Two Eight Zero

1.7K

An undercover assignment has horrible consequences for Starsky. While struggling to help him, Hutch must deal with his own fears…

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Daniel Nylon had killed.

Many people.

Sometimes, at night, when he listened really closely, he could hear them scream. The children. The women. The men. Some of them begged. Some of them swore at him. Some prayed. Some cried.

None of his victims had ever gone quietly. He’d made sure of that. He needed the memories, needed to hear the screams in his head; so loud they’d block out every other sound, every other thought.

He knew he was bad. ‘Bad boy. Evil boy.’ And that knowledge he needed, too. His father had been right, of course he had. His father had always been right about everything. His father had been the greatest man he’d ever known.

“You’re just scum, Danny! Scum! Like your mother!”

Yeah, he was scum. His mother had been scum. ‘Daddy’s right. Always right.’

His father had been the first one he’d killed. Slowly, with wide, tear-filled eyes; staring at the dying, screaming man before him.

“Oh god, Danny … please … Please don’t!”

He had to do it. To prove his father right. His father couldn’t have been wrong. ‘Daddy’s right.’ And he continued to be, as Daniel continued to kill.

Until they stopped him. He was 25 and had killed over fifty people in his life. “Life”, the sentence had been. Life in an institution for the criminally insane. Life in a tiny cell, staring at a ceiling that had exactly 123 small cracks in it. He counted them every day. When he listened to the screams. It felt good to be in there. Where he belonged.

“Nylon! Get up!”

Slowly, drowsily, he rolled his head on the mattress to look at the orderly, who stood in his cell, yelling at him to stand up.

Daniel frowned. He couldn’t remember when the changes had started, but he knew he didn’t like them. He could remember the tall man who had one day appeared in the large room where the meals were served, and had exclaimed that things were going to be handled differently from now on.

Daniel hadn’t really listened, but shortly afterwards the injections had started. He didn’t like needles. And he didn’t like how they made him feel. Sleepy. Drowsy. Sick.

And he couldn’t hear the screams anymore. Faintly, sometimes. Not like he needed it. But when he cried at night, they would come and give him another shot.

Then, one night, isolation had started. Oh God, how he feared isolation. It hurt so much. It made him see things. His own screams drowned out the ones he needed to hear.

“No,” he whispered as the orderly grabbed his arm to jerk him upright on his bed.

“Come on, kiddo, don’t mess with me again.”

“Please,” Daniel begged, but was too weak to struggle when he was hauled to his feet. “Bad boy.”

“Right,” the orderly sighed, rolling his eyes. This kid was getting on his nerves in particular. “Bad boy, Danny. Now move it, will ya?!”

Daniel sobbed wearily while he was pushed down the hall. “No isolation. Please. No isolation.”

“Don’t worry, kid, just the good stuff this time.”

Carelessly, the orderly dragged the whimpering man into the room next to isolation.

“No!” Danny begged, and despite his wobbly legs began to struggle against the grip in his arms. He managed to slam his elbow in the orderly’s side.

“Ow! Damn you, you fucking little …”

It was the last thing Daniel Nylon ever heard in his life. Something heavy hit his head hard and he felt himself falling forward, his vision blurring quickly. ‘Daddy,’ he thought, knowing that he was following his father. He wasn’t afraid.

****

“Starsk, is there any chance you might be able to finish that report some time this yea…” Ken Hutchinson’s voice trailed off as he came to a halt next to his partner’s desk, his eyes wandering from the proud smile that met him to the sheet of paper in front of Starsky.

“Uh … what are you doing?” he asked, dumbfounded, frozen in motion with one hand holding a candy bar in front of his chest.

“Drawing a house with my right,” Starsky answered playfully.

“Yeah … that’s what it looks like, but …”

“Pretty good for a lefty, huh?” the still grinning man interrupted his friend and picked up the picture for Hutch to take a closer look at it.

“Breathtaking,” the blond commented dryly without looking at it. “Ahm … is that all you’ve been doing this morning?”

Wincing in mock hurt, Starsky placed the picture back on his desk again. “You should try drawing with your left hand some time, partner, and see how well you manage. ‘Sides the book says to not let yourself be stopped by people’s lack of understanding the difficulti…”

“What book?” Hutch asked, realization creeping up his spine. ‘I’m gonna kill him.’

“”How to become right handed”,” Starsky answered with a sweet smile, knowing he’d just driven the point home. “After what you said last night I thought I really should give it a try.”

“Hm hm,” Hutch nodded in defeat, answering the triumphant grin with a humorless one. “And of course pleasing me was more important than writing the report we’re supposed to hand in today, right?”

“Oh,” Starsky mumbled, frowning mockingly, “did I say I’d do that? Aw, sorry pal, but, hey …” Turning back to his desk, he produced yet another crummy picture that he unfolded and showed his partner, “I drew the turkey’s car. I was out of blue, though, but we can just write under it that the color isn’t right. Would you mind doing the writing? I’m not that far yet.”

Hutch looked at him with an unnerved expression, before snatching the picture out of Starsky’s hand and folding it neatly, looking like he just had to do something to keep himself from strangling his partner, whose grin grew even wider. The glare he received from Hutch was a perfect replacement for the blond’s warningly raised index finger he’d normally have pointed at his friend, indicating that there sure was vengeance to take place. Some time soon.

For now, though, triumph was his, and leaning back in his chair contentedly, Starsky raised his brows at Hutch’s hand that still held both the folded picture, and the candy bar.

“That for me?”

“No,” Hutch shot back, “candy’s only for good children.” With that he turned just in time to almost collide with Captain Dobey’s door being pushed open angrily. “Captain,” he greeted Dobey quickly, “have a candy bar?”

Dobey didn’t even listen, just bellowed “Get in here!” and headed back inside his office.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged confused looks. “He refuses food?” Starsky whispered as he stood up to follow closely behind Hutch, looking as if he sought shelter behind the taller man. “What did you do this time, blintz?”

“Me?! I’m not the one who spent the whole morning draw…”

“Close the door!” Dobey’s voice interrupted them, and quickly, playfully overreacting, the two detectives turned simultaneously to shove the door closed and take position in front of their superior’s desk.

“Hey, Cap, whatever it is, it’s Hutch’s fault.”

“Shut up!” Dobey barked, his voice making both detectives frown, exchange another look and then take their usual seats in front of the desk. It was the tone of voice they knew meant business. Business Dobey didn’t like. And usually whatever Dobey didn’t like, they didn’t like either.

“Okay, what is it?” Hutch asked, absentmindedly shoving the two things he still held inside his jacket.

“I’ve got a new assignment for you two,” Dobey informed them, the frown apparent on his forehead, deep with concern.

When he didn’t say anything more, Starsky lifted his brows questioningly. “Yeees?” he asked, stretching the word.

Dobey shot him an irritated look, before sighing deeply. “I’ll be honest with you, I don’t like the idea of you going in there, but …”

“Captain,” Hutch cut him off, “would you mind first telling us what it’s all about and save the part where you try to talk us into it for later?”

Sneering at the comment, Dobey nodded after a pause and leaned back in his chair. “Does the name Thomas LaMarre ring any bell?”

Hutch frowned, thinking, and glanced at his partner, who shrugged, joking, “Don’t look at me, you know how I am with names.”

Before the banter could even start, Dobey explained, “He runs a business down in San Diego, officially dealing with art, but that’s not what pays for his life style, if you know what I mean. Anyway, cops down there tried to get him for murder one in at least three cases last year, but none of the cases ever made it to trial.”

“How come?” Starsky asked.

“Well, despite what you might think, Starsky, there are lawyers working outside this city too,” Dobey stated dryly before continuing, “But now they think they found a connection to a guy named Daniel Nylon, a psychotic killer who was sentenced to life a few months ago.” Picking up a file from his desk, he gave it to Hutch who looked at the young man on the picture on the first side of it.

Except for the haunted look in the kid’s eyes, he looked nice, almost innocent. And young, incredibly young; the boyish looks of his fine features seemingly underlining the vulnerability written all over them.

Feeling a slight shudder running down his spine just from the look of the man, Hutch handed the file over to Starsky. “What connection?” he then asked Dobey. “LaMarre hired him?”

“From what it looks like,” Dobey nodded. “But as I said, Nylon’s in jail. In an institution for the criminally insane, to be exact. And they can’t just send someone in there to talk to him, because the kid won’t talk to cops. He’s scared of them. He’s scared of himself, for that matter. What they got is a really, really disturbed witness, and they need someone to make a connection with him.”

He paused, taking in the disbelieving glances of his detectives. “Now look …”

“Hey, wait a second,” Starsky interrupted him, the file lying on his lap, forgotten. “You’re not saying that Hutch and I should …”

“San Diego Police can’t send their own people in there, because they’d be known,” Dobey explained, the fact that he really, really despised the plan evident in his voice. “Just like you’d be known in every jail around here. They need outsiders. And since the head of the department over there is a very close friend to our chief …”

“Oh come on, this is ridiculous,” Hutch stated. “The kid’s scared … What kind of an explanation is that?! Why don’t the just get him outta there and …” Meeting Dobey’s glance, his voice trailed off.

Starsky, who had also seen the expression in his superior’s look, straightened in his chair. “There’s more?” he asked. “Right?”

At Dobey’s small nod, Hutch exchanged a quick glance with his partner, before speaking again. “Let me guess. This institution isn’t all that … trustworthy, is it?”

“They think people there are working for LaMarre, don’t they?” Starsky added.

“That’s why they can’t let them know about Nylon and why they can’t send cops go in there; the orderlies might know,” Hutch continued. “Right?”

“Yeah, and why they’re looking for some idiots who are dumb enough to go inside a looney bin without any backup,” his partner concluded. “You gotta be kidding, Cap!”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I don’t know how you look when you’re kidding, I never saw you kidding, but I sure hope you are now,” Starsky commented, standing up to put the file back on the desk with a loud noise. “This is the dumbest plan I ever heard. It’s a camicat operation!”

“Kamikaze, Starsk,” Hutch corrected quietly.

“Whatever.”

“The plan is not to send both of you in there,” Dobey explained, knowing his detectives would take the assignment, anyway. They just needed a little time to rant and rave about it. “Only one, wh…”

“One?!” the detectives asked simultaneously. Now Hutch came to his feet too, adding, “Forget it.”

“You just said yourself it’d be stupid to go in there without backup,” Dobey said. “The logical conclusion is that only one goes in, while other one stays with the Diego cops for backup.”

A quick glance was exchanged, before Hutch asked, “What kind of backup?”

“They’re gong to spread the news that whoever of you goes in killed a cop together with his partner who’s not yet found.”

“And the other one can check on him during interrogation,” Hutch concluded.

“Right.”

“I don’t like it,” the blond stated. Starsky shook his head.

“Me neither,” Dobey said flatly and raised his brows at them.

There was a very short silence, before both detectives sat down again, having made a decision without the need to even look at each other.

“Okay, what exactly will be the word about that dead cop?” Hutch asked. “If I’m going in there I don’t want to find out that …”

Before Starsky had even opened his mouth to protest against his partner’s all too sure assumption that he’d be the one to go undercover, Dobey frowned, asking, “You? I thought Starsky would go in.”

That statement drove Starsky’s glance towards his superior even faster, as his eyes widened in disbelief. “Huh?! Hey, wai…”

But again he was cut off, this time by Hutch. “No way.”

“Why not? He managed pretty well before,” Dobey said, his obvious surprise at Hutch’s protest sending Starsky’s chin to travel slightly southwards. Yet he was still ignored when he tried to say something. “How come you think I …”

“I’m sure no one would notice,” Dobey interrupted him again.

“Oh, hey, thank you so much for your trust, bu…”

“Starsk’s not going any place like that again,” Hutch cut his partner off, obviously not even having heard him talking. “The last time he was drugged out of his mind every day!”

“Only because he was very convincing,” Dobey stated, and again Starsky’s glance flew from Hutch to him.

“Convinci…?”

“I mean if I didn’t know it was his personality, I’d believe he was crazy too,” the Captain once more interrupted his detective, this time looking at him directly.

“Gee thanks, Cap,” Starsky muttered, but looked at his partner who was about to protest again. “But he’s right, Hutch. I should be the one going in.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think so. I’m not gonna spent another three days worrying myself sick about you being overdosed. Forget it. Captain, I’m in.”

“No, he’s not,” Starsky hurried to say, before turning to Hutch again. “I don’t want no one giving you drugs.”

The last sentence was said with such determination and underlined by such a worried glance, that Hutch couldn’t find the right words to respond right away, giving Dobey the chance to cut in again. “You know, maybe if you try real hard to keep out of trouble, no one has to be drugged this time.”

Slowly, two glances turned to meet the Captain’s, and two heads shook slightly as if wondering how a grown man could have said such a stupid thing.

When they looked at each other again, both were kept from arguing further by the concern they saw reflected in the other’s eyes. After a moment’s thought, Starsky produced a dime from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

Hutch opened his mouth, but at his partner’s look closed it again, then sighed. “Heads.”

The smaller man nodded, flipped the coin in the air with his thumb and caught it again, turning it on the back of his hand. After another glance at his friend, he peeked under the hand covering it. “‘Triffic,” he muttered when he took his hand away to let Hutch see the result. “Tails.”

The blond’s gaze wandered up to meet his partner’s eyes, clearly seeing relief rushing through them, and sighed in resignation. “So what will I be doing while he’s in there?” he asked Dobey, sounding like a kid whose turn it was to do the housework.

“They’ll have you working on a minor case,” the Captain replied. “Officially, that is.”

“Okay. When do we start?”

“Plane leaves tomorrow. You’ll be bringing the … prisoner in.”

“Prisoner,” Starsky muttered. “Nice.”

“I’ve got some clearing to do with the man in charge over there now, but I’ll be meeting you at the airport tomorrow at eight to give you last minute instructions and alias information. And now – get outta here.”

Without any further words, the detectives left the office, slowly strolling past their desks, knowing they were off duty anyway until the next day.

“Hey,” Hutch muttered when he dashed his hands inside his pockets, frowning when he felt something in there. Remembering the candy bar, he held it out for Starsky. “Here.”

“What, I’m a good kid now?”

“No, you’re one major pain in the ass, Gordo. But don’t you know all children get chocolate when they have to go to the hospital?”

*****

It took Hutch exactly twenty-four hours to come to despise San Diego, and those were the hours he spent waiting at the hotel after his arrival, before he could go and see Starsky.

Despite their initial plans, the officer responsible at SDPD had decided to bring “the new prisoner” to Mercy Hospital himself, pointing out it would look less suspicious when the outsider, Hutch, arrived some time after him.

It would fit better into their cover story, he had said. It would take a “real” cop a little longer than just a day to find out where his most important witness was, anyway.

So Hutch had been sent to his hotel room right after his arrival, and there he’d sat for a whole day now, trying to distract himself, but failing miserably no matter what he did.

He couldn’t concentrate on anything, the thought of Starsky in yet another one of THOSE institutions, all by himself, had left him restless with concern and anxiety.

Who knew what they were doing to him that very moment, while he, Hutch, sat in a more or less comfortable hotel room, watching the evening news?!

Maybe Starsky needed him. Maybe his cover had already been blown. They surely had busted one or three turkeys who had been sentenced to life in an institution as well, so who knew-maybe one of them had been transferred to that particular one at some time in the past.

Had the officers checked that out? he wondered. Both he and Starsky hadn’t even thought to ask.

This is great, Hutchinson, now you think of it! One hot shot detective you are!

Or maybe his ever-energetic partner had managed to get himself into trouble already and had been drugged or worse! Who could really say what the guards were allowed to do to sentenced criminals in those places?!

And Starsky could find trouble in an empty room.

Without hesitation, Hutch picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed the number of the man who was supposed to be their contact during the whole operation, a Lieutenant Sean Frasier.

“Yes? Frasier.” Frasier’s baritone voice answered the phone after the second ring. He was a man in his mid-forties; calm, patient, rational and, as far as Hutch was concerned, a royal class asshole.

Except for the by now uncountable times the worried detective had called him up to ask when he’d be allowed to check on his partner, he hadn’t spoken a single word to Hutch. It seemed he couldn’t care less about the two undercover cops he was forced to work with.

“Lieutenant, this is-”

“Hutchinson,” Frasier finished with a deep sigh, managing to make the blond’s name sound like an insult.

“Uh…yeah, I-I know it’s only been-”

“Three hours,” Frasier interrupted him once again. “You called here three hours ago. D’you really think things look different now, hm?”

“I just thought-”

“Well, you thought wrong, detective. Last time: I call you. Okay? Is that clear

now? When things are ready to get started, I call you, and then I’ll pick you up and drive you over to Mercy. Right now, though, things are not ready to get started, so please-pretty please-don’t call here anymore.”

“But-”

Another deep sigh cut Hutch off once more, and he slowly but steadily felt the anger rise up inside him. This wasn’t about him being an annoying little outsider, this was about Starsky’s safety! His partner had been at a fairly dangerous place without backup more than long enough for his liking.

“Hey, listen, there’re a few really nice places around the hotel, so why don’t you just-”

“Why don’t you just get your bu-”

Quickly clearing his throat, before anything he might regret later could slip out, Hutch inwardly shook his head at himself-I’m starting to sound like Starsky- while hurrying to say, “I just really think it’d be a good idea to check on my partner sometime soon now, sir. It’s nearly been 24 hours. How about we tell the guards I’m a particularly good cop and managed to find out about his whereabouts real quick?”

A soft chuckle could be heard on the other end, and Hutch frowned. “Sir?”

“You’ve got guts, kid. I like that.”

“Uh…th-thank y-”

“You still have to work on your over-protectiveness, though,” Frasier interrupted him gruffly. “But, okay, I’m done here, anyway. Ten minutes?”

“I’ve been ready all day,” Hutch mumbled, but the Lieutenant had already hung up.

****

If Hutch hadn’t disliked everything about their assignment before, he hated the whole thing the second he entered the room that would be the only place where he’d be able to see his partner for an indefinite period.

The room was like the building. Grey, cold, lifeless. It had no windows, just one long cold neon light at the ceiling. A small table with two chairs were the only furniture.

The man who’d led Hutch inside once Frasier had explained that he was a cop from Bay City who was working on a case that was somehow connected to the new prisoner, had introduced himself as Dr. Martin McCoy, the deputy head of the institution.

He was a rather small, half-bald man in his fifties, who seemed to find his job highly amusing as a constant wry smile never left his thin face.

Hutch decided to despise him too.

“I’m sorry we don’t have a real interrogation room,” McCoy said apologetically when he opened the door to the small, grey room for the detective to enter, “but you’ll understand that we normally don’t need it. Our…guests usually don’t have any more to say to the police.”

“I understand,” Hutch smiled humorlessly, looking around with a slight, irrational feeling of dread creeping up his spine.

“So-when can I talk to Saunders?” he asked, using Starsky’s cover name. He himself had used his real name as he had no real undercover alias.

“I told the guard on duty to get him right away,” McCoy answered, checking his watch. “He should be here any minute now. What exactly is it you need his statement for? As I recall he was sentenced for…shooting a cop, right?”

Hutch looked at the man unimpressed. “That’s classified information, Dr. McCoy.”

A thin, emotionless smile followed, subtly mocking the doctor’s own expression. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, sure, sure,” McCoy winked. “Sure I-ah, there he is.” Looking over his shoulder, he grinned, somehow reminding Hutch of one of his former teachers in high school when reading the latest test results out loud, then turned to meet the blond’s eyes again.

“Well, then, detective, I’ll leave you and the, uh, witness alone. When you want to leave, ring that bell over there,” he pointed at a button on the wall that was obviously connected with the office of the guard on duty. “Mr. Callahan will come and open the door then.”

“I will. Thanks,” Hutch muttered, forcing himself to not bend over to look down into the hall with anticipation. Not sure himself why, he was downright nervous about seeing his partner.

“Well, goodbye then, Detective Hutchinson,” McCoy said, once the guard, Callahan, a tall man with broad shoulders, who reminded Hutch of one of those stereotyped guards in bad jail movies, arrived at the entrance and all but shoved a very small looking Starsky inside.

“Yeah, uhm, bye,” the blond answered McCoy, again having to fight the urge to approach his partner immediately. He allowed himself a very brief inspection, though, before he turned to sit down on one of the two chairs. He opened a small suitcase he’d brought, spreading papers on the table, seemingly ignoring the guard, who led Starsky over to the other chair and forced him down on it. Holding him with a hand against his chest, he asked the detective, “You want me to restrain him?”

Hutch looked up, really looking at Starsky for the first time, and frowned when he saw that the smaller man’s hands were cuffed in front of him, anyway. Obviously Callahan assumed that the prisoner had to be tied to the chair.

“Uh, no,” the blond answered, a little too quickly, he thought, though the man didn’t notice.

“No, we’ll be okay. Thank you.”

The guard nodded shortly and turned without looking back, closing the door behind him.

Hutch looked after him for only the briefest moment to make sure they were alone, then dragged his chair next to Starsky’s instantly.

“Hey partner, you okay?” he asked worriedly, reaching out to lift Starsky’s face enough for him to look into slightly glassy blue eyes.

“I hate this place,” Starsky whined, his speech a little muffled due to the blond’s large hand cupping his chin.

Hutch smiled in a mixture of relief, affection and amusement, and at his partner’s weak grasps at his hand, let go off his chin, leaning back just a little to give the man some space.

“Well, you knew it wouldn’t be the Holiday Inn,” he pointed out, though he couldn’t hide the sympathy in his voice as he looked at his miserable looking friend.

“Nice socks,” he stated, glancing down at Starsky’s feet that were hid in ridiculously large, thick socks. Their color – pink – stood absolutely contrary to the rest of his clothing; grey sweat pants and a grey, thin t-shirt.

The effect was a nice one, though.

Starsky followed his partner’s gaze and shrugged like a sulking kid.

“I wanted blue, but they didn’t have them in my size. Oh, here, look,” he added as he thought of something and lifted one foot to show Hutch the small rubber spots underneath them.

Hutch grinned.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, taking hold of Starsky’s foot to inspect the walking socks more closely. “I used to have some like those when I was a little kid!”

“No kidding,” Starsky remarked dryly, rolling his eyes without Hutch noticing it.

“I loved them, they were really comfy and-”

“Shall I ask the guards if I can get a pair for you too?” Starsky interrupted his partner and slightly tugged at his foot in Hutch’s grip to get his nostalgic partner’s attention.

Returning to the here and now, Hutch let go off Starsky’s foot. “I take it you don’t find them comfy, huh?”

“They took my sneakers!” Starsky exclaimed. Hutch couldn’t help thinking he’d sounded just like that when his parents had taken his walking socks.

“You’ll get ’em back when this is over,” he assured and wanted to add something to get them into business talk, but Starsky wasn’t done with rambling yet.

“I bet they threw ’em away. Or burned them or whatever, like the rest of my stuff. D’you know why we have to wear those stupid things?!” he asked, lifting both his feet briefly to emphasize his point.

“Because we might hurt ourselves with our shoes.” He gave a short pause, staring at his partner as if waiting for him to jump to his feet and call Amnesty International. “Shoes, Hutch!”

“I heard you,” the blond nodded, suppressing a smile that he knew would enrage his humiliated partner even further. “Bet that’s why you don’t have any pockets too, hm?”

“Pockets?! I’m glad I’m allowed to wear clothes! I mean, hey, I could strangle someone with the legs of my pants!” To underline his words, he tugged at the material of his sweat pants, not aware that he left a tiny red spot on the grey clothes.

Hutch, though, saw it immediately.

“And it’s cold in here! You should think what with the stuff they make us wear they would at least turn up the heat, but nooo, they just-”

The dark man stopped his outburst, startled when he suddenly felt his partner’s hands on his. Looking down, he winced, knowing what Hutch had just found.

“Uhm…”

“H-how long have you been cuffed like that?” the blond asked, a deep frown embedded in his forehead as he scrutinized the thin bloody gashes on his friend’s wrists.

“Uhm…”

“And why did you struggle against th-” Looking up sharply, Hutch leaned closer, his eyes narrowed as he let go off Starsky’s wrists to once more cup his face.

Starsky jerked his head away slightly, but couldn’t prevent his partner from grabbing his chin again. “Hutch…It’s not-”

“You were drugged, weren’t you!”

“No, not drugged. I-”

“Starsk.”

Sighing, Starsky bowed his head, thereby freeing it from the blond’s grasp. “They sedated me,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t my faul-”

“When did they sedate you?” Hutch asked sternly, anger at his careless friend already rising inside him. He had no doubts that Starsky had known better than to do whatever it’d been that had left someone forcefully calming him down.

“Yesterday,” the smaller man mumbled, rubbing his left wrist absentmindedly.

Unnerved, Hutch took his hands in his again and gently massaged the sore skin. “When yesterday? Five minutes after you got here? Ten?”

When Starsky failed to answer, Hutch sighed, frustrated. “Starsk, how’re you supposed to find out about this kid when you’re asleep? Huh?”

“I know. I just wanted to test the limits.”

“Test the limits,” Hutch repeated as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

“Yeah,” Starsky nodded defiantly. “I’ve got to know what my limits are in here. Like when I get in touch with Nylon, I’ve got to know what I’m up against when it comes to risky-”

“I don’t want you to do anything risky, Starsk, okay? I want you to be a good little quiet patient-”

“Prisoner,” Starsky corrected.

“Whatever,” Hutch said, irritated. “And to look for Nylon, get him to talk to you and then get the hell outta here. No risky stuff whatsoever. You got that?”

“You sound like Dobey.”

“I feel like Dobey,” Hutch shot back. “You’re on your own in here and that means private parties are your private parties. And how does the saying go?”

“No private parties,” Starsky muttered like a kid who’d been reminded of House Rule Number One.

“Good boy. Now tell me what happened. You made a run for it again?”

“Uh…sorta like that, yes,” Starsky answered, deciding that his ever overprotective partner didn’t need to know the truth.

Hutch being Hutch, though, he just sighed, raising his brows in anticipation. “C’mon, Starsk, spill it. What happened?”

The dark man blinked innocently. “Like you said, I…” But at the stern expression he was met with, he sighed, submitting.

“I don’t know, Hutch, okay?” He shrugged in a big gesture, spreading his hands as much as he could with the cuffs on. “I wanted to make a run for it, but they had me in there before I even had the chan…”

“In where?” the blond asked, frowning.

“Dunno. Looked like an examination room. I don’t know. I thought they’d give me a check up, you know, the kinky stuff,” he grinned wryly, wriggling his eyebrows, “but they didn’t,” he concluded thoughtfully as if he had just now come to think about the strange incident.

When it became clear Starsky wouldn’t go on, Hutch leaned in closer and asked in a gentle voice: “What did they do?”

“Huh?” Starsky said confused, snapping out of his thoughts, then shrugged again, less enthusiastic this time.

“Oh. Dunno really. Sedated me, I think. It’s all kinda blurry. I think I recall…” He stopped, distress appearing in his eyes as he started to once more rub his wrists without being aware of it.

“Must have had a nightmare,” Hutch heard him mutter, the feeling of dread he’d had before returning with a vengeance.

“You didn’t do anything?” he asked again, for assurance, and Starsky shook his head no.

“Nothing to provoke them?” the blond continued, and again his partner shook his head, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

“Funny, huh?”

“I’ll laugh later,” Hutch remarked dryly, the frown on his forehead deepening with every passing second. He felt as if everything he’d feared over the whole day had appeared to be the truth exactly.

“I want you out of here.”

“Oh come on, Hutch, it’s only been a day! We can’t-”

“I didn’t say we’ll pull the plug,” Hutch interrupted him, though his tone of voice indicated that he actually wanted to do just that. “I only said I want you out of here.”

Starsky eyed him for a second, then pulled back his cuffed hands, visibly creating a distance between them.

“Hey Blondie, stop worrying! So I took a little nap, big deal. I’m sure it was something regular like – an entrance examination?” he tried, and Hutch smiled slightly, much to Starsky’s relief.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment, before Hutch checked his watch, then rubbed a nervous hand over his face, peeking at his partner over it, and finally stood to get over to the table and gather the unused papers together.

“Just find Nylon,” he told Starsky, raising the Hutchinson Warning Finger. “And-”

“No private parties,” Starsky concluded, lifting his hands in a feeble attempt to salute. “Yes, sir.”

Hutch let out an affectionate snort and pressed the button for the guard to open up the door.

The clenching feeling in his gut only increased, though, when he forced himself to leave the room without looking back at his partner.

****

Starsky hadn’t wanted to worry his partner more than necessary, though he couldn’t help but wonder just how necessary worrying actually was as he was dragged to his feet by Callahan, watching Hutch turning around a corner and vanishing.

It was then he noticed the blond hadn’t told him when he’d be back. And though he ordered himself to stop being such a baby immediately, the thought somewhat unnerved him.

It was ridiculous, he knew it. It wasn’t like his partner would desert him and never turn up again, yet the question why Hutch hadn’t even said so much as “I’ll be back” kept nagging at the edges of his mind while he walked along the hallway, not looking left or right like he should have in order to get to know the place.

It wasn’t until Callahan forced him to a sudden halt that he noticed he’d failed to do his job properly, and, cursing himself inwardly, he tried to quickly take in where they were and what was happening.

They were standing in front of a steel door he hadn’t seen before, and somehow it didn’t look like a cell door to him.

“Uh, hey, wha-” he rose his voice, but was silenced immediately by a very painful squeeze on the back of his neck.

As he was busy trying to catch his breath that had escaped him in a gasp, he eyed Callahan, who pushed a large button next to the door, opening it.

The larger man paid absolutely no attention to the prisoner next to him, he didn’t even hold him any longer, obviously not expecting the man to make a run for it.

Starsky doubted he could attempt one, anyway. He felt like passing out. His nerves had seemingly cramped and were releasing slowly now, sending waves of pain through his whole body. Carefully, while watching Callahan pushing the door open further, he brought his cuffed hands up to his neck to massage the sore area softly.

Great, the guard in charge’s a Vulcan. Can this get any better?!

Closing his eyes briefly to gather his bearings, he didn’t react immediately when Callahan motioned for him to enter the room and was taken by surprise when he was suddenly grabbed and roughly shoved inside, nearly thrown on a table that stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by machines and smaller tables with what looked like medical devices on them.

Actually it looked like a regular examination room in a hospital or a doctor’s office.

Only that there were restraints on the examination table.

‘Triffic, Starsky thought and swallowed dryly. He wasn’t much of a fan of such rooms, anyway, but this – this was unnerving him immensely.

“Hey, l-listen-” he turned to Callahan from where he leaned against the table.

This time he managed to back away, before the large man’s hand could find the already sore spot on his neck again, but he stumbled against the table in the process and crushed to the ground.

With his hands still cuffed he found it extremely difficult to get back in a sitting position and made a feeble attempt at crawling backwards when the guard reached out for him.

