June 19th- Quadromania Quagmire by LauraY

In the episode “Quadromania,” Starsky’s head was slammed into a car window so hard that the glass broke. What happened after Hutch and K.C. found him in that alley?

K.C. drove faster than Hutch thought possible for anyone other than his partner. Rounding corners with near reckless speed, she somehow managed to keep all four wheels on the road. Grabbing the dashboard with one hand to avoid being thrown around in his seat, a familiar strategy, he took hold of the radio with the other and asked Kingston to have Dobey send a black and white to Lincoln & Pine. When they spotted the abandoned cab, K.C. pulled alongside it. Hutch saw no one inside, and his stomach sank when he saw the smashed driver’s side window, the window that had been intact when he’d goaded Starsky into taking on the fare that had turned out to be their perpetrator, Lionel Fitzgerald, disguised as an elderly woman. “…I’m sure he’d be very happy to take you anywhere you’d like to go, ma’am.” Why hadn’t he just let Starsky go home? Better yet, why didn’t he take a closer look at his passenger before driving away?

“Down the alley!” he yelled to K.C., but she was already headed that way. Spotting two figures at the very end of the alley, she gunned it, laying on the horn, which had the desired effect. Fitzgerald turned away from Starsky and toward the sound to see the cab bearing down on him. Suddenly thrust into a terrifying déjà vu, he froze, shrinking back from the oncoming cab.

Jumping out of the cab, K.C. and Hutch found Starsky sitting on top of a wooden crate. Hutch released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and they both rushed to him. Hutch paused for a brief moment to look at Fitzgerald, muttering lines of dialogue in a near catatonic state, and quickly decided he was no longer a threat. As he neared his partner, he could see blood on his left cheek.

“What took you so long?” Starsky asked lightly, trying to calm Hutch’s fears. He was too dazed to flash a grin at his partner, but could read the worried posture the moment he was able to bring him into focus.

Finally at his side, he rested his left hand on Starsky’s ankle, the connection easing the tension for both of them. He immediately reached up and felt for the lump he suspected would be there, just under the hairline of his left temple. Not too bad, he thought, somewhat relieved. “We stopped for ice cream,” he responded, returning the banter. “You gonna be okay?” He wasn’t too pleased about Starsky’s rapid breathing or the foggy look in his eyes.

“I’ll make it,” Starsky answered. Turning to Fitzgerald, he added, “I don’t know about him.” Hutch and K.C. turned to see the pathetic figure, his anger spent, lost in his memories.

Turning back to Starsky and noticing the empty holster, Hutch frowned and asked, “Where’s your piece?” He glanced back at Fitzgerald, and it was clear that he didn’t have it.

Starsky absently reached into his holster wondering now why he hadn’t used his weapon in defense against Fitzgerald, and was surprised when he found it empty. “Uh, I don’t… I don’t know. I…” Faltering, he sought out Hutch’s eyes, as though the answer would be there.

Hutch’s hand was still resting on his ankle and he squeezed it gently. “Don’t worry, Starsk. I’ll find it.” He was more concerned about Starsky’s failure to remember he’d lost the gun than its whereabouts. Memory loss? Maybe they ought to get Starsky checked out after all. Hutch decided he would drive him over to the emergency room once they got things wrapped up here, though he was sure it would be an uphill battle to get him to agree to the trip. His sense of urgency increased along with his concern over his partner.

No sooner than Hutch had complained, “Where the hell’s that black and white?” than they could hear the approaching siren. The responding unit must have been close when they got the call, because it was only a minute or two before they arrived on the scene. Hesitant to leave Starsky’s side, but nonetheless eager to get Fitzgerald in custody so he could get back to taking care of his partner, Hutch ran to the squad car as it pulled up behind K.C.’s taxi. He was glad they were officers he knew, Hank Munson and Dan O’Brien, which would speed things along. They could deal with Fitzgerald. He quickly filled them in on the critical details.

Temporarily leaving Starsky in K.C.’s care, Hutch ran back to the cab Starsky had been driving. He scanned the ground as he moved, looking for the missing gun. Not finding it en route, he approached the cab from the passenger side. To his relief, he immediately spotted the Smith & Wesson on the front passenger seat and retrieved it. He couldn’t figure out why Starsky had left it behind or why Fitzgerald hadn’t taken it. He winced as he looked again at the cracked glass and noticed a small smear of blood — Starsky’s blood. Gun safely in hand, he ran back toward his partner, wondering why he still hadn’t climbed down from the crate.

As he got closer, he could see Hank and Dan standing near Fitzgerald. Dan was holding his handcuffs awkwardly at his side as he’d realized that the mechanical, and presumably removable, arm wouldn’t allow him to use them. Hank bent down, grabbed Fitzgerald’s good arm, and was able to get him standing. “C’mon pal, we’re just gonna go for a nice ride now.” Dan flanked Fitzgerald’s other side as they moved toward the squad car. Hank spared a glance back at Starsky and noticed that K.C. and Hutch were both worriedly tending to him. “Hutch, is Starsky okay?” he yelled over to them.

“Uh, yeah,” he answered, trailing off distractedly, his focus solely on Starsky. “Hey, buddy, you doin’ okay?”

“Uh huh,” he answered between slow, panting breaths, though his pallor indicated otherwise.

“You wanna come on down from there now?”

“Uh huh,” he answered again, with effort, making no move to get down.

Hutch frowned at the response and lack of action. His partner was looking more peaked by the minute. K.C. reached out a hand to assist him, but Starsky waived it off with a weak, “’M fine.” Hutch nonetheless extended his hand to Starsky, who ignored it, as well, as he finally slid forward to the edge and proceeded to jump down from the crate. As his feet hit the ground, the movement created a wave of dizziness and he pitched left. His left hand went up to press against his throbbing temple and a soft moan escaped his lips. Hutch’s previously ignored hand caught Starsky’s jacket and prevented him from falling. Keeping one hand on the jacket and using the other to grasp his arm, he managed to keep Starsky upright. As Hutch was about to suggest he sit back down for a minute to ride out the lightheadedness, Starsky suddenly pushed past him. Still swaying, his left arm grabbed at the tall crate he’d passed for support as he leaned forward and proceeded to vomit.

Concerned, K.C. started toward the pair to offer whatever assistance she could, but Hutch shook his head and motioned for her to stay back. He hoped to spare her the view he had and spare Starsky any embarrassment, as well.

Starsky looked more than a bit shaky, so Hutch quickly put an arm around his waist to steady him. When he finished retching, Hutch thought he would regain some strength, but instead he swayed even more dramatically. “I gotcha buddy, take it easy,” Hutch offered as he guided him away from the former contents of his stomach. Heavily supporting him now, he moved toward K.C.’s cab. K.C. opened the passenger door for them, and Hutch gently maneuvered Starsky into the seat. He settled him so that he was sitting sideways, with his feet outside the cab in case the nausea returned. He went down on one knee to better evaluate his condition. Rapid breathing, clammy, disoriented, memory loss and puking. Terrific. And just how hard does a head have to hit a car window to crack it like that?

