Genre: Gen
Description: Alternate tag to ‘Shootout’. Response to challenge.
One day after the restaurant shooting:
He’s gonna be fine, he’s okay, Hutch reiterated to himself as he paused before opening the door to Starsky’s hospital room.
“Hey, buddy, you about ready to blow this joint?”
The moment the blond head appeared in the doorway, Starsky began to climb out of his hospital bed. By the time Hutch was fully through the door, he was on his feet, pulling the skimpy cotton gown down for propriety. “’Bought time you got here.” He grumbled to his partner.
Starsky grabbed the plastic bag full of clothes that Hutch held out, and quickly strode into the bathroom, not worrying that the back of his gown was open, after all he had briefs on.
From behind the partially closed bathroom door, Starsky made a suggestion. “Hey, Hutch? I was thinking…”
“You’ve got a bullet wound. Don’t strain yourself.”
“Ha, ha. Really. What if we had a celebration?”
“For what?”
“For me, making it. For you bringing down two mob hitmen. Kinda…” Starsky’s voice was muffled the rest of the sentence as he pulled his shirt on over his head.
“I don’t know, Starsky.”
“We can invite the girls, Huggy, Diane. Sammy and his girl can give us pointers and we can do a vaudeville routine.”
Starsky walked out of the bathroom as he tucked his shirt in his jeans one-handed. “I can do the jokes, you can be the straight-man.” He looked up at Hutch, “’Cause let’s face it, you can’t tell jokes.”
Hutch was affronted. “Can too!”
Starsky snorted. “Whatever you say, Hutch. But I’d get a better reaction from the audience. This’ll be fun. We can practice first, get some crazy getups…”
“No.” Hutch said firmly as he slapped Starsky’s wallet and badge into his outstretched palm.
Letting the subject go for now, Starsky slipped the wallet in his back pocket and pulled his jacket out of the plastic bag, putting the badge in that right pocket.
Hutch helped his partner put his jacket on and snapped the front buttons, keeping his injured arm in a sling beneath the jacket.
Both stood for a few minutes while Starsky looked around.
“Got everything?” Hutch asked. He grabbed the discharge instructions and a plant from off the chest of drawers next to the bed.
“Where’s my holster and gun?”
“Starsk, you can’t draw. Besides, you’re on leave for a few weeks. Don’t worry, the gun’s safely locked up and your holster is hanging up, back at your place.”
“Yeah? Well where’s my watch?”
“Your watch? You didn’t have a watch, did you?”
“Yeah. I always wear a watch. Remember? Back at the restaurant you gave me your pocket watch, ‘cause I couldn’t read my wristwatch. I feel naked without my watch.” He grumbled.
Without saying anything, Hutch turned around and opened the door to the hallway, holding it for his injured partner.
As Starsky stepped out before Hutch, he glared at him. “You forgot my watch didn’t you? Did you leave it in the emergency room?” Continued silence followed Hutch out the door. “You didn’t leave it at the restaurant did you, when the paramedics took it off?”
They strode down the hallway side by side, Hutch admitting that he left Starsky’s watch at home. “I was more worried about making sure you had a pair of crummy jeans, than a watch! Wouldn’t want you to go walking out of here with your bare ass sticking out!”
As they entered the elevator, Starsky grumbled. “What kind of cop am I? No watch, no gun. For that matter, what kind of partner are you?”