It was of no use, though.

Rough hands lifted him off the ground and despite his desperate struggle, placed him onto the table, holding him down firmly.

“What’s going on here?! Lemme go!” Starsky was near panic now, the sight of Callahan’s completely emotionless expression frightening him even further.

It seemed the guard wasn’t only used to this part of his job, but was, well, bored by it. He held the frantically kicking and struggling detective down with no visible effort whatsoever and never said a single word to him, while he waited a few seconds, until a second door to the room opened.

Starsky hadn’t seen the door before and laid his head back, stretching to see who was entering.

“Hey, I didn’t do anything!” he called out for the figure he still couldn’t see clearly, but heard rummaging around in one of the drawers of the smaller tables.

When he received no answer, he looked back at Callahan. “I didn’t do anything! You can’t-”

“Gee, would you mind?!” the irritated voice of the other man interrupted the detective’s rambles, and before Starsky could throw his head back again to see if he now could see the man, he felt one of Callahan’s hands cover his mouth firmly, while the other one lowered to rest upon his stomach, still pinning him to the table.

It hurt. A lot. Either Callahan had no idea about just how strong he was or he didn’t mind the idea of the prisoner chocking on his own vomit beneath his hand. Whatever was the truth, Starsky stopped struggling immediately, not eager about finding out.

“Thanks,” the other man sighed sarcastically and now stepped in Starsky’s line of vision, looking down at him with cold, scrutinizing eyes.

Cobalt blue eyes, wide with fear, followed his gaze as he looked him up and down, then made a few notes on a chart he held.

Finally, he picked up a small light and shone it into the prisoner’s eyes. Starsky squinted his eyes in reflex, but widened them quickly when he felt the other man’s hand on his face to lift his lids forcefully.

“Hm-mm,” the man nodded, writing down a few more notes. When he looked up again, he briefly nodded at Callahan, who drew his hands back from the figure on the bed.

Starsky remained completely still, gulping in air through his mouth, but otherwise not making a sound. The whole procedure was frightening him to death. The way the men treated him, like an animal, or rather a thing, sent cold fingers crawling up his spine.

He remembered the day before when he’d been sedated, and suddenly noticed that then, too, no one had said a word to him. They had led him to a room similar to this one right after he’d arrived at the place, and there they had injected him with something before he’d even had time to wonder what was going on.

Now, the incident seemed to fit into a pattern. If only he’d known what he’d done to make them do this.

Sure they didn’t just…

His eyes flying to the man with the chart again, a horrible thought crept inside his mind.

Experiments. What if they experiment with the…Oh god, oh please…

Clearing his throat ever so carefully, he lifted his head just a bit to look at the man before him.

“What’re you-”

He let out a strangled cry when Callahan’s hand cupped his forehead and yanked his head back onto the table again, the blow stunning him momentarily.

The man with the chart ignored the incident. He was finished writing and approached the table.

“Well, let’s get him settled,” he told Callahan.

Starsky shook his head slightly to clear it when he felt his hands being released from the cuffs. Wearily, he tried to take advantage of his sudden freedom, but his struggles met stone like strength, and all he could do was make it a little harder for the two men to get the thin t-shirt off of him and restrain his arms and legs on the table.

At last, a wide leather strap was secured over his throat, keeping his head down.

“What the hell you’re doing, you sick bastards?! You can’t-”

“Will you please shut him up, for Christ’s Sake?!” Chart Man snapped at Callahan, shaking his head like an annoyed father, then turned back to his chart, turning pages, while producing several instruments from another drawer closer to the examination table.

“Gee, how’s a person supposed to work like this?!” the poor, overworked man muttered under his breath.

Starsky stared at him with unbelieving eyes. What the hell was going on here? Who were those monsters? Didn’t they care at all?!

He was kept from asking any of those questions by a piece of duct tape that suddenly was secured over his mouth.

He muffled a protesting scream, but only resulted in having it evened a little more, the pressure on his mouth hurting him, so that he gave up making any noise at all.

“McCoy said he killed a cop?” Chart Man asked Callahan, turning to face him, when the man didn’t answer.

Callahan nodded, and chart man nodded contentedly, arranging the instruments on the instrument table.

Starsky felt himself starting to tremble with fear despite his efforts to not show how frightened he actually was. What were they going to do to him? His gaze wandered up to Chart Man’s, a pleading look popping up in them without him being aware of it.

Chart Man looked away.

“I’d say he’s a B,” he said. Callahan nodded, not in an agreeing, but obedient way.

He checked his watch and left the room. Starsky stretched his neck, looking after the guard, somehow even more scared by the thought of being alone with Chart Man. He recalled a film he’d once seen about a mad scientist experimenting on humans.

The thought of how the victims in that film had looked sent the bile rising in his throat again. He swallowed repeatedly, watching Chart Man whistling to himself while he filled a syringe with skilled fingers.

Oh god, please! Hutch! Hutch, I need some help here, partner! Please!

But he couldn’t even squirm away. He couldn’t move at all, just jerk his head painfully beneath the leather strap around his throat as the needle was quickly slid home.

****

Hutch sat on the bed in his hotel room and stared at the TV running with the volume down.

Every once in a while he glanced at the phone, willing it to ring.

It never did.

That arrogant, old fart! He’s never gonna call. He’ll just sit on his fat…

Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to calm down.

Three days my ass. No way I’m going to just sit here for three days doing nothing!

Three days. That was the amount of time Frasier had said they’d have to wait before checking on Starsky again.

Three days. Enough time to get the information they needed.

Yeah, or to get into trouble. Drugged. Locked away. Killed. Oh, what am I thinking?!

Jumping to his feet as if trying to get away from the thoughts somehow creeping up inside him from out of the bed, the blond started pacing the small room.

“Uuuhhh, this is fun,” he sighed sarcastically, stretching his arms, only then noticing how tensed he was.

What if they’ve sedated him again? He said they had no reason for it the first time, so what if they do it with all their patients? Like in all the time? What an easier way to get rid of them?

“Shit,” he muttered, letting himself fall back on the bed.

Gee, I hate this! I can’t even call him. Or see him for that matter. Last time, at least I was there with him. Cop killer. What a great idea that was too…I bet the folks in there are particularly fond of cop killers. What if they beat him up? Or worse? He’s a supposed cop killer, for Christ’s sake, they probably figure nobody would care, anyway!

Again, he jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket in the motion.

This isn’t helping anything, Hutchinson. If you want to do something useful, go and do it!

Without looking back, he left the room, throwing the door shut behind him.

****

“Hey, Sean, there’s a guy asking for you in the office.”

Turning from where he’d been pouring water in the coffee machine, Lieutenant Sean Frasier met the eyes of his colleague, frowned, then-as realization dawned-sighed deeply.

“Tall blond irritating kid?”

“Yeah,” the other man nodded with a crooked smile. “Says his name’s-”

“Hutchinson,” Frasier growled, placed the coffee can aside and re-entered the office, where Hutch stood at his table, reading something that lay on top of it.

“Hey, kid!” Frasier’s voice startled the younger man enough to make him whirl around, thereby knocking a few sheets of paper to the ground.

As the Lieutenant rolled his eyes, Hutch quickly bent down to gather the mess together.

“Uh…Sorry. I…”

Making his way over to the blond, Frasier shoved him aside and picked up the papers himself, placing them back on the table, turned upside down.

Hutch frowned, but quickly forced himself to smile sheepishly. He didn’t miss to make a mental note about the older man’s strange behavior, though.

“Well,” Frasier finally asked, making the word sound like a principal would before lecturing one of his pupils, “what can I do for you?”

“Uhm…” Though Hutch was a few inches taller than the other man, he instantly felt himself shrinking at Frasier’s gaze.

“I’m supposed to…work with you,” he finished lamely.

“Work with me,” Frasier repeated tonelessly.

“Yeah, well, like…You don’t really want me to sit in that room for the next three days, do you?” Hutch asked, a nervous smile slowly spreading on his lips.

“Do you?”

There was a short pause with Frasier just looking at him through narrow eyes, before the Lieutenant sank down on his chair heavily, forcing Hutch to step aside from the table and stand before him, now really looking like a kid about to get a lecture.

“Kid…”

“Ken,” Hutch corrected sweetly.

“Ken,” Frasier said with a sarcastic little nod. “I don’t know what you’ve been told about this whole assignment, but I’m sure of one thing. You will not work with me.”

As Hutch’s gaze froze in a mixture of fury and confusion, Frasier asked “Got that?” and without waiting for a reply, turned to his desk, away from the blond.

Hutch looked down at the man for a few seconds, before straightening up and nodding in mock agreement. “Okay, Sean. It was nice meeting you.”

Frowning slightly as he saw the younger man turn and walk away slowly, Frasier looked up despite himself.

“Hey, kid!”

Hutch ignored him.

“Ken!”

“Yes?”

“Where’re you going?”

“To get my partner and head back to Bay City,” Hutch replied unimpressed, and left the office.

When he’d turned three corners, he leaned against a wall, whistling softly to himself, waiting.

It didn’t take him a minute to hear heavy footsteps on the hallway, and when he peeked around the corner with a grin, he met Sean Frasier’s irritated glare.

“You are a pain in the ass, kid, you know that?!” the older man growled, panting slightly from the exercise.

“Ken,” Hutch corrected him stoically.

****

It seldom hurt. And it never knocked him out.

That was the first thing he noticed. Chart Man pulled back the needle, peeked closely into the sapphire blue eyes wide with sudden pain and fear. He found no sign of them closing or becoming glassy, and nodded contently, scribbling on his chart.

Next, he quickly attached EKG electrodes to the still man’s chest, checking the machine with professional routine.

When everything was done and working, he too checked his watch and left the room.

Starsky was alone. He pulled against the restraints holding him a few times, but gave it up quickly when he only managed to hurt his wrists. Wisely, he didn’t even try to move his head.

He stared up the ceiling, his heart racing in panic, a fine sheet of sweat appearing on his forehead.

What the hell did they give me? What’s happening to me? Is something happening at all? Could something happen? Calm down, Davey, damn it calm down!

Taking deep breaths through his nose, he forced himself to focus on one spot on the ceiling and concentrate on the beeping of his own heartbeat that was too fast, much too fast to be of any help.

Stop panicking, Starsky! You’re going to hyperventilate!

He was pretty sure that it wasn’t the reaction to the drug, but just his own fear, yet knowing that at one point there surely would be a reaction to the drug made it nearly impossible to fight back the gnawing horror.

Okay, okay, here’s what we’ll do, Davey. Who… ?

A slight frown appeared on his face as he tried to come up with a fairly difficult baseball-question.

Nah, too easy. Hm…Who invented the game? Oh, that’s a good one!

He chuckled beneath his gag, wincing automatically when the small movement hurt his lips, but not really registering it.

I bet Hutch would know that. He knows all those nonsense things. I’m gonna ask him when I see him next time, he decided, content with that solution, then realized it meant he still had nothing to think about to distract him from the panic.

Not that he was afraid any longer. His heartbeat had slowed down rapidly. Yet he simply didn’t think about it. He felt calm, satisfied…

I wonder if I still know all the stanzas from that stupid baseball rhyme Nicky used to yell before…screwing the hell up on the field! That kid wouldn’t have caught a ball if his life had depended on it!

…happy.

****

Starsky knew he hadn’t been sleeping. At all. He knew that hour after hour must have passed, slipped away, while he continued to stare at the ceiling, his body too numb by now to find the strength to struggle anymore.

Though, funny, now he felt like struggling.

How much time had passed? he wondered. He had no way of telling, since the bright lights above his head never went off, and there were no windows. He knew his body was getting exhausted, his head throbbed slightly from the lack of sleep, and he felt the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

Yet-he wasn’t tired. And he wasn’t hungry.

Scared. I should be scared, he thought, his eyes wandering once more over to the IVs that ran into both his arms.

One had been set a few hours after Chart Man had left, by another man. Probably a new shift, Starsky had thought with dry humor, watching the man’s movements closely.

That IV was the one that was refilled every now and then, new bags were attached to it, and it was that on which the by then numerous scientists’ attentions were centered.

The other one had been set by a man who wore the same clothes as Callahan, so Starsky had assumed he was a guard. At first, the detective had been incredibly glad to see him, thinking he was done there and would be brought to his cell, where if not a real bed at least a real bunk would be waiting for him and the gag and restraints would be removed.

He’d been painfully thirsty by then, and though he’d felt no pain at all from his wrists or neck, his mind knew he should have felt pain. The knowledge without the body reaction to prove it had been even more disturbing.

Instead of releasing him, though, the guard had set yet another IV on his other arm. Despite his weakness, the restrained man had struggled feebly, only resulting in getting the stomach treatment again, the other man’s strong hand pressing him down onto the table hard. He’d never even looked at the man, just checked the IV flowing nicely and turned, leaving the detective alone, who’d coughed underneath his gag, desperately trying to make the nausea caused by the guard’s action pass.

It hadn’t taken him long to notice that the light-headedness vanished. His throat still burned from thirst, but his head hadn’t been throbbing anymore, and he’d felt a little more alert.

His eyes crawling to their corners, he had eyed the new IV, frowning slightly. Obviously it wasn’t in the scientists’ plans to let him get dehydrated. With a shudder he’d wondered if he’d be fed through a tube next.

What a better way to gag someone? he’d thought, snorting at his own comment.

Again, hours had passed. The bag of the second IV was empty, though the other one was steadily replaced by ever silent scientists, all carrying charts, all scribbling on them, all ignoring the object of their studies.

Not one of them ever looked into Starsky’s face, not to mention talked to him.

The times of happiness and nonsense-question to distract himself were over, another period of the experiment had begun without the exhausted man being alert enough to notice it. Slowly, but steadily, he was beginning to feel devastated. Desperate. Hopeless. Lost.

Sad.

I wonder how much shit they’ve forced through my veins already! Is this the sixth or the seventh bag? What day is it, anyway?! Hutch would be back by now, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t he? He didn’t say he’d be back. Maybe he left me here. Maybe he’s here somewhere. Or was here. And I missed him. But I didn’t sleep, did I? No, I didn’t sleep. I think I didn’t. Was awake the whole time. I’d have noticed him. So he wasn’t here. Why didn’t he come back? Is this right? Maybe all of this is right. I’m sick. I need this. I need medication.

A confused frown crept over his face, his eyes narrowing while focused on the neon light above his head. How had he gotten there, anyway? Right, an assignment. This was a cover assignment. He was not sick. He was in trouble. He didn’t need medication. He needed to get out.

Hutch. I need Hutch. Hutch, help! I think…I think I’m losing it here, partner! Where the hell are you?!

But what if he was sick? What if he was sick, and they all had tricked him in there, because they’d feared he wouldn’t go by himself?

Stop it, Davey!!! That’s not what happened! That’s just the shit messing with your mind. You’re not sick, and Hutch did not trick you in here. He’ll come back, you know that. He’ll come and get you out of here.

He couldn’t feel the few tears that slowly made their way down his cheeks, soaking into the material of the strap over his throat.

What if he won’t?

****

“Hey,” a gruff voice to his right startled Hutch enough to make him jump half-way to his feet, glancing around wildly. He must have dozed off, he thought, rubbing a spot on his forehead where he’d rested his head on the desk, then let his hand travel down to his tired eyes.

“Yeah?” he asked, peeking over his fingers at one of Frasier’s colleagues who stood in front of him, smiling dryly at the pitiful sight.

“You know, maybe you ought to get home too, kid. You look like hell.”

“Ken,” Hutch corrected automatically like he had all day long, and, slowly massaging his sore neck, he shook his head no. “No, I’m fine. I just need another cup of coff-”

Looking over to the coffee machine, he noticed it was empty and smiled sheepishly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he then told the older man with a sigh.

The officer laughed sympathetically, patting the detective’s shoulder. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep, sport-”

“Ken.”

Ignoring him, the man continued: “Sean’s gonna have your hide if you’ll fall asleep in the morning, you know. He’s sorta-”

“Annoying?” Hutch sighed tiredly.

The man laughed again.

“Strict,” he corrected, giving the younger man a friendly parting slap to the head, before turning to go. “But he’s one hell of a great cop, kiddo-”

“Ken.”

” -once you’ve got to know him. You’ll learn a lot, you’ll see.”

“Uh huh,” Hutch said without enthusiasm. It had been sometime during that day that he’d found out about the “cover alias” Frasier had come up with for him. He’d been carrying some files about LaMarre over to the desk Frasier had allowed him to use for his research, when suddenly a loud voice had cut through the occupied silence in the room.

“Hey junior, you’re already standing. C’mon, take care of the coffee flow, will ya?”

Hutch, not aware that he was junior, had continued on his way, until he’d felt a tip on his shoulder.

“You know, kiddo, it’s a good thing you’re a hard-working man, but…”

Staring at the man, an older detective who was sometimes working with Frasier, Hutch’s eyes had widened slightly, while he unconsciously interrupted the man with a mumbled “Ken.”

The officer had rolled his eyes, casting a look at his friend over Hutch’s shoulder. “Hey Sean, what good is that kid anyway, huh?”

“I don’t know yet,” Frasier had replied with a shrug, grinning at Hutch who’d whirled around to shoot him a glance to kill.

“You any good, ki…Kenny?”

I’m going to kill him. When this is over, I’m going to strangle him myself.

What with Frasier having spread the news that he had a newbie in training on his hands for a few days, Hutch had been powerless to struggle against the older men’s treatment, thereby spending the day making coffee, carrying files from desk to desk and listening to more than one senior’s lecture about the importance of desk-work before hitting the street.

That not one of them had ever bothered to recall his name hadn’t been helpful to improve his mood either. Not to mention that he hadn’t had the chance to get some actual work done.

Somewhere beneath the fury he’d felt at Frasier, he’d seriously wondered if that last fact may have been the purpose of the whole scheme. Though he didn’t know why, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sean Frasier didn’t want him to go through LaMarre’s files, to get into the case at all. He wanted him out of the way, and Hutch was determined to find out why.

So after Frasier had left that day, “junior” had settled on his “superior’s” desk and had started to go through the files spread on it.

It hadn’t taken him a minute to fall asleep.

“Well,” Frasier’s colleague drew his attention back to the here and now, “I’m off then. See you in the morning, junior.”

“G’night…sir,” Hutch mumbled sarcastically, but the man was gone before he could hear it.

Once more massaging his tensed muscles, Hutch closed his eyes. He was beat. He was beat, sore, tired and pretty sure he hadn’t felt that pissed off for a long, long time.

Shuffling over to the coffee machine to see if there was anything he could do about its poor condition, he contemplated about playing a practical joke on Frasier.

Yeah, like maybe put something in his coffee. Cyanide.

He smiled a little at the thought, his eyes narrowing in one of his very seldom wicked grins, and fumbled with the coffee can, when he suddenly, as if someone had pointed that out to him just now, noticed that he was alone in the office.

Slowly, can still in hand, he turned to scan the room. There was no one in there.

Except for him.

His gaze wandering to Frasier’s desk, he took a step away from the machine towards it, moving as if in slow-motion.

Once he’d reached the desk, though, his body instinctively pressed the forward button, as he searched through the mass of papers on his ‘superior’s’ desk with a speed his partner-the world’s record holder of food-snatching–would have been proud of.

Gathering together as much files as he could hold, the blond practically bounced to ‘his’ desk, spreading sheets of paper all over it.

He sat down just in time, as two seconds later two uniformed officers entered the room, chatting happily with each other, only stopping on their way to their desks to crack a few jokes about the hard-working rookie Frasier had brought in.

Hutch was still reading, when their shifts ended and they left again, hours later.

****

He couldn’t understand.

He’d tried, until it had become too exhausting to think about it anymore, but still he couldn’t understand. He wanted to. Desperately. He wanted to understand why they were doing these things to him. Why were they hurting him?

Maybe if he understood, he could do something about it. And then, maybe, they would stop. That would have been nice. If they stopped.

He shifted a little, just so much as his restrained arms would allow, on the table he’d occupied for days now.

It hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt.

I didn’t do anything.

That was the truth. He had kept silent. Even when they had removed the duct tape from his mouth he had kept silent, knowing noises would only lead to them hurting him more.

And he hurt enough already. Not only had his arms gone completely numb over the endless hours of his captivity, he also still hadn’t slept. Not at all. Whatever they were pumping through his veins held his eyes open forcefully. They seemed to be secured to strings that wouldn’t allow them to fall closed. They always popped open again instantly.

He was tired. God, he was so tired. He didn’t even care anymore what they’d do to him when he’d be asleep, if only he would be asleep.

I didn’t do anything. Let me go.

He pleaded in his mind, not daring to speak out loud. He didn’t know when he’d started to plead. It had shocked him at first, but shock was too exhausting a feeling now.

Isolation. The pain in his head, the confusion, the fear, the tears, the anger, everything-it seemed that everything he’d ever felt had started with isolation.

Isolation had hurt. God, it had hurt.

It hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts.

Hutch.

The memory brought back the image of his partner, his own pain reflected in light blue eyes.

Hutch had not come.

Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was dead. Or didn’t care. Or maybe this was really what he, Starsky, deserved, what he needed. Maybe he was sick. But why did they hurt him to cure him?

Why hadn’t Hutch come? What had he done that had made his partner so angry he’d deserted him in this place?

I didn’t do anything. I’m sorry if I did, Hutch. I didn’t mean it. Just come back. Please.

In his confused, abused state of mind, the realization that only two days had passed since he’d seen Hutch the last time didn’t find a way inside his head. He had no way of telling how much time went by with him staring at a white ceiling, begging his partner to come.

Isolation. He knew that before isolation, he’d known what it was. It was something else, not what it sounded like. Before isolation, he’d known a lot more than he knew now.

Had he known then why exactly he was there? Had he known then that he was sick? Or maybe there was another reason for him being there. Had he been kidnapped? Or was this an assignment? One that had went wrong?

Definitely wrong.

It hurt to think. It felt like his thoughts ran against solid walls inside his head, and he could feel it as if the thoughts themselves were nerves of his. And whenever one of them crashed into a wall, it died.

He’d read once that when you listen to too loud music, nerves in your ear died. Thousands of them. It wasn’t that bad, because you had a lot of them. Lots of lots of them, but eventually you’d lose them all and go deaf.

Was he losing his thoughts? He’d already lost the one about the reason for his being there, hadn’t he? He’d lost the thought about how sleep felt. He lost the thought about what isolation was and why he should try to memorize what it was.

What if he lost even more? What if he lost the thought of Hutch?

He caught his breath in a surprised, shocked gasp at that, but frowned a second later. No, he’d never forget Hutch. It was impossible for him to forget Hutch. He could see Hutch if he wanted to, right in front of his eyes, without even having to close them.

Hutch was with him. Always.

Hutch cared about him. Right. That thought popped up a lot. Hutch cared about him. So, logically, if Hutch had decided to send him in there, it had had to be for a reason. Hutch didn’t do anything without a reason.

So if Hutch thought it right for him to be there, it should be okay with him too, right? Right.

Satisfied and happy about finally having been able to think a whole question through and even reached a logical conclusion, Starsky smiled to himself.

****

Hutch felt like a kid on the way to the amusement park.

Today was the day he was allowed to check on Starsky again, and he felt actually excited about it. Not necessarily in a happy way, but definitely excited.

He sat on the passenger seat of Sean Frasier’s car and nervously drummed on his leg with his fingers. From time to time he shot a brief glance in Frasier’s direction. The older man never noticed, though. He seemed to be lost in thoughts about some case.

Of which he had quite a lot, as Hutch had found out the night before.

After the first twenty minutes of going through the files he’d collected from Frasier’s desk, a frown had clawed itself into his forehead, and there it had stayed throughout the night.

A lot of files, sure, but not one-NOT ONE-had been about Thomas LaMarre or Danny Nylon.

Sure, the man was Lieutenant, so he probably had to check on some rookie’s reports too, and maybe he was just a slob, a slow worker. Maybe he hated paper work as much as Hutch and Starsky did, but, anyway, the fact that he didn’t have a single file related to the case he was actually working on, on his desk, was more than strange.

IF he’s working on that case…Hutch thought, once more glancing over to the silent man behind the wheel.

The dreadful feeling he’d had about the whole assignment since day one returned with a vengeance. Something was definitely wrong. About Frasier, about the hospital, about the whole thing.

And he’d be damned if he didn’t find out what before…

…before Starsky does, he thought worriedly. He had a slight, a very, very slight suspicion, and he desperately hoped he was wrong.

“You know, Kenny,” Frasier suddenly broke the silence without looking at the blond, “you shouldn’t pull all nighters like that. You look like shit.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hutch replied dryly, but tensed involuntarily. He had yet to figure the older man out, and until he was finished with that, he knew he had to be careful around him. The man could be a great danger not only to him, but also for his partner. If Sean Frasier was working both sides, Hutch didn’t want Starsky caught in the middle; defenseless and…without shoes.

A quick side glance brushed the younger man, and Frasier snorted. “Kinda edgy when tired, huh?”

“I’m not tired,” Hutch said, adding a clear “sir” after a second’s thought.

Frasier grinned slightly, but didn’t say any more.

****

Long fingers drummed on top of the desk in the small, windowless room. Checking his watch like a businessman before a meeting, Hutch shoved fake files from one end of the desk to the other. Then, he shoved them back.

He checked his watch again. It couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes that had passed, but still every second that went by without Starsky appearing at the door made the blond tense a little more until it felt like he’d actually shrank.

He leaned back in the chair and stretched slightly.

This doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he’s in a far part of the building. Or eating. It’s really hard to get Starsk away when he’s eating…

He forced himself to smile slightly at that, though it never reached his eyes, and nearly jumped off the chair when finally the door was opened and Starsky entered, followed by the same guard Hutch had seen the first time. Callahan, he remembered. Callahan, the giant, who wore the same blank expression he seemed to have been born with.

“Hello,” Hutch greeted him, ignoring the prisoner like his alter ego would do, though he couldn’t help glancing at his partner from the corner of his eye.

Something was definitely wrong. He couldn’t see Starsky’s face, and that alone sent alarm bells off in his head. He couldn’t see Starsky’s face, because the smaller man’s head was bowed so much his chin almost touched his chest. A mob of damp, dark curls hang over his forehead, and his cuffed hands were pressed onto his stomach.

He was wearing clothes of the same kind and color like he had before, only this time the socks were a bright orange. If things hadn’t been the way they were, Hutch definitely would have had to stifle a giggle at that.

He didn’t feel much like laughing, though. The clothes Starsky wore looked new, still smooth like he’d put them on just now. Somehow, Hutch found that thought disturbing.

Quickly forcing himself to push his concern aside for just a second longer, he watched Callahan drag Starsky to the chair and push him down onto it.

Starsky didn’t struggle. And he didn’t look up.

“Uh…Y-you,” the blond said, inwardly cursing himself for his stress stutter. He really wanted to be alone with his partner, and he feared he would blow both their covers, anyway, if he had to just stand there and watch the back of Starsky’s head much longer.

“You don’t have to restrain him, guard. We’ll be okay.”

Callahan gave a quick nod, obviously not having noticed anything strange about the cop, and turned to leave.

“Push the button, when you’re ready,” he said in a monotone voice and closed the door behind him.

Hutch was on his knees next to Starsky’s chair in a split second.

“Starsk. Buddy, hey, what happened? You okay?”

Starsky didn’t lift his head, but now that he was closer, Hutch could see tiny tremors running through his body, and reaching out to gently touch his head, he noticed that the man was damp.

The ringing of the alarm bell grew so loud it was impossible to ignore any longer.

Twenty minutes. I waited here for at least twenty minutes. They…they bathed him in that time?! Not good. Uh uh. Not good!

“Starsk, talk to me. Starsky. Look at me.”

Hutch was getting frantic. The thought that he’d been right all the time, that everything he’d feared had come true almost taking his breath away.

Three days. Oh God, I left him here for three fucking days! Damn you, Frasier! Damn you!

“Hutch?”

The fearful whisper cut through Hutch’s thoughts like a scream.

“Yeah,” he hurried to say, bending down to look into his friend’s eyes. Starsky still hadn’t lifted his head. “Yeah, Starsk, it’s me. It’s Hutch. I’m here. What happened?”

“Hu-Hutch?”

“Yes,” Hutch said desperately, raising one hand to lift Starsky’s head, but thought differently. “Yes, it’s me. It’s okay. Can you look up? Huh? Starsk? Can you look up for me? Lift your head?”

“Tired,” Starsky mumbled, but managed to raise his head a bit, so that Hutch could at least see his face.

“No kidding,” the blond said softly, ever so gently tipping his index finger under Starsky’s chin to get a closer look at him.

He looked terrible. Hutch had last seen him that pale when he’d been shot, and there were deep dark smudges under his eyes, like bruises. The sea blue eyes were barely visible under heavy lids.

“God, Starsk, what happened?” Hutch asked again, smoothing his free hand through the damp curls that clung to his partner’s face.

Starsky flinched.

“Shh, it’s okay, buddy. It’s okay, I’m here. Everything’s fine. Can you tell me what happened?”

The smaller man seemed to think about the question, tilting his tired head to one side, though it looked more like it just lolled there. Hutch’s finger wandered to the back of Starsky’s head as if to hold it upright.

“I…I didn’t do anything,” Starsky finally said, his voice quivering a little, making him sound like a child who’d been accused of breaking a window.

Somehow, though, the sound of the sentence, or rather of his own voice, brought a tiny smile to the confused man’s lips, and he looked directly at his partner when he repeated more firmly: “I didn’t do anything, Hutch.”

Hutch was confused and even more concerned. He smiled nervously, stroking the backs of curled fingers over Starsky’s clammy cheek.

“You didn’t, huh?” he asked like he would a kid.

Starsky frowned just a bit, and moved his head away from the blond’s loving touch.

“You’re mad at me?” he asked in the same little-boy-voice, his expression defeated. As if he wanted to understand why Hutch was angry with him, but at the same time felt it to be unfair.

Hutch’s eyes widened in horror when he saw moisture in the corners of Starsky’s eyes.

“No,” he answered quickly, almost yelling the word. “No, I’m not mad at you. Jeez, Starsk, what the hell happened here? What did they do to you?”

Gently, but firmly, he peeled Starsky’s hands off his stomach and turned his arms so he could see the small injection spots.

“How often have you been drugged?” he asked, looking up into Starsky’s eyes again.

His partner frowned as if trying to grasp a thought he couldn’t seem to hold onto.

“Buddy? Talk to me.”

“I…” he started, then suddenly lifted his hands from Hutch’s hold to touch the blond’s face.

“Am I sick?” he asked, absolutely serious.

Hutch coughed in surprise, almost chocking on the words that wanted to pour out all at the same time. Realizing the touch on his face was meant to comfort him, he grabbed Starsky’s hands almost roughly and held them as if restraining the smaller man.