Hank and Dan had finished loading Fitzgerald into the back of their car and Dan was already in the vehicle radioing in an update to the precinct. Hank stood next to the driver’s door, hesitating before getting in, when he caught sight of Starsky being moved to the taxi. His color was terrible and it was clear by the support he was being given by his partner that he couldn’t walk entirely under his own power.

Hutch was starting to panic now over Starsky’s rapid decline. He realized that his injury was more severe than he initially suspected, and realized he needed immediate medical attention. Standing, he saw Hank looking their way and shouted to him, “Munson, get an ambulance here. Now!” His anxiety increased again when he realized that Starsky didn’t protest or even comment on Hutch’s demand. K.C. hovered just behind Hutch, not sure what she could do to help.

Hank leaned into the squad car and gave instructions to Dan before running to Hutch’s side. “Not doin’ so good? Can I help?”

“Ambulance on the way?”

“Dan’s calling it in now. Anything else I can do?”

“No,” Hutch answered, “I’ve got this.” Do I? , he thought. “You just get Fitzgerald to the station and start processing him. I’ll be in as soon as I can.” Hank returned to the vehicle and drove to the alley entrance, pulling out onto the street to give the ambulance access. Leaving on the vehicle’s flashers, Hank jumped out to watch for and help direct the ambulance driver.

Hutch gently reached for the bump on Starsky’s left temple. It didn’t feel significantly larger than when he’d first checked it, but his touch prompted Starsky to swallow hard and close his eyes for a moment. No jokes this time, just silence. Hutch knelt again, placing a hand on Starsky’s knee.

Worried, K.C. moved closer to Starsky and put her left hand gently on his right shoulder. “You okay, Dave?” she asked. Expecting at least the now standard “Uh huh,” she got nothing in response, not even a glance. He was looking glassily at or, more accurately, through his partner. He was completely non-responsive.

“K.C.,” said Hutch, “Have you got a blanket in your trunk?”

“I might, I’ll go check,” she answered as she ran to the back of her cab. They could hear the ambulance siren now.

Hutch leaned in close to his partner. “Starsk?” Hutch was trying to get him to focus on him. “Hey, stay with me buddy.” He put his hand under his partner’s chin and turned his face to him. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to make true eye contact with him. Starsky was blinking slowly, swallowing hard and his breathing was forced. “Help is coming. You doin’ okay? Look at me, huh?”

Hutch’s voice came to Starsky as though it was very far away. He knew he should answer him, but Hutch’s voice kept drifting off. Starsky only picked up a word or two before it faded out. He tried to decipher what he’d said, but all he knew was that the distant voice seemed worried. The concern in Hutch’s tone convinced Starsky that he should try, very hard, to answer. He tried to focus on Hutch, but couldn’t think, or even see, clearly. His head hurt more now than when it hit the glass and he was still feeling a bit nauseous. He struggled to form a response. “Haft clarny,” came out. “Clards?” he added, confused by the sounds that came out of his own mouth.

“What, Starsk?” Hutch tried to make sense of his partner’s words, but failed. He leaned in even closer, thinking he hadn’t heard correctly.

“Hat clarnsy,” he mumbled. He knew what he was saying wasn’t quite right but, at the same time, he didn’t know why Hutch didn’t understand him. His head was pounding, that’s what he needed to tell him. The words that came out of his mouth were words, but why didn’t they sound right?

K.C. returned with a tired looking and very large, orange sweatshirt. “No blanket, but I found this,” she said, handing it to Hutch.

“Thanks,” he muttered, taking it from her. Fearing shock, Hutch gently wrapped it around Starsky’s shoulders. “There ya go,” he soothed, “Just take it easy. It’s gonna be okay.” He wasn’t sure if that last part was to reassure Starsky or himself. He stood then and reached down to rub his partner’s back gently. “Hang in there, buddy.”

“Necktied…nargin…fin…fin…gar?” Starsky asked, looking up at him.

Returning the look, Hutch wasn’t sure how to respond. “I don’t… uh, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me, Starsk.”

Starsky was frustrated that the words he was thinking weren’t coming out of his mouth. They were getting distorted somewhere between thought and speech. When he tried again to say the words, they seemed to slip away from his grasp, like a dream that fades from memory when you awaken, especially when you’re trying hard to remember it. He stared hard at Hutch, willing him to understand what he was trying to tell him. “Nargin!”

Unsure how to respond, he simply nodded and gave a soft smile to Starsky as he adjusted the sweatshirt over his shoulders, pulling it closer. Why was he speaking gibberish?

Dan directed the ambulance down the alley, then ran over to Hutch, trailing just behind the vehicle. “Ken, we’re going to head into the station. Anything else we can do?” They both watched the ambulance crew as they unloaded the stretcher and approached them.

“No. Thanks, Hank.” He spoke to the officer, but kept his eyes on his partner.

“Feel better, Starsky,” Hank added before jogging back up the alley to the squad car.

The attendants asked Starsky a few questions as they settled him on the stretcher, but he seemed unable or unwilling to answer. This time, when Hutch tried to meet his gaze, he saw something he rarely saw there — fear. “I’m comin’ with you, it’ll be okay.”

He calmed a bit, but it was obvious that Starsky was trying hard to contain his emotions. Every attempt at speech felt wrong and he was frightened. What the hell was happening? He didn’t want to go to the hospital; he just wanted to go home. Take me home, Hutch. What came out of his mouth was a pleading “Melching agfin!”

He became more agitated when they began loading him into the ambulance. Without waiting for an invitation, Hutch climbed in and sat up near Starsky’s head, his back to the driver. “Just get some rest, buddy.” He rested a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

K.C. offered to meet them at Memorial, but a very distracted Hutch declined the offer. “Thanks, K.C., but we’ll probably be there a while. I’ve give Kingston a call when we know something.” She backed away reluctantly, concerned for both of them.

A few minutes into the ride, exhausted, Starsky relaxed and almost dozed off. Hutch turned to the attendant riding in back with them and asked quietly, “Wh-why is he having trouble speaking? Did hitting his head cause this? He was talking fine when we first got here. I just d-don’t understand.”

The attendant was busy monitoring his patient, but replied, “We sometimes see this with head injuries. Try not to worry.”

“How long does this last?” He was in new territory here. They’d both had their share of concussions, but none had ever resulted in speech problems. He was seated with his back close to the driver and looked down at Starsky’s head, strangely reminiscent of the ambulance trip they took when Starsky had been poisoned by Bellamy.

“The doctors will be able to tell you more,” he answered. He paused before adding, “It should just be temporary.”

“You mean sometimes it’s not?!” Hutch asked sharply, a whole new fear clouding his thoughts. Starsky stirred at the outburst, and muttered something that sounded something like, “Tangled,” but didn’t open his eyes. Hutch rubbed Starsky’s shoulder in apology. Starsky wasn’t the only one that was exhausted.

