The Death of the Six-Week RuleValentin"You awake?"
At fucking
last. Hutch turned in the direction of the door. "I want to go
home, Starsky. Get me out of here."
Starsky's voice was coming from beside the bed now. "You sure that's a good idea? It's 100 degrees in the shade and you don't have an air conditioner. Maybe you should just stay here a while longer."
The walls were closing in on him. Literally, for all Hutch knew: it sure as hell felt like it. He waved his arm in the direction of Starsky's voice until his hand was taken in a hot, damp grasp.
"Starsky, I'm blind, not sick. There's nothing they can do for me that you can't help me with at home--you're coming home with me, right?" He was vastly reassured to hear Starsky's indignant assent. "Okay, I was just checking. You might have had something better to do." The walls were keeping their distance now that Starsky was here, but it couldn't last. He lowered his voice. "If I'm not going to see for the next week or so, I'd rather do it someplace familiar. It's not like the heat's anything new. I feel so damn helpless here it's driving me nuts."
( Read more... )