“No! No, you’re not sick! You’re on an assignment.” He let go off the shaky hands and cupped both sides of Starsky’s face to look him directly into the eyes. “Starsky, do you remember our assignment?”

The blank look he received was answer enough.

“And you don’t remember Danny Nylon?”

“I’m not sick?”

Hutch stared at his friend unbelievingly and suddenly found himself wrapping him in a tight embrace. Pure reflex, he guessed.

“No, buddy. You’re not sick. You don’t belong here. Ah jeez,” he sighed, when he let go off his confused partner who stared at him with a mixture of relief and confusion. “What a mess have we gotten ourselves into again?!”

Running a hand through his blond hair, Hutch took a deep breath as if bracing himself for the actions necessary.

“Starsk, you know who I am, right?”

“`Course,” the dark man replied, the first appearance of his usual tone of voice. Hutch could have hugged him again.

“Good. You know you’re a cop, right?”

Starsky stared at him, his lips moving slightly as if he was silently talking to himself. Then all of a sudden, the sea blues cleared, just a bit, and he frowned.

“I…” he started, but winced.

“Buddy? What is it? Starsk?” Hutch asked a little panicked, placing a warm hand on a tensed shoulder. “Buddy, talk to me. Come on, don’t-”

“I didn’t…I…Hutch,” Starsky interrupted him, wincing again at the pain in his head. “I didn’t see Danny Nylon,” he finally said softly.

Hutch’s eyes widened. “You remember?”

“I…Thinking hurts,” Starsky stated, squinting his eyes closed briefly. “Hurts to think.”

Stroking the side of the curly head again as if he could smooth away the pain inside, Hutch asked, “You remember our assignment now?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not…Hutch,” a sudden urgency colored the dark man’s voice and uncoordinated attempts at grasping the blond’s sleeve, “please, I don’t wanna go back to isolation. It hurts. Hurts,” he repeated in a whispered whimper, bringing his trembling fingers up to rub his forehead.

Hutch was beyond caring about what any guard who might enter the scene would figure. His hands wandered once more down to cup his partner’s face as he looked directly into fear-filled blue eyes.

“Starsk,” he soothed. “Buddy-”

“I’m sorry,” his suddenly scared friend said over his words, “I’m sorry i-if you’re mad at me. But I-I don’t want to go-”

“Starsky!” Hutch practically yelled, but instantly bit his lip, cursing himself for the lack of self-control that could get the both of them in a lot of trouble in a place like that.

“Buddy, it’s okay. You hear me? Everything’s alright. Look at me. Buddy. Starsk. Look at me!”

When the deep blue eyes kept slipping away from his gaze, he grabbed Starsky’s chin, lifting his head even more, until he was looking up at Hutch’s face.

“I’m not mad at you,” Hutch said firmly. “I did not send you here. You don’t belong here. D’you understand?”

Starsky hesitated, but nodded.

“Okay. Now-what does isolation mean? What-”

“Hurts,” the confused detective answered without missing a beat. “It hurts, Hutch. It scares me. I don’t want to-”

“Why does it hurt?” Hutch cut him off, desperate to find out what had been done to his partner to leave him in such a horrifying state of mind. “What happened in isolation?”

Starsky stared blankly at him as if not understanding the question.

Hutch sighed, let go off his chin and crouched down in front of him, feeling like he was getting on eye-level with a frightened child.

“What is isolation, buddy? Solitary confinement? Huh? They put you in solitary confinement?”

“No,” Starsky shook his head. “Isolation.”

“What does that mean, Starsk?!” Hutch asked, frustrated. “What did they do to you?”

“I…” Starsky started, but suddenly the fog in his eyes lit up again like it had before when he’d remembered the assignment.

“I don’t know,” he whispered finally, the sound sending a bunch of cold fingers clawing down Hutch’s spine.

“Hutch,” Starsky continued, still in a whisper, but more coherent than he’d been throughout the whole time, “something’s happening in here.”

“No shit,” Hutch muttered, sitting back on his legs as he lowered himself to his knees. He looked up at his partner questioningly.

“I don’t remember what isolation means, but…the word alone scares the shit outta me. It hurt. I-It hurts to think about it…It…”

Breathing in deep, Starsky tried to calm himself, to hold onto the think rope to the coherent part of his mind. The fear, the pain, the sadness, the anger, the emotions were roaring, grabbing waves beneath him, a deep black sea of confusion. A thick, choking liquid that threatened to reach out for him, to drag him back into it.

He shook his head fiercely to clear it, then focused his eyes on Hutch as if he was his lifesaver, the branch that reached out of the sea, the only hold he could find.

The words tumbled out, afraid they might not make it.

“They shot me full of stuff, I don’t know what, b-but it’s…I think it were psychedelic drugs. I-I dunno. I feel like…like crying and laughing and screaming and hiding a-and…”

Violently shaking hands tried to come up to drive nervously through his thick curls, but with the cuffs on, he couldn’t really complete the action and hit his legs in frustration.

Hutch watched in unbelieving horror as his friend curled up on the chair the very next moment. He felt sickly reminded of some of the junkies’ behaviors during interrogation. When they’d been on the road down, but had not yet arrived in hell.

He swallowed dryly, but forced himself to sit still, to let his partner say it all first.

“I don’t know what the hell’s happening to me! A-and I remember isolation, b-but at the same time I don’t! I…” Starsky’s voice broke, his eyes snapped shut.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked, alarmed.

“They’re experimenting with the patients in here, Hutch,” Starsky said clearly, his eyes squeezed shut as if he feared he would lose the fight against the drugs if he looked at the world.

“They’re testing out psychedelic drugs, I’m sure. I didn’t do anything to deser-”

He interrupted himself, bit his lip as if trying to kill the sentence. The sentence that tried to push him back into the roaring see.

At Hutch’s careful touch on his knee, he opened his eyes again.

“I don’t think we’re in here because of Danny Nylon,” he stated, anger coloring the words.

Hutch felt all color drain off his face. “Wh-what you mean?”

Starsky’s blank look returned, but he blinked hard once, pushing the tugging sensation in his heart aside.

“We’ve been set up, partner.”

His gaze held Hutch’s for a while, before finally dropping to the ground. “I’m hungry,” he mumbled.

“Yeah,” Hutch muttered and stood up, producing a candy bar from a pocket of his jacket. “I-I brought you some can-”

He frowned, surprised at Starsky’s wide grin. It almost looked like one of the famous Starsky specials. But he knew it wasn’t. It was an artificial grin. Placed there.

“Some candy,” he finished uneasily and handed Starsky the candy bar. “How…how long since you’ve eaten anything?”

Starsky shook his head, eyeing the gift in his hands happily. “Dunno.”

“Aw jeez,” Hutch muttered and wiped a hand over his drawn features. When his fingers had passed his eyes, he looked over his fingertips and saw the corners of Starsky’s mouth twisting slightly as he still focused on the candy bar.

Once more, he gave the image of a little boy. It looked like he was trying to figure out how to get past the paper that was wrapped around what he desired so much.

Almost out of reflex, Hutch took the candy back from him and ripped the plastic material open. It was only when he absentmindedly looked back at his partner that he saw the shock in the wide blue eyes. The sadness.

His eyes wandering back down to the candy in his hands, Hutch felt disgusted at the realization that the thought of his present being taken away from him again had sent the tough street cop that was his partner to the verge of tears.

“H-here,” he said, but the words were somehow trapped in his throat and didn’t quite make it out. He avoided looking at his partner when he laid the candy bar back in his hands and also ignored the flinch he felt beneath his fingers.

Once assured that no one would take his candy away from him again, Starsky happily wolfed it down, almost swallowing the whole thing without chewing.

Hutch watched, pursing his lower lip. “I take it they don’t experiment with food, huh?”

“More?” Starsky asked instead of an answer, looking up at the blond.

A wry smile played on Hutch’s lips as he shrugged a silent ‘sorry’.

Starsky gave an unappreciative noise. “What good’re you?”

Hutch laughed slightly, more out of relief at the familiar Starsky-sound of the insult then at its actual content.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked over the blond’s light chuckle.

“Yeah?”

“Will you…get me outta here? B-before…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t have to.

Hutch nodded quickly and crouched down in front of Starsky’s chair again. “Don’t worry, buddy. As soon as I’m back at the precinct, I’ll call Dobey and tell him what’s going on here. We’ll have you out of here in no time and then you and me, buddy, we’ll kick some old-timers’ asses!”

A confused frown appeared on the smaller man’s face. “Huh?”

Hutch smiled, the fury he felt at Sean Frasier twinkling like black sparkles in his eyes. “You’ll see, partner. Just kick whatever ass I’ll point at.”

“Uh…’kay,” Starsky agreed matter-of-factly.

****

Despite his usual calm self, Ken Hutchinson was ready to kick ass, when he stormed into the SDPD office a short while later.

He’d actually driven to the precinct with the siren on, speeding the borrowed patrol car he’d used to get to Mercy to its maximum.

He was furious.

“Hey slow down, kiddo, or you might-” the elder officer who’d spoken to him the previous night advised with a fatherly smile as Hutch bounded passed him, but the blond ignored him, walking on with large, fierce steps.

“Gee, those young fellows today,” the man muttered to himself, shaking his head, and continued his way to the cafeteria.

Hutch didn’t stop in the doorway to take a second look when seeing that Sean Frasier wasn’t in the room, but headed straight for his ‘superior’s’ desk, where he sat down and shoved a huge bunch of files onto the floor.

Questioning gazes crossed the room above his head, but Hutch didn’t care. He rummaged violently through the papers, until he froze with his hand hovering in mid-air.

The file he stared at had been hidden inside another one and only now fallen out.

It read “Mercy’s”. Not LaMarre, not Nylon. “Mercy’s.”

Hutch felt all color drain from his face, and he was just about to flip open the thing open, when a strong hand grabbed his arm.

“Hey, what the hell you’re think you’re doin´ here, Hutchinson?” Sean Frasier barked. He stood behind the younger man, his voice shaking with anger.

Hutch drew in a deep breath to prevent himself from strangling the man before he’d gotten some answers, and without looking up or turning around to face Frasier; he lifted the file for him to see.

Frasier snapped the file out of Hutch’s hands after a brief moment of hesitation.

Hutch still didn’t move.

A tensed silence flowed through the whole room like fatal gas. Officers started to leave quietly, discretely.

Finally, Frasier walked around his desk slowly and sat down across from Hutch.

“What did your partner tell you?” he asked quietly, his brows almost touching in a seemingly concerned frown.

Hutch blinked in surprise then snorted grimly, shaking his head slightly.

The older man bit his lip. Despite his hard, strained features, he suddenly looked like a kid who’d screwed up.

Who knew he’d screwed up.

“Listen, kid-”

“Ken,” Hutch said in a dangerously low voice.

“Yeah,” Frasier smiled nervously, “right, Ke-”

“Do they experiment on their patients?” Hutch interrupted him calmly, as if he was asking out of mere interest.

Frasier sighed. “I want to explain this to you, Ken. It’s not what y-”

“Do they,” Hutch cut him off sharply, “experiment on their patients?”

“Yes,” came the defeated answer. “Yes, they do. But it’s hard to prove. D’you have any idea how long we’ve tried to-”

“What exactly are they doing?”

“They’re testing out new drugs. But, as I said, it’s hard to prove. A doctor can always claim he’s done everything just for the patient’s welfare. I’ve been on this case for over a year now, and all I got is what you see here.”

He held up the thin file. His hands were trembling.

“I know you’re pissed now, Ken. That’s okay, but try to understa-”

“What is isolation?” Hutch asked. The fury boiling behind his eyes was almost shining.

Frasier frowned. “How d’you know abou…” As understanding hit him, his voice trailed off. His old, job-wise eyes grew wide in dread. “Oh no. Oh no, he wasn’t…Oh God. Did your partner tell you about isolation?”

Hutch nodded very slowly.

“Uh…wh-what did he say?”

“That it hurts,” the blond answered, his tone of voice so low and icy it make Sean Frasier shudder.

“You probably won’t understand this, Sean,” he added coldly, “but I don’t like my partner being hurt. I don’t like my partner being scared. And I don’t like my partner being set up. But,” he lifted his index finger, and Frasier actually flinched, “what I like the least is being set up myself. You tricked us. You used us. You fucking set us up! And now you’re gonna tell me what isolation means or so help me, I’ll-”

“Shocks,” Frasier said quietly, looking away. “Electroshock therapy. They’re…they’re testing out new ways of shock therapy and they’re doing it in a room they call isolation, because they don’t have the right to do electro at all. They’ve got no license for it.”

Hutch looked like he’d been shot. The light blue eyes seemed to have been glazed over with terror.

“Sh-shocks?” he whispered and had to clear his throat. “Y-you mean Starsk was…You’re telling me my partner has been shocked?!”

“I’m sorry, Ken, I didn’t think they would…” A nervous hand rumbled light hair, as Frasier stood to pace before the desk agitatedly.

“They normally don’t send people to isolation who’ve been there for just three days!” he almost yelled in defense. “I didn’t think he’d be in any danger of that. Maybe he provoked them. I mean, hell, I’ve read his record and-”

Hutch practically jumped in the ranting man’s face, his long fingers grabbing the front of Frasier’s collar to hold him inches from his face.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed and after a second of just staring into startled, fear-filled eyes, shoved the man back, panting with anger. He took a moment to compose himself before turning to look at Frasier, who’d not moved and pointed at him accusingly.

“You knew what we’d be up against. You fucking knew! Hell, you wanted Starsky to get into trouble in there, didn’t you? That‘s why we waited three days before checking on him, right? Cover story my ass! You wanted them to shoot him full of shit so you could drain him afterwards to get your fucking proof! And that’s…” he stopped, the parts of the puzzle visibly falling into place behind his clearing eyes. “That’s why you wanted us in the first place, am I right? You read our records. You read about Cabrillo.”

He stared at the man in disbelief for a few seconds, then turned without any further words and headed for the door.

“Wait!” Frasier called after him. “Ken, wait. Hutchinson! God damn it, wait!”

He grabbed the taller man’s arm to whirl him around in the doorway. “I’m sorry, okay? Yes, I set you up, you and your partner, and it’s all my fault. I know that. And I’m sorry about that. But you gotta believe me I didn’t know they were going to shock him. I didn’t think they wou-”

“That’s right, Sean. You didn’t think. And because of that, my partner had to go through electroshock treatment. Unqualified electroshock treatment.”

“I know, bu-”

“You know?!” Hutch yelled, finally having lost his weak hold on patience. It took all he had to not throw Frasier into the nearest wall. “D’you have any idea what that means?! He said it hurts to think! He doesn’t even remember what they did to him! He can’t remember, Sean! D’you know what that means? Maybe they damaged something inside his head! We’re talking about brain manipulating treatments here, d’you get that? Did you just once take the time to think about what psychedelic drugs can do to a healthy person?! Or weren’t you aware that Starsky is healthy? Huh? Normal? He believes he belongs there!”

He had to stop for a second to draw in air.

Frasier looked away. Hutch’s look seemed to scale his skin, pierce through it right into his heart.

“Starsky thinks he’s sick, Sean,” Hutch added in a threatening whisper, then closed his eyes for a moment before he could say more.

When he looked at the older man again, his blue seas looked like frozen water. “I’m going to get him out of there now. You’ll get your proof. And you’ll take responsibility for the way you got it.”

Frasier nodded.

Hutch stared down at him hatefully for a while longer, then turned, but stopped to look back again.

“You should be in there, you know that?”

With that he briskly walked on, throwing the following door shut behind him.

Electroshocks! Oh God! Please hang in there, Starsk. Somehow it’s gonna be okay, I promise.

But beneath his assuring voice inside his head, he knew that nothing would be okay. The impact of his own words hit him as if he’d only now heard them.

“We’re talking about brain manipulating treatments here, d’you get that?!”

He ran a hand through his light blond hair, stopping for a moment just outside the building to gather his bearings.

Please let him be alright. Please let him be okay. Oh hell, what are you thinking, Hutchinson? You saw him. Did he look okay to you?!

“Thinking hurts. Hurts to think, Hutch.”

Oh God, Starsk! What a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into?!

Or rather–what a mess they’d been forced into, he thought.

I should’ve killed that son of a bitch. I should’ve shot him there and the-

“Ken,” a quiet voice behind him made Hutch jump around.

Sean Frasier stood on a stair step above him, his face a mirror of his inner turmoil. All tough cop façade gone, the wrinkles surrounding deep, old eyes seemed to have deepened in the few seconds Hutch had seen him last. What was written all over the strained features was guilt. Honest, accepted guilt.

“I don’t think it’s wise for you to march in there without backup,” Frasier said.

Hutch eyed him for a long moment, then opened his mouth briefly almost as if he just wanted to draw in breath, and nodded shortly, before turning to continue on his way down the stairs.

They took Frasier’s car and sat through the whole drive in silence.

****

That they weren’t sent to the interrogation room immediately after their arrival, but accompanied by another tall, broad guard to McCoy’s office was enough to make the alarm bell go off in Hutch’s head instantly.

One look at Frasier told him that his wasn’t the only one ringing.

They were told to have a seat while waiting for McCoy who would be with them in a minute.

Again, their time alone was spent in silence, but this time it was a shared one, full of unspoken words and glances.

McCoy entered the room with a smile that seemed two-colored–wide, open, friendly on his lips, but devious and triumphant in his narrow eyes.

The fear gnawing at Hutch’s inside felt like stomach rumbling, and it was all he could not to hold the seemingly aching area.

“Lieutenant Frasier,” McCoy tilted his head forward slightly, “pleasure meeting you again.”

“Likewise,” Frasier grumbled.

Hutch looked from one to the other and opened his mouth, but Frasier quickly said, “You’ve met our guest detective, so you know why we’re here. Let’s skip the yaddah-part, okay?”

McCoy nodded, the smile never leaving his face.

Hutch couldn’t help wonder if that man had ever set his cold, narrow eyes on Starsky. Did he ever actually see his victims, the terror in their eyes? Did he hear them scream in panic and pain?

Could anyone hear them scream?

He snapped his eyes shot briefly and actually turned his head away for a split second, earning a frown from Frasier. He quickly gathered his bearings, though, and said in a surprisingly steady voice, “we’re going to take Saunders back with us. The investigation has turned in a completely new direction and we need him back in Bay City.”

McCoy nodded while Hutch spoke, like someone who already knew what another person was talking about and wanted him to knew that too.

“Well, I’m sorry, detective, but it seems that there’s been a misunderstanding,” he finally said.

Somewhere in the chaotic whirlwind of concern and dread that flowed through him like blood rushing to his face, one of Hutch’s reasonable parts wondered if it was possible to train oneself against paling at shocking news.

“P-pardon?” he asked, not sure whether it had been more than a whisper.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Frasier barked.

McCoy shrugged. “Those things happen in a large place like this. Large administrative machinery. Mistakes happen all the time.”

“What kind of mistakes?” Hutch asked fearfully.

“False news,” McCoy answered. “I had the impression that your investigation would be over after your last visit here.”

“Wh-”

“And since we’re horribly overcrowded ever since Christmas this year, I made some necessary decisions and transferred Mr. Saunders to another place. I’m truly sorry if that in any way effects your running inves-”

“Transferred?!” Hutch almost yelled, and Frasier had to put a heavy hand on his arm to physically restrain him from jumping in the deputy head’s content face.

“Mr. McCoy,” Frasier himself said, while slowly drawing his hand away from Hutch as if he’d just got a wild animal back under his control, “I’m sure you had every reason to believe your decision was right, and we’re not here to doubt the way you run this place.”

Though the words were quiet and clear, the implicated addition “not yet” was audible.

McCoy nodded in mock approval.

“Unfortunately, though, your decision have made the running investigation a lot more difficult,” Frasier continued. “So please tell us immediately were Mr. Saunders has been sent to so that we won’t lose any more time.”

Hutch watched McCoy seemingly think about the lieutenant’s words, and suddenly it clicked in his head.

“Mr. McCoy,” he said calmly, “you are aware of the fact that Mr. Saunders is actually an undercover cop who was sent to your institution on purposes of investigating crimes taking place in here, aren’t you?”

The older man turned from Frasier to Hutch, lifting one of his brows in mock admiration. “Yes,” he then answered, “I’m more than aware of that fact.”

Frasier was about to bark something at him, but this time it was Hutch who held him back if only with his calm voice.

“Mr. McCoy, I know you’ll deny everything once we’ve read you your rights and arrested you for kidnapping a cop, and this is probably a very long shot, but I want to give you a chance here. Where is my partner? If you tell me right now, we can make a deal. Maybe even about this here,” he made a wide gesture that included the whole building.

McCoy’s smile grew even wider. “I won’t need a deal, detective. This here,” he repeated Hutch’s former movement mockingly, “will never get back to me in any way that would make a deal with you gentlemen necessary. As to where your partner is…”

He shrugged dramatically.

“I have no idea. And that’s the truth,” he added with a laugh as if he was surprised at having caught himself telling the truth for once. “Now, if you please would read me my rights now, detective? Especially the part about me having the right to remain silent from now on.”

Hutch closed his eyes and mentioned Frasier to do it. While the older man’s angry voice echoed through the room, Hutch stood and turned his back to the scene.

He didn’t want either of the men to see him cover his cold face with both hands.

****

Ken Hutchinson sat on a bench in the hallway of the police building they’d brought Martin McCoy to for interrogations.

The coffee mug in his hands looked like it had cooled down a long time ago, and his gaze was set on a spot in the emptiness of the white tiled wall across him.

Frasier couldn’t help thinking that now the blond actually appeared like a kid. Like a little boy lost. He reminded Frasier of the victims and family members he saw sitting on benches just like that in hallways just like this every day, their eyes equally wide, their shoulders equally slumped.

“Hey,” he muttered when he sat down beside the younger man. He kept his distance, forcing down the urge to squeeze the blond’s shoulder comfortingly. He knew he wasn’t allowed to do that, besides, he himself felt responsible for the whole situation. He had no doubt that the detective thought likewise.

“Ken,” Hutch replied tiredly, and Frasier smiled slightly.

“Didn’t say anything.” He held his hands up as if showing he wasn’t armed.

“Uh, sorry,” Hutch mumbled, and pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger, before cracking the ghost of a smile at the lieutenant. “Reflex. How d’it go?”

Frasier sighed, regretting their brief moment of humor passed by so soon. He shook his head. “He won’t talk. Called his lawyer.”

“So what, we just let him lawyer up and that’s it?” Hutch asked angrily.

Frasier sighed. “Things are…complicated, Ki-Ken. Really complica-”

“What’s so complicated about it?!” Hutch snapped. “My partner’s been sent to god knows where and all you’re doing is twiddling your fucking thum-”

Frasier shot him a side glance. “There’s no way any place would have taken Starsky in such a short period of time. You know that. This whole thing isn’t a one-place-case, it’s a ring of medical institutions working together for…” He shrugged, letting out a deep breath. “I don’t know. Someone. Someone big.”

Hutch frowned. “What d’you mean? Like…OC?”

“Try something more close to home,” Frasier said quietly. “Try home itself and I bet you still won’t be even close.” He made a very long pause. “You understand?”

Hutch swallowed dryly. After a moment, he said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I want my partner back. And I’m gonna find him. No one’s going to prevent that from happening. No one. Not you, and not home itself. You understand that?”

Frasier studied him for a few seconds, then leaned back on the bench, until his head rested against the wall, his gaze was focused on the ceiling.

“I had a partner once,” he said. “Gary. Bloomstock. He was the greatest guy I’ve ever known. Smart. Funny. The best partner a cop could wish for.” A smile crossed his lips at the memory. “Gary was the greatest.”

Hutch frowned slightly not sure what the older man was trying to say. He settled for waiting and watching the man on his road to the past.

“We were real close,” Frasier continued. “Much like you and your friend. Then, one day, we got a case somehow connected to LaMarre. Big one. We got excited like rookies, you know. All ambitious again all of a sudden, and…I guess we started acting green too.” He smiled again, though this time there was no humor in the gesture. “Anyway, we had this stakeout that ended in a shooting. Me, I was lucky. Gary…”

His voice trailed off, and he was silent for several seconds.

“Gary died,” Hutch finally said softly.

Frasier nodded. “Yes. Gary die…” His eyes seemed to close against his will. He drew in a deep breath and let out before continuing.

Hutch felt sympathy quickly digging through the anger inside of him. After over a year, the man still couldn’t bring himself to say that his partner had died. Hutch’s gaze drifted off until he was now watching the floor instead of Frasier’s face.

“I got tied up in the case then,” Frasier said, his voice steady again. “Worked my ass off day and night. That’s when I stumbled over Danny Nylon. He’d been sent to ‘Mercy’s’ some time before. I talked to him, I wanted him to be a witness against LaMarre. But…that kid…”

Again, Frasier’s voice broke, he shook his head.

“I don’t know what they did to him in there, Ken. To be honest, I don’t really want to know. A week after I talked to him, he was dead. Not officially, but I never got to see him again, and I was called to the chief where they told me to keep working on the LaMarre thing and don’t enter ‘Mercy’s’ ever again. They made their point pretty clear.”

Hutch lifted his head to look at him. “But you continued to investigate,” he said. “You ran your private party on it. But how…” As realization hit him, the frown cleared from his forehead as if it had been wiped away by an invisible hand. “Dobey.”

“I knew Harold from the academy,” Frasier nodded. “He trusted me when I told him about Danny Nylon. There are no files about his death, I mean, I don’t even know for sure he’s dead, but I’d be surprised if he was still alive. I don’t think that the chief back then knew why I had to drop everything connected to the place. I think he’d been told to order me.”

“Told. By whom?”

Frasier shrugged. “Like I said, this is big. See, Ken, I worked on this for over a year now, okay? And I still don’t know half of it. What I do know is that they have a whole network of mental institutions and hospitals all experimenting with drugs or therapies. Mostly places no one cares about and no one ever checks on. Insane criminals, mentally bewildered…no one cares for those people. No one. If they all die because the normal society of healthy, outbalanced citizens needs-”

“Okay,” Hutch said quickly, cutting off Frasier’s further explanations, “so what you’re saying is that my partner has been sent to another place just like ‘Mercy’s’. And they will send him to yet another one and so on, until no one can ever trace him. Like money that’s being laundered. Right?”

Frasier nodded sadly.

“And you knew all that. You knew everything about it.”

Frasier opened his mouth to protest, but one look at the blond made him think differently. The light blue seas were boiling with rage.

“The plan,” the lieutenant finally said, “was good. There has to be a leak inside my department. Someone who found out and called McCoy or whoever. Lots of people are into this, Ken. Lots of people. In a way it is OC.”

“The plan,” Hutch said, taking a step closer to Frasier until their noses almost touched, “was bullshit. In OC operations, there’s always a leak, lieutenant. Always. So just because you are a bad cop, my partner has to go through hell and back.” He made a pause to see the injury working into old eyes. “There’s nothing as fatal as an incompetent cop on a private mission, Sean, nothing. Especially when the whole mission is an accepted fight against windmills. Tell me something,” he added, lowering his voice, “how exactly did Gary die, hm?”

He knew he’d hit the nerve the second his words arrived at Frasier’s face. The lieutenant raised his hand for a blow, but he was no match for the younger man, and Hutch caught his fist in mid-air.

“Think about retirement, lieutenant,” he said coldly. “Think about it soon.”

With that, he dropped Frasier’s arm and turned to head for the exit.

****

It never became really dark in the room. That was the only thing he did not hate about it. There always came some ghostly slight light from somewhere beneath the door that was strong enough to cast shadows, to not leave him in total darkness.

He knew that that would have been unbearable. Shivering at the thought, he snuggled up in his blanket a little more. He was very tired, but blinked rapidly, desperately trying to stay awake. He wouldn’t give in wasting the few precious night hours sleeping.

He knew he needed to sleep, needed his strength to pull through, but even more so he needed his thoughts. His memories. His mind working.

He had what felt like long ago stopped trying to keep an inner calendar, to know how much time had passed since he’d left San Diego. It had worked for the places afterwards. There had been five, or well, rather six, if he counted the one he’d only spent one night at. He’d never stayed longer than three days maximum, and most of the time he’d been asleep.

When he’d arrived here, though, he knew right from the start that this was it. This was were they wanted him to be.

He tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Where had the mistake been made? Had it been he himself, telling the guys back at San Diego something he shouldn’t?

He couldn’t remember. Things got fuzzy when he tried to concentrate. He sighed. He should have known. Every night he tried to figure this out, and every night he failed. It was frustrating, because he knew that his mind couldn’t go the way he wanted it to, due to the sedatives he was on.

Yet he felt absolutely sober, not like he had back in San Diego. He knew who he was and, well, not exactly where he was, but that he didn’t belong there.

He belonged home. How long since he hadn’t been home? he thought sadly. How long since he’d last seen Hutch?

He thought of Hutch, when he was at work on a working day and during punishments.

He was punished a lot. He knew it had nothing to do with how he did things or behaved, but served a greater purpose, only he couldn’t figure that out, either. Thinking logically had become a monumental task. Most of the time he was too tired and too confused to even try. That’s why he was so grateful for the few hours he was by himself in the dark.

He’d stopped a lot of things, struggling, protesting, swearing, when he finally had realized the futility of those actions. He’d only resulted in being punished harshly, and he knew he needed his strength to live through this and not lose his sanity. So he’d stopped fighting back physically and had started to completely focus on his inside. He clung to the fact that his partner would never give up looking for him.

Hutch would find him, and he would go home. He had to keep his own self for that.

That was the only mission left. He had to keep his self. And that was what he was working on in the hours that belonged to him.

****

Dobey looked after Hutch, who slowly trotted outside the office and down the hallway, sadly shaking his head. He had no idea what the younger man was supposed to do at home, all by himself. If he was really honest to himself, he was glad that the detective was going home. This way, he wouldn’t have to see him any longer.

It was so hard to endure.

He could perfectly cope with worrying about his detective not sleeping or not eating or running himself sick, like he had all the weeks before, when they’d still searched for Starsky.

Hutch had been looking like he was at the verge of passing out for a long time already, but Dobey knew the blond needed to remain where the action was, where he felt useful and in charge of the search for his partner.

Somehow it had been comforting watching Hutch working day and night on this. The desperate determination both detectives showed when it came to searching for the other one always was the one thing that kept everything together. Including Dobey.

But five weeks were a long time, even for Hutch. Whenever Dobey had seen him in the office, he’d wondered if, wherever Starsky was, he could possibly look equally beat and drained.

Running on nothing but coffee, Hutch had even managed to visibly lose weight, not to mention color. It was frightening, yet Dobey knew the blond wouldn’t stop, no matter what he ordered. He could very well do all the phone calls he had to make from his own house; and at the precinct, Dobey could at least watch him.