“Let’s just get him to the E.R. where they can evaluate him and tell you more.” A few minutes later they pulled up to the emergency entrance at Memorial and Starsky was promptly whisked inside. Suddenly separated from Starsky by hospital staff, Hutch stood there for a moment and was startled into motion by the sound of the ambulance doors latching shut. Glancing back, he noticed that the attendant who had been driving gave the other attendant a soft punch in the shoulder and shook his head as they walked back to the cab of the vehicle. He couldn’t hear the exchange of words between them. What was that about?

Hutch headed to the all-too-familiar emergency waiting room and proceeded to pace, asking each passing staff member for an update to no avail. He paced with a clipboard, trying to complete some form that admissions had given him, but kept reading the same words over and over again, writing nothing but David Starsky and his date of birth on the form. He had been waiting almost twenty minutes with no word, when a nurse finally came out and asked, “You’re here with Detective Starsky?” Hutch thrust the incomplete form and clipboard at her. “How is he?” he asked worriedly.

She accepted the items from Hutch as she answered, “He’s resting. You can come back now and wait with him. The doctor will be back shortly to fill you in.”

Hutch entered the drab cubicle the nurse directed him to, not even noticing the similar drab cubicles he had passed on the way there. After leaving him alone with Starsky he realized that, despite his finely honed observational skills, he had no idea what the nurse looked like, other than the fact that she had been wearing white. He was relieved to see that Starsky’s color had improved and his breathing was more regular.

“Hey, buddy. How ya feelin’?”

Starsky frowned, then appeared to be struggling before he replied, “Celly. Munful blet? Tay… blet?” His breathing rate increased again along with his frustration.

“Shhh, rest,” Hutch admonished, running his hand quickly through the curls on the right side of his head. He let his fingers linger a bit on his right shoulder before dropping his hand to his side. Seeing the ubiquitous plastic chair at the side of the bed, he claimed it, pulling it close to the bedside. A few minutes later, a doctor finally came in and introduced himself as Dr. Wilson. Explaining that he had a moderate concussion, he wasn’t overly concerned with Starsky’s difficulties with speech. Labeling it aphasia, he was almost certain it would be temporary and he explained the condition briefly to them.

“Aphasia is usually caused by a stroke or brain injury. In this case, the trauma to the left side of his head is almost certainly the cause. In such cases, about half of all patients will recover their normal speech in a few days. Aphasia can affect speech and hearing, as well as comprehension and the ability to read and write.” Looking at Hutch, he added, “He doesn’t seem to have any trouble hearing. In your partner’s case, the best strategy is to just give him time to heal and we’ll start speech therapy as soon as possible.”

“A few days?” he asked as he rested his right hand on Starsky’s forearm. “About half” kept running through his head. “And what if he doesn’t get better in a few days?”

“It’s too soon to worry about that at this point. Let’s give him some time. Is your partner left-handed by any chance?”

“Uh, yes. Why?”

The doctor jotted something in Starsky’s chart. “I ask because aphasia is more common in left-handed individuals. We’d like to get him settled in a regular room where he can be more comfortable and get some rest. When was the last time he slept?”

“He was up all last night working the case, driving a cab.”

“Well, fatigue could be exacerbating his symptoms. All the more reason to get him into a room soon.” He turned to Starsky, “Detective, we’ll let you get some sleep, but since you have a concussion, we’ll be waking you every couple hours to monitor your progress. In reviewing your records, I saw that you have had several previous concussions, so we’ll keep a close eye on you.” He continued, to Hutch, “Considering what he’s been through, he’s doing well and I have every hope that we’ll see gradual improvement. Now I’m going to work on getting him into a room. You can wait here with him if you like.”

“Thanks, Dr., uh, Wilson.” As the doctor left, Hutch returned to Starsky’s side and wordlessly slid his hand into Starsky’s, squeezing it gently. Starsky seemed to calm at the touch, but tensed when Hutch tried to withdraw his hand, so he just left it there until an orderly returned to let them know he’d been assigned a room. A short time later, Starsky was moved to another floor and finally allowed to get some sleep with Hutch, ever vigilant, at his side.

Once Starsky was settled in his room, Hutch had called in to the precinct with an update and found that Fitzgerald had been processed and immediately sent to Cabrillo State for a psychiatric evaluation. He’d asked Dobey to call Kingston and K.C. to let them know how Starsky was doing and thank them for their help. The day passed with both men dozing for intervals, interrupted by nurses checking on Starsky. At each checkup, there did not seem to be any change in his condition, good or bad.

Though he didn’t call him, somehow Huggy found out what had happened and turned up around noon with a bag of donuts. He’d intended to visit for a while, but Starsky was sound asleep. He tried to get Hutch to go home for a bit, offering to stay at Starsky’s side, but Hutch refused. Unable to really do anything else to help either of his friends, he left a short time later.

Mid-afternoon, Starsky woke up on his own and looked over at his seemingly dozing partner. “Harf?” he asked, softly enough to not wake him if he was actually sleeping.

While he hadn’t said “Hutch,” as intended, his partner nonetheless knew he was being called. Shaking away the cobwebs and forcing his eyes open, he answered with a soft, “Hey.”

“’kay ‘kay?” Starsky asked. Frowning, he tried again, “You…‘kay?” It still sounded wrong, but almost right.

He sat up straighter in the uncomfortable chair, his back protesting the move. “I’m fine, buddy.” He reached toward the tray next to Starsky’s bed and poured him a small cup of water from the pitcher he found there. Handing it to him, he asked, “Feeling any better? How’s the head?”

In truth, his head was pounding, but it was better than before, so he just answered, “’kay ‘kay.”

Looking into his eyes and seeing the pinched expression on his face, he could tell he was still in pain. Hutch had had his own share of concussions and knew the drill. “I’m gonna go find out if they can give you something for the pain.” As he started to leave the room, he heard a frustrated sound from Starsky. Turning to see him struggling to try to say something, but not saying any actual words, he returned to his side. “Easy. I’m right here,” he soothed. Starsky remained silent, but seemed to force a more calmed expression to his face. “Okay if I leave for just a couple minutes? I’ll be right back.”

Starsky nodded reluctantly, and Hutch went to find someone on staff. They had doctor’s orders on file and were able to give him a few Tylenol, which he hoped would ease the pain. Along with the pills, a late lunch appeared, consisting of a bland turkey sandwich, some salad, a banana and a small carton of milk. Realizing how hungry he was, he ate the sandwich and tried to offer Hutch the salad. “Brenk the bleans?” he asked, pointing to the salad.

“Sure you don’t want it?”

Starsky shook his head in reply.

Pulling the salad close, Hutch grabbed the fork, a small packet of dressing, and a bag of croutons. He added the dressing and croutons to the salad and remembered the gift from Huggy. He handed the bakery bag to Starsky. “Huggy stopped by this morning and dropped these off. He thought you might like them better than hospital food.”

