Title: Staples
Author: Paula Wilshe
Type: Gen
Summary: Starsky tries to make it all better when Hutch becomes way too attached
to his paperwork.
Format: Story
Categories: Humor, PWP
Rating: G
Size: 8K
Date Added: 2003-02-20
Staples
by Paula Wilshe
"I’m sure it won’t be too much longer, Hutch. You’ve got to relax."
"You try relaxing. This hurts like hell. See?"
"I see, I see. Here, let me hold the ice pack for you—"
"Ouch! Be careful, it’s—"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. Better?"
"Yeah, thanks."
"What's wrong? It hurt that much?"
"Huh? No, no, it's not that bad."
"Then what? Something's buggin' you. You're doing the Hutchinson Brow Furrow."
"The what?"
"You heard me. And you keep sighing. What's the matter? Besides the obvious."
"The receptionist."
"The receptionist? The one over there? What about her?"
"Well, she was... I mean, I thought..."
"What?"
"I thought she was, y'know, kind of abrupt?"
"Yeah? She didn't strike me that way."
"Yeah, I thought she was. I mean—did you see her talking to that nurse? I think they were talking about me, and I'm pretty sure they were laughing."
"I'm sure they weren't, Hutch, but you've got to admit—"
"Now you're laughing at me."
"No, I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Okay, I are. Will you please just relax?"
"You're not being very supportive."
"Now you're gonna sulk? Come on, I don't know what you want me to do. I didn't tell anyone in the squad room what happened. I held your head when you threw up. I drove you here. I'm sittin' next to you holdin' an ice pack on your hand—"
"On my thumb. It's my thumb."
"Your thumb."
"I could be dying, and they're just letting me sit here. Some Emergency Room."
"There were four ambulances out front. I'm guessing they're busy."
"Yeah, well... yeah, maybe."
"Hey?"
"What?"
"What do you think that guy's here for?"
"What guy?"
"The one over there. With the pith helmet."
"Holy God. Look at his boots."
"Didn't Nancy Sinatra used to have boots like that in the sixties? Hey! That's the first time you laughed since—"
"Shut up. What about that one over there?"
"Which, the girl with the—"
"—green hair, yeah."
"God, I don't know, but whatever it is, I hope it isn't catching."
"Me too. Well, she's got crutches, maybe it's her ankle."
"She also seems to have unusual piercings. Maybe one of them's gone awry. What?"
"Could you please stop looking at me like it's all you can do not to burst out laughing?"
"I'm not. It's just—"
"Starsky--"
"Well...you've got to admit—"
"I fail to see the humor in all of this."
"Come on, Hutch, you can't tell me that if the tables were turned you wouldn't be—"
"No, I absolutely wouldn't."
"Yeah, right."
"Okay, maybe I would. Stop laughing. I mean it. Everybody's looking at you, they probably think you're a psych patient."
"They do not. I guess it's just...some cases you get really attached to, huh?"
"Starsky."
"You really put yourself into that report."
"You've been wanting to fire off those one liners for an hour now, haven't you?"
"An hour and twenty minutes, to be exact. You have no idea how hard it's been not to—"
"Shut up, Starsk. Please?"
"I'm sorry, Hutch, it's just that I never saw anyone staple a pile of paperwork to their thumb before."
"Well, I wouldn't have done it if you hadn't distracted me."
"Distracted you?"
"Yes, you yelled, 'Hutch!' just as I was stapling them together."
"Do you know why I yelled, 'Hutch!' Hutch?"
"I haven't the vaguest idea. You wanted more quarters for the soda machine?"
"No, dummy, because you were so busy looking at the expense vouchers on my desk that you were about to staple your thumb to your own report. I was trying to warn you."
"That's how you warn a guy?"
"That's it. Yep."
"Terrific. Besides, whenever you do the expense request it makes me nervous. I'm always afraid you're going to--"
"You said the same thing about the case report."
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, I guess I did."
"That's part of your problem, you know. You let yourself get stapled to everything. Literally, this time, but.... Babe, I'm teasing. But it is the same kind of thing, and you can't control everything in the world. Once in a while you just have to let go a little bit."
"We're not talking about my thumb anymore, are we?"
"No. Hey, it's bleeding a little bit, let me get that."
"Careful...damn it...ow...."
"You okay? Feel sick again?"
"No, I'm fine. Boy, it's really in there tight, isn't it?"
"Move your head out of the way, I can't see where the blood's coming from. Yep, it is."
"I know you're right. About all of it. You know."
"I know. It's okay, we'll make it work."
"I know."
"But I guess you're not gonna be making the homemade spaghetti sauce you promised me for dinner."
"Guess not. Sorry?"
"No problem. We can pick up something on the way home. We can go light if you want, if your stomach's still—"
"No, it's fine now. It was just when I looked down and saw the reports and the staple so far in there, it made me—what?"
"You were busy writing a descriptive report about a very bloody murder-suicide, and you threw up because you looked down and there was a staple stuck in your thumb?"
"Yes."
"I guess I can understand that. I'd probably have done the same thing. Is this okay the way I'm holding it? The ice?"
"It's fine, Starsk, thanks. For everything."
"At least we got the papers off. It'd be a lot harder to hold this ice pack on if they were still stuck in there."
"Not to mention that Dobey wouldn't be happy about us taking confidential case reports out of the office. He'd probably have made me leave my thumb if we hadn't gotten them off."
"Mr. Huddleston?"
"Mr. Huddleston?"
"Do you think she means you?"
"My name was Hutchinson last time I looked."
"Yeah, but—"
"Ma'am? Could you be looking for me? Hutchinson?"
"It says 'Huddleston – P.W.' right here."
"No, no, that says 'Hutchinson.' I didn't write the P.W. My initials are K.J."
"P.W. stands for 'puncture wound.' I took the liberty of adding that part, Mr. Huddleston."
"Hutchinson."
"I think not."
"I wrote it, I should know what it says."
"Then I think someone needs to invest in a penmanship course."
"Hey, lady, I've got a big, huge, stainless steel staple stuck in my thumb here, it's a wonder I can write at all! Besides which, I'm in a great deal of pain, it probably hit the bone. Don't you have any compassion? Would it help if I changed my name to Huddleston? Which I'll gladly do if that'll get the goddamned staple--"
"Hutch."
"Very well, Mr. Huddleston. Follow me."
"Hutch, you know..."
"WHAT, Starsky?"
"The staple is in your left thumb."
"So?"
"You write with your right hand."
"Shut up."
"And, uh, Hutch?"
"I mean it, shut up."
"Yeah, but Hutch—"
"I've had enough, Starsky. I'm in pain here, and you keep—"
"Hutch, it's just that—don't point that finger at me—watch out for the—"
"God damn it, OW, that hurts!"
"—door..."
The End
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