A phone call search, that’s what it was. After almost a week, McCoy had found it okay to make a deal and had revealed the name of the place Starsky had been sent to.

From then on it had been following the trace, calling places, checking out cover names, threatening self righteous people in charge, waiting and more waiting.

Hutch had been glued to his desk, and after the first days Dobey had found it necessary to directly order him to go home at night to get some rest.

The tired detective had stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly as if the words had just then reached his ears. He’d been truly beat.

Hell, they all were, Dobey thought. As illogical as it seemed, he knew that this kind of searching drained Hutch even more than hitting the streets would. Though the blond always appeared to be the calmer one of the duo, less energetic than his ever over-excited partner, Dobey had long found out that outer appearances seldom reflected the truth when it came to his two detectives.

In times of true crisis, Starsky would get rather quiet, withdrawn, brooding. Contrary to that, Hutch would get frantic in his working speed, excited, a volcano ready to go off any moment.

The only ‘angry Hutch-gesture’ Dobey knew off was the ever so often occurring blow to a wall with his flat hand. It seemed that at times of overflowing anger or frustration Hutch could center every emotion he felt on his hand and then practically kill them with one powerful blow so that he could walk away with a clear mind again.

Funny though, whenever it came to his partner, this tactic obviously didn’t work. He never used it. He didn’t even try to let go off his emotions, clear his mind. It was almost as if he wanted to keep his inner turmoil close to himself. Keep his anger and deep fear close to his heart, keep himself running.

Dobey had no doubt that Hutch needed every wave of that dark roaring sea inside him to keep himself from simply collapsing. He needed to be angry and scared and desperate to see the hope somewhere in the rest.

But then, the captain thought with a smile, Ken Hutchinson was a complicated man. He might as well just be beyond anger with concern for his missing friend.

All this thinking had turned futile that day, anyway. Whatever it had been that had kept the hope blinking through the darkness for Hutch was gone now.

Dobey sighed deeply and finally turned to re-enter his office. There, he sank down in his chair heavily, hiding his face behind his hands as if he could block out the world. The truth.

They had found the last hospital Starsky had been registered a few days ago, though they had not known that it had been the last one. That was the truth they had found out this morning.

From the ‘County’ in Lockville, Nevada, the trail went to ‘home itself’.

Dobey had been listening, when Hutch had been speaking to the investigating officers in Nevada who’d finally been able to tell him that the man they’d arrested had broken his silence and had given them the information they’d required.

“Detective Starsky has been sent to ‘home itself’. That mean anything to you?”

What little color had been left on Hutch’s strained features faded from them as if he’d been drained by a machine.

“Hey? Hutchinson?” the Nevada cop had asked after a second. “Hello? You still there?”

“Yeah,” his reply had been not more than a whisper. “Yeah, I’m… here.”

“Uh, ‘kay. Good. You okay, man?”

“Thank you for the… information. Goodbye.”

Dobey had watched Hutch hang up the phone, then stare off into the emptiness, his fingers lying limply on the phone.

“Well?” the captain had asked when his impatience had finally gotten the better of him, and had stepped away from the door to his office to sit down in Starsky’s chair across Hutch. “What did he say?”

Hutch had looked up at him blankly, then down on his desk again, that had been covered by notes. He’d scrambled long fingers over them, half crumbling them.

“Hutch.”

“He said Starsky’s ‘home itself’,” the blond had answered after a moment, peeking up at Dobey, who’d frowned, confused.

“What’s that suppo-”

“When I talked to Frasier, he’d told me that this… thing is like OC. You know, like… wide ranged. Huge. Goes right to the top, right to…” He’d crumbled at piece of paper on his desk and thrown the untidy ball towards the waste basket, but missed. “… home itself,” he then had concluded his sentence.

His superior’s eyes had widened a little. “What, like-”

Hutch’s quick gaze had cut him off, and a brief silence followed, before Dobey had gathered his bearings enough to give one of his typical sarcastic snorts.

“Oh come on, Hutchinson. What’re you talking here, conspiracy? Right to the top,” he’d repeated the detective’s words mockingly. “What’s that supposed to mean, anyway? FBI, CIA.” He paused to drive his argument home. “The aliens? What? This is just bullshit talk, and you know it. You don’t really believe that there are secret places out there where they test-”

“Do you believe that there are things happening in the world, in our country, in everyone’s country, that no one has control over?” Hutch had interrupted him calmly, his brows risen slightly.

He’d looked like someone who already knew the answer to his question. And he’d been right.

Dobey had opened and closed his mouth a few times, obviously wanting to say something against Hutch’s theory, but not knowing what.

“This is ridiculous!” his final decision had been. Throwing his hands in the air, he’d let out a frustrated bark. “Ridiculous! Why would a top secret, higher than heaven, uncontrolled, new scientific weapons place be interested in some little BC street cop?! It doesn’t make any sense! Sorry to disappoint you, you know, but your fame stops twenty blocks in each direction from here.”

Hutch had shaken his head soberly, knowing that his superior was already on his side with this. He knew Dobey well enough to take all this barking and yelling and swearing as what it was–pure, desperate resignation.

“This has nothing to do with Starsky. I doubt they know he’s a cop. Otherwise they’d probably somehow send him back. They don’t want any trouble or attention.”

He’d leaned back in his chair tiredly, looking vacantly outside the office. “Somewhere out there, there are those places, Cap’n. Hells, small hells, where they’re testing… I don’t know what,” a tiny almost hysterical laugh had escaped him at that point. “Maybe lifestyle drugs. Or chemical weapons. Or ways of psychological torture. Maybe they created Haldol in a place like that. Or triggers. Whatever comes to their mind.”

“Hutch-”

“And they have to test all that first. Course they have to. You can’t waste your time trying things out when you have to get information from prisoners real fast, can you?”

There it had been again, that laugh. It had sent thousand ice cold fingers clawing their way down Dobey’s spine.

“Hu-”

“So who can they take for that? Not really a job offer a lot of people would willingly accept. Then who remains if they exclude you and me and all those normal, peaceful citizens who pay their taxes? Right,” he’d lifted his hands slightly in a ‘had an idea’-gesture, “the scum society has shut out already anyway. People no one will ask about. People that won’t be missed. People that actually should be punished due to court’s order.”

All of a sudden, just like it had had started, the outburst had ended, the blond’s wide blue eyes resting on Dobey’s calm, worried face.

“All those people they’ve… used over the years…” His gentle, light voice had taken on a very dark, sober tone, one Dobey had thought he’d had never heard before. “You know something, I don’t even care.”

Pained blue seas drifted off to the office door again. “Isn’t that horrible?”

Dobey had watched him for the briefest of moment before he could no longer endure it and had reached out to squeeze the still hand on the desk.

“Hutch, we’ll find him. And we’ll get him out of wherever he is.”

“How?” Hutch had asked without tearing his eyes away from the outside world.

“We’ll think of something.”

“Yeah,” Hutch had mumbled after an eternity, and then had stood up in an awkward, straight, completely un-Hutch-like movement, heading for the door.

“Hutchinson?”

“I’m going home,” Hutch had replied, again without looking at his superior.

“Yeah, you do that,” Dobey had muttered, before calling after him, “get some rest, you hear?”

But Hutch had already been way down the hallway, out of earshot.

****

One of Starsky’s few plants had died.

It was the first thing Hutch noticed when he stepped into the dark apartment. He could see it even before he’d switched the light on, because the tiny, big-leaved tree stood next to the neatly filled bookshelves, right where the moonlight fell, dimly shining through the open curtains.

A bunch of crumbled, pitiful leaves surrounded the bleak tree. Hutch felt instantly reminded of the melancholic, black and white photographs Starsky had once made in New York when visiting his mother. He’d wanted to try out a new style of photography, to maybe improve his skills, though of course he’d never have admitted that.

He never talked about his hobby as art or something he was actually very skilled at. At times Hutch couldn’t help but wonder if his ever self-confident partner really didn’t know just how good he was.

Anyway, the pictures he’d made of a bleak, winter signed Central Park had been the most beautiful ones he’d ever made–according to Hutch.

The artist himself, though, had been disappointed, saying they were making him sad.

“That’s the point, Gordo,” Hutch had tried to explain the picture’s effect. “They’re sad in a beautiful way. Didn’t you intend them to be like that?”

Starsky had shaken his head no like a child who’d found out that the new toy couldn’t really talk and think. “When I was there it was fun! ‘Walking in a Winter Wonderland’.”

He’d smiled at his partners unnerved rolling of his eyes. “It’d been kinda Christmassy, you know. What with the snow and all. But those… They look like the trees all died of waiting or something. Like a bunch of corpses in a cold desert.”

He’d looked at his photos with an almost hateful frown, not aware of his friend staring at him disbelievingly. That day, Hutch had started to think that maybe, just maybe, his partner was genius without knowing it himself.

“I mean, what’s beautiful about that?! When I was a kid I had nightmares like that. Urgh. Think I’m gonna just throw them away.”

But then Hutch had never heard of a genius not understanding the meaning of his own art…

“Uhm, d’you mind if I keep them?” the blond had asked quickly, taking the photos out of the artist’s ungrateful hands. “I like them.”

Starsky had shaken his head slightly at him with a smile. “You’re weird, Hutch. You know that?”

Now, Hutch stood in the open door of Starsky’s apartment, his eyes glued to the dark figure in the moonlight.

Like it died of waiting, he thought, and had to take in a deep breath to keep himself from breaking down right where he stood.

With a powerful push he threw the door closed and switched on the light.

Enough of this crap, Hutchinson! That damned tree died because you didn’t water it, is all. When Starsky gets home, he’s gonna be pissed.

“Yeah, right,” he snorted out loud as if mocking the voice in his head. “He’s gonna have a fit over that thing. Sure. Oh man, now I’m talking to myself,” he sighed deeply and wiped a pale hand over his face.

He needed to shave. And sleep.

And something to help him sleep.

After having poured himself a big shot of Jack Daniel’s, he settled on the couch, his pounding head finding the headrest without him even noting.

He’d avoided strolling through the place, like he’d done on other occasions like this. He hadn’t looked after the other plants, either. He had tried to look at nothing but the bottle and the glass.

It was a fixed reaction, staying at Starsky’s place when he was missing. And Hutch knew it was the same with his partner. It was a natural reflex, like curling up when your stomach hurt. Something you did to protect yourself from pain you couldn’t do anything about. It never worked just like that, but it helped to fight back the loneliness, and neither one of the detectives would have been able to break with that habit, anyway.

Hutch needed to be there, he knew that, but he was so tired he was even afraid of losing it. He was so exhausted that slight tremors shook his body, and he wanted to forget it all for some time. Just so he could get a few hours of sleep. Just so he wouldn’t lose it.

Just let me get some sleep, please, he pleaded with no one in particular, downing the liquor and savoring the warm numbness that quickly spread in his body like a merciful virus.

He slouched down a little more, his long legs lifting almost against his will so that they could rest on the coffee table, something Starsky would never left him get away with, and dozed off before he could even think of putting the glass back down on the table. It fell out of his limp fingers, fortunately onto the couch’s softness instead of the ground.

“I’m sorry i-if you’re mad at me, Hutch, but… I-I don’t want to…”

Gasping slightly, Hutch snapped his eyes open, looking around frantically for a brief moment, before realizing where he was. Sighing in a mixture of frustration and relief, he wiped his face and sat up, looking at the empty glass for a long moment.

Finally, he put it on the table and curled up fully on the couch, letting his eyes fall shut again without forcing it.

This time he didn’t only hear Starsky’s voice but worked himself in a horrible nightmare where everything was black and white but Starsky’s blood.

He could see himself covered in redness, knowing exactly what it was, and his partner, running away from him.

“Starsk!”

He woke up not from his own yelling–knowing himself he had no doubt he’d been crying out in his sleep for quite some time without it rousing him–but from falling off the couch with a low thud and landing painfully on his sore back.

Panting, he lay where he’d landed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the birds’ early concert outside.

After a while he slowly lifted one hand to brush damp locks of hair from his forehead and rub his eyes.

It was only then he noticed the moisture in the corners of his eyes and on his cheeks.

Letting out a shaky breath, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking directly at the dead tree.

“Like it died from waiting or somethin'”, he could hear Starsky’s voice in his ears as it repeated his own thoughts from the night before.

Oh, save the smart remarks, partner, will you?! You don’t even know how to spell metaphor!

Yet, he suddenly noticed his left hand holding the phone while the other one was dialing quickly.

A gruff voice answered after the tenth ring, sleepy beyond fury, but on the road to that. “This has better be impor-”

“Cap’n,” Hutch interrupted his superior, “I’m driving to this place in Nevada today. Just wanted to let you know.”

“Wha… Hu… Gee, d’you have any idea what tim-”

“I’ll call you from there.”

With that, Hutch hung up. He contemplated about having a quick shower first, but decided against it and rushed outside instead. He didn’t want to run the risk of catching a sober, rational thought. It might destroy all his newly built hopes.

The rest hadn’t really done him any good, but he was too tired and too nightmare-shaken to note it.

Outside Starsky’s apartment, on his way to his car, he stopped suddenly, peeked over his shoulder at the neatly parked Torino in front of the building and turned on his heels.

He’d make this the official “No one messes with my partner!”-search from now on. The hell with phone calls and sitting around twiddling his thumbs, getting paranoid, seeing signs in dead trees. He had a place to start, a road to get there and the only sign he needed.

Besides, the tomato would get him to Nevada faster than his own car, anyway. Rational conclusion, this one. Pure logic.

He sped off with a roaring that informed the whole neighborhood about his re-found determination.

****

The arrest order for the ‘County’s’ deputy head, Dr. Victor Clayton, had been cancelled the minute the man had called his lawyers, due to it being based on no provable charge. Signing a transfer for one of the patients was no crime.

Yet Clayton seemed strangely co-operative when Hutch called him and asked for a meeting.

When he entered the large, light-filled office a few hours later, he knew why. He could have sworn he’d never seen such a self-confident face than Victor Clayton’s.

“Detective Hutchinson, I assume.” The friendly smile was accompanied by an enthusiastic handshake. “Please, have a seat.”

Nodding his own, less warm greetings, Hutch sat down on a comfortable chair across from the doctor.

“Well, what can I do for you, detective? Would like some cof…”

Clayton’s voice trailed off, when Hutch without a word produced his badge from his pocket and put it on the desk, turned upside down.

“I’m not here as a detective, Mr. Clayton. I don’t represent either BCPD nor the law nor anyone but myself.”

“Uhm,” Clayton frowned, “I don’t think I understand.”

Hutch leaned back, his blue eyes focused on Clayton. They didn’t look cold, and he did not intend them to. It was obvious he was doing something he seldom had the chance to in his job. He was playing with his cards open.

“I know you’ve been asked by the officers here where a particular patient has been sent to.”

Clayton opened his mouth to give his usual statement that the detective should talk to his lawyers, but Hutch continued, ignoring him.

“I’m sure you’ve been telling them the truth. The truth you know at least. And I’m sure that you have been told that this patient is a missing police officer who has been abducted while on an undercover assignment.”

He didn’t wait for Clayton’s nod. “What I’m also pretty sure of is that before you’d been told that fact, you had no idea about that. Am I right?”

Clayton’s eyes narrowed slightly, their greenish brown expression sparkling a little in the light like dirty gold. He remained silent, but alert.

Hutch let his mask go off even more, his gaze wandered to a corner of the wooden floor, then back. “As I said, I’m not here as a detective. That man who’s missing, is my partner. My friend, you know. All I want is to get him back. If this means playing by the rules of your… organization,” he shrugged, “then I’ll do that. If it means to not search for him and find him, but let you just let him go, I’ll accept that too.”

Out of the corners of his eyes, Hutch could see Clayton glancing at the back of the badge on the desk.

“I think there has been a mistake,” he continued after a brief pause. “Police officers aren’t supposed to cross your… Crazy Scientists Labor Union, right?”

Again, there was no answer.

“Right.” Stretching out his legs a little bit more, Hutch leaned back in his chair. Watching Clayton’s reactions to his words was making him more confident by the second. Thousands and thousands of interrogations had trained his speech abilities a lot, and at times this rarely used skill came in pretty handy, he thought with an inner grin.

“Because police officers are always going to be missed. Looked for. And if only by a partner. So my guess is–and you’re welcome to correct me at any point you like–the particular department needed the shall we say ‘problem’ out of the way. Therefore they used the regular supply way without you other stations knowing. Any corrections so far?”

He waited a split second. Clayton didn’t even blink. He seemed fascinated by the detective’s tale. The wheels inside his head were almost making noises.

“Didn’t think so,” Hutch smirked. “Well, what is the regular supply way? I think it’s how you get patients from legal hospitals like this,” he added sarcastically, “to the illegal, secret, higher than heaven, uncontrolled places like, let’s call it ‘home itself’. Corrections?”

Clayton actually shook his head, confusing Hutch so much he almost lost the thread.

“Uhm, okay. See, detectives, we’re pretty good at stuff like this.”

Clayton didn’t laugh. But for the first time since the blond’s entrance, he spoke out clearly. “D’you honestly believe someone will listen to that paranoid shit, detective?”

“No,” Hutch replied casually. “`Course not.” He gave a quiet laugh as if he’d only now come to think of that possibility. “It’s ridiculous. Even if there was an organization like I just described–what would a little Bay City street cop possibly mean to it, huh? Nothin'”, he answered his own question in a high-pitched voice only to cast a completely calm, non-emotional gaze directly at Clayton the next second. “But what would a leak in its own rows mean to it?”

Clayton closed his mouth slowly.

“You don’t know where the patient originally came from,” Hutch continued. “That’s part of the tactic. But I do. I know.”

“And in return?”

Hutch remained silent for a second, his eyes locked with the doctor’s. Then he slowly leaned forward in his chair. “I want Starsky back. I want you to get your ass moving and find him. I know you don’t know where he is. But you have contacts. I want you to use them. You can tell your boss that there’ll be no investigations. Detective Starsky will not press charges against anyone, I’ll personally see to that. I just want him back. And fast.”

Clayton studied the blond man’s face for a moment, then grinned, settling back in his large chair. His words didn’t hold the former confidence, though. “And why would I wanna do that, detective? What will happen if I won’t?”

“Nothing,” Hutch said quietly. “I have nothing that may destroy or damage the organization.” He smiled thinly. “I don’t need anything. It’s already inside. Just imagine for a moment what an inner leak like that could possibly mean. In the long shot.”

Clayton’s eyes narrowed like they had before, but he didn’t get it. The smell of dread obviously reached him, though. Hutch felt strangely satisfied at watching the man shrinking back in his chair while seeing an apocalyptic scenario inside his head.

“They used the org to solve their own problems. I wonder what they’d do to save their asses?” He held up his open hands and froze in a shrug, his eyes mockingly wide with curiosity.

A low gulp echoed through the suddenly deathly still room, then Clayton asked in a raw voice: “What’s your partner’s name again? And–what does he look like?”

Hutch grinned humorlessly.

He gave the doctor Starsky’s name and description, then stood up and reached for his badge, but stopped with his hands hovering over it.

“Dr. Clayton, one more thing. These secret places… What do they do there? I mean, what…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but peeked up at the other man pleadingly.

Dr. Clayton cleared his throat. “The patients are categorized. Based on their physical and psychological test results.”

“A-and what-”

“D’you know anything about methods of brain-washing, Detective Hutchinson?” Clayton cut Hutch off, grabbing the badge and throwing it to Hutch with one swift move.

The blond caught the item reflexively. He stashed it back inside his pocket with his shocked gaze fixed on Clayton, who didn’t look up.

Without another word, he headed for the door.

“Detective,” Clayton’s voice hold him back before he could open it. He didn’t turn around. “It might take a while. Our system’s complicated.”

“If you don’t find him fast,” Hutch replied through gritted teeth, “your system will be history. Good day, doctor.”

He left the door wide open when he left.

****

“What does that mean, you can’t tell me?!” Dobey barked, even more enraged by the fact that Hutch seemed too tired to flinch. “What the hell is going on here, Hutch? What did you do in Lockville?! I called the precinct there, but they didn’t know you were coming!”

“I didn’t call then,” Hutch said, taking advantage of his superior’s need to re-fill his lungs. “I didn’t drive there as an officer of the law, Cap’n. I can’t tell you anything about it, becau-”

“You are an officer of the law, damn it!” Dobey cut him off.

“Okay, then I drove there as an officer of the law on a personal, completely illegal mission. The embodiment of a private party. And I won’t get you into this, so you can stop this interrogation right now!”

He hadn’t known he’d been yelling until he stopped for air and saw the echo of his words reflected on Dobey’s expression. The concern and the trust he was met with was almost too much for him to take.

“Cap’n-”

“Did you reach anything?” Dobey asked softly, sitting down behind his desk.

Hutch bowed his head, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. “Yes,” he answered and also sat down. “I did. But… We still have to wait. Actually it’s all down to waiting from now on.”

“Sounds like a risky plan,” the captain said, watching the younger man’s worn-out form. “Giving everything out of hand.”

Hutch didn’t reply.

“So what’re you going to do?”

“Wait,” Hutch shot back. It sounded determined, like an active activity. Dobey thought it was the same tone of voice his detective would have used to answer ‘fight’.

“Okay,” he nodded hesitantly after a moment’s thought, “but not here. I’m putting you on sick leave You can’t work like this, Hutch. You look like crap. Go home and get some rest. At least try,” he added before Hutch even had had the chance to protest, but to his surprise, the blond simply shrugged and said, “okay.”

He was half-way through the room, when Dobey found his speech again. “‘Okay’?! What d’you mean, ‘okay’?! You’re not fighting me on this?!”

Hutch shrugged again, then pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “So what–back to work then?”

“No! I want you to get some sleep and food.”

“`Kay, so I’ll go home. See y-”

“Hutch.”

“Well, d’you want me on sick leave or not?!” Hutch yelled, turning from where his hand had rested on the doorknob. He swayed slightly, but quickly regained his balance.

Dobey was up like a shot, anyway. “Sit down, Hutch, before you pass out, okay?”

Grumbling, the blond sat down again, running a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Cap’n. I’m just beat.”

“You can say that again. You’ve been running on nothing but caffeine for over five weeks. This has to stop.”

“Bu-”

“I miss him too, Hutch, okay? I want him back too… If you ever tell him I said that, you’re fired, got that?” he paused, and Hutch smiled at the clumsy attempt at humor.

“But I don’t want to lose another detective while waiting for the first one. You keep this up, you’ll run yourself sick.”

“I know,” Hutch muttered. “But then all I can do now is to wait, anyw-”

“No,” Dobey cut him off sharply, “don’t go home and wait. I know you, that’s exactly the way to drive yourself crazy over this.”

“So wha-”

“Go home and rest.”

Hutch opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought differently and nodded with a silent smile.

Returning the nod, Dobey motioned him to go with a gruff gesture. “Good. Now get outta here, will you? I get exhausted just looking at you.”

****

Hutch had been at Starsky’s apartment long enough to savor a long, hot shower and settle on the couch, when Huggy knocked at the door.

“‘Ey Hutch, you here, man?”

“Where else?” Hutch muttered to himself as he opened the door to let his friend in. “Hey Hug. Let me guess–Dobey called you?”

Huggy nodded with a grin and held up a big brown paper bag. “Also ordered me to make you ea-”

“Not hungry.”

“Or forcefully spoon-feed you in case you refuse.”

“Oh. Now that I’ve come to think about it, I’m actually starving,” Hutch commented dryly.

Huggy nodded sharply. “Thought so.”

He strolled inside Starsky’s kitchen and started to unpack the bag, Hutch leaning against the door-frame, watching him, disinterested. He had a vacant look in his eyes that started to unnerve his friend.

“D’you notice you ran a scratch in the tomato’s stripe?” he asked casually. “Curly’s gonna have your hide when he sees i-”

“Hug,” Hutch interrupted him, “I don’t want to talk about Starsk like he’s going to come back and then it’ll be like nothing happened, okay?”

Huggy froze. He looked at Hutch with a deep frown, but remained silent.

“I-I mean,” Hutch stammered, avoiding the stare, “we don’t… we don’t know what they may… We don’t even know what he’s been given in San Diego, yet. A-and he was… shocked there.” A humorless, nervous laugh escaped him. “Th-that alone might… I don’t know.”

“Hutch,” Huggy asked calmly when the blond’s voice trailed off into uneasy silence, “what’re you not telling?”

After a moment, the detective lifted his head slowly, casting his friend a serious glance. “Dobey mustn’t know this.”

Huggy didn’t move.

“I talked to the guy in Lockville yesterday. I… let’s say I offered him a deal. He accepted.” At Huggy’s questioning frown, he explained, “he’s trying to find Starsky. It may take a while, but… He’s going to find him.”

“You… Have you lost your-”

Ignoring his friend’s shocked reaction, Hutch spoke over his words, “I asked him what… You know, what they’re testing on the patients in… those places. A-and… Oh God.” He drew in a deep, bracing breath. “They’re testing out methods of brain-washing there, Hug.”

Huggy’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. “Wha-”

“Brain-washing. D’you know what that means?” All the pain, the shock, the exhaustion, everything he’d fought for the past weeks suddenly caught up on Hutch, and he slid down to the ground on the door-frame, his forehead falling onto his knees.

“Hutch, man-”

“Can you imagine what that means for someone like Starsk? They’ve got to break your will for that.” He sniffed though his eyes were dry. “Starsky couldn’t follow a direct order if his life depende…” He bit the last part of the word off sharply when the meaning of the sentence hit him.

He looked up at Huggy in despair. “Think about what you’d have to do to break a man like Starsky. He’s so… stubborn and…” Yet another nervous laugh broke free. “What d’you think they’ll do to a smart ass like him, huh? What?”

When no response reached his ears, he tiredly placed his chin on top of his knees, mumbling in a tiny, scared voice, “What if they succeed?”

Huggy stared down at the wide-eyed, shivering figure that was his friend. He thought he’d never seen Hutch looking so… lost.

A wave of sudden protectiveness rushed through him, and he crouched down beside the broken man.

“Hey Blondie, how `bout we have that snack later, and you go get some sleep first, hm?”

Hutch shrugged, but let Huggy help him to his feet and into the bed-room.

His friend’s concern deepened when he felt the warmth radiating from Hutch’s pale skin.

“You just sleep now, Hutch, you hear?” he ordered gently as he covered the trembling detective with a thick blanket. When the light blue eyes had fluttered shut, he turned to leave the room.

“I’m scared, Hug,” Hutch’s voice broke through the dark stillness.

Me too, man. Me too.

“Sleep, Hutch.”

He closed the door and returned to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, rubbing his eyes, tired, as if digesting the information Hutch had sustained him with had worn him out.

“What if they succeed?”

He shook his head as if to clear it and pushed himself up to start cooking.

No way. No one succeeds at that, Blondie. You’ll see. It’d be easier to outrun a jag. You’ll see.

He couldn’t help wonder who he was trying to kid.

****

The rain was thin today. Long, slender threads, that melted softly in one another, covering the world with a fine blanket of wetness.

He was disappointed. You didn’t even get wet standing outside. Only uncomfortably damp with your hair not plastered to your head, but only limply hanging in your eyes.

You didn’t get cold, no shivering, nothing. A mild breeze slightly moved the rain threads like a cloth. A very brief tremor would run through you every now and then, but it was nothing compared to the bone-chilling, teeth-clattering cold real rain would leave.

He raised his head and squinted his eyes a little against the tiny drops. He missed the violent, hard drops they’d had a few days ago. He missed the sensation of their splashes on his skin. If you’d look up at a rain like that, it’d be like thousands of little fists slapped your face.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he glanced at the entry of his building with a frown. Was this his punishment for today? He hadn’t manage to stand completely still during inspection–he’d flinched at a cold touch–and he had talked to himself again at work. (He couldn’t help it. Box folding always made him talk to himself, it was like a reflex.) So he had to be punished, he knew that. But was this it? Had they thinned the rain?

Ever since he’d been let out of the darkness again, he had given up on trying to make a difference. Life had turned simple. If he tried his best to obey, he wasn’t punished. You had to try, and if you failed, you had to apologize.

Not obeying was a thought he’d lost a long time ago. It didn’t occur to him now, either.

He was amazed. How had they found out how much he liked large-dropped rain? But then, of course, they knew everything.

He looked up at the sky again, at the endless threads of moisture. “Two Eight Zero is sorry,” he said clearly and felt a little better. He’d just try harder the next day.

****

Days passed, forming themselves to weeks.

Hutch was sick. In fevered dreams he’d cry out for his still missing friend who would never come and calm his fears. In the few coherent hours he experienced, he’d ask Huggy if Clayton had called yet. Each time his voice would be high with hopes as if he had had a vision of that happening in one of his dreams.

Huggy would always shake his head as softly as he could as if that could also soften the answer. He’d decided to stay with his friend through his sickness, not wanting Hutch to be alone, especially not in a hospital. It felt strange, seeing the usually strong, rational detective so helpless, desperate, and somehow Huggy couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t something he should witness. As if he’d been forced in a form too big for him. He wasn’t supposed to take care of Hutch.

He doubted he was any good at it. It was getting him down, tearing at his heart. He could feel his strength fading, as if he’d caught a powerful illness. Hutch’s illness.

Dobey would call every day, and Huggy thought he could hear the symptoms of it in the captain’s voice too.

None of them was safe.

****

Hutch had been ‘officially’–meaning by himself–exclaimed healthy for two days, when Victor Clayton called.

The detective had just hung up on Dobey who’d shared his emotions about Hutch’s planned return to work the next day in very colorful words, when the phone rang again.

Raising his brows in utter surprise, Hutch picked up. His hand still been on the receiver. “How’d you do that, Ca-”

“Hutchinson?”

Hutch frowned, confused, then recognized the thin voice. “Dr. Clayton?”

“Yes, it’s me. I think I-”

“How d’you know I was here?” He still stayed at Starsky’s place. He’d only been home a couple of times to water his plants ever since his return from San Diego.

“Call it a feeling,” Clayton replied quietly. “I’ve found your friend.”

Suddenly dizzy, Hutch leaned back on the couch, his knuckles becoming white from the pressure of his grip on the phone. “Wh-where?”

Clayton hesitated. “He’s alive,” he finally said.

Hutch swallowed dryly. It unnerved him to think Clayton felt it to be necessary to point that fact out.

“We agree to send him back,” the doctor continued. That he included himself in the ‘to secret, higher than heaven’ party wasn’t missed on Hutch. He was sure Clayton had been given explicit orders as to how handle this affair, though.

“Why does that sound like there’s a ‘but’ to follow?” Hutch asked, surprised at how calm his voice was.

“We want it to be clear, that Detective Starsky will never–never–talk to any official administrations whatsoever about what he’s seen, heard or experienced. Neither here nor in… Where he came from.” Clayton gave a short pause, waiting for Hutch’s reply. “D’you understand, detective?”