Starsky looked into the bag and, seeing the contents, smiled, then nodded at Hutch. He devoured one donut, as Hutch worked on the salad, but then paused partway through the second.

Immediately noticing the pause, Hutch asked, “You okay?”

Starsky shook his head and the anger and frustration were clear on his face. “Why…why can’t…doomsy…letters?” Every word was a struggle.

Hutch set down the fork. “Hey, take it easy. The doctor said it’s from the head injury. It’s just temporary,” he asserted. “You just need to give it some time.”

A petite blond, sporting a hot pink button-down shirt, ID clipped to the pocket, with a pair of white jeans that accentuated her curves, chose that moment to poke her head into the room. “Detective Starsky?”

“Yes, uh, he’s Detective Starsky,” Hutch answered for him.

She acknowledged Hutch with a nod, but directed her comments to Starsky. “I’m Peggy, your speech therapist. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Please take your time and finish your lunch. I’m just finishing something up and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Without giving either a chance to respond, she popped out of the room as quickly as she had popped in.

“Well, Starsk, maybe speech therapy won’t be so bad.” Both men could not help but notice her beautiful, girl-next-door smile. Starsky gave a half-hearted eyebrow waggle, but did not offer any comments.

True to her word, she returned a few minutes later, a thick binder in her arms. Smiling, she turned to Hutch and said, “You must be the Detective Hutchinson I’ve heard so much about from the nurses. I’m Peggy, Peggy Netzel. Rhymes with pretzel.”

Hutch couldn’t help but turn on the charm a bit, a nice distraction from the past few hours. “People call me Hutch. So nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, as well, Hutch, but you need to leave now. I need to work with your partner here and I like my initial meeting with a new patient to be one-on-one. You can come back in an hour or so.” She abruptly turned away from him and toward Starsky.

Stunned by her dismissal and directive to leave, he stammered, “Um, I’d prefer to stay, I can help fill you in and…”

Swiftly cutting him off, but somehow remaining charming, she replied, “But that’s what I’m afraid of. I need to talk to your partner, not you. Now, skedaddle.” She shooed him away and turned back to Starsky.

Seeking confirmation from Starsky before leaving, despite what Miss Perky wanted, he saw Starsky chuckle a bit and he then imitated Peggy’s gesture, shooing him from the room.

“Okay then,” Hutch said as he wandered off, not sure where to go. Maybe he could find some yogurt or a granola bar down at the cafeteria. He could really use a cup of coffee, too.

“Now, I understand you are Detective David Starsky. Is that right?”

Starsky nodded.

“May I call you Dave?” Peggy asked.

Starsky nodded again.

Reviewing his chart as they spoke, she briefly described aphasia for Starsky and explained that the sooner speech therapy began, the better the outcome. She told him that some patients never recover fully, but that many do, and she saw no reason why he couldn’t recover completely. Working through the binder, she started by evaluating his current condition. She tested his reading, writing, hearing, comprehension and speech. His verbal answers were stilted and he was often frustrated by his lack of being able to provide the correct word or, sometimes, any word at all, but he did well in all the other areas she tested. She was upbeat and encouraged him to take his time. She explained that with cases of aphasia the patient, as well as his friends and family, needed to have a great deal of patience. After working with Peggy for about 45 minutes, Starsky began rubbing his neck, clearly tired.

“We can keep this session short if you’re not feeling up to it,” she offered.

“My…hat…tightslar,” Starsky offered. Despite his efforts to be calm, he grew frustrated and embarrassed at his clumsy attempts to convey his thoughts. He crumpled the empty paper cup on his tray and threw it to the floor.

“Hey, Dave, what did that cup ever do to you?” Peggy smiled, trying to put him at ease.

Starsky looked down and shook his head.

“Patience. I think you’re doing very well. Maybe this will help. Some of my aphasia patients tell me that when they are trying to find a word, they can almost see it in their minds, but they find themselves circling in to the word. Sometimes they get the right word, with effort, and sometimes they get a related word, and sometimes something seemingly random comes out, but this process of ‘circling in’ seems to bring them closer to the words they’re seeking. Dave, don’t worry about being perfect. Just keep trying. Just now, I think you were trying to tell me that your head is hurting. You circled in on the word hat, which is pretty close to head, and by saying it was tight, I think you were expressing your discomfort. You’re getting the hang of this and it will get easier. Remember that communicating is not about being perfect, it’s about getting your point across, which you did. I’m sure you’re very frustrated right now, but hang in there and try to stay positive. I’ll stop back later tonight and we’ll try to fit in one more short session if you’re up for it. I’ll also check with the nurse to be sure you have all the pain meds you need.”

Starsky wanted to say “thanks,” but the word wouldn’t come to him now. He did his best to flash his trademark grin at Peggy, but his heart wasn’t in it. When he tried again to thank her, the words “Trick or Treat!” came out.

She smiled back at him, trying not to flirt. After all, that wouldn’t be professional. She had to admit that he was easy on the eyes and, even with his current level of frustration, there was a certain charm about him. Understanding what he’d tried to convey, she answered “You’re welcome,” as she gathered up her materials.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked. “Tell the…him…the…tell him…such?” He gave her a hopeful smile, a real effort with how much he was struggling to get out his request that she give Hutch an update.

“You can fill him in when he gets back. Just take your time. Later, then.” Before he could protest, she left the room. She sat at the nurses’ station and completed some notes on the session, keeping an eye peeled for her patient’s partner. A few minutes later, he rounded the corner, tossing an empty paper coffee cup into the garbage and bee-lining for Starsky’s room. Flagging him down silently, she directed him to the far side of the nurses’ station, where they met.

“How’s he doing?” he blurted out before she had a chance to say anything.

He was a good foot taller than her, and she smiled up at him when she answered, “He can fill you in.”

“He can barely string two words together!” his anger flared, but he was trying to keep his voice low so Starsky wouldn’t hear him. “How long is this going to last?” A bit softer in tone, he added, “Can you help him?”

“Every patient recovers at their own rate. There’s no schedule I can give you for his recovery. It can be gradual or quite sudden. Ask Dave, and he’ll fill you in on what we discussed. The good news, and it’s very good news, is that it seems to be limited to his speech. I’ve only done very preliminary testing, but he has no apparent hearing loss, he’s able to read and write without difficulty, and seems to have no trouble with written or verbal comprehension. Just do your best to keep him talking. Practice helps. Remember to be patient. Do not “fill in” words for him or interrupt him. Speak slowly and clearly, but there’s no need to speak loudly. Stick with short, simple sentences. Try using gestures and if you’re asking questions, stick with something that can be answered with a yes or no. Don’t correct him or ‘talk down’ to him. I’ll stop by at the end of my shift to see how he’s doing. This can be a very frustrating condition, but I see every reason to keep hopes high that he can recover fully.”

Calmer now, though still quite worried, Hutch thanked Peggy and returned to Starsky’s room.

