table. "You ever plan on telling me what's in glass number two?"
"Oh!" Starsky cleared his throat, sheepish. "It was, uh, an iced caramel beverage--since chocolate's no good for sinus. Now it's more like caramel slush. I didn't expect to go so far down Neurosis Avenue tonight."
"Neurosis Avenue!" Hutch glared over his shoulder, then promptly burst into a paroxysm of coughing, snorting, and laughter, followed by an outrageous sneeze and howl of pain.
Starsky freed one hand to seize the condensation-slippery glass of caramel slush. "Here, slug this down, it'll work wonders, guaranteed, and no alcohol to interfere with your medicines."
Hutch accepted the drink eagerly and sipped at it. "Starsk, this is fantastic."
"Thank you. Not that I'm surprised or anything, seeing as I'm the man who had to introduce you to banana daiquiris." While Hutch devoted himself to the drink, Starsky dropped kisses along his shoulder blade. "Know something?"
"What?" Hutch said in between slurps.
"We've been having a conversation buck naked, tighter than the red and white in a candy cane, and I didn't cop one feel below your waist. We must be good n' hitched."
Hutch chuckled. "Six years, five months, and one week. Know something else, Starsk?"
"What?" Starsky asked around a mouthful of Hutch's neck.
"One of your arguments didn't hold water. You've been backing me, win or lose, from the beginning."
"Oh, God, my secret's out. I'll end up a henpecked husband."
Hutch snorted the caramel drink up his nose and shrieked, clutching at his brow. When he'd overcome the obvious uproar in his sinus cavities, he reached behind him, groped blindly for Starsky's hand, and, finding it, slapped it down on his groin. "There. Cop your feel. Now tell me who's the hen in this relationship."
Starsky drew in a ragged breath. "Oh, man, for a taste of that, I'll slather myself in feathers and do the chicken dance any time you like."
"You don't have to do anything that drastic," Hutch laughed. "Just whisper something mushy in my ear while I finish this caramel slush."
Starsky promptly nuzzled up to Hutch's ear. "There's something about you in scrubs and lab coat that really does it for me. And, man, when you start wielding that stethoscope--"
The telephone rang.
"Damn," Hutch said feelingly. "Damn, damn. Better answer it, Starsk, could be Memorial."
Starsky released Hutch and leaned over to take the call. Edith Dobey's unusually shrill voice answered his hello. "David, thank God you're there, is Hutch on shift tonight?"
"Actually, Hutch is right here. Is something wrong?"
"Yes, it's--it's, oh, my Lord, it's Harold. He's not well, and he keeps asking for Hutch."
"We're here for you, Edith." Starsky thrust the phone at Hutch. "You're needed, Doc. I'm gonna round up our--" he gestured at their nudity, and Hutch nodded, setting the glass down on the table and fumbling with the receiver.
"Edith, it's Hutch. What's going on?"
Starsky raced around their bedroom locating the easiest clothes and shoes to slip on. He hurried into his jeans and sweater and carted the rest in a bundle to the living room. From the tone of Hutch's voice, Starsky surmised that Edith had put Dobey on the line.
"Right. And your arm, you said. Your left arm. Breathe slowly, easily. Edith has already called the paramedics, and we're on our way. Starsky'll resurrect the Mars light for this, and you can get us out of trouble later. Listen, Cap'n, no excessive talking or movement. Just rest and try to stay calm. I'll be with you in minutes."
Hutch flung the phone in the vicinity of the coffee table while reaching for the underwear and fresh scrubs Starsky held out. "Thought they'd be quickest," Starsky said, picking up the phone and setting it in its proper location.
"It's fine." Hutch scrambled into the baggy clothes. "Starsky, you'll need to drive like the vehicular genius you are. We're racing the clock on this one."
"Oh, God. Heart?"
"Yeah. I just hope I can--" Self-doubt glimmered once more in baby blue, watery eyes.
Starsky briefly touched his hero's chin, hesitant to disturb the dressing process with a hug. "You've got that look, Blondie, that look from fifteen years ago. You're in your element. Let's go help our captain."
Continued in "Affirmation II: Life and Death"