“Yes,” Hutch said.

“We want you to understand that indeed a mistake has been made. We informed ourselves about Detective Starsky and we learned that he’s considered one of the best police officers in his city.”

Hutch thought Clayton sounded like he read from a paper. He forced his anger aside, though.

Mistake! You heartless, snobby motherf-

“We are very sorry for what has happened to him, and we will see to the person responsible being-”

“Look, Doc, I’m sure the executive floor is crying a river over this, but frankly I don’t give a damn. I told you before, all I want is my partner. I guarantee you he won’t ta-”

“If Detective Starsky will ever break with this arrangement,” Clayton cut him off, still seemingly reading, “he will have to be eliminated. We want it to be clear that there will be no possible way he may ever avoid us knowing about plans of that sort. We’d hate to be forced into such actions, though.”

“I bet,” Hutch muttered dryly. “So what now, d’you want me to sign a treaty?!”

Clayton smiled audibly, then cleared his voice. The reading session was over. “I have the information you want here, detective. Now it’s your turn. I want you to get here with proof of everything you’re going to tell me.”

“Okay,” Hutch answered. As soon as his fever had broken, he’d started to collect Starsky’s and his assignment files. He’d let Sean Frasier out of it, though. They just needed to know which hospital Starsky had originally stayed at on his undercover mission.

“Okay,” Clayton said quietly. It was obvious he wanted to add something else, but instead, he hung up.

Hutch was off like a shot.

****

Whoever they were, they sure thought they were funny.

Hutch stepped down on the gas even more, dust whirling like a storm around the Torino.

He’d driven Starsky’s baby to Nevada again, feeling the car somehow had a right to accompany him through this until the end, and had learned that his partner would wait for him at a meeting point that was only an hour away from Bay City.

He wondered if Starsky had been that close all the time, but he’d kept his silence, just accepted the directions Clayton had given him with a sharp nod and had handed over his files.

Now, on his way through the desert, he had time to think. To fear.

Two and a half months. That was the time Starsky had spent at… Hell, Hutch thought. The question was, was that a long enough time to…?

It was an eternity for me, but for him… Oh God, Starsk, please be… Not okay, I won’t ask for okay, that would be too demanding, I know. Just be Starsk. Shaken, hurt, confused, scratched… I can deal with it. I know I can. But please be Starsk. Two and a half months is not enough to lose yourself, is it? Two and a half months is nothing!

He started thinking about the time spam in different ways. Two clean-up-days. Not even three. Just two. Three times of watering the orchid. Only three. One phone call to parents. Maybe not even that. See, not so long! Normally I wouldn’t even have talked to the old ones in all that time that has passed, since-

He had to switch on the windshield wiper for a second because of the dust, and froze in thoughts.

35 days of getting to drive my car at work. Thirty-five.

He stared at the switch, appalled, but forced a weary shrug in. Minus week-ends and days off. Not that much then. Ten Sundays at least.

Again, a thought hit him like a kick from an unprotected side. Ten Sundays. Ten weekends. Ten ‘You’ve got plans for the weekend?’-questions.

35 days of being forced in the tomato. But only five of this stupid magazine he and Huggy… How many nights at Huggy’s? Two and a half months that’d be…

Seventy days. 1680 hours. 100800 minutes. 6048000 seconds.

What the hell you’re doing here, Hutchinson?

Losing it.

Seventy days had been enough to run himself sick with worry, recover, make a deal, switch the sides of the law. Seventy days had been enough to leave him feeling that if not Starsky, he at least had changed. Subtly, but definitely.

For the rest of the drive, he thought about what he and Starsky would do the next few days. Where they’d go, how it’d be to sit at Huggy’s again. To work the streets again.

Like a disturbed child, he sought relief in comforting thoughts, while all the time he could see the door he’d locked on his fears and dreads standing slightly open as if the latch was broken.

****

There had once been a factory. A small production hall that had long ago been torn down. The plan had been to use the wide, forlorn area for movie sets, but no crew had ever used it. A big production firm had bought it, and then had probably forgotten about it.

Only the sign of the former factory gave it away that there hadn’t always been flat ground of an ugly nothing. High up in the air, so that you could read it when approaching, the rotted sign showed a few letters of the factory’s original name.

Hutch thought he’d never noticed a sign there before. It read “ERE” with some dusty spaces between the letters where there had been others.

‘ERE. Oh yes, they’re a bunch of real comedians…

Next to the sign stood Starsky.

Hutch sped up considerably without even being aware of it. His eyes were fixed on the seemingly small dark form next that stood absolutely motionless next to the sign.

The Torino came to a halt with squeaking brakes, and Hutch rushed out of the car, slowing down, though, when he saw Starsky had not looked up at him. It seemed he hadn’t even blinked.

The blond took a few more tentative steps forward and bent his head to look into his friend’s eyes.

Starsky had his head bowed, but otherwise stood perfectly straight, like a statue. His curly dark hair was a little shorter than he usually wore it, and he seemed to have lost weight, though not enough to raise real concern. It just occurred to Hutch because the grey sweater Starsky wore looked much too big for him. His hands almost disappeared under the long sleeves, but still Hutch could see his partner had them clenched to fists.

The blond swallowed dryly past the raising unease. Out of instinct, he checked out their surroundings from out of the corners of his eyes, but there was nothing to see.

They were alone. A small frown crawled over his forehead. The road was straight and there were no hills to block the view. If there had been someone here with Starsky and driven off when they saw him approaching, he’d know. The only logical conclusion was that Starsky had been by himself until Hutch’s arrival. Yet he had not moved, had not even looked up when the Torino had stopped right in front of him.

He’d remained frozen.

“Starsky,” Hutch whispered, surprised at the lack of strength evident in his voice and cleared his throat.

Starsky tensed a little, but not out of fear. It was more like surprise, Hutch thought.

“Starsk,” he repeated, louder this time. He reached out, wanting to touch his friend, but thought differently, when Starsky still didn’t look up at him.

“Hey buddy, i-it’s me. Hutch. It’s okay now. I got you.”

Hutch thought he saw Starsky unclench his hands, but the material of the sweater made it hard to tell.

He finally laid his hand on a slightly trembling shoulder gently. “Starsk, look at me, c’mo-”

The dark head came up in a shot. Hutch almost flinched with surprise. He drew his hand away quickly. He thought he’d heard Starsky mutter something, and took a step away as if to give a man who’d just waken from a trance some distance.

A brief silence passed, Starsky didn’t say anything, just looked at Hutch with tired, yet relieved, grateful eyes.

It was confusing, Hutch thought. Though the expression on the thin face was so much like Starsky’s, the actions weren’t. The lack of smart-ass remarks was starting to seriously unnerve the blond. As well as the fact that his friend still hadn’t moved at all apart from lifting his head. At least he didn’t seem to be injured. There were no wounds visible on his face, and there was no pain evident in his eyes.

“Don’t you want to know what took me so long?” Hutch joked, and frowned, confused, when the corner of Starsky’s mouth twisted in an appreciating smile.

“Uhm, Starsk, d’you know who I am?”

The ghost of a smile was replaced by what looked like a mixture of fear and helplessness.

Cold fingers of dread clawed their way down Hutch’s spine. He fought the urge to grab his partner’s shoulders and rattle him. “It’s me, Starsk. Hutch. You recognize me, don’t you?”

There was a long pause, that made Hutch fear the worst, and then suddenly, Starsky gave the briefest of nods.

Hutch let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and stepped forward, finally dragging his friend in a bear hug. Starsky flinched violently when he saw the blond approaching him, but relaxed quickly when he felt himself being wrapped in an embrace.

Hutch made a mental note about that, but felt too drained to deal with the incident right now. Everything he had had to fight down since the nightmare had begun, rushed through him, and he held onto his friend tighter.

“It’s all gonna be okay, buddy, you’ll see. We’ll make it, huh? We always do.”

Starsky remained silent, but Hutch thought he’d felt a slight touch on his shoulder.

When he finally let go again, he felt like his old self again. He could handle everything to help his friend, and they both would make it through this. Of course they would. They always did. A part of him knew that his new found confidence and strength was merely the overwhelming relief of having Starsky back, something like a rush of adrenalin that would pass and once again leave him drained and exhausted, but he forced his rational part to shut the hell up.

This wasn’t a futile search or waiting. This was taking care of his partner, something he was particularly good at. Besides, now he wouldn’t be alone anymore.

“Okay, buddy, how ’bout we get going now, hm?” Hutch asked in a light tone and smiled softly. “Let’s get you home.”

Starsky looked at him blankly. He’d positioned himself on the same spot and in the same way he’d stood before the embrace. Hutch thought that it looked as if even his feet stood with the same space between them as before.

He sighed. “Buddy, wha… Okay, you know what, we’ll deal with all of this later. First of all let’s get outta here.” He gently touched Starsky’s shoulder again. “Come on, Starsk, get in the car.”

He was about to add something, when Starsky’s voice kept him from it.

“Yes, sir,” he said absolutely serious and walked swiftly passed Hutch to the Torino. He entered the passenger side without looking back at his partner, who stared after him with his mouth open.

“Uhm, Hutch,” he muttered to the closed passenger door and quickly got inside the car too.

He was about to start the engine, when a sudden thought hit him, and he turned slightly on the seat to glance at Starsky, who was looking ahead.

“Buddy, can you look at me?” he asked gently.

Starsky didn’t move, but Hutch was sure he saw some change in his expression.

He let a moment pass, then said in exactly the same tone of voice, “Starsk, look at me.”

Instantly, the dark man turned his head, his motion accompanied by yet another “yes, sir”.

Hutch’s eyes grew wide again, even though it was what he’d anticipated. “Oh ‘triffic,” he mumbled and started the engine.

Half a minute later he found Starsky’s direct stare increasingly unnerving. “‘Sokay now, Starsk, you can look away again.”

When nothing happened, he sighed, frustrated. “Don’t stare at me, Starsk.”

“Yes, sir.” Starsky turned his head again.

Hutch briefly closed his eyes against raising anger. “Hutch,” he said calmly.

Starsky frowned, then smiled ever so slightly. “Yes,” he said, “Hutch.”

His partner shot him a glance, not sure whether Starsky had only now realized he was with his friend again, safe and secure and free, or had just adjusted his reply to orders.

“Starsk, are you alright? I mean are you in any pain or something?”

He was met by silence and sighed again. “Okay. Tell me how you feel.”

But again Starsky didn’t speak, and when Hutch glanced at him, he saw an expression of utter despair on his face.

“Uhm…” The dark man obviously thought about the order, but couldn’t figure out what it meant. “I-I…”

“Okay,” Hutch quickly said, placing a calming hand on Starsky’s arm. His friend flinched at the touch.

“T-two eigh-” he muttered frantically, but was interrupted by his friend’s soothing.

“It’s okay, buddy. Don’t worry. You can tell me everything later. It’s alright.”

It looked as if Starsky was going to say some more, but at Hutch’s reassuring squeezing of his arm, he closed his mouth and bowed his head again.

“It’s gonna be okay, Starsk,” Hutch continued softly. “I promise. It’s all gonna be alright. You just rest for a while now, ‘kay, buddy?” he added, rubbing Starsky’s arm as if to warm him. “Rest, Starsk.”

“Yes, s… Hutch,” Starsky muttered and closed his eyes.

Hutch froze with his hand on his partner’s arm, then grabbed the wheel a little harder. “Yep.”

****

“Listen lady, I know you’re all very busy here, okay? I have eyes, but-”

“Well, as long as you aren’t about to lose one in the next thirty seconds, please sit down again, mister,” the ER nurse cut Hutch off sharply, pushing past him in a hurry.

Hutch looked after her in disbelief. As if her touch had switched on his anger supply, his annoyance turned into fury from one second to the other, and he marched over to the reception desk, but turned after half of the way to see Starsky still standing in the corner they’d waited at for the past few minutes.

“Starsk, come with me,” he ordered, and Starsky was behind him in an instant. “Yes, sir. Hutch,” he corrected himself quickly, fear coloring his voice.

Hutch shot him a glance, then grabbed his arm and shoved him towards the desk, while fumbling with the other hand to get his badge out of his pocket.

“Hey, you,” he said to a young man who stood leaned over the desk and scribbled on a chart.

When the man looked up, Hutch bent over to read the name badge on the man’s coat. “Dr. Wyler. Hi, I’m Detective Hutchinson, and-”

“Shot wound?” the young doctor asked immediately and tried to look over the blond’s shoulder.

Hutch lost some of his wind. “Uhm… Not exactly. More like…” He looked at Starsky who stood next to him with his head bowed. “Actually I’m not sure. It’s complica-”

“Oookay,” Dr. Wyler interrupted him with a friendly smile. “Let’s go look for a free room and then you can tell me the whole story. Okay?”

Hutch nodded. He and Starsky followed Dr. Wyler inside a small examination room.

“I’m sorry if you had to wait long,” Wyler said while closing the door. “There was a street fest nearby this morning and apparently some of the food served there was bad, bu-”

A loud swear could be heard outside.

“But you weren’t there, right?”

Hutch shook his head no.

Wyler sighed with a relieved smile. “You’re beautiful, man. Okay,” he said, getting serious, “what’s the story? Oh, sorry. Have a seat, please.”

“Thanks,” Hutch said and sat down on a chair across from a small desk. behind which Wyler had sat down. He turned when realizing Starsky still stood behind him.

“Uhm, Starsk, sit down over there, okay?” Hutch pointed at the examination table on the other wall.

His partner glanced at the table briefly and made a tentative move in the direction, but stopped, confused.

Hutch sighed. “Sit down, Starsk.”

Starsky raised his gaze, frowning at Hutch, but when his friend seemed to be about to repeat the order, quickly said “yes, Hutch” and sat down were he stood, drawing his knees up to his nose.

Hutch and Wyler stared down at him in wide-eyed silence, both their chins traveling southwards.

The young doctor was the first to regain his speech. “I think I better call a psychiatrist to come down here,” he said as if to himself, then stood.

Hutch followed him quickly. “Wai-”

“Detective… Hutchinson, right?”

Hutch nodded.

“I’d like to talk to you outside for a second.”

Hutch nodded again.

“Uhm, his name is Starsk?”

“Starsky. David.”

“Okay. David,” Wyler turned to Starsky, who tensed at the word, just like he had when he’d first heard Hutch talk to him earlier that day. Again he didn’t seem scared, but surprised, even pleased, happy.

The doctor didn’t notice, though, and continued, “I want you to sit down on the table. D’you-”

“Yes, sir,” Starsky said quickly and pushed himself off the ground to sit down on the table, his hands resting flat on his sides, his head bowed.

Wyler closed his mouth, surprised. “Well, uh, looks like you understand perfectly. ‘Kay then, your buddy and I will be right outside, alright, Dave?”

“He, uhm, he doesn’t react to questions,” Hutch said in a low voice, hating it to speak of his friend in the third person with him being present. “I-I don’t think he can.”

“I see,” Wyler nodded. “Hm. Let’s go outside, detective.” He opened the door for Hutch and turned once more before leaving the room. “Don’t go anywhere, David.”

He was about to close the door, when Starsky’s toneless “yes, sir” reached his ears. “Fine,” he mumbled nervously and let the door fall shut.

Once outside, he led Hutch to what looked like a supply room. “No one will hear what we say in here,” he said clearly. “So – can you tell me what happened to him?”

“No,” Hutch replied. “I mean, I don’t know really. I know he’s been drugged a couple of month ago, but I don’t know what it was, and he’s been… shocked back then, but-”

“Whoa, slow down. Shocked? You mean electroshock treatment?”

Hutch nodded.

“In a hospital?”

“Yes, but he wasn’t admitted, it was an undercover assign…” he trailed off, suddenly grabbed by an urgent wave of paranoia. He didn’t know which hospitals were into this. This one could be one of them too.

He eyed Wyler with narrowed eyes. He could be one of them.

“It was more of an accident,” he continued after a pause.

“Job risk, huh?” Wyler joked sympathetically.

Hutch nodded. “Sort of.”

“And what happened then?”

“I don’t know. He was… kidnapped. And held for two and a half months. I don’t know what happened to him wherever he was.”

Wyler studied him closely. He had an open face, and to his surprise Hutch could see suspicion in the light green eyes.

This kid isn’t into anything. He thinks I am.

“Do you think that maybe Detective Starsky experienced psychological torture?” Wyler asked after a short while.

Hutch wondered if the doctor had just thought of a trap. He felt himself getting unnerved at the thought. His usually long patience span had shortened considerably over the past weeks.

“Yes, I think that’s pretty possible,” he answered the question. “But as I said I don’t kn-”

“What about physical injuries?”

“I don’t know, he seems okay, but…” Hutch cut himself off sharply when he noticed he was getting agitated and angry. “Listen, doctor, I don’t know what happened to him. He hasn’t told me yet. I don’t think he can. I’d highly appreciate it if you would stop this interrogation now and call this psychiatrist and help my partner!”

Wyler actually backed away a step, but his expression warmed at the detective’s outburst. Obviously Hutch had just passed a secret test.

“Okay, detective, calm down. Here’s what we’re going to do, I’ll have a nurse check your friend’s vitals, while I call upstairs to get someone down here.”

“Can I stay with him?”

“Of course. Well, that is, I don’t know what the psychiatrist’s opinion will be, but as long as we’re checking our sides, you can stay.”

Hutch nodded his thanks and walked past the doctor, his steps heavy with irrational anger.

“You seem pretty close, detec-” Wyler added, but was cut off by the door falling shut. “-ive?”

****

When Hutch re-entered the examination room, Starsky still sat on the table with his head bowed. He didn’t look up.

Hutch closed the door, then leaned against it for a brief moment, bracing himself.

“Starsky, look at me,” he finally said while crossing the room to sit down on the table next to his partner.

“Yes, Hutch,” Starsky said, lifted his head and followed Hutch until he sat.

The blond looked into the midnight blue eyes he knew so well, that he could read like a book, that could speak to him, and found himself at a lack of words.

“Buddy…” he started, then stopped. He tried again, but only a small sigh came out. At last he cupped Starsky’s chin like he had what seemed to have been in another lifetime at ‘Mercy’s’ in San Diego.

“You’ve got to snap out of this, Starsk. Please. At least try.”

He was met by clear, sad eyes, but no reply, not even in there.

“I need you to come back now. Tell me what happened. You can do that. You know I won’t hurt you. You’re safe now. It’s over.”

Starsky’s gaze dropped.

“It is,” Hutch assured and let go off the darker man’s chin, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder. He was surprised when Starsky flinched back in clear fear.

Only then did Hutch realize it had been the first time since he’d found Starsky, that his partner had done something by his own means. He’d looked away.

“Buddy-”

“Two eight ze-” Starsky started to whimper, when the opening of the door startled him enough to shrink back on the table, almost falling over the other end. Hutch caught him by his arm, shooting the nurse an apologetic look.

“It’s okay, Starsk. Come on up here. ‘Sokay, just the nurse to check your vitals. No one’s gonna hurt you.”

“T-two Eight-” Starsky stammered, scared, but Hutch’s soothing words swallowed the rest of it.

“Shhh, it’s okay. Don’t be scared. Hi,” he finally turned to the nurse who’d closed the door discretely and waited a little distanced from the table. Though she looked rather young, she seemed experienced with difficult situations and patients. “I’m sorry. I think you startled him and-”

“It’s okay,” she winked. “My fault. Dr. Wyler told me to be careful. I’m sorry. You must be Detective Hutchinson?”

“Ken,” he nodded and was about to add something, when he heard Starsky once more mutter something and stopped to listen.

The nurse frowned as she stepped closer, tilting her head to one side as if straining to hear the words.

“What did he say?” she asked.

Hutch shrugged an ‘I don’t know’. He had slid from the table at the nurse’s entrance and now stood with one hand resting on it.

“Sounded like numbers?”

The blond nodded, and carefully lifted his hand to let it hover over Starsky’s knee, but not touching him. “Starsk, repeat what you just said,” he said softly.

“Yes, Hutch,” Starsky said instantly, not looking up. “Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

A heart-freezing silence followed. Hutch glanced at the nurse who had covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes focused on Starsky.

Hutch felt as if he was going to be sick. He swallowed dryly and tried to say something, but found he couldn’t. He turned away, rubbing his eyes with his index finger and thumb.

Is that what they did, buddy? Turn you into a number?

“It’s okay,” he suddenly heard the woman’s casual voice behind him and turned slightly to see her laying her instruments on the table next to her patient. “You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m Keisha. Can you tell me your name, detective?”

Starsky didn’t react. Hutch waited, instinctively waiting for her to handle the situation.

“Look at me,” she said sternly after a second, and Starsky obeyed. “Yes s-” he started, but cut himself off suddenly, tilting his head to one side as if thinking. “Keisha,” he concluded.

Hutch turned fully at this, surprised. She shot him a quick glance, then spoke to her patient again. “Tell me your name.”

“Yes, Keisha,” Starsky replied quickly, but hesitated. “Uhm, D-David,” he said.

Hutch noted with dismay that his friend couldn’t stand Keisha’s look. His gaze dropped once more. “Two Eight Zero is sorry.” He looked up again, terror flickering through the midnight blues.

Hutch understood what he saw reflected in there. Starsky had apologized twice in a few minutes. It was bad having to apologize. It meant… something. Maybe pain or maybe something else. Whatever it was, it scared the hell out of his friend.

Despite the horrific discoveries he constantly made, it felt good being able to read Starsky again. It gave Hutch the assurance he needed to get through this himself.

“It’s okay, Starsk,” he said softly from where he stood. “Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything wrong. If you don’t want to look up, that’s fine. See,” he added with a confident smile as he approached him and gently touched his arm, “no one’s going to hurt you.”

Starsky looked at him, and Hutch thought he’d seen moisture in his eyes. “It’s okay, buddy,” he repeated, and lifted one thumb to smooth it over the soft skin under Starsky’s right eye. “You’re okay.”

“Hutch.”

It had been more a thought than a whisper, but Hutch heard it. A wide grin broke free on his face as he nodded fiercely. “Yes. I’m here, buddy. I’m here and I won’t go.”

At the shy tugging at his sleeve, the blond jumped up on the table again, next to his partner. “See? I won’t leave. I’m right here. So how ’bout you let Keisha do her job now, hm?”

Starsky glanced at Keisha ever so briefly, then back at Hutch, searching the blond’s expression.

“She won’t hurt you,” Hutch assured. “She just wants to check your pulse and stuff. No big deal.”

The smaller man arched his brows in despair, tensed and looked down again, his gaze darting about frantically.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” Hutch soothed, glancing at Keisha helplessly.

She too reached out to gently brush Starsky’s cheek, saying, “Listen to your friend, David. No one’s going to do anything you don’t want. I promise. So is it okay if I check your vitals now? Hm. Tell me if it’s okay? David?”

The confusion that had Starsky in a tight hold was almost palpable. Clearly visible on his face. He shrank back again, the fingers of his left hand interlaced with the material of Hutch’s sleeve, though, as if he was holding onto something precious he’d just found and didn’t want to lose it in the current that threatened to drag him away.

“Buddy, calm down. Starsky. No more questions. You hear. No more questions. You don’t have to answer anything. Calm down, Starsk, please.”

“Two Eight Zero is sorry,” Starsky whimpered, then ducked as if anticipating… something.

Above his head, Keisha’s and Hutch’s eyes met. “It’s okay, buddy,” Hutch said, surprised at how steady his voice was, and placed a hand on Starsky’s back as if to stop him from backing away further. “Keisha’s going to start the examination now. I’ll be here the entire time. Nothing bad will happen.”

“T-Two Eigh Z-Ze-”

“Stop apologizing,” Hutch nearly begged. “No one’s going to punish you.”

Starsky froze. He peeked up at his friend with pleading eyes, his fingers crawled forward to close over Hutch’s arm.

“That’s true,” Hutch said hopefully and covered the hand that hold his arm with his own. “No punishment. Not ever again. I won’t let them.”

A tiny smile appeared on Starsky’s lips, and his eyes wandered over to Keisha, who nodded earnestly.

Slowly, Starsky drew his hand away from Hutch’s arm and shoved one of his sleeves upwards to expose his arm.

Next to him, Hutch sighed in relief as Keisha smiled friendly and carefully started her examination.

****

One thing Hutch had to admit was that he’d never before seen his partner so…co-operative during an examination. He never so much as winced when needles entered his veins or cold hands touched his body.

Actually the only thing that had at least some Starsky-esque tinge to it was his constant glance at his partner. Not once did he look at what was being done to him, but kept staring at Hutch as if the blond was his only link to reality.

It reminded Hutch of a horror movie Starsky had once described to him, where a guy was lost in an evil dimension and only some sort of pet–Hutch had forgotten what it’d been, a cat maybe–was the link to the real world, so the poor man kept searching for it all the time in order to endure the evilness of the horrific place.

At least now he knew how that cat felt, Hutch thought dryly as he looked back at Starsky again after having followed Keisha’s movements briefly and found the bright cobalt eyes a little wider than before. The moment he smiled warmly at his friend, though, the panic that’d been evident in there flickered off like a flashlight.

“I’m right here, Starsk,” Hutch said clearly like he had before. Though he had to stand back a little in order to not get in Keisha’s way, his voice and sight was apparently enough for Starsky to remain calm.

Not that Hutch assumed the confused man would actually have struggled against examining hands or touches. He’d probably have endured everything.

Closing his eyes briefly at the thought, Hutch let out a curt breath. Hold yourself together, Ken, you hear? We’re gonna fix this. It’s gonna be okay.

A slight touch to his shoulder snapped his eyes open again, and he was met by Keisha’s warm sympathetic smile. Their gazes locked for a moment, until he nodded gratefully, and looked back at Starsky.

We’re gonna fix this, babe, I promise. It’s gonna be okay. I’ll take care of it.

Pushing edging weariness away, he smiled again. “You’re holding on great, buddy.”

“Yeah, David,” Keisha agreed, brushing gentle fingers through Starsky’s hair. “You’re doing fine. And we’re almost finished here. I’ve just to check you for injuries now. Or–can you tell me if you’re injured? Any pain? Hm?” She rose her voice soothingly like one would talk to a child, but still Starsky’s eyes glazed over with fear at her questions.

Recognizing the signs at once, she put soothing hands onto his chest. “Shhh, okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me nothing, okay, Davey? I’ll look for myself. Just let me get you out of this, okay?” she continued, tugging at the wide grey sweater Starsky still wore. Up until now she had more or less worked around it, doing the starters, taken blood, checked his pulse, as she’d sensed by pure instinct that taking off every cover he had would probably rise his distress further.

At her patient’s weary glance at his blond friend, she bent her head to look into his eyes, waggling her brows. “You probably hear that a lot, huh?”

Hutch laughed, and after a checking glance on him, Starsky presented them both with a shy smile that seemed to brighten the whole room.

“Heyyy,” Keisha went on, grinning. “I think you have beautiful smile.”

As his friend’s glance once more wandered over to catch his, Hutch rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “And all that without a single line…”

“Aw, don’t listen to him,” Keisha played along. “He’s just jealous. So, Dave, can you take this off by yourself?”

The smile vanished, nervousness taking its place.

Exchanging a quick glance with Hutch, Keisha took a small step away, studying Starsky’s face. “It doesn’t hurt you to lift your arms, does it?”

Starsky’s glance wandered aside, away from her, then back. The sweater started to stretch over his shoulders as nervous fingers began clawing at the insides of the too big sleeves.

Keisha sighed a little, again casting Hutch a look. “It’s okay, Dave, don’t get agitated. I didn’t mean to confuse you. Just–take off th-”

“No, wait,” Hutch interrupted softly, approaching the table a little.

“What?”

Looking at her pleadingly, Hutch asked, “Don’t… order him to do something. Please.”

Her face fell in shared heartache. “Oh… Ken, I don’t intend to-”

A gentle gesture with his hand let her voice trail off, and she frowned questioningly when he crouched down in front of the table so that he was now looking up into Starsky’s face.

His partner was scared. Hutch wondered if he really knew what he was doing here. It obviously scared Starsky a hell of a lot less to simply obey.

Yet–that was his point exactly. He didn’t want Starsky to obey.

“Buddy,” he started softly, “Keisha here needs to take a look at you. Therefore you’ve to take off that sweater.”

Starsky lifted his head, waiting for the order to come. The expecting expression in otherwise blank blue eyes was almost more than Hutch could take, yet he forced himself to keep looking straight into them.

“Is that okay?” he asked, completely serious. “Can you do that?”

A pained frown spread on the darker man’s face. Hutch thought he could almost see the wheels working behind his forehead.

“I don’t think that’s wise, Ken,” Keisha whispered, but Hutch ignored her.

“Starsky. We need you to take off the sweater. Will you do that? Is that okay?”

Starsky’s chin started quivering slightly as he obviously worked on an answer.

“Ken, you’re scaring him.”

Hutch shot her a glance, but turned back to Starsky instantly. If he’d stop now, who knew what more damage he’d inflict? Starsky had recognized him, so what would it do to him to have HUTCH giving him orders?

“Buddy, no one will hurt you if you refuse to take it off,” he said, a sudden idea forming in his mind. “But–we won’t be able to finish here then. You understand? It’s your decision, but…” Frowning at his own words, he trailed off.

It’s your decision, BUT?! Oh, THAT ‘s smart, Hutch!

“I-I mean…” he stammered, trying to make up for his mistake, but his partner already scrambled his way out of too much material and held out the sweater for Hutch a split second later. His expression reminded Hutch of that of a child in school, looking up at the teacher to see if he’d given the right answer.

In this case–a particularly strict, feared teacher.

Despite the urge to sigh unnerved, Hutch forced himself to smile approvingly. “Uh…yeah. Thanks, buddy.”

Confused or not, Starsky being Starsky, he could sense Hutch’s frustration and started to chew on his lower lip, looking utterly miserable.

Catching the glance, Hutch felt himself making a face at his own stupidity. God, this was complicated!

“That’s good, buddy, really,” he said helplessly and took the sweater as if to underline his praise of the other’s action.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince his friend of something he didn’t think himself.

“Two Eight Zero… sorry?” Starsky asked, unsure, arching his brows.

Hutch felt like crying. “No. No, not sorry. A-and NOT… Two Eight Zero,” he added, thinking he must sound like an idiot. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, buddy.”

Starsky looked at him blankly, the situation to much for him to take. His gaze wandering to the bundle in Hutch’s hands and back up into pained light blue eyes, he finally settled for a clear, “Two Eight Zero is sorry.” After a moment’s thought he added a soft, “Hutch.”

Before his friend could reply anything, a soft gasp coming from Keisha drew his attention towards her.

Sensing she had no business interrupting the scene, the nurse had quietly walked over to a cupboard behind the examination table to get a pair of gloves.