Starsky filled in Hutch on the session, and though he wasn’t able to get all of his thoughts across, he was able to express the majority of what he wanted to say, even if it took a significant amount of time to do so. At one point, he became overwhelmed and started gesturing wildly, knocking over the water pitcher. Water spilled on the table and his gown and Starsky let loose a string of curse words in true Starsky form.

“Well, at least you don’t need any help with ‘colorful’ language,” Hutch offered, impressed with the display.

The cursing, which came easily to him, seemed to break the tension, and Starsky laughed a bit. Hutch, also a bit relieved, chuckled. It felt good to let go of their worry for a moment.

“Patience,” Hutch suggested.

“Shen science,” Starsky agreed.

Hutch tried to keep up the conversation, but Starsky was growing tired. Captain Dobey stopped by, but Starsky, embarrassed by his difficulty speaking, clammed up and would only nod or shake his head in response to Dobey’s questions. Dobey quickly picked up on his discomfort and kept the visit short. “You listen to these nurses and get better, Starsky,” he huffed. “EDITH AND THE KIDS SEND THEIR LOVE.” He spoke very loudly and slowly, separating each word.

“Cap, he’s not deaf, his hearing is fine,” Hutch chided.

“Oh, well then…” A few awkward seconds ensued. As he prepared to leave, Dobey tried to catch Hutch’s eye when Starsky wasn’t looking. Once he did, he shrugged his shoulders slightly with a questioning expression on his face. Hutch tried to smile reassuringly back at him, but it was less than convincing. He was very worried about his partner, but didn’t want to voice his concerns out loud.

Starsky looked up a bit too soon and saw the end of the exchange. It was one of those times when it wasn’t such a good thing to be able to read his partner so well. I’m worried about him was what he read on Hutch’s face. Catching an embarrassed Hutch’s eyes, he telegraphed back, I’m worried about me, too.

Captain Dobey coughed then and, ignoring Starsky, he directed his sole attention to Hutch and filled him in briefly on the case and asked that he keep him posted on Starsky’s condition. Noticing the slight, Starsky coughed. Dobey quickly turned to him. “Sorry, Dave…um…you must be tired, so I’ll let you get your rest.”

Starsky nodded in reply.

“I’m sure you’ll be back to work in no time, son. Just listen to your doctors.”

Starsky nodded silently again, less than convinced.

Hutch kept Starsky company through and after dinner and while Hutch did his best to keep Starsky talking, the exhaustion from recent events was taking its toll. He was struggling to stay awake. When 8:00 pm approached, one of the duty nurses announced that visiting hours were over and it was time for Hutch to go. Hutch started to protest.

“It’s ‘kay ‘kay,” Starsky started, then frowned, shook his head slightly and tried again. “’kay, oh, kay,” he exhaled with relief when he got the oh sound to come out. “It’s okay, Hutch…okay. You go…place…skree…rest.”

Sure?, he telegraphed with a raise of his eyebrows.

Sure, Starsky telegraphed back with a slight nod.

With that, after a small pat on his arm, Hutch left. Peggy stopped by a few minutes later to check on her now favorite patient, but found him too sleepy for another session. Giving him a few words of encouragement, she promised she’d be back in the morning.

The next day Starsky’s headache was all but gone. He didn’t feel his speech had improved, but Peggy saw signs of improvement. Huggy and Hutch kept him company, but Starsky was hesitant to struggle with his speech in front of Huggy, so Huggy kept his visit short, promising to come back the next day.

To his surprise, Starsky was discharged later that afternoon. He’d had a session with Peggy that morning and she saw no reason that he couldn’t continue his treatments on an outpatient basis. Dr. Wilson felt the need for hospitalization for his concussion had passed and he could go home for the rest of his recovery, provided he wasn’t left alone for a day or two. Hutch vowed to make sure that wouldn’t happen and in a few hours they were headed back to Starsky’s place, after a quick stop at Hutch’s to get a few things.

The next morning, Hutch drove Starsky, not yet cleared to drive, to the hospital for his speech therapy. At one point along the way, the engine of Hutch’s beat up Ford began to sputter. “If you’re gonna keep this piece of crap, at least get it tuned up,” said Starsky. It was the longest sentence he’d strung together since the injury and Hutch was so happy about it that he forgot to be insulted. At the therapy session, Starsky didn’t see much improvement, but Peggy did. Her last word to him when he left was, “Patience!”

Hutch, doing his best to cater to all of Starsky’s whims during recovery, ordered pizza for dinner from their favorite takeout place. Starsky had been looking forward to the treat when he heard Hutch order, but once it was delivered his mood turned pensive and he only picked at the slice on his plate.

“Something wrong with the pizza?” Hutch asked.

“Not rightest… no… alcohol,” he tried for the word “beer” but couldn’t seem to find it so he’d swapped out “alcohol.”

“I didn’t think beer would be a good idea so close to you having a concussion.”

Starsky nodded sadly.

“Starsk, is that really what’s bothering you?”

He put down the barely nibbled pizza. “Hutch, what if…what if…”

Hutch could tell where he was going, and wanted to interrupt, but let him keep trying. He set down his pizza to focus on his partner.

“What if… I never… keep back my words? I could never… work…” His voice broke on the word work and he couldn’t continue. His eyes brimmed with tears he struggled to contain and his head dropped to his chest in despair.

They were both sitting on the couch, but Hutch put down his plate and moved closer to Starsky, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Hey, Gordo, don’t think like that.” Hutch rubbed his back gently. “Just give it some time, okay? I have no doubt you’ll be better soon.” He hunched down to try to bring his face into Starsky’s view. “Hey.”

Starsky raised his head enough to look directly into his partner’s eyes. “But, if what?”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Me and thee.” Doubt and worry were all Hutch could read from Starsky now. “But you’re gonna recover, Starsk. No doubt at all.”

Starsky sighed and was able to compose himself, but the sad resignation was still there. It was Hutch’s turn to become pensive. He patted Starsky’s back and then leaned back into the couch. He rubbed the bridge of his nose anxiously as he dealt with his own “what ifs” and tried to compose his thoughts. “Uh, Starsk. I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t pushed you into taking Fitzgerald, none of this would have happened. I knew how tired you were. I didn’t see through Fitzgerald’s disguise and was just giving you a hard time. If only I’d…Starsk, I’m really sorry.”

Starsky patted his thigh and shook his head. He was glad to be giving comfort instead of accepting it for a change. “Just glad you…puzzled out Fitzgerald.”

Hutch explained how a visit to Fitzgerald’s father indicated that he had gone out dressed as a woman and Hutch had put it all together. “I tried to get you on the radio to warn you. I had Kingston try to get through to you, too.”

“Lady asked me…off the radio…was trying to…lady happy. I reported to Kingston and that radio off.

“I’m just glad you called it in so we knew where to find you. K.C. drove like, well, you, to get there. I just wish we’d gotten there before he attacked you.”

