The first thing Starsky said to Hutch after he got back from arresting Gunther was, “I really did play Camille in high school. Did you know she was a fancy French hooker?”

Hutch brushed a wrinkle out of Starsky’s blanket. He refused to look at any of the monitors. “You’re going to be fine.” That was what the doctor had said. Fine. Not perfect, but... fine.

“You should have seen my death scene.”

Hutch spotted another bit of rumpled blanket on the other side. He leaned over, only to have his collar snagged in a determined fist. Hutch froze.

“I said--”

“I know!”

Three bullets in the back. Heart stopped. Coma. Another one in the shoulder. Poison. Twenty-four hours to live. Drugs. A fucking bear.

It wasn’t Starsky’s grip on his collar that made it hard to breathe. “I’ve already seen it.”

“Then I’ll quit this gig,” said Starsky.

“Is it that easy?”

“It’s this easy,” said Starsky, reeling him in.

Hutch was still sitting on the floor with his fingers on his lips, wondering what had just hit him, when Starsky looked over the edge of his bed and said smugly, “Told you I played a great Camille.”

~end~