Now she looked at Hutch appalled, then let her gaze fall upon her patient’s back again.

“Ken.”

Dread at what she might have discovered there gnawing at his stomach, Hutch quickly moved to stand behind her, softly restraining his friend from following him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh my god,” he whispered at the sight that met him. “Wh-what´s… what’s that?” he asked without looking at Keisha, but stepping closer to place a warm hand above one of the many horrific marks on his partner’s back.

They were rather small, faded, circle-shaped spots, looking like blackish bruises.

Burns, he thought. They looked like burns, only that they all seemed… equal. And there were so many. Some faded to mere scars, newer ones on top of them.

“What…?”

“Wires,” Keisha answered softly. “I think they’re wire burns. Oh god,” she sighed and briefly rubbed her face, before turning around to make a note on Starsky’s chart.

Hutch didn’t look, but slowly as to not startle his friend, slid down next to him on the table, so that they sat shoulder to shoulder.

He opened his mouth to say something, but found he couldn’t.

I’m sorry, Starsk. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I trusted Frasier. I’m sorry I didn’t keep track of you like I should have. I’m sorry I lost you. I’m sorry I got sick. I’m sorry I didn’t try sooner. I’m sorry I-

“Hutch.”

The whisper was so soft Hutch almost missed it. His head snapping up, he found himself at the receiving end of a clear glance. Starsky.

He was so surprised he couldn’t even reply, just stare.

“Doesn’t…” Starsky started, bit his lip, and after a moment smiled slightly, before continuing, “doesn’t hurt that much.”

The blond’s chin dropped, and in exactly that moment Dr. Wyler returned with the psychiatrist.

****

Two hours. He’d waited in that goddamned waiting room for two hours now. What the hell was taking the guy so long? And why wasn’t he allowed to stay?! Who was that Dr. Birnbaum to tell what sort of answer or reaction or whatever was normal for Starsky?! He didn’t know Starsky, Hutch did!

Lifting his fifth plastic cup of coffee, Hutch found it empty and crumbled it, frustrated. For the hundredth time in twenty minutes he checked his watch.

Come on, calm down, okay? Those things probably need that much time. You ever seen a victim of… such a place? No. So what d’you know? Nothing.

He sighed as if for an answer to himself.

Damn it, but I know Starsky! I should be in there. He recognized me, didn’t he?! What good is it going to be to have Dr. “You being in the room might distract him” asking him a bunch of questions he can’t answer?! What if he freaks out and they sedate him? Or… restrain him…

His gaze wandered to the exit and in the direction the examination room was.

They wouldn’t do that, would they?

Slowly, as if his body acted independent from his mind, he rose from the chair and walked over to the exit, out, down the hallway.

They wouldn’t… do anything without asking me first, would they? The fear wasn’t gnawing any longer, but starting to claw. He could feel his throat closing. They wouldn’t… Wh-what if this guy is another one of… them?! What if they changed their mind? What if I left him alone with one of them?!

He was running by now, almost stumbling over his own feet. I’m coming, Starsky! Everything’s gonna be okay, I’m here. I’m coming!

His mind racing with panic, he almost crashed into the door Dr. Birnbaum opened the second Hutch turned the last corner. The blond stopped in his tracks, swaying as he tried to catch his footing, panting, eyes wide.

Dr. Birnbaum jumped, startled, and let the door fall shut with a bang, holding his chest. “God, Detective, you…” he breathed, closed his eyes briefly to gather his wits.

Hutch ignored him, trying to reach around the older and smaller man to open the door. “Get out of the way!” he ordered sharply, his voice even strained by his lack of breath.

Stepping aside, Birnbaum frowned at the younger man and placed a heavy hand on his arm. “Detective, calm down. I told you it’d take a wh-”

“I want to see him. Let me go.”

“Hey, hey, easy,” the psychiatrist soothed, surprised at the strong reaction. “Your friend is fine, detective. Why don’t we-”

“I want to see Starsky! Get out of the way!” Hutch cut him off, his voice high-pitched by fear, and Birnbaum raised his hands slowly in a calming manner.

Not missing a beat, Hutch opened the door and crossed the space between the door and the examination table, where Starsky lay curled up on his side, a thick hospital blanket covering him, his head resting on a pillow. His breathing was even and calm, his eyes closed.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked in near panic, gently stroking his friend’s hair.

“Detective,” Birnbaum started from where he stood in the doorway, “I really think you should-”

“Why isn’t he answering? What d’you do to him?!” Hutch cut him off, wheeling around to shoot the older man a furious look.

Again, Birnbaum rose his hands defensively. “Detective, calm down. He’s just asleep.”

After a moment, Hutch turned again, his hands once more finding his friend’s still form. Gently, he caressed Starsky’s cheek, while with the other hand adjusted the blanket carefully. “Y-you didn’t give him anything, did you?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

Birnbaum sighed. “No. He just fell asleep, detective. He’s exhausted, and I really think you and me should leave him to get some rest now.”

“Y-yeah,” Hutch nodded, his eyes never leaving Starsky, his fingers still busy smoothing the blanket, brushing soft curls, too cold skin. “Yeah, you’re right.”

“You can come back right after we’ve talked.” It was said with a sympathetic smile coloring the older man’s voice as he stepped back slightly to hold open the door for Hutch.

Ignoring the man’s attempt at kindness, the blond just nodded again. “Be right back, babe,” he whispered into Starsky’s ear and left, not without turning once more at the door, before Birnbaum gently, but firmly shoved him out and mindfully closed the door behind them.

“Let’s go to my office and-”

“Can’t you tell me here?” Hutch asked pleadingly, before he could restrain himself.

Birnbaum smiled and once more took the younger man’s arm gently. “Your partner’s perfectly safe here, detective. I have a nurse look after him while we’re talking, and when he wakes up, she will inform us instantly, so you can sit with him again. Okay?”

Searching the man’s grey eyes, Hutch finally nodded, not really convinced, though, and let himself be guided down the hallway towards Dr. Birnbaum’s office. There, he obediently sat down in a chair and watched the psychiatrist re-arrange the piles of paper on his desk and then sit down himself behind a large, wooden desk.

A moment of silence passed. Hutch couldn’t help glancing at the door nervously from time to time. Despite himself, he started fumbling with the sleeves of his shirt.

“Detective… uh,” Birnbaum started, smiling apologetically. “I think I forgot your name. I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” Hutch muttered and looked back from over his shoulder. He knew it was silly, yet the thought of Starsky being without him again unnerved him immensely. It felt as if not being able to see, hear, touch Starsky was turning everything that had happened into a dream. He’d wished, hoped, longed so much for this day to come, now that he had his partner back, being elsewhere seemed so utterly and completely wrong it left him feeling almost guilty.

As if he was letting Starsky down again.

“Your name,” Birnbaum’s deep calm voice seemed to reach him from a far distance.

“Hutch,” Hutch mumbled, and at the doctor’s loud sigh finally turned back to face him, shaking his head as if to clear it. “Uhm, I-I-”

“Detective Hutchinson,” Birnbaum interrupted him, smiling wryly to underline now he recalled the blond’s name again, “you need to calm down. Maybe you’d like something… glass of water? Or coffee? You look rather exhausted yourself. Maybe you should consider getti-”

“No,” Hutch shook his head. “No, I-I’m sorry, doctor. I’m just…” He tiredly wiped his eyes with his thumb and index finger, then looked up again as if he’d now sufficiently had locked away whatever had him distracted. “It’s been a long day,” he excused himself and didn’t wait for further statements about his own appearance. “So what d’you think? I-I mean wh-what…” He trailed off, not knowing what exactly it was he wanted to ask.

Dr. Birnbaum leaned back in his chair, a gesture underlining his following business tone. It was like he sought distance from the blond. He’d been in familiar situations too often to assume that there was an easy way to say what he had to say. Sort of silly to think facts would hurt less from the distance, yet like most doctors, it was what his instinct told him.

“Well, physically,” he started, “I think you’ve been told that your partner is not in particularly bad shape.” He gave a short pause as if wanting to give Hutch a chance to comment on that. The blond remained silent, though. “That is–considering his… psychological state.”

Hutch frowned. “Wh-what d’you mean, considering his… I-I don’t think I understand. I… Dr. Wyler said he was okay except for…” His voice trailed off, his right hand feeble wandering over his shoulder to his back. When he noticed it, he quickly drew it back and rested his fist against the right side of his mouth, studying the psychiatrist expectantly.

Birnbaum let out a bracing breath, before nodding slightly. “That’s right, there’s nothing physical that leads to greater worry. Meaning Detective Starsky wasn’t injured in a life-threateningly manner during his, uh, captivity. There is, however, some evidence of… torture,” he chose the word very carefully, as Hutch noticed, “as you saw on his back and from what the psychological examination showed, we can assume that most of his injuries have already healed.”

Hutch’s eyes widened, appalled. “H-heal… A-are you saying that what w-we saw on his back was done to him over the entire time?”

“No,” Birnbaum answered after a moment’s thought. “I think it stopped some time ago. See, detective, you’ve to understand Detective Starsky’s physical injuries as, shall we say, links to the psychological damage done.”

Hutch visibly flinched. Damage. Oh god.

The doctor didn’t notice, though. He was busy figuring how to explain his theory to the younger man who seemed so keen on not wanting to understand what he was saying. “What I mean, detective, is that everything that has been inflicted on your friend’s body was meant to have some effect on his mind. As you have noticed, he’s a little underweight. Not much, but from what we’ve learned about his state of mind, it’s obvious that he has been… starved as a punishment. He probably was a lot thinner let’s say a month ago. But from one point on he submitted to his torturers and was given food again.”

“S-submi… D’you really think that happened?” The question was whispered as if the blond couldn’t find the strength to speak up. “Isn’t it possible h-he could’ve just…” Feeble hands searched for a gesture. “Like… Maybe they didn’t give him ENOUGH to eat. That’s possible too, isn’t it? Why d’you assume he was-”

“Detective, I know this is very hard to accept,” Birnbaum interrupted his rambling gently, “but there is no way denying your partner was severely tortured in order to… well, I’d say brainwash him, as hard a word as this is.”

Hutch’s head dropped. “So,” he mumbled, defeated, “these… burns on his back… You think they…” He drew in a deep breath and looked up again. “They punished him, didn’t they? A lot. They hurt him. Starved him. Until he… gave up and started to obey. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” A short pause followed. “Yes, I think that’s what happened. Yet I wouldn’t say he gave up–entirely.”

Hutch arched his brows questioningly.

“You see, there are some things that don’t fit in the picture as a whole. Like he constantly clenches his hands to fists.” To emphasize his words, Birnbaum lifted his hands for Hutch to see them clenched to fists. “That is a rather aggressive gesture, as you will agree. Then, as I said, there is the extent of his injuries. I know it sounds harsh, but from what I think about your partner there should be a lot more.”

Hutch frowned slightly, then tilted his head as understanding sank in. “You mean he didn’t give up, but… like, played along or something?”

“Sort of,” Birnbaum said, waving his hand slightly. “Let me ask you, detective, would you describe your partner as stubborn? Hot-tempered?”

“Uh… well, yeah. Sometimes,” Hutch answered, and again understood what the doctor was aiming at a second later. “A person like him would have been hurt more severely if acting by nature, that’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Yes. I think your partner is a very clever man. A survivor.”

Hutch didn’t listen. “He gave up,” he muttered, “AS a fight.” Letting the sentence hang between them for a second, he finally looked up at the psychiatrist again. “Yeah? In order to survive and NOT lose himself he… submitted.”

“Partly,” Birnbaum nodded, and raised his index finger at the emotions he saw rushing through the light blue eyes. “But you mustn’t assume that he knows that, detective. We’re talking about a very complicated phenomenon here. There was damage done, you saw it. Your partner has been trained to obey, and that is what he does. It’s just there are some parts of him left.”

“What d’you mean, some parts?” Hutch asked dreadfully.

Birnbaum looked right into the younger man’s pleading eyes and slowly, not aware of it, leaned back some more. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Detective Hutchinson, but I don’t think you will get your friend back.”

Hutch sat frozen, his mind revealing a very familiar situation. I’m sorry, but I don’t think your friend’s gonna make it. It seemed a lifetime ago. A life. And just like back then, he heard himself answer, “What d’you mean, of course I’ll get him back. Hell, I’ve got him back!”

The older man sighed, having anticipated that reaction. “No. He’s too far gone. But there is hope that he may be able to live a normal life one d-”

“He recognized me,” Hutch interrupted him sharply. “He knows who I am. He tried to comfort me! Me!”

“You have to understand that everything he does at the moment is initialized by fear. Face the truth, detective, that man out there is not your partner any longer, he’s-”

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Birnbaum, but that man out there will always be my partner, and obviously contrary to you I can tell the difference between fear and recognition. Starsky knows exactly who I am, and yes, so he may be confused right now, and scared, but he’s not lost!” His gaze settling on the doctor again after having drifted off at his search for the right words, Hutch suddenly frowned.

“Hey, wait a second.” Slowly, he rose from his chair and steadied himself on the desk, looking directly into older eyes. “What exactly is your… advice, doctor?” The word ‘advice’ was spat out hatefully. “You want to admit him, don’t you? Lock him away again.”

Birnbaum looked up at him absolutely calm, unimpressed. “Fact is your friend is a very sick man, Detective Hutchinson. He needs treatme-”

“So what’re you gonna do, shock him again?!” Hutch called out in anger. “Tie him to a bed for the rest of his life?! Shoot him full of whatever and every once in a while let some overworked shrink go trying to explain to him that he’s not a number but a human being?!”

“Electroshock treatment isn’t known to work in cases like this,” Birnbaum informed the blond quietly. “Besides, knowing Detective Starsky’s medical history, it wouldn’t be wise to, let’s say try his luck more than once, for he’s extremely lucky to have lived through the treatment you told me about without any noticeable aftereffects. As far as the rest of his life goes–I don’t think I have to explain to a cop the dangers of triggers.”

Hutch could feel the color draining from his face, yet he forced himself to remain standing. He couldn’t let go, not now. Something inside him pushed him to not lose his confidence now. This was the final fight for Starsky, and he knew it. “He’s not been…” He bit off the rest of the sentence, breathed in deeply, and said quietly, “There’s no trigger in Starsky’s head. He’s no danger to anyone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know him.”

A soft laugh underlined the doctor’s next words. “That’s not good enough, detective.”

“Yes, it is. You’re a psychiatrist. You know that not every person can be used as a trigger. Starsky can’t. And you have no way to prove he’s a danger. Everyone who looks at him can see he’s just scared and nothing but. Actually you told me just a minute ago that he’s still himself, partly.”

“I said-”

“Well, go and order him to shoot someone. Or kill himself. He won’t do it. He’d take the punishment. And I can’t shake the feeling you know that,” the blond added after a moment’s thought. “Because something keeps telling me you are interested in my partner getting admitted here because of something else.”

A tensed silence passed, the air as thick as fog.

“You won’t get him back,” Birnbaum finally said. “At least not by taking him with you and trying to train him to think for himself. It won’t work. I know your kind, detective. I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to be nice and caring, but all you’ll succeed in will be training him to obey you because he’ll want to please you.”

Hutch blinked, visibly restraining himself from losing control, and slowly pushed himself up to his full height. “I’d highly appreciate it,” he said calmly, “if you’d stop talking about Starsk like he’s some sort of dog. Nobody has trained or will train him to do anything.”

Slowly but steadily, anger worked its way into the older man’s eyes. He slid closer to the desk a few inches, his gaze focused on the blond detective. “And just by what academic knowledge do you reach this conclusion?”

Hutch frowned, taken aback, and opened his mouth to reply, but the doctor had obviously just reached the very edge of his patience. “Who are you to doubt my diagnosis, Detective Hutchinson?”

“I-”

“I’ve worked with people like your partner for a long time now, actually I’m working on a study right now about triggered…” The moment the sentence had slipped out, Birnbaum knew he’d made a mistake. Actually pressing his lips shut, he quickly leaned back again, breaking the eye-contact.

Hutch, though, turned his head slightly as if listening to the echo. “Study?” he asked, waited and finally nodded. “I see.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“Yes, it does,” the blond interrupted and took one more step away, preparing to leave. “It means I’m going to get my partner away from here, from you right now.”

“Detective-”

“I don’t believe you people!” Hutch snapped, turning on his way to the door. “You saw him,” he added in a much softer, sad voice. “Didn’t you? You looked into his eyes, and he apologized for flinching when you touched him.” He swallowed dryly at the lump that started to throb in his throat at the memories. When he spoke again, his voice wasn’t as steady as before, but then he didn’t care. He didn’t feel weak showing his feelings to the man. In fact, that he had them made him feel a whole lot stronger than the doctor.

“He apologized to you, calling himself a number. A number, Dr. Birnbaum. And all you thought was what a great addition to your study he’d be? Is that it?”

At the soft, almost whispered question, the psychiatrist’s gaze dropped, silence answered it.

“Well, he’s not gonna be one,” Hutch continued, determined. “I’m Starsky’s next of kin, and I won’t give my agreement to any of your advises. In fact if you ever get near him again, I’m…” He forced himself to not finish the sentence, but opened the door. “You know something, doctor? You’re no better than they are. And that conclusion I reached by my knowledge of human nature.”

With that, he closed the door and turned without looking back.

****

People called him by his name. That was the first thing he’d found out to last. People called him by his name, and he liked it. A lot.

He’d tried to not forget his name. Most of the time he’d succeeded. Of course, he’d sometimes thought. Thought he didn’t know why it’d occurred to him that forgetting your name was a rather stupid thing to do. Not normal. Why, though, he couldn’t tell.

But then–now that he’d come, maybe Hutch could.

Hutch had been the other thing he’d tried to not forget. Hutch and his name. He’d come to forgetting why exactly it was so important to remember what Hutch looked like, to try to imagine the smooth features and blond hair of his friend, but he’d never forgotten to do it whenever he had the chance to let his thoughts drift off.

The forgetting of the why had started when the pain had begun to vanish, and he’d been so afraid of it returning that he’d not dared to ask further. Why wasn’t important. What WAS important was to not forget Hutch. Not his looks, nor his voice. Not HIM. At times, when they’d put him into the darkness again, he’d been able to hear him talking to him or singing, and he’d been less afraid.

Maybe that’d been the why all along? But then–he didn’t dare asking why.

Anyway, people called him by his name. That was what had suddenly changed. That and that Hutch seemed to be there all of a sudden. Not in daydreams, but really there. He’d touched him, hadn’t he? And talked to him.

But then–he didn’t dare think that. It could be a trick. Or worse, it could be a punishment. It could be they’d lured him into believing Hutch had come only to have him find out it’d all been an act. A drug-induced dream.

Or what if there’d never been a Hutch at all? He’d thought about that back in the darkness a lot. What if he’d always lived in darkness and had dreamed what he thought he remembered of David Starsky’s life? Sure he’d have invented a caring, loving person like Hutch, wouldn’t he? It was only logical he’d have longed for someone to care.

But why would he think of bad memories too? He recalled Hutch crying, Hutch hurt, himself hurt… He hurt… Hurt to think… Thinking hurt…

Hurting would be punished. Oh please, no… Sorry… I’m… No, Two Eight Zero’s sorry! Sorrysorrysorry…

****

When Hutch arrived at Starsky’s room, he saw Keisha approaching it swiftly, and sped up to meet her at the door, arching his brows, concerned.

“Hey,” he greeted her, “what-”

“I think he’s crying,” she said and gestured for him to take a moment and listen.

Indeed, after a split second he too could hear soft whimpers coming from inside the room, faint sobs, stifled, desperate.

Before Hutch had even opened his mouth, Keisha patted his arm lightly, warm eyes searching for his. “You better go check. I’ll make sure no one comes in.”

“Thanks,” Hutch muttered gratefully and carefully entered the examination room, the door being closed quietly behind him.

“Starsky?” he asked softly, his gaze instantly finding the figure of his best friend lying on the table in exactly the same position Hutch had last seen him.

It seemed he hadn’t moved an inch in his sleep. The only movement that could be seen was the fast rising and falling of his chest under the blanket as he sobbed with the right side of his face buried in the pillow. He didn’t even raise his hands to wipe away the tears that constantly spilled. It was an almost absurd picture, and Hutch found himself staring in dismay for a moment, before he’d gathered his wits again.

“Buddy, hey,” he then soothed and rushed over the table. Out of pure reflex he lifted his friend so that he could sit down next to him and hold him with the curly head resting against his chest. “It’s okay, Starsk, I’m here. Shhh, it’s okay.”

The moment he touched Starsky, though, the smaller man seemed to stop his crying as if switching it off and tensed up so much his shoulders were trembling. “Two Eight Zero is sorry,” he said clearly from down in Hutch’s arms.

The blond closed his eyes and hugged him tighter. He thought for a while without saying anything, but kept on gently rocking his friend in his arms like a child.

“Starsk,” he finally said softly, “can you tell me your name?”

His partner’s shoulders tensed even more, the scared silence that came for an answer disturbed by an occasional sniffle.

“It’s okay,” Hutch said, “I’m right here. I got you.” To underline his words, he gently nudged Starsky’s cheek. “There, felt that? I’ve got you right here, and I’m not gonna let anyone hurt you again.”

Starsky sniffed.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“D-Da…” Starsky started, but flinched suddenly and stopped.

Hutch’s heart took an excited leap. “Yes,” he encouraged, “right, it starts like that. And I know you know it, buddy, you told Keisha,” he added with a warm smile, ruffling Starsky’s hair. “I’d just like to hear it again. But only if you want to. D’you want to tell me your name, babe?”

A long silence passed, and Hutch was almost about to work on another tactic, when he suddenly heard a faint whisper. “David.”

He was so surprised, he almost let go off his friend, but caught his wits in time and briefly hugged him a little tighter. “Right. Good. How do I call you?”

“Starsky.” This time, the answer came faster, not immediately, still hesitantly, but faster nevertheless.

A smile settled on Hutch’s face. “Always?” he asked playfully.

“Uhm…”

“Never mind,” the blond winked quickly, warning himself to be more careful. “What’s my name?”

“Hutch.” This time, Starsky answered within a second.

“What’s my full name?”

“Kenneth Hutchinson.”

“What d’we do for a living?”

“Cops.”

“Where were you born?”

“New York.”

“Where d’you live?”

“Bay City.”

“What’s your favorite board game?”

“Monopoly.”

“Me and…?”

“Thee.”

“Why d’you cry?” Hutch held his breath, hoping Starsky wouldn’t feel it.

“Hurt. Gonna be punished.” There was a slight hint of fear in Starsky’s voice, but then maybe it was just in his mind, Hutch thought. Maybe it was because he assumed the answer to be scaring.

He swallowed, forcing himself to keep up the rocking motion, though every nerve in him screamed for a following question. Punished for hurting?!?! “Why d’you hurt?”

“Hurts to thi…” Starsky started, but didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he flinched again, tensing up even more in his friend’s hold. “T-two Eight-”

“No, babe, please,” Hutch interrupted him softly, his voice dropping a little, though he tried his best to keep his despair out of it. He gently shifted their position so that he could lift Starsky’s head and look at him. “You’re no number, Starsk. You’re David Starsky. You just told me yourself.”

A small frown crawled over Starsky’s forehead as he tried to take in the information. He opened his mouth, thought differently, closed it again, looked at Hutch questioningly, checked their surroundings, and finally asked in a voice so tiny Hutch had to strain to hear it, “Hutch, why is it important to not forget my name?”

The pure joy that rushed through him at hearing his friend utter a whole question was somewhat darkened by its content. Yet Hutch smiled, thinking about an answer. “Because you need to know you’re David Starsky,” he finally said, convinced. “It’ll make you hurt less.”

That seemed to make sense to the confused man, as the frown wandered in deeper, and was then replaced by a shy smile. “I didn’t forget you either.”

Hutch hadn’t seen that sentence coming, and it acted almost like a physical slap, sending a tear falling from his lids where he hadn’t felt moisture before. Feebly, he wiped it away, but couldn’t stop yet another one from falling.

“Oh, buddy, I…” A small sob cut him off, and at the lack of words, Hutch simply hugged his friend close again, for once burying his own face in the smaller man’s shoulder.

A disappointed voice made him laugh through the tears a split second later.

“I forgot why that was important too.”

“Don’t worry,” Hutch said through a sniffle. “You’ll remember. I’ll help you.”

“Yeah.” The word was said with little conviction.

Pushing himself away from his partner and wiping his eyes, Hutch fought for control again. “Well, buddy, ready to go home now?”

Starsky looked up at that, his lips moving without a sound. “Home,” he mouthed and let his gaze drift off.

Hutch sniffed one last time, sliding from the table. “Yeah, Starsk, home. We’ll just have to sign you out and…” A thought hit him, and he took a few steps away from the table, before turning to his friend again. “D’you want to go home, buddy?”

Starsky’s cobalt blue eyes followed him, a hint of despair rushing through them as he saw the blond leaving him. He swallowed dryly and bit his lower lip like a little boy.

Once more, Hutch fought for steadiness in his actions as he repeated, “D’you want to go home, Starsky? Hm? For, you see, if you don’t want to, we won’t go.”

“B-but…” Starsky started, his eyes darting around the room as if trying to trace his thoughts. “You want to go home,” he finally stated, looking back at Hutch.

The blond frowned, tilted his head to one side. Suddenly he felt trapped. Like he’d just lost a game or something. “Yes,” he finally said. “That’s right. But do you?”

“Uhm… y…” Starsky’s head turned bit by bit as if he was trying to avoid giving his answer directly to Hutch. “Yes.”

“Can you say it?” Hutch asked.

Starsky smiled slightly as he slid from the table with a suppressed wince at the pain still radiating from his back. “I-I want t… w-want to…” he started, but hushed himself when he found his knees trembling suddenly. Actually his whole body started to shake as if protesting against his statement. “I…” He swallowed back tears, and grabbed behind him to steady himself at the table.

Hutch was next to him in an instant, gently grabbing his arm. “Hey, babe, it’s okay, you don’t need to say it. It’s okay. I know. I know.”

Starsky interlaced trembling finger’s with the blond’s sleeve and let himself be led away from the table towards the door, before he looked up at his friend shyly. “Two Eigh…” he began his apology, thought about it and settled for, “Starsky’s sorry?”

Hutch had to stop in their way and close his eyes as if he’d just received a physical blow. Recently a lot of his partner’s sentences seemed to have that effect on him. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself looking into waiting blue seas and smiled warmly.

“We’ll work on that, partner, okay? Let’s just work on getting you home for now.”

“Yes, Hutch.”

“Shut up, Starsk,” Hutch muttered softly, as they emerged from the room and found Keisha waiting for them. She’d already prepared the papers, so that they were quickly through with the formalities.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything for the pain,” she told Starsky, who avoided looking at her, but clung to Hutch’s arm. “But your system’s still working on all those sedatives. Uhm, Ken, can I…” She urged, gesturing for him to talk to her in private.

“Yeah, sure. Hey, buddy, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere,” Hutch told his friend, who of course obeyed the former order to not talk, and left him at the reception to talk to Keisha a few steps away.

“Those sedatives,” she informed him in a low voice. “He’s been given quite a lot over the time, according to his screening.”

Hutch closed his eyes. Fatigue was working against him like a silent enemy. “Please don’t tell me he’ll go through detox or something. Please.”

Gently touching his arm, she shook her head. “No, not really. It’s not gonna be… bad. it’s just that he’ll probably have some aftereffects. Slight ones. You know, like a hang-over, harmless.”

“But?” Hutch asked dreadfully.

“But I don’t think he’ll be able to understand why.”

He stopped in his tired wiping of his face and peeked at her over his fingers, then looked over at his waiting friend and back. “Oh no.”

“Yep.”

“Oh please no,” he pleaded with no one in particular. “You think he’ll believe he’s being punished? By me?”

She shrugged slightly. “I don’t know, Ken. But you need to be warned. In his condition, he won’t be able to understand what hits him.”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” Hutch sighed, forcing a smile on his face. “I’ll do what I can.”

“I know you will. Ken,” her voice held him back once more.

“Yeah?”

“Take care.”

“I will.”

“Not only of him,” she added and turned before he could reply something.

“`Kay, buddy,” he smiled at his friend when he returned to the reception and placed a protecting arm around Starsky’s shoulders. “Let’s get you home, c’mon.”

“Yes, Hutch.”

Hutch shot him a glance, suppressing a sigh. “Yes, Hutch,” he muttered under his breath and led his partner out of the hospital.

****

Two and a half months. After two and a half months, he finally drove to his place with Starsky sitting next to him in expecting silence, and it suddenly hit Hutch that he had absolutely no idea what to do next.

Glancing at his partner, he had to fight a sudden overwhelming panic. The curly haired man didn’t look sick. Exhausted, but then not much more than Hutch himself, the blond thought as he caught his own expression in the rearview mirror. They both looked like they just needed a decent meal and a good night’s sleep.

Oh Starsk, what’re we doing here? What am I doing here? What if… He forced himself to not go that road, closed his eyes briefly against the gnawing doubts.

No ‘what if’s! He’d made a decision–the right decision–and he’d go with it. No backing out now.

You don’t want him in another looney bin, do you, Ken? – No, of course not! – Then stop thinking like this! It’ll turn out okay, you’ll see. Just… be there. – What if that’s not good enough? What if I’m not good enough?

“Hey buddy,” he said, more to hear his own voice over his thoughts than to actually talk to his friend, “feels good to be out of there, doesn’t it?”

Starsky blinked as if waking from a daydream, turned his head to look at Hutch and flinched. “Uh… Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

Hutch sighed, exasperated, and reached out to squeeze the smaller man’s shoulder. “It’s okay. Sorry I startled you.”

Starsky had turned to focus ahead again, but his eyes kept darting about nervously. His partner frowned.

“Hey, you okay? Y-you… you know where you are, right?”

No answer. A slight trembling increased visibly.

“Starsky. Buddy, it’s okay. ‘Sokay. Just me.”

When again there came no reply, the blond pulled over at the side of the street and stopped, then turned fully in the driver’s seat to look at his confused friend. “Starsky, it’s okay. You’re still with me. We just left the hospital. D’you remember the hospital?”

Memory seemed to claw its way through a thick fog inside the curly head as Starsky frowned deep and blinked rapidly. “Y-yeah,” he finally whispered. “Yeah. Right. I… Hutch?”

Smiling in relief, the blond nodded and placed a warm hand on the trembling shoulder. To his utter joy Starsky didn’t flinch, but feebly reached for the hand to brush against it.

“Right here, babe. Still here. I think you had a flashback or something. But you remember now, right?”

A shy glance, a slight smile. “Yeah, remember. Sorry.” The gaze drifted off, thinking, then back again. “Starsky. Starsky’s sorry.”