“Don’t remember much that then… remember… you got there. Not your fault, Hutch. I saw old lady, let my drop my… guard. Shoulda seen…”

Before now, they hadn’t had a chance to really talk about what happened after he picked up Fitzgerald. Clearing the air helped and they both felt a bit relieved.

“Just wanna better,” Starsky said.

Hutch reached and patted Starsky’s back. “Patience, buddy.” He looked at his barely eaten pizza and Starsky followed his gaze to the plate. “We should eat while it’s still warm.” He reached for his pizza.

Starsky nodded, then picked up his pizza and began to eat. Patience.

The evening was quiet and Starsky’s mood seemed to have improved. That is, up until the phone rang. He automatically picked it up when it rang, but then froze, unable to answer. His hand shook slightly as he abruptly passed the phone to Hutch. He quickly exchanged words with Captain Dobey as Starsky paced, obviously looking for something. He hung up the phone and was so distracted by the behavior that he forgot to tell him that Dobey called with approval for the additional two days off that Hutch had requested.

“Starsk, what are you looking for?”

He refused to answer and when Hutch stopped him in his tracks by grabbing his upper arm, Starsky turned angrily toward him. While no words came from his mouth, Hutch got the back off message loud and clear. He immediately released his grip and backed up a bit. “Okay, okay.”

Starsky finally found what he was looking for when he spied Hutch’s jacket hung over a kitchen chair and stuck his hand into the pocket. He pulled out the Torino keys and bolted for the door.

“Where we goin’?” Hutch asked, trying to catch up with him, pushing hard to be included in wherever Starsky was headed.

At the door, Starsky turned, his eyes dark and angry. I said, back off. He shook his head and held up his hand in a stop gesture.

“Starsk, c’mon, you’re not cleared to drive, let me…”

Before he could say anymore, Starsky shot him another angry glare and stormed out.

Hutch knew he needed to give him some space, but that didn’t mean he’d have to like it. “At least tell me where you’re goin’, huh?”

His plea fell on deaf ears and Starsky and the Torino were out of sight in a matter of seconds.

Shit! He considered following him, but immediately discarded that idea. Nothing to do now but wait and worry. Hutch tried to read one of Starsky’s books, but couldn’t focus on the words. After reading the same page for an hour, he put the book back on the shelf. He flipped through the channels on the TV, finally settling on a nature program, then stretched out on the couch. He had as much luck following that story as he had with the book and soon dozed off.

Within minutes, Starsky knew where he was headed. Trouble. He was looking for it and would find it. Finding a bar where no one knew him, and in a part of town that was more than a bit seedy, wasn’t that difficult. If people were going to be mocking him from now on for sounding like a dummy, he might as well get used to it. He sidled up to the crowded bar, pushing the giant next to him to squeeze in. He was ignored. When the bartender finally turned to him, Starsky simply pointed to the tap and threw a few bucks on the bar. The bartender obliged by filling a beer mug and setting it in front on him. Starsky nodded. Something about the look in his eyes bothered the bartender and his glance lingered on Starsky a bit too long before turning to another patron.

He drank half of the beer on the first swallow, and finished it off with two more pulls. The bartender spotted the already empty mug and they repeated the exchange. Just a few minutes later, signaling the bartender, he tried to ask for a third. In his head, it was, “Hey, can I get another?” but something else, completely incomprehensible, came out instead. A few heads turned to stare at him, and his temper rose. He tried again, but more gibberish came out. A few more patrons turned to look at him. When he pointed to the tap, the bartender took his glass and refilled it while Starsky threw a few more bills on the counter.

“Here you go, buddy,” the bartender said as he set down the mug.

Starsky bristled at the term and the attitude.

“Maybe make this one last, huh? Don’t want you to go through all your money too quickly.” His demeanor toward Starsky had changed, and he suddenly felt patronized or pitied or both. He was being treated like a child. He glared at the barkeep.

The man next to him at the bar wasn’t just tall, he was a big man, a conglomeration of tattoos and denim, clearly outweighing Starsky by at least fifty pounds. He liked the bartender and this was one of his regular places, so he didn’t take kindly to Starsky’s attitude. Begging for a fight long before he came in, he could smell opportunity. He knew it wouldn’t take much. “You some kinda dummy?”

Starsky wanted to throw him a line, but wasn’t looking for pity and was afraid he’d get it if the wrong words came out. He went with tried and true and let out a string of expletives that would make a sailor blush. When big boy hesitated, Starsky took an open hand and pushed it against the larger man’s chest before turning back to the bar. That was the tipping point.

“Who the hell do you think you are, coming in this place with that fuckin’ attitude, huh? Ya think you can just say that shit to me, ya retard?”

Starsky studiously ignored him, but he reached a meaty arm in front of Starsky and pulled on his shoulder until they were facing. Starsky’s reply to the confrontation was a wordless shrug. Without pause, the regular swung his fist at Starsky’s face. Starsky’s only conscious thought as the fist approached was of the string of curse words he’d said and how what he suggested probably wasn’t physically possible. He didn’t even move to avoid the punch, and it connected just below his left eye. Starsky threw a few quick punches at his gut in an almost automatic response, but instead of a flabby beer belly, he found a rock hard surface and an opponent who didn’t even seem to feel the impact of his blows. In fact, he laughed.

“Little man, you need some manners.” A few more forceful blows, this time to Starsky’s mid-section, had him out of breath and reeling backwards. Crashing into an empty table, no one came to his aid as he stumbled, barely staying on his feet. He could have ended the fight by showing his badge, but it stayed in his pocket.

The bartender had had enough. “Bill, I think you made your point, c’mon, look at ‘im.”

Bill’s nostrils flared, and the fight wasn’t out of him yet. “Stay outta this, Jim.” He advanced on Starsky.

“Bill! My place, my rules. Take it outside if you want, but don’t wreck my place.” In fact, though the intruder seemed to be spoiling for a fight when he walked in, Jim was starting to feel uncomfortable about Bill’s brawl. It was obvious the smaller man was vastly outmatched in size and intellect.

While Jim seemed to weigh less than Huggy, he apparently carried some weight with Bill, because he started to back down.

Seeing him waver, Jim sweetened the deal. “Lemme get ya a fresh drink, on the house.”

Bill moved back to his seat at the bar and turned away from Starsky, reaching to finish off his current drink.

Starsky started to move toward Bill with the intent to continue the fight, but he was intercepted by a waitress who stepped between them. Grabbing his elbow, she steered him toward the door.

“You gotta death wish, sweetie?” she whispered. He tried lamely to pull away from her, but at the moment, she was more forceful than he, and she managed to get him to the exit. “I wouldn’t be coming back here, hon’, he’ll finish you off. I seen it before and it ain’t somethin’ I wanna see again. ‘sides, you’re too pretty to let yourself get all beat up over nothin’. Go home and sleep it off.” She got him outside and stepped back into the bar, hovering until she saw him stumble away, moving down the street.

