Hutch pulled into the extra parking space at Starsky's apartment and quickly made his way up to the door with the large paper bag under his arm.
He hesitated there. He'd left the apartment almost an hour ago in a sad, dark mood that had stayed with him. Starsky hadn't been doing well since yesterday. The many prescriptions he was on would, time to time, make him sick. These bouts of nausea left him exhausted and paler than usual. And this latest trial he'd gone through seemed to be taking its toll on his already waning spirit.
Though Starsky hadn't said a thing, in fact had said little recently, Hutch knew he was becoming depressed with it all. The interminably slow recovery with all its bumps and disappointing setbacks.
Hutch straightened his shoulders and lightened the expression on his worried face to a cheerful one. He opened the door and entered.
Starsky was still laying on the couch where Hutch had left him. The TV murmured quietly in the corner, but his half-shut eyes weren't on it.
"How ya doing?" Hutch asked with a smile.
"Okay." Starsky answered quietly. The old afghan that covered him fell away as he tiredly pulled himself up to a sitting position. His eyes were listless and his skin an unhealthy pallor.
Hutch sat down beside him, putting the paper bag on the coffee table.
"Whas' that?" Starsky asked.
"Since you asked." Hutch reached into the bag and held up a navy blue sweater. It was thickly woven, large and bulky. It had been well worn and broken in, the elbows stretched out a little, tiny bits of fuzzy blue wool sticking to it.
Starsky looked at it disinterestedly, as he did with everything these days, then his eyes traveled to Hutch's face.
"Don't you recognize it, Starsk?"
A shake of the head.
"You bought it for me when I was sick for so long after the heroin deal."
Starsky looked back to the sweater, silently studying it.
"Oh yeah. Now I remember." He sank against the back of the couch.
With the sweater in his lap Hutch twisted around to look at him.
"I just about wore it out." He reminisced. "Couldn't stay warm unless I put this on."
Starsky only gazed ahead and Hutch achingly saw again how tired he was. How low.
"I'd go to sleep sick and I'd wake up sick." Hutch continued. "But when I wore this, for some reason I always felt just a little better."
He reached behind Starsky and urged him to sit up. Then he proceeded to help Starsky on with the sweater as his friend mutely allowed him.
"There." he said with a warm smile as he pulled it snuggly around the front.
Starsky looked down at it then up to Hutch with questioning eyes.
"You wear it, Starsk, okay?"
"Sure."
Hutch settled back against the couch himself.
"You know," he said slowly, softly, "sometimes...when I felt real awful....it was all too much. I was sick of being sick. No one could really know what it was like or share it. Seemed like I was all alone in that world.. that vacuum."
Starsky leaned back too, wrapping his arms around himself, the long blue sleeves stretching down over his hands. Hutch reached arm behind him and Starsky sank wearily against his side.
"But whenever I wore this sweater, Starsk....I felt you right there. With me, doing what you could."
Hutch stopped for a moment and gave Starsky an gentle squeeze with his arm.
"It was a great comfort. And now I want you to wear it."
He knew Starsky was quickly falling asleep and smiled down into the dark curls.
"You helped me so much then, buddy." He whispered. "You wrapped me up with this love. And I made it. You will too."
His lips touched the top of Starsky's head in a feathery kiss.
"I promise."