Hutch stared at him with a pained expression, but as his friend’s eyes searched for him, forced an approving smile on his lips. “We’re almost home, buddy. There we’ll…” His voice trailed off. There we’ll what?! Fix it?! “… talk,” he finally concluded, not convinced. “It’s all gonna be okay, you’ll see.”

Starsky looked at him blankly. After an eternity, he gave a tiny nod. “Yes, Hutch.”

Hutch returned the nod, turned and started the engine again. “Yes, Hutch,” he echoed.

****

Once he’d sorted out what the panic that kept clawing at his insides was about, Hutch found it at least easier to deal with it.

He’d seated Starsky at the table in the kitchen, wanting his friend to be close, and was busy preparing something to eat. That always had a calming effect on him, and he used the distraction to contemplate the situation; coming to the conclusion that was really had him scared was his lack of a plan. A routine. Something he could hold onto while trying to get them both through this.

Normally he knew exactly what to do to make Starsky feel better. He knew the other man by heart, knew his needs and how to comfort him. But normally a sick or hurt Starsky wouldn’t sit completely still at the kitchen table, watching Hutch in silence, seemingly without blinking.

Normally a sick Starsky would either whine or pretend to be okay, depending on the nature of his injury.

The silence, though, scared Hutch. It distressed him to not know what his friend needed, or even worse what he could do that would not scare him to death. There wasn’t a routine to cling onto, no pattern to follow. What did Starsky need? Food and rest, yes, that was what Hutch could supply him with like any other time when his partner was sick, but–what then? More food, more rest? How did you fight a thing like this? How did you treat it?

Would it really suffice to just have him back? Hutch asked himself. For, if he had to be completely honest, that was the only idea he had. Starsky would get back to being Starsky if he was around Hutch. That was the plan.

And a pathetic one it is, Hutch. D’you really think it will all go away like that? – Yes. At least I… want to think that. Please just let me stick to that a little longer. I’m tired. So tired. I miss him…

That was the other thing, the one he didn’t think about, didn’t dare to. He was tired. He was beat. He was alone.

What he really needed was Starsky to be there for him. To tell him it’ll all be okay again soon. To comfort him. To let him sleep.

But Starsky wasn’t there. Hutch was alone.

Shaking his head slightly, he forced the horrific thoughts back to their hiding place, and turned to place a plate in front of his friend, smiling at him.

We’ll fix this, babe. We will. No doubts on my side, I promise.

“There you go. Uhm… you are hungry, right?”

Eyeing the food happily, Starsky nodded with a grateful smile. “Yes. Always,” he added after a moment’s thought.

Hutch laughed warmly at that, but then caught the pained expression rushing through the cobalt blue eyes.

Always, huh? Aw buddy, it’s gonna be okay, I got you now. You’ll get all the food you want, I promise. Tomorrow I’m going to get you the largest burrito I can find!

Sighing a little, he squeezed Starsky’s shoulder, before sitting back across from him as if to watch over his partner’s eating.

“Hutch?”

The tiny question was enough for the blond’s eyes snap up in excitement. Every little step towards normal behavior Starsky made seemed to cause Hutch overwhelming relief, and he felt slightly silly at the wide grin he replied with.

“Yeah?”

Starsky bit his lower lip as if trying to figure out if it’d be wise to ask what he wanted to. His gaze wandered from Hutch to the untouched plate and back.

Not wanting to urge his friend, since he was so delighted to have Starsky talking to him by his own means, Hutch watched questioningly.

“Did I do something… right?” the curly haired man finally asked in genuine wonder and at Hutch’s confused look added, “If so… Will you tell me what? I want to do things right.”

Hutch frowned, trying to understand. Out of pure reflex, he placed one hand on Starsky’s arm almost protectively. “I don’t understand, buddy,” he finally admitted. “What d’you mean, ‘right’? Y-you don’t need to do things righ…” And then, suddenly, he understood. “Oh.”

A deep sigh escaped him as he rubbed his eyes briefly while tightening his hold onto Starsky’s arm reassuringly. “Aw, buddy, you don’t need to do anything to get something to eat. You don’t have to earn that.”

Starsky looked down again, confused, until Hutch picked up the fork he’d laid next to the plate and gently pressed it in Starsky’s hand. “Here. Eat, buddy. And when you’re still hungry after that, you can get more. There’s nothing you have to earn,” he added in a whisper, his voice a little unsteady as the whole impact of the situation hit him. “You deserve everything, babe. Everything.”

As he felt moisture suddenly stinging in his eyes, Hutch rose from the table, leaving Starsky to eat and headed for the phone on the coffee table.

“Dobey,” the captain’s gruff voice answered after the first ring.

“Cap’n, it’s m-”

“Hutch! Where the hell’ve you been?! I’ve been trying to call you all day! I thought you’re sick.”

“Uhm, no, I’m better. Cap’n, I… I found Starsk.”

The sudden silence on the other phone sounded like a yelp, a scream, something unbearably loud, anyway, that was broken by a near whisper. “Where?”

“I can’t tell you,” Hutch replied and sighed. “I can’t tell you anything, actually. Just that he’s with me now and that he’s safe. No one will come after him. It’s over, that’s all I can tell you.”

Again, silence seemingly screamed questions at him, but all that was spoken was, “Is he okay?”

“No,” Hutch answered without hesitation, suddenly feeling so shaky he had to sit down on the couch. “No, he’s not okay.”

“But you have him at home with you?” Dobey asked, his voice a mixture of exasperated concern and the trained gentleness of a father. “Did you go to a hospital?”

“Yes. We were there. He’s not injured. Not much,” he corrected himself off with a bitter laugh. “It’s going to be okay. But he’s… confused. It’s hard to explain.”

“Hutch, tell me what happened to him,” Dobey said so softly, as Hutch had never heard him before.

He felt a tear slide down his cheek and brushed it away, annoyed. When he spoke again, he knew his voice quivered, but he couldn’t help it. How much he longed for some… comfort. Someone to give him at least a little strength. Someone to make the exhaustion and pain and loneliness go away.

He breathed in deeply, efficiently calming himself. There was no use in breaking down now. The person he needed wouldn’t help him this time.

“From what it looks like,” he explained quietly, “they tried to train him for trigger-experiments.”

“You’re kidding,” Dobey replied humorlessly, appalled.

“No. It’s what they did. Guess you could call it brain-washing, but that’s not really it. He remembers me and his life. He just doesn’t know how to react to people. He’s…” Searching for a right description, he snorted, disgusted. “Obedient. And scared. They hurt him a lot, but once he started obeying, they stopped, so he’s relatively okay. At least that’s what I think happened.”

“Obedie…” Dobey muttered as if to himself. “Starsky.”

“Yeah, I know,” Hutch smiled slightly and sniffed at once more threatening tears. “It’s eerie, believe me.”

It was amazing how that man could talk in silence, Hutch thought, as he found Dobey’s lack of a reply actually comforting.

“Anyway,” the blond started again after a moment, “he knows who I am, and he’s already trying to understand the changes. That is–I think he’s trying. He’s answering questions now and just a minute ago he asked me something by his own means. I-I mean, sure, he’s scared, but he’s getting th-”

“Hutch,” Dobey cut his rambling off softly, “I know you waited for this all the time, but-d’you really know what you’re doing?”

Hutch thought, his gaze wandering to Starsky still sitting at the kitchen table. He’d finished his meal and was now staring ahead blankly, waiting. Waiting for someone to tell him what to do.

So near and yet so far. How poetic.

“Yes,” the blond finally answered quietly. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

A gruff sigh, then, “Okay, listen, I’ll drop by today after work to-”

“No,” Hutch interrupted him quickly. “No, Cap’n, please, I think that’s… too early. I don’t think he’s up to…” …facing you. The real world. “… that already. A-and I-I… I really don’t think he’d want you to see him like… this,” he finished lamely.

This time, there was no silence. “Hutch, I haven’t seen him for almost three months too.”

It weren’t a superior’s words, but a friend’s, and a sudden wave of guilt caught the detective as he grimaced apologetically, even though Dobey couldn’t see it. I’m sorry, Cap’n. You missed him too, I know. Just give me a little more time. Just a little more.

“I know, Cap’n. I know, but… Not today. Please?”

Silence again, then, “I’ll see if I can make it tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Yes, alright. And Hutch–call me if… Call me.”

“I will. Promise.”

“Okay.” A short pause followed. “Take care, Hutch.”

“I will,” Hutch mumbled, but the captain had already hung up.

****

After having coaxed Starsky to eat a bit more, Hutch had suggested getting some rest and after an exhausting attempt at getting Starsky to utter his own wants and needs, had settled for more or less sending his partner to bed.

He’d then driven to Starsky’s apartment to collect some clothes and dropped by at Huggy’s to keep him updated.

“Hutch, man, no offence, but… d’you really know what you’re do-”

“Why does everyone ask me that?! I’m there, what else can I do?! What d’you all want from me?!”

Taken aback at the blond’s outburst, Huggy looked at him quietly for some time, before stating, “We want you to not fall apart, Blondie.”

His mouth already open to snap, Hutch caught the concern in his friend’s eyes and dropped his gaze. “I’m not falling apart.”

“Oh? ‘Ve you looked in a mirror lately?”

“Huggy, please, don’t start.” Hutch practically begged.

“Hutch-”

“No,” the blond interrupted softly, not looking up from where he tiredly rubbed his eyes, his elbows on the bar. “I mean it. I know you’re just concerned, and I know I look like hell, but if I break down now, Starsky’s going to be admitted.” To emphasize his words he looked up into appalled brown eyes. “D’you understand? They’d take him again, just like,” he snapped his fingers, “that. I’d lose him.”

Huggy couldn’t shake the feeling that his blond friend didn’t look well at all, but actually a bit–out of it himself. Paranoid. Not entirely sane. He couldn’t help thinking that the last time he’d seen an expression like that in the light blue eyes had been when nursing Hutch through a fevered dream.

Yet he loved the man enough to let him say his say, sensing how important it was for Hutch to share his inner turmoil with someone. Anyone. As much as it pained Huggy, he had to admit that in a way Hutch was all alone. No matter how hard he himself would try to be there for the detective, without Starsky, Hutch would always be alone.

“He is there,” Hutch continued, unaware of his friend’s inner argument, “but he’s sort of… locked inside all this… this crap! This number! It’s like he’s in there, but can’t communicate or… or look out, b-because th-there’s this fucking number they’d placed in his m-mind and… Oh, man,” he laughed nervously, rubbing his face, “I’m rambling, I’m rambling. Won’t you tell me to shut up?”

“It’s okay, Hutch,” Huggy muttered quietly.

Hutch glanced at him again, the humorless laughter fading, until there was only despair left on his strained features. Huggy found it hard to even look at him.

“It’s not okay, Hug,” he said, his voice breaking badly, though his eyes were dry, bright. “Nothing’s okay. I miss him. Oh god, I miss him.”

“I know. Me too.”

Hutch didn’t listen. He talked over his friend’s words. “If they’d take him again a-and lock him away, he… he’d lose everything. I’m sure. If they put him in… in a place like that again, he’ll lose himself completely. I…” His gaze dropped as if he was ashamed. “I don’t think I could take it, Hug.” His voice faded into a whisper, so faint Huggy almost missed it. In a way he wished he had.

“I think I’d die.”

Huggy swallowed dryly, studying the bowed blond head. I don’t doubt it, Blondie.

“You oughta go back, bro. Curly’s gonna feel lonely.”

As if snapping out of a trance, Hutch slowly lifted his head, not looking at Huggy. “Yeah,” he nodded and sniffed. “Yeah, right. See ya, Hug.”

“You take care, Hutch,” Huggy called after him and inwardly winced at the words. They sounded like a lie.

****

Hutch looked around in his living-room, his arms full of clothes, shrugged, and let everything fall onto the couch, deciding he’d deal with finding a place for it later. He then quietly sneaked over to his bedroom to check on Starsky and froze dead on the spot at the sight that met him in there.

Starsky sat on the bed, his hands lying clenched to fists next to his sides, his feet not touching the floor. He was staring ahead, blinking in a seemingly exactly timed rhythm.

He wore only what Hutch had given him to sleep in, boxers and a t-shirt, and was visibly chilled through by now, slight tremors running through his body.

“Starsky?” Hutch whispered carefully from where he stood and waited until his friend’s glance wandered to meet his, before he pushed himself away from the door.

The man on the bed didn’t move except for his eyes, his confused gaze following Hutch, who crossed the short distance swiftly and crouched down in front of the bed.

“Hutch,” Starsky said after a moment’s thought, blinking, surprised.

“Yeah,” Hutch smiled warmly, keeping his tone soft, assuring. “It’s me. I thought you were asleep.” He more saw then felt his hand reaching out in order to touch his friend’s knee, and forced it down again, keeping the space between them.

“Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

For once the blond managed to not let the apology act on him and let it slip by unnoticed. “Don’t you want to sleep? Get some rest?”

Starsky thought about the question. He still hadn’t moved, his feet hovering above the ground by mere inches, his back arched straight. Hutch thought that it was the most uncomfortable sitting position he could imagine. And somehow it reminded him of military movies.

“Did I do something wrong?” Starsky asked in a voice strained by fear.

“No,” Hutch replied quietly, gently, not at all with the dismayed force that had colored his actions the whole day long. “No, you didn’t do something wrong. I just thought you were exhausted and wanted to sleep. Next time you don’t want to do something I suggest, you tell me, okay?”

Starsky looked at him with a frown deepening on his forehead as if trying to figure out a complicated thought. “It’s not allowed to sleep during daytime,” he then informed Hutch, sounding like it surprised him that his partner didn’t know that. “It’s being punished.”

Hutch’s smile twisted a little as the words sank in, but he still kept his calm, steady outfit. “I see. Do you trust me, Starsk?”

“Yes,” came the immediate answer. The lack of some “what kinda question is that?!”-glances reduced Hutch’s joy at that a bit, though.

“Okay. I tell you what, if you want to sleep now, you can do that. And no one will punish you for it. I’ll make sure of that.”

Starsky thought about that for a second, then smiled slightly, almost giddy, like a child that’d been offered to stay up late without his parents having to know about it by a close adult. “Really?”

The blond’s smile widened as he nodded softly. “Really. Are you tired, buddy?”

“Always tired,” Starsky replied, subdued, a shadow rushing over his features.

Sleep withdrawal, Hutch thought while coming to his feet slowly to gather up the crumbled blanket next to Starsky’s trembling body. Great for punishment, I bet.

He stopped in his tracks to wrap the blanket around his friend and looked down at him. “May I?” he asked softly, gesturing with the cover.

Starsky looked at him blankly.

“You’re cold, buddy. You’re shaking.”

“Yeah,” Starsky nodded sadly. “I know.”

Confused at what that reply meant, Hutch sat down next to him, but again stopped before laying the blanket over his friend’s shoulders. “Is it okay if I touch you? You don’t have to be afraid, I won’t hurt you.”

A quick glance, then Starsky nodded slightly, and Hutch gently wrapped the blanket around him, easing him back on the bed so that he leaned against the headrest with Hutch sitting next to him.

“Better?” Hutch asked softly, brushing a tender hand over the side of the curly head that moved almost involuntarily, seemingly seeking the offered comfort, so that Hutch kept on the stroking motion.

“Yeah,” Starsky answered, “better.”

“Good.”

“Hutch?”

The quivery whimper sent the blond head bending a bit to catch the confused look in his friend’s midnight blue eyes. “What, buddy? What is it?” As he felt a change in the trembling of the shoulders he held, he squeezed Starsky tighter, reassuringly. “What’s the matter, babe? You scared? You don’t have to be, it’s just me. Just Hutch.”

“I don’t understand,” Starsky muttered, and Hutch saw a tear drop onto the blanket.

Gently, he lifted his free hand to brush over the wetness on his partner’s cheek. “What, Starsky? You don’t understand what?”

Starsky sniffed. It was the most pathetic sound Hutch had heard him utter in a long time.

“It’s okay, buddy,” he urged. “You can tell me.”

“I don’t know what I did right,” Starsky whispered, flinching at his own words, at the prospect they obviously held for him. “I want to understand, so I can do it again, but I can’t figure it out.”

Hutch’s heart didn’t give him the relief of breaking, the stabbing, clawing pain in it so much he had to gasp. “Buddy-”

“Cold,” Starsky continued absolutely earnest, really trying to understand what was going on, once more reminding his partner of a confused child, “is punishment. I know that. A-and…” Feebly, he rubbed his stomach, wincing slightly. Hutch followed the movement with shocked eyes, but before he could mention it, Starsky dropped his gaze, tensing up in Hutch’s hold.

“Sleeping during the daytime is punished, a-and I knew that, but-”

“Buddy, I told you…” Hutch started helplessly, but at Starsky’s sad glance hushed himself.

“You changed the rules,” the curly haired man stated, and sniffed again. “I understand that. But I don’t get… this,” he concluded, brushing his hand over the blanket in a tiny gesture. “I don’t know what I did right. I’m sorry. Two Eight Zero is sorry.” He let his head drop, a picture of utter misery.

Hutch stared at him for a long time, not sure he would be able to get the words out that burned in his throat. After an eternity, he drew in a deep, bracing breath, and asked quietly, “Starsky, can I… Can I hug you? Is it okay if I hold you?”

Surprised eyes snapped up briefly to meet his, and Starsky nodded, but his muscles tensed sensitively, the moment Hutch drew him nearer. “Shhh,” the blond soothed, “it’s okay. I got you, babe, it’s alright. Starsk, uhm, I’ll try to explain it to you. So you’ll understand. Okay?”

“*sniff* Yes.”

“Okay,” Hutch breathed and shifted their position a little, so that he could rest his chin on top of the curly head. “Close your eyes and listen. Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I know it’s hard to understand, but you have to try. I didn’t change the rules. The rules are gone. Do you understand that?”

A short silence, then, “No.”

Hutch sighed. “You were told that some things are wrong and that you’ll be punished if you do them, but that’s not true any longer. No one is ever going to punish you again for sleeping during the daytime or anything of that kind. No one. You’re here with me now and I’ll protect you. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“You said you didn’t forget me.”

“I didn’t,” Starsky hurried to say and to Hutch’s overwhelming delight snuggled up on his friend. “Never forgot you. Just… why it was important,” he added in a little-boy voice that made Hutch smile in affection.

“It was important,” he said, laying his cheek against Starsky’s curls, “so that now you know I’m telling the truth.”

Starsky didn’t respond to that, but Hutch heard long, even breaths and felt the steady rising and falling of his friend’s chest against his own. “Hey, buddy,” he muttered softly into Starsky’s ear, shifting him a little, “d’you want to lay back so you can sleep?”

Not opening his eyes, the curled up man shook his head against Hutch’s broad chest, one hand crawling up to interlace now relaxed fingers with the material of the blond’s collar. Hutch reached out to gently unclench them and take them in his own hand, when an exhausted whisper stopped him.

“Please don’t leave again.”

His heart breaking at the miserable whimper, Hutch hugged his friend’s form closer, leaning them both back again. “Don’t worry, babe, I’m here. Not going anywhere.” Looking around for a second he finally made a decision and scrambled his way back down onto the mattress, dragging Starsky with him, so that he lay flat on his back on the bed with his partner nestled up on his side, his head resting in the crook of Hutch’s arm.

A glad, relieved little sigh escaped the drowsy detective, and when Hutch dragged the blanket over them both, he lifted a weak hand as if he wanted to draw it over his head, but was stopped by Hutch.

“Just sleep, Starsky. I’m right here.”

“Yeah,” Starsky sighed, not opening his eyes. “This is nice.”

Hutch couldn’t help smiling at that and smoothed a stray curl from his friend’s forehead. “Yeah?”

“Hm-mm. Wish it was real.” With what looked like a half shrug, Starsky slid a little down until he managed to disappear under the blanket with only his nose peeking out and fell asleep before Hutch’s heart started beating again.

The blond had actually felt all color draining from his skin, his partner’s words acting like a physical blow, a shot or a bucket of ice cold water someone had emptied over him. Despite the warmth of the body he held he felt cold shudders working their way down his spine, and for a moment he thought he couldn’t breathe.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod…

He couldn’t seem to gather a clear thought, panic edging its way into rising fear. A pure animalistic feeling it was, with no reason to back it up like he didn’t actually know what it was that scared him to death.

Instinctively, he tightening his grip on Starsky, nestled his face into the soft curls and blinked against the aching sensation of his eyes widening in shock against his will.

Oh God, Starsky. Oh God.

As a faint sound, the tiniest of moans, reached his ears, he shook his head curtly as if snapping out of a trance and, looking down, quickly released his hold onto his partner, irrational fear of maybe hurting, crushing him, flashing through his mind.

Starsky whimpered slightly when he unconsciously felt the reassuring presence of his friend being withdrawn, but even in sleep, he flinched at his own sound, bit his lip, and turned to lay flat on his back, completely still.

Hutch was out of the room like a shot, not seeing where he ran to, not stopping, until he found himself kneeling in the middle of the greenhouse, panting, retching, fighting dry heaves, crying without noticing it until he saw his own tears drop onto the floor.

Feeling as though his whole body was torn apart by panic, by something so hot and yet so cold, so very strong tearing at his insides, his mind, his thoughts, he himself curled up to a tight ball, stifling his desperate cries in the quickly soaking material of his jeans, his shirt.

When he was totally and utterly spent, near breaking down from the physical effort alone, he scrambled to his feet unsteadily, shook his aching head and slowly, quietly walked back into the bedroom.

Starsky was still asleep. He hadn’t moved an inch.

Comfortingly numb, Hutch eased himself into chair in a far corner of the room and watched his partner sleep.

****

It was hours later when Hutch woke up, the first thing he felt being his head and his back having a competition in pain-waving.

“Owwwwwshi…” he muttered, lifting his hand to wipe his face, but found even that small movement increasing his back’s winning chances.

Your own fault, Hutch, he chided himself as he slowly moved his tensed shoulders and rubbed his eyes to become more alert. You know it’s a bad idea to sleep in chairs. – Yeah, right… Chairs… Why am I sleeping in a chair?

Sitting up, he drew his hands away from his eyes and blinked against the first rays of sunlight twinkling in the room. A quiet birds’ concert filtered through the slightly opened window, and the smell of morning air revived him enough to get his memory working again.

Starsky. Practically jumping to his feet, he ignored his body’s protest. The bed was empty. Made, and empty.

“Starsk?”

Fighting rising frantic, he hurried out of the room with unsteady steps, almost stumbling over his own feet.

“Starsky! Where are you? Sta…”

As he suddenly realized the steady background noise of the shower, he froze and slowly turned to face the closed bathroom door.

“St-Starsk?” he asked tentatively, giving his voice no chance to be heard over the roaring water. “You in there?”

He stands up on his own?! Aw, Hutchinson! Listen to yourself! Of course he gets up on his own! D’you think he’d wait for you to order him to…

But then if he was honest, yes, that was exactly what he’d have expected. The true nature of his utter surprise unnerving him immensely, Hutch decided to be grateful for small favors and play “normal day” for the time being.

So he turned with a parting glance over his shoulder and shuffled over to the kitchen to make some coffee.

Checking the kitchen watch he found it to be five in the morning. God, I really don’t wanna know what it took to train you to get up this early, buddy, he thought bitterly, while leaning against the breakfast bar to once more rub his eyes. He felt as if he hadn’t slept at all, exhausted, beat, and his head started to win the contest. Though, of course, his back wasn’t going to go easy.

Scrambling through his cupboard with eyes squeezed shut, he produced a bottle of aspirin he always kept in the kitchen and was just about to swallow one, when he heard the bathroom door open.

“Starsk.”

The curly haired man jumped at Hutch’s voice behind him, and wheeled around to see him, his eyes wide with surprise for a second, before he quickly dropped his gaze.

Hutch studied him with a mixture of fear and gnawing, irrational disappointment. As if deep inside he’d expected Starsky to come out of the shower as himself again.

Sighing a little, he let his gaze wander back to the pill in his hand and swallowed it with water before slowly approaching his friend who hadn’t move, but was silently dripping on the floor from his wet curls.

Hutch came to a halt in front of him and forced a light tone in his voice. “Good morning. D’you sleep alright?”

Starsky didn’t answer. From where he stood, Hutch could see he’d once more clenched his hands to fists, a bit of the too long sleeves caught in the grip.

“Hey, I brought you some of your clothes yesterday,” the blond said after a short pause, tugging gently at the grey sweater Starsky once more wore. “Maybe you’d like to wear your own stuff for a change, hm?”

When Starsky again failed to answer, Hutch took a small step back. “Starsky, d’you remember yesterday?” Bending his head down a little, he watched with growing relief when the curly head lifted a little. “Yeah? You remember that you’re home now, don’t you? I brought you back.”

“Yes,” Starsky nodded after a moment’s thought and let his gaze drift about just a bit. “Yes, home. Remember. Hutch,” he added, looking back at his partner with a smile.

Hutch returned it, stepping closer again. “Right here, buddy. You with me now, huh?”

“Home,” Starsky said as if to himself, his eyes finding the untidy heap on the couch Hutch had left there the night before. “My clothes.”

“Uh, yeah, I wanted to do something `bout that, honest,” Hutch muttered, while quickly rushing over to the couch and starting to fold whatever he got a grip on, unorganized.

His partner’s mumbles drew his attention away from the more or less mocking task, though.

“Long in the darkness this time. Wonder why.”

Hutch frowned. “Starsk?”

Starsky blinked, seemingly looking back at Hutch from somewhere inside his mind.

“You okay?”

Tilting his head sideways and up, the curly haired detective thought about the question. “Fit for work,” he finally stated and since Hutch was too stunned to reply anything, glanced outside the window at the morning sky. “Too late.”

The words were said in such a miserable, tiny voice they made Hutch arch his brows in affectionate sympathy. “Too late, buddy? You kidding? It’s practically in the middle of the night.”

“Sun,” Starsky said, shaking his head. “Couldn’t see the sun at first in your bedroom. Sorry. Two Eigh-”

“You woke up before sunrise?” Hutch interrupted him quickly, more to cut off the apology than anything else.

The glance he received was once more surprised, scared. “Yes. Didn’t oversleep.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” Hutch chuckled, but at his partner’s look grew serious fast. “You had to get up at sunrise every day?”

Nodding, Starsky made a face as he said, “Yeah, but yesterday was wrong. Everything was wrong. Went to bed too early, so it wasn’t sunrise after four hours.” His voice became agitated as he explained his distress, and out of reflex, Hutch briefly touched his arm to calm him down. “‘Snot allowed to sleep longer than four hours.”

Looking into pained cobalt blues, Hutch swallowed dryly. “You slept only four hours every night?”

“Slept more in the darkness,” Starsky said and to Hutch’s shock giggled a little at that. “I hope I did.”

Do I really want to know what this ‘darkness’ was? He keeps mentioning it. God, I hope it’s not something like ‘isolation’… I’m gonna ask when my head stops pounding, I promise.

A sudden thought seemed to hit Starsky with distressing effects, as he asked dreadfully, “I didn’t wake you, did I? I tried to be quiet.”

“No, don’t worry,” Hutch muttered dryly, massaging his stiff neck, “slept like a ba… Uh, wait a second, buddy, y-you’re not telling me you… wake up after four hours by yourself, do you? I-I mean you didn’t…” His gaze wandering to his bedroom, Hutch closed his eyes shortly. “Starsky, did you woke up four hours after you fell asleep last night and waited for sunrise all the time?”

“Yes. But it’s okay, waited in waiting position.”

“Waiting posi-”

“Can’t be punished for that. Did it right.” Starsky was visibly happy about his accomplishment.

Hutch, on the other hand, felt his headache increase at every word his partner uttered. Oh, this is so how I want all my days to start… A line from “Alice in Wonderland” popped up in his mind. “Too many difficult things before breakfast” or what was that? Yeah, right, too many horrific discoveries before coffee.

“Yeah, buddy, it’s okay, no one will punish you,” he said tiredly, and wiped his eyes with his thumb and index finger, deciding he needed his coffee now. “So, you wanna get into your own clothes and then maybe have some breakfast?”

Starsky looked at him blankly.

Okay, one more time. Hutch sighed deeply. I need more aspirin, I really do. My head’s killin’ me! “Starsk, d’you like this thing?” He tugged at the sweater again.

Starsky looked down on himself. After what felt like an eternity to Hutch, he shrugged.

“I bet you hate it,” the blond said. “Right? It’s grey and it’s too large. They obviously got your taste in sizes all wrong.”

The teasing went by unnoticed.

Hutch more heard himself than actually acted when he let out a frustrated breath at the silence and started, “Starsk, c’mon, go cha…”

Hey!

Biting the rest of the sentence of, Hutch pressed his lips together as if physically restraining himself from completing the order. Watching Starsky over his fingertips that rested against his nose, he finally tried again. “Do you want to change into something you like, buddy?”

Silence.

“It’s perfectly okay if you want to. And, hey, don’t let the fact that I drove all the way to your apartment to collect your stuff influence you in any way.”

The dry comment more or less slipped out of his tired mind, yet the effect it had was unexpected.

Slowly, a grin spread on Starsky’s face, and after a short while he marched over to the couch to pick up a few things and head for the bedroom.

Following him surprised, Hutch shrugged, let the relief wash over him as some comfort to his tiredness, and turned for his coffee.

When Starsky returned to the kitchen, he wore his own sweat pants and one of his beloved striped shirts. Hutch couldn’t help grinning at him, the sensation of having his friend here with him almost overwhelming.

“There,” he nodded, pointing up his thumb. “Much better.”

Normally the comment would have earned him at least a doubtful look, but this time Starsky smiled shyly, and brushed a hand over the striped material. “Feels nice,” he agreed happily.

“Hm-mm,” Hutch smiled and leaned against the breakfast bar, nursing his coffee. “What d’you want for breakfast?”

Looking up from studying his shirt, Starsky frowned. “Breakfast?”

“Uhm…” Hutch started a little helplessness, unsure what the question meant.

Starsky, though, answered it quickly. “Before work?” he added, truly astonished.

“Work?” Hutch asked, recalling his friend mentioning being fit for work before. It suddenly dawned on him that up until then he hadn’t thought about what exactly Starsky had been doing all day long at that secret place. “What sort of work, buddy?”

Despite his rational self, Hutch couldn’t help images from old MGM jail movies flicker through his mind, prisoners working on fields, chained up, exhausted…

“I don’t know,” his partner’s voice drew him back to the present. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

For a second, there was the same look in Starsky’s eyes that had been there the day before when Hutch had said his name for the first time. Surprise. Happiness. As if he was enjoying the sound of the word.

“Starsk? What work is on Wednesday?” Hutch asked softly, pushing away the dread he felt creeping up inside him. Do I really want to know that?