He hadn’t parked far away, but his head was swimming and his face was hurting. His head ached again on the left side where it had been smashed into the taxi’s window not that long ago. The hurt was starting to outweigh the anger and he started to think maybe he should call Hutch for a ride. He quickly found a couple payphones and stepped up to one, checking his pocket for change. As he reached for the handset, he realized Hutch didn’t know where he was and it would take some explaining to get him here, words he didn’t think he could get out. He looked for the nearest street sign and saw one that read Peach. He tried it out loud. “Pango. Paingo. Shit!”

He stepped away from the payphone and moved further down the street. Finding his car, he maneuvered clumsily into the driver’s seat and leaned back, resting his head on the headrest. He wasn’t ready to drive yet, so he rested a few minutes as the thrumming in his head settled down. As he rested his hands on the steering wheel, he noticed how red his knuckles were. Well, nothing he could do about it now. He took a deep breath and found his dizziness had abated. Knowing it was a bad idea, he proceeded to drive home. Fortunately, he made his way home without incident.

Entering his place, he found Hutch sprawled on the couch, dozing. Hearing Starsky enter, he immediately sat up and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Hey buddy, I was worried about you. You okay?” As Starsky stepped into the light he turned his head away from Hutch and didn’t answer, but it was too late. Hutch immediately noticed the bruise on his cheekbone and the painful gait. He jumped up and gently reached toward Starsky’s face turning it toward his own and saw the damage more clearly. “Jesus, what happened?”

Starsky pulled away, not wanting to be fawned over. He held his hand up in a stop gesture, which Hutch ignored, gently grasping an elbow and steering him over to the couch and eased him down. Too tired to fight, he allowed it. Settling him down he was close enough to smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes and beer on his breath. Forgoing a lecture, Hutch instead moved to the freezer and removed a bag of frozen peas. Sitting on the couch next to his partner, he carefully placed the peas against Starsky’s face. Starsky reached up and held them in place, brushing Hutch’s hand as he did so.

“Where did you go? What happened?”

“Dummy gets…”

Hutch had a pretty clear picture of what went down and his concern changed quickly to anger. “I’ll get the guy that did this and I’ll…”

I, not we? First Dobey didn’t think he’d return to the job, certainly why he’d called, and now Hutch? “Start. No…stop, stop! Fines.”

Letting his anger go, Hutch looked him over more closely. His eyes didn’t look right, not quite drunk, but bone tired and there was pain behind the blue. One hand was on the bag of peas, knuckles red, and the other hand was involuntarily clutching his stomach. He looked like hell. “Are you nauseous?”

Starsky shook his head no.

“I think we should get you to a doctor.”

Starsky shot daggers at him, silencing that idea.

“Starsk, you shoulda called me, I would’ve come to get you. You’re in no shape to be driving. Why didn’t you call?”

Starsky glared at him, dropping the bag of peas to his lap. Really? He reached for the phone on an end table, and held the receiver up to his mouth, saying nothing, and looking at Hutch meaningfully until he understood the message. Point made, he hung up the phone.

Feeling like a heel for not realizing why he hadn’t called, he backpeddled his anger a bit “Oh, sorry. Well, you coulda…uh, had someone else call.”

Starsky sighed and started to get up, but Hutch reached for his shoulders and pushed him back down, ever so gently. “I’m sorry, buddy, I know this is tough. Just stay still for a minute, okay? Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll talk this over in the morning.”

“Lavernish.” He sighed then his eyes looked up at the ceiling before returning to his hands, resting in his lap. “Hutch…”

Whatever he wanted to say he couldn’t get out, but Hutch had some idea what he was thinking by the devastated look on his face. “Starsk, c’mon, Peggy said to give it a few days. She’s happy with your progress, why aren’t you?”

He refused to even try to answer, instead closing his eyes and leaning back.

Hutch reached out a hand to him. “Let’s just get you into bed, huh? Get some sleep.” Starsky shook his head, but Hutch simply reached down and took both hands into his own to pull him up. “C’mon.” Putting an arm around his shoulder, he steered a mostly compliant Starsky to bed. He stacked a couple pillows together and lowered him back onto the pillows slowly, a hand behind his head for support all the way down.

Head now against the pillows, Starsky watched Hutch pause and look into his eyes, and the gaze quickly changed from concern to scrutiny. He felt exposed and the connection suddenly felt too intimate, even for them. He was tired of being evaluated and averted his eyes.

What’re ya lookin’ at? , he composed in his mind, but “Whyka look look at?” is what came out of his mouth. The words weren’t what he’d intended, but the annoyance was clearly conveyed.

The pause was a beat too long before Hutch answered, “I’m lookin’ at your eyes, meatball. You had a concussion before you added the shiner, remember?” In truth, that was just one of the reasons he was looking so purposefully at his eyes. But the moment had become awkward and he was glad he had the excuse of looking away as he removed Starsky’s sneakers.

“I’ll be right back.” He returned with a glass of water and a few Tylenol and helped Starsky get them down. “Sure we shouldn’t get you to the doctor? How’s your head?”

“’s fine,” he slurred, already starting to doze off, or at least pretending to.

He wanted to launch into it, tell him how stupid he was, what a risk he’d taken getting into a fight. How much abuse could Starsky take? For that matter, how much could Hutch take? But he kept silent, knowing that it wasn’t the right time. He pulled the covers around him and then retrieved the bag of peas from the sofa. He flinched slightly when Hutch placed it over his eye and cheek, but his eyes didn’t open. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours to check on you, okay?”

No answer.

“Things will look better in the morning, you’ll see.”

No answer. Hutch retreated to the sofa, then came back after about fifteen minutes to remove the mostly thawed peas. As he touched the bag, Starsky’s hand came up and covered his. His eyes didn’t open, but he murmured, “Hutch…thanks,” before his hand dropped back down to the bed.

Lying down on the couch, Hutch went to sleep, well kind of. Mostly, he worried. A few hours in, he woke Starsky to try to determine if he was suffering any ill effects from the concussion, compounded by his injuries from the fight.

He sat on the edge of the bed and shook his shoulder gently when a soft, “Starsk,” didn’t get any response. “Hey, Starsky?”

Understanding why he was being woken didn’t make it any easier. He reached for a pad and pencil he’d taken to keeping on his nightstand and scrawled a sloppy, “Let me sleep.” A frown in response prompted him to add “I’m ok.”

“How much is seven plus five?”

Starsky crinkled his brow then wrote “12” on the pad and showed it to Hutch.

Hutch nodded, squeezed Starsky’s knee affectionately, then stood up wordlessly to go back to the couch.

Before he was out of reach, Starsky tapped his thigh with the pencil. When Hutch looked back at him, Starsky pointed the pencil at him, clearly indicating “you,” then used the pencil to point at the word “ok” that he had previously written on the pad. He looked up at Hutch and raised an eyebrow.

The barest hint of a smile crossed his fatigued features. “Yeah, just tired. Go back to sleep. I don’t think you’ve done any more damage to that thick skull of yours.” He tried again to smile, but Starsky could see what the effort cost him, shoulders slumped, head low, as he left the room. That half-hearted smile, along with the weary tone, was enough to keep Starsky from falling immediately back asleep. So focused on his own concerns, he’d been forgetting what this was doing to his partner, who was trying so hard to shoulder as much of the burden as he could. Though troubled, the activity of the day took its toll and he fell into a deep sleep.

Morning came and it was one of those spectacular days when the temperature was perfect, the humidity low, and the sun bright and cheery. Hutch woke first, started some coffee, and proceeded to cook up some eggs and bacon. The smell woke Starsky and he wandered toward the kitchen. When they exchanged glances, Starsky looked sheepish, but Hutch just uncharacteristically let it all go and just gave him a sunny smile in return. Puttering around the kitchen had put him in a good mood despite his worry.

“Smells good.”

“Hope you like it.”

“Yeah. Hey, sorry ‘bout…”

“It’s a new day, Starsk. Let’s start fresh. Did you sleep okay after I woke you?”

“Ardverly, yeah, guess I blew off some sleem… steam. Best sleep… days. You okay on… couch? You should take my bed tonight or…go home.”

“I’m fine,” Hutch answered, though his posture as he leaned over the stove seemed to indicate he was having some back pain. “You sure your head’s okay? Need more Tylenol?”

“Much better. Quirk shower,” Starsky said as he headed toward the bathroom. His timing was perfect. Showered and dressed, he entered the kitchen just as Hutch prepared the plates and set them on the table. “We’ve got about an hour before we need to leave for your appointment with Peggy.”

“Right. Hey, I’ve got the coffee,” Starsky said as he brought two cups to the table. “Oh, juice!” He poured two large glasses of orange juice and set them on the table.

They were just starting to eat when Huggy showed up. Hutch offered to make him a plate, but he’d already eaten. He did, however, help himself to a mug of coffee.

“How’s it going, Starsky?” Huggy asked. “What’s with the shiner?”

“You shoulda seen the other guy.”

“Was he a truck?”

Starsky chuckled despite himself. “More of a tank.”

“How’s it going with the speech therapist?”

“Making progress.”

Hutch gave Huggy a change-the-subject look that he picked up on quickly. “I need to make a little extra bread. Either of you savvy gents have any suggestions?”

“Things not goin’ well at The Pits, Hug?” Hutch asked.

“Business is slow. Just lookin’ for somethin’ on the side. Hey, Starsky, would you recommend driving a cab?”

Starsky gave him a withering look in response.

“Hey, you guys got the killer off the streets. I done it once before and wasn’t half bad. I know the streets and I like chattin’ up the clientele. And if you…” In order to add emphasis he reached out and pointed to Starsky, knocking over his half full juice glass in the process. As the juice approached the end of the table, Starsky jumped up, hoping to avoid the quickly flowing liquid.

“Hey, Hug, watch what you’re doing!” He grabbed a towel and quickly mopped up the spill, while Huggy apologized and put the now empty juice glass in the sink. Starsky threw the towel into the sink. “Oh, hey,” Starsky softened. “Thanks for bringing in the donuts while I was in the hospital. The food there is terrible and those donuts were terrific. Did you get them from your cousin’s bakery?”

“You know it,” Huggy answered.

“Hutch, do we have time to stop and get some before my appointment?”

“Starsk, you just ate a big breakfast!”

“I’m a growing boy! I’m just so glad to not be eating hospital food.”

Hutch paused and stared at him wide-eyed. “Hey, Starsk?”

Starsky, lost in a thought, didn’t answer his partner. “Hey, we’ve got to stop by the cab company sometime, too. I really want to thank Kingston and K.C. Maybe we could stop there this afternoon. It’s not too far from Merl’s. We can drop off your heap for a tune-up. Hug, could you pick us up there and give us a lift back to my place?

Hutch and Huggy were now both staring at him wide-eyed.

“What?! What’re ya lookin’ at?” Starsky asked.

“Starsk, you’re… you’re talking,” Hutch stammered.

“Well, of course, I’m talking. I’ve…oh…” Starsky realized that he was not having any trouble finding the right words. His speech was suddenly without effort, without pause, flowing quickly. He broke into a wide grin when he realized what had just happened.

Huggy slapped him on the back, “That’s great, Starsky.”

Hutch laughed and grabbed his keys from the coffee table. Tapping Starsky gently on the arm as he passed by, and exchanging a deep look, he suggested, “Let’s try to get in to see Peggy early and give her the good news!”

“What about the dishes?” Starsky asked.

“I’ll do ‘em when we get back. C’mon!”

“Okay,” Starsky answered, following closely on Hutch’s heels.

Huggy turned off the coffee maker before meeting up with them at the door. As they left Starsky’s place, Huggy launched into a story about a cousin of his who once drove a cab, but left city life behind to move to an exotic island. He asked Starsky again about becoming a part-time cab driver.

“Hug, you’re a man of many talents. You should find something that uses them.”

They went their separate ways as Huggy headed to The Pits and Starsky and Hutch went to meet Peggy. She was elated at his progress and warned that he shouldn’t be concerned if he should experience occasional speech issues over the next few days. She expected his recovery would be complete and permanent and cautioned him to try to avoid any future head injuries.

After leaving the hospital, they stopped for the donuts Starsky had been craving, buying a few dozen. Their next stop was at the precinct, to give them the good news and drop off some of the donuts. Hutch was in such a good mood that he agreed without argument to drop off the car for a tune-up at Merl’s. Merl was off today, but one of his employees assured them he could get it done. Huggy was kind enough to shuttle them back to Starsky’s place and then back to Merl’s when the car was done. Huggy and Hutch left Starsky at home when they went to retrieve Hutch’s car, as Starsky’s energy was fading. He tried to nap for a bit, but couldn’t quite doze off. He tried to get a hold of Kingston, but both he and K.C. were off. While Starsky was bursting with the news of his recovery, and eager to thank them both for their help, he could wait another day to do so. In the meantime, he made a quick call to him Mom, lounging on the sofa as they talked.

Hutch came back to find Starsky setting the phone back in its cradle and Starsky looking thoughtful. “Doin’ okay, buddy? How are you feeling?”

Starsky was momentarily overcome with a flood of emotion, so grateful for his health and the friend that had seen him through this latest crisis. He quickly regained his composure. “Terrific!” And he meant it. Sliding his feet off the couch he sat up and patted the couch next to him. Hutch took the proffered spot and they both leaned back into the couch and let out a sigh in unison. All was right again.

Interested in learning more about Aphasia? Try these resources:

http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/Aphasia

This site mentions the interesting fact that left handed individuals are more likely to suffer from aphasia.

http://www.aphasia.org/content/communication-tips

This site had some video footage of people recovering from aphasia. One patient mentioned that while his spoken vocabulary had shrunk to just a few words, he had no difficulty cursing.