“Wednesday,” Starsky whispered, savoring the word. “I like it,” he added, looking at his partner with a crooked smile, “when days have names. Don’t you? It sorta helps you to keep in track of time.”

Thinking that that was something Starsky could have said at any time–meaning when his mind hadn’t been turned upside down–Hutch smiled affectionately. “Yeah, I guess it does. Didn’t the days have names in…” His voice trailed off, he didn’t know the place.

But Starsky didn’t notice his distress, he just shook his head. “No. Were just days. I kept trying to count. You know, box-days and pen-days, but they switched them. Couldn’t keep it up. A-and after… after the darkness… I, uh, I don’t think I know how…you know, how long I’ve been… away,” he finished sadly, sounding so much like his old Starsky Hutch could have hugged him.

Swallowing past rising tears, Hutch pushed away from the breakfast bar to approach him and lay a warm hand on his shoulder. “Two and a half months, buddy. That’s how long you were gone.”

“Oh,” Starsky said, and thought about the fact. “Hm. Seemed longer.” A wry smile accompanied the statement and Hutch nodded, the stinging in his eyes intensifying.

“Same here,” he croaked, but at Starsky’s distressed gaze quickly wiped his eyes. “What does box-days and pen-days mean?”

Starsky shrugged slightly. “Folding boxes and putting together pens. Work.” As he talked, Hutch could actually see him lose the weary grip to reality again he’d just had a second ago. “Don’t know what it is today. I hope it’s pens.”

“Yeah?” Hutch asked softly, slipping in his adult-to-child-tone out of reflex. “Why?”

The curly head bowed a little, until Hutch couldn’t see the midnight blues anymore. “Talk to myself when folding boxes. Can’t help it, it’s so boring!”

Smiling at the high-pitched comment, Hutch said, “I can imagine. And,” he added quietly, “they don’t allow you to talk to yourself?”

“It’s punished,” Starsky whispered and drew in a shaky breath. “Hurts. And one day,” he suddenly said, his tone dropping even more until Hutch had to strain to catch the frightened words, “they made the rain too thin. How did they do that?”

Staring at him, appalled, Hutch opened his mouth to reply something, but found himself at a lack of words, and since Starsky’s gaze had already drifted off again, decided to leave the question answered for now.

“Well, you know what, buddy?” he said lightly, placing a steaming cup of coffee on the table for Starsky. “No pens today and no boxes, either. We’ll have breakfast now, and you can think about what you’d like to do today. Maybe get a little more sleep,” he suggested with a grin, looking at Starsky expectantly.

Hesitating at first, the smaller man finally sat down where the cup stood.

****

Despite his once more openly displayed happiness over getting food for “nothing”, Starsky seemed to get distressed when it came to the actual eating part. Hutch found that whenever his partner assumed he wasn’t looking, he started just shoving around what was on his plate. In addition to that, Hutch thought he could make out an increasing strained look on the dark features.

“Starsk, you alright?” he finally asked, and flinched himself when Starsky flinched at the question, but didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to,” Hutch offered. “Maybe it’s too early,” he contemplated. If a person could be programmed to wake up every day after exactly four hours, there sure was also a way to time his hunger.

But something about Starsky’s behavior didn’t quite fit in that theory, and he hadn’t mentioned it to be not allowed, either.

Studying his friend closer, Hutch frowned. “Are you feeling okay, buddy?”

“Uhm,” Starsky started, glancing at Hutch pleadingly, then back down again, his hand briefly brushing over his stomach, but was instantly restrained from further movements away from the table.

Hutch followed the gesture with concern. “Are you in pain?”

A deep wince answered that, and the curly head was bowed even deeper. “Two Eight Zero is sorry.” The apology was more or less breathed through increasing agony.

Detox. Aw shit, shoulda thought of that! And now he thinks he’s being punished for not eating. I hate this shit, did I mention that? I definitely hate this shit!

“It’s okay,” Hutch muttered absentmindedly, and cursed himself for the words afterwards. Gotta stop saying that. It always sounds like he really has to apologize for something!

“Starsky, hey, can you look at me, I want to explain something to you.”

Hesitantly, the smaller man obeyed. Faster than Hutch had anticipated it.

“Okay, you remember taking something back, uh, where you were? Pills maybe? Or… I don’t know, injections? Something?”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied blankly, like a child wanting to understand what was explained to him.

“What, pills?”

“Yeah.”

That brought at least little relief to Hutch’s aching head. He’d have hated the thought of his needle-fearing friend having been injected that often against his will. “Every day? I-I mean can you recall how often you were given those?”

Starsky thought, shrugged. “Before work. Not in the darkness,” he added with a shudder.

That’s the first positive thing I hear about that darkness… Why then does he look as thought it’d have been better to be drugged there? Oh man, I’m going to ask about that–soon. I promise. But not now, now we have a task at our hands, don’t we, Kenny? Yeah, we do.

“So, I guess it was every day,” Hutch nodded. “See, those pills were sedatives. To, uh, calm you down, so you wouldn’t stop and think about what was going on.”

Starsky stared at him, then down at his stomach, his expression changing into one so Starsky-like, Hutch had to smile. It looked as though the curly headed man expected some sort of alien to pop out of his insides every second. “Uh, Hutch, I’m going through detox?!” he asked, his words high-pitched, yet matching his gaze Starsky-wise.

Overwhelmed by the sudden improvement in his friend’s behavior, Hutch winked, going into long-longed for banter-modus by instinct. “Piece of cake, buddy. You’re gonna feel a little queasy today, but that’s oughta be it.”

As if for an answer, Starsky jerked from one particularly stabbing sensation in his stomach and shot Hutch a glance.

The blond arched his brows apologetically. “Uh, well, definitely queasy, it seems. D’you want to lay down?”

Starsky didn’t listen, he was inspecting his belly again. “Rather have this than the stuff,” he muttered.

Hutch beamed. “That’s my partner. And now c’mon, we get you back to bed for another four hours. How does that sound?”

****

Hutch watched Starsky curl up on his side in bed, dragging the blanket up over the very top of his curly head, and fall asleep instantly.

The blond waited a few minutes until he was sure his friend was truly asleep, and carefully peeled the blanket back down so that it rested under Starsky’s chin, trying to push away every wondering about why his partner tended to do that.

Like he wants to hide or something. Or maybe get warmer? How cold was the ‘darkness’? Or maybe that’s the darkn… Aw, Hutch, c’mon, you’re losing it! Just make sure he won’t suffocate himself and get going!

He’d found they were practically out of everything earlier, since he’d been sick almost up until the day before when he’d brought Starsky home, and his main focus hadn’t really been on keeping up his supplies. Deciding he’d make a quick stop-by at the shop around the corner while Starsky slept, Hutch had guided his friend back into the bedroom and gotten him settled.

Now, he was about to carefully close the door behind him, when he heard sheets brushing, and turning around, he watched in dismay how Starsky unconsciously uncurled his aching body to lay on his back, his hands clenching to fists at his sides.

It was obvious that this sleeping position didn’t help him fight the urgent pain in his abdomen, but only increased it, yet he stifled a whimper that threatened to escape and lay still.

Hutch stared, appalled, contemplating whether or not he should wake his friend. But then–Starsky would probably think he’d done something wrong. Hutch closed his eyes, feeling–knowing–he couldn’t go through that again. Not this–prepared. It was different when Starsky’s fear-filled questions caught him off-guard, but knowing what’d happen if he was to wake his friend now was even worse. He could feel his knees going wobbly at the mere thought, his hands becoming damp with fear.

You’re such a coward, Ken! Look at him. Think sleeping like this is doing him any good? – No, but… I-I can’t…

His eyes snapped closed in frustration. Now I’m stuttering in my mind! Gawd! Without looking back, he turned, grabbed his jacket and left. I need a break, I really do. I need some sleep. I need more aspirin. I need…

He physically stopped himself, almost bumping into someone walking his way on the sidewalk.

Starsky. He needed Starsky. He needed his friend to tell him that it all would turn out okay. That they would make it–together.

It seemed that now that he got him back, he missed his partner even more. Missed him to help him talk to this frightened, increasingly disturbed, strange man he had in his apartment with no idea how to help him.

Starsky would know, wouldn’t he? Starsky’s good at this. He would just sit down and watch cartoons with the guy or something, and we’d figure it all out together.

Wiping a quick hand over his eyes, he continued on his way, determined, pushing all doubtful thoughts aside into a dark, hidden corner of his mind where the light of acknowledgement couldn’t reach them.

****

He felt that something was wrong the moment, he closed his front door behind him softly. A sudden shudder grabbed him, as if silence was cold.

Oh please, no. He begged over and over in his head, while he put down the brown paper bag of groceries, just there where he stood, next to the door, and swiftly made his way to the bedroom, his steps sped up by dread.

Please, please no.

Without permitting himself to stop and brace himself at the door, for he feared he wouldn’t open it then, he entered his bed-room his head already dropping before the rest of his body had come to a full stop.

“Starsk.”

His partner sat on the bed. Eyes open, feet over the edge, hands resting at his sides. This time, though, he was not only shivering from the cold that had crept up his bare arms and legs, but also the visible discomfort his stomach and head confronted him with. There was a slight sheen of perspiration on his face, and though he tried, he couldn’t fight the tiny spasms that every so often contorted his pale features.

Hutch was devastated. For an irrational second the idea of simply turning around, throwing the door shut and leaving crossed his mind. Instead, he sighed deeply, let the hand that’d held the doorknob fall limply at his side and looked at his miserable partner pleadingly.

“Starsk… Wh-what…” Cutting off his own words, he crossed the space between them, but kept himself from sitting down next to his friend.

“Hutch,” Starsky’s happy whisper drew his gaze from where he’d scrambled the crumbled blanket off the mattress.

“Right here, babe,” he said tiredly, but forced a tiny smile on his lips. “Right here. I’m sorry I left. I shouldn’t have left. Uhm, you want this blanket?”

Starsky didn’t look, his eyes were focused on Hutch, the joy over his presence so evident in them Hutch felt a sudden wave of protectiveness rush through him, strong enough–for the moment–to keep him going.

Oookay, here we go again. “Hey, buddy, you cold?”

When no answer came, he nodded matter-of-factly. “Yep, you’re cold. Is it okay if I cover you with this?” He lifted the blanked a bit, arching his brows inquiringly. “Touch you? We did this yesterday and it didn’t hurt, right? So–okay?”

At his soft, exhausted tone, the content expression on Starsky’s face visibly faded. “You’re mad at me?”

“No,” Hutch replied quickly, guilt hitting him bright and hot like a lightening. “No, babe, I’m not mad at you. Why would I be mad, hm?”

Starsky didn’t answer, but his head dropped.

“Starsk. Buddy…” Hutch continued, dismayed. “Hey, I’m sorry if I’m sorta… cranky here. But I’m not mad at you. I’m just… It hurts me when you hurt. And you’re in pain. Starsk? C’mon, buddy, look at m…” Before Starsky could obey the order, he quickly lifted his hand as if to stroke the curly hair, asking, “Can you look at me? Please?”

Slowly, Starsky complied, moisture glittering in his eyes.

“Hey,” Hutch asked so softly it was almost a whisper. “Hey, babe, what is it? What… Uhm…” He looked at his hand, then back at Starsky. “Can I touch you? Is it okay?”

Starsky sniffed, blinking fast. Yet, he couldn’t restrain a single tear to make it through the paling of his lids and down his cheek.

Hutch brushed it away without thinking. “Starsk,” he begged. “What is it? What? Please tell me. Did I hurt you? What? Did I do something? Wh-why didn’t you sleep? Was it because I was gone? I just went shopping. I meant to came back. I didn’t leave.”

He didn’t know he was crying himself, when he felt a tear drop onto his hand. Ignoring it, he looked into his friend’s watery blue seas, searching for the answer. “Buddy, tell me. Why did you… wait for me like this? Huh? I didn’t tell you to do that, did I?”

To his utter surprise, Starsky answered. “No, but… Y-you…” He trailed off and sniffed.

“What?” Hutch urged, one hand finding the back of his friend’s neck to caress it.

“L-last time you left, I… I stayed in waiting position and…” He cut himself off, casting Hutch a pleading look. “I didn’t know it was wrong. I’m confused. Confu… Two Eight Zero is sor-”

“No,” Hutch interrupted him with more force than he’d intended. “No, you don’t need to be sorry. I just want to understand what I did that made you think you have to wait for me like this. I won’t punish you for it,” he added, stroking back through Starsky’s curls.

His partner followed the gesture with his head, searchingly.

“Last time,” Hutch started softly, “when I found you like this I told you it wasn’t necess…” As the images displayed themselves, it clicked. “I hugged you,” he remembered. “I hug… That it?” he asked what he could see of Starsky’s curly head. “You thought when you wait for me again, I’d hug you?”

“I…” Starsky started, scared to the verge of trembling. “I… Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

Hutch couldn’t help the tears falling in earnest now as he sat back on the bed, more or less scooping his partner up until he had him cradled against his chest like a child, his own face buried in the thick curls.

“Buddy, you don’t need to… to earn a cuddle. You don’t need to earn anything from me. I’m…” He stopped, when he felt his friend flinch in his arms and curl up more. “You’re in pain, aren’t you?”

A tiny nod brushed against his chest.

“Aw, Starsk,” Hutch sighed, hugging him tighter. Inwardly, he cursed himself for not having thought of it earlier. It was so Starsky to seek physical comfort when he was hurting like this, and it was also pretty logical he wouldn’t be able to initialize it in his condition.

“Shhh,” the blond soothed, letting himself fall in his own, comforting routine of taking care. “I’m here, babe. I’m right here. It’s okay. I got you.”

Like the evening before, Hutch eased them both back against the headrest, never letting go off his partner’s steadily relaxing form, listening to him finally falling asleep.

This time, though, he didn’t leave, but kept his head resting against the headrest, staring up at the ceiling. He wept silently, careful as to not wake his partner.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I-I’m… I’ll try, Starsk,” he cried into the soft curls underneath his chin, “I’ll try to make it. I promise. But it’s so hard.” Unconsciously, he tightened his hold on Starsky, snuggled up on him. “So hard. Wish you were here. I miss you, buddy. God, I miss you. I miss you.”

He kept on repeating the soft whisper until a merciful slumber caught him like a disturbed stray cat to give him some rest after all.

****

The pain in his back woke Hutch up, and checking his watch he found that he hadn’t even slept an hour. Not enough time to give his aching body any rest, but obviously whatever tiny enemies had settled inside his head found it more than enough time to build up an army that was having constant field exercises behind his forehead.

So the very first thing he heard upon his entering the conscious world was his own low groan, followed by a startled whimper when he tried to lift one hand to rub his eyes and accidentally pushed Starsky head, that had begun to rouse at the sound, back against his chest.

“Uh, sorry, buddy,” he muttered, ruffling his friend’s hair apologetically. He found it strangely hard to focus, even after he’d wiped the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hutch?”

The tiny question drew his attention to where his partner had carefully scrambled his way out of the embrace and sat across from him on the bed, scrutinizing the blond’s appearance. It was an expression Hutch had seen on Starsky’s face so often that the familiar instinct it rose alone had a somewhat calming effect on him. Going into ‘hiding-things-from-Starsk’-modus, he briefly bent his neck and forced the evidence of pain to vanish from his features.

“Yeah, right here. You want to go back to sleep?”

The smaller man tilted his head to his right, narrowing his eyes a little, yet Hutch could see he didn’t dare to verbalize the concern that twinkled in his eyes. Instead, he wiped the traces of sleep from his own face, and shook his head slightly.

Hutch sighed. If he had to describe that gesture, he’d settled for a Starsky-one on low force. “How d’you feel?”

Bowing his head as if to forward the question to his stomach, Starsky shrugged.

Deciding with a smile that that had to make do as an answer, Hutch patted his arm lightly and started to jump out of bed, only to find himself more or less crawling onto his feet, leaning one hand against the wall for support.

Come on, pull yourself together, Hutch. That’s just sleeping upside twice in a row, no big deal.

He had to admit, though, that the bright stars disturbing his vision unnerved him. Shaking his head to clear it, he pushed himself off the wall, willing his knees to keep him upright.

When he looked up again, he found Starsky’s inquiring look upon him, and managed a crooked smile. “Oookay, buddy, what d’you wanna do? Hm? Maybe…” He looked around as it thinking. Man, he felt woozy. He really ought to sit down, he decided. “You hungry? You know, you should eat someth…”

As his friend’s gaze changed into a silent plea, he lifted his index finger, nodding. “Aw, right. Stomach. Sorry. Forgot. Hmmm… Hey, how ’bout some TV? Hm? It’s, uh, afternoon,” he stated after having checked his watch. “I bet there’re some cartoons on. You like cartoons, remember?”

Though the doubtful expression never left his midnight blues, Starsky nodded, opened his mouth, but closed it, studying the sheets as if scared.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked softly, taking a tentative step forward. To his relief, the sudden dizziness seemed to have gone. “What’s the matter, buddy? You okay?”

“Y-you gonna watch… with me?”

Smiling affectionately, Hutch crouched down in front of him and tugged at his arm playfully. “Sure I will.”

“But you don’t like…” Starsky started, but trailed off, apparently sad about the stated fact.

“Aw, c’mon, partner, you know I only keep saying that to keep my image. Who doesn’t like cartoons?! Now, come on, get on the couch, I-”

“Yes, Hutch,” Starsky replied curtly and was off the bed in an instant, heading straight for the couch, where he plopped down and sat still, waiting.

Hutch’s head fell forward onto the bed in frustration. Aw shit, Ken, that’s just great! You know, maybe you could stop this “Can I, may I, is it okay”-thing right away if it’s too damn difficult for you!

Once more lost in an inner fight, he slowly pushed himself away from the bed and up to his feet, to again be greeted by a short wave of dizziness.

I’m sorry, okay?! I’m tired, my head hurts and- – Excuses! All you have are excuses! You’re pathetic, Hutchinson! Pathetic! – Yeah, yeah, yeah…

In the living room, he gathered a folded blanket from the couch to hand it to his partner, who blinked once, then twice, then understood and accepted it with a shy grin, wrapped himself in it and curled up in a sitting position so that there was enough space left for Hutch next to him. Waiting until he could see the blond smile his thanks, he then dragged the blanket up more until he was completely hidden underneath it.

Hutch sighed quietly. “Buddy…” Feeling eerily reminded of an unnerved father facing his silly child in the evening hours, he tugged at the ends of the afghan until it loosened a little and fell down over his friend’s nose.

“There. This way you can see the TV,” Hutch explained patiently. “Isn’t that better?”

“Sorry,” Starsky mumbled, smoothing the blanket with a few fingers, but didn’t drag it back up.

Hutch smiled reassuringly and turned, only then realizing his friend had failed to include his number in his apology. Casting him an almost proud look, Hutch grinned, but decided not to mention it out of fear Starsky might believe it to be a mistake.

Be glad for small favors, huh?

“Be there in a minute, buddy, I’ve to get this into the kitchen first, ‘kay.” He pointed at the forgotten grocery bag by the door and on his way switched on the TV. A noisy, squeaky, colorful cartoon involving two ridiculous looking dogs appeared on the screen as if on cue.

Glancing at them for a second over his shoulder, Hutch sighed and picked up the bag.

Gee, I hate cartoons. Why do they always have to be this… dumb?! And-loud! he added, briefly holding his aching head with a free hand. Did I bring beer? God, I hope I did. Cartoons without beer–now that’d be a real punishment…

“Hey, buddy,” he announced from the kitchen, where he put away the few groceries he’d brought (among them–to his utter relief–a six pack), “brought you some candy for, uh, maybe later, when you’re stomach’s through troubling you. You know,” he added in a lower, almost bitter voice, only for himself to hear, “all sick kids get candy.”

Shrugging off the memory, he grabbed a beer and strolled back to the couch, plopping down next to his partner heavily.

“So, what’d I miss? What’s that, a bird?” he inquired, pointing at a blue reddish dog. It was a habit that usually drove Starsky nuts and had led to the curly headed detective avoiding watching cartoons with his partner around.

It wasn’t that he’d expected Starsky to answer his teasing, yet the complete lack of any reaction made him turn his gaze questioningly, and at the look he was faced with, he lowered his beer, concerned.

“Starsk?”

Starsky blinked, his forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. “Candy,” he muttered.

Hutch widened his eyes, surprised. “You want candy? Now?”

But his partner didn’t hear him. He was lost in a place he hadn’t seen in a while. His memory. “You… You brought me candy in…”

“In San Diego,” Hutch finished the whispered stammering, almost dropping his beer. Excited, he turned to fully face Starsky. “Yes, Starsky, yes I brought you candy in… You remember San Diego?”

The smaller man blinked again, a slight hint of accusation flickering on in his eyes. “Not enough,” he said like a sulking little boy.

Hutch laughed. “Right, it wasn’t enough. Sorry, pal, had to get it past the guard.”

“Isolation,” Starsky muttered, suddenly subdued, staring ahead at a frightening picture inside his head. Hutch could feel him start to shiver.

Dragging the blanket tighter around the drawn shoulders, Hutch kept his hands resting on his friend’s neck, caressing it soothingly.

“Isolation… hurts,” the confused detective whimpered and curled up more, his nose buried in the blanket covering his knees. “D-don’t let them…” he stammered. “Hu-Hutch?”

“Shhh, shhh, I’m right here, buddy. Right here. I won’t let them get you again. I promise, Starsk. No isolation. Never again.”

“Hurt,” Starsky moaned, catching a tiny sob in his throat. “Hutch, it hurt so much.”

“Oh, I know,” Hutch soothed. “I know it hurt. I know. But it’s not gonna happen again, you hear me? It’s not gonna happen again.”

“‘M scared.”

“I know you are, babe, but it’s okay. Shhh, Starsky, it’s okay.”

He could feel that Starsky wasn’t crying, but growing increasingly distressed, his hands releasing their grip onto the blanket and scrambling at Hutch’s shirt to seek comfort from the only person that could provide him with it.

Letting Starsky cling to him, Hutch slid nearer on the couch so that he could hold his shaking partner in a reassuring embrace, all the while keeping up his quiet soothing.

“Hutch?” Starsky finally interrupted him softly, his face hidden in some small cave made out of the couch, the blanket and Hutch himself.

“Yeah?”

“What… I mean, what…” He drew in a shaky breath. “What was it?”

“Isolation?”

“Hm-mm,” Starsky nodded against Hutch’s side. The blond could feel him tense up in anticipation of the answer.

He closed his eyes. “Electro shock treatment.”

“Oh.” A pause, stretching into silence, until Hutch could no longer bear it.

“Starsk?”

“I-is that wh-why I’m… why I’m being so… weird?”

Hutch’s eyes snapped open, out of reflex, he hugged his friend closer. “Oh, Starsk, babe, you’re not weird! You’re confused a-and scared and… I don’t know how you feel right now, but we’ll fix it, okay? Huh?” he added, pushing away just a bit so he could look right into Starsky’s face. “Won’t we, partner?”

But whatever had been there that had sounded so much like Starsky, it was fading in front of Hutch’s eyes, leaving only a number behind.

“Starsky?”

The smaller man didn’t respond. The trembling subsided.

A tiny, lonely tear cascaded down Hutch’s face when he reached out and nudged his friend’s cheek. “Hey, y-you’ll miss your c-cartoons,” he croaked, and nudged again, until Starsky turned to the TV again, snuggling up on Hutch’s side to watch the rest of the show.

****

And if I live to a hundred years, I’ll never ever understand what it is that drives parents to allow their children to watch this crap. I mean, what’s this supposed to teach you–go get yourself thrown off a cliff by an obviously sky-high squirrel?! And why the hell is this thing winning all the time, anyway? It’s not even clever! It just gets lucky! Gawd, if that fucking dog doesn’t get the squirrel right now I think I’ll jump off a cli-

A loud knock on his front door interrupted Hutch’s inner rambling that had been going on for two hours by now–the time Starsky and he’d been playing couch potato with his curly haired friend visibly relaxing until he was almost settled in his usual TV-sprawl.

There were some things you just couldn’t train away, weren’t there?

“Hutch? It’s me, Captain Dobey,” the second knock was accompanied with, and Hutch, who’d slowly started to crawl off the couch, froze in his tracks, his gaze wandering to meet Starsky’s.

“Just a sec, Cap’n,” he called out and sat back on the armrest, studying his partner. “Starsk, you remember Dobey, don’t you?”

“Uh… Yes. I… I think,” Starsky muttered, bowing his head.

“Okay, uhm, he really wants to see you. You know, check on you. To make sure you’re okay. But if you don’t feel like visitors, that’s okay. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

Starsky opened his mouth as if to respond, but thought differently, huddling back in the corner of the couch, nervous, afraid.

Hutch sighed. “Listen, buddy, if you don’t want to, that’s fi-”

“No,” Starsky whispered, seemingly swallowed his fear and looked up. “No, I… I’d like to… see… him,” he finished with an unsure smile that to Hutch looked as though he was about to cry every second.

“Uh, you sure?”

“Y-yes,” the smaller man answered. “Yeah, sure.” Clumsily, he clawed his way out of his blanket made cave to stand next to the couch.

Hutch watched him with discomfort, but at the expectant glance he found himself the target of, shrugged and turned to open the door.

“Hey, Cap’n. Sorry `bout the waiting, we… uh, come in,” he gestured, holding the door open for his superior.

“Hutchinson,” Dobey greeted him. Hutch could hear the nervous quiver in the older man’s booming voice.

On entering the living room, his steps slowed to a stop as his gaze found Starsky, who stood behind the couch, fingers clenched in the material of the headrest.

“Starsky,” the captain greeted him in a voice so normal Hutch had to give him credit.

“So,” Dobey said after a short, uncomfortable pause, “you boys are watching cartoons, huh? Tough life.”

“You have no idea,” Hutch commented, rolling his eyes.

Grateful for the offered bantering, Dobey cast him a quick glance. “You tellin’ me, I have two kids.”

Hutch grinned slightly, prepared to shoot back a reply, but at the sight of Starsky visibly paling and holding a hand to his stomach, he swiftly crossed the distance to him and reached out to gently grab his arm.

“Hey, buddy, d’you wanna sit do-”

He bit his lip, startled, when his partner flinched, scared.

Uh uh.

“H-hey Starsk, buddy it’s okay,” he stuttered, shooting Dobey a helpless look. “Everything’s fine. Just me, you remember? Just me and Captain Dobey. Remember? Starsk?”

No, no, no, Starsky, don’t do this, c’mon, pleeeeaaaaase don’t!

But he couldn’t ignore the fast increasing distress on his partner’s face as he backed away a step, then froze in shock at what he’d just done and bowed his head, visibly shaking like a leaf by now.

“Two Eight Zero is sorr-”

“No, Starsk! No, c’mon, don’t… d-don’t apologize, please. Please, just… Hey, look at me,” Hutch pleaded, bending to look into midnight blue eyes, Dobey all but forgotten.

To his utter frustration, Starsky obeyed instantly. “Yes, Hutch.”

Snapping his eyes shut curtly, Hutch cursed inwardly, and drew in a deep, calming breath. “Just-”

“Dave.”

Surprised, the blond turned to look at Dobey. He’d totally forgotten about his superior’s presence and was somewhat shocked at the pained expression he saw on the other man’s features.

Look, Ken. That’s how you look all the time. Helpless.

Just in that moment a sudden stabbing ache in his stomach sent Starsky almost doubling over, and he jerked away from Hutch’s steadying hand violently enough to stumble back and against a nearby wall.

Oh God, Starsk, please, Hutch begged constantly in his mind, raising his hands in front of himself as if he was approaching a wild animal he’d cornered.

“Starsky, calm down, it’s okay, it’s-”

“T-two Eight Z-zero is sorry. Two Eight Zero is sorry,” Starsky muttered pleadingly. He slid down a little, but caught himself against the wall and pushed himself up again, his head bowed. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he whined, seemingly delirious with fear.

“Oh God, Dave.”

Ignoring his captain’s appalled whisper, Hutch took a tentative step forward, but stopped when Starsky flinched.

“Buddy, please, calm down. Hear me, Starsk, it’s me, Hutch. It’s okay, it’s-”

“Sorry. Two Eight Zero is sorry. Two Eight Ze-”

“Starsk!” Hutch almost yelled.

Starsky instantly shut up, his eyes meeting Hutch’s.

“I w-want you to g-go in the bedroom and wait for me. Now.”

The smaller man obeyed without a thought. “Yes, Hutch.” Not looking at Dobey again, he walked swiftly to the bedroom.

“Close the door,” Hutch called after him. “And lay down, no waiting position.”

“Yes, Hutch.”

The door fell shut.

A silence that could have smashed a grown up cow settled over the scenery, Hutch’s weak panting the only sound audible. After what felt like an eternity, the blond turned and leaned against the wall Starsky had occupied before, casting Dobey a weary glance.

“Did you just hear that?” he asked sadly. “I ordered him to do something. Fuck, I never order him to do something! That’s two days of work just poof,” he threw his hands in the air, exasperated, “vanished in the air. That’s… Aw, Cap’n, listen to me! ‘Two days of work’! I bet I sound like them!”

Dobey watched him for a second longer, then swiftly walked passed him into the kitchen. “You got something harder than beer? I need a shot. And you too,” he added, glancing at the exhausted detective.

Hutch merely nodded. He felt like he’d just run a marathon. “Yeah, just sit down, I get it.”

Nodding curtly, Dobey turned for the couch.

“And, Cap’n, could you turn off that goddamned stuff? It’s giving me a headache.”

A minute later they were sitting across from each other, both nursing their empty glasses.

“Cap’n,” Hutch finally started, without looking at Dobey, “th-that’s not how he usually… I-I mean… I…” He drew in a deep breath before continuing. “He has some aftereffects from the sedatives they gave him. It’s been bothering him all day. I guess he thought he was being punished for something when he suddenly hurt, a-and you’re new… I mean, you’re… Hell, you know what I mean! What I wanted to say is he’s usually not this… excited,” he finished lamely.

Dobey studied him for a short while. “What does Two Eight Zero mean?” he finally asked quietly.

Hutch glanced up, shrugged. “Oh, it’s, uh, it’s his number,” he said with a humorless smile that rushed over his lips. “It’s what they called him. He told me he tried to not forget his name. Not his name and not me,” he added, his throat suddenly painfully dry. “H-he… He forgot why it was important, though.”

“Important?”

“Yeah, not to forget, you know.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Silence. Hutch gnawed at his lower lip nervously, his gaze fixed on the glass in his hands. “Cap’n, don’t…” He couldn’t finish.

Dobey sighed. “Hutch, you look like hell.”

The blond shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you ate anything?”

“I told you, he’s having-”

“I’m not talking about him,” Dobey cut him off. “When was the last time you ate anything?”

Again, Hutch shrugged, seemingly careless. “I don’t need to eat,” he stated absolutely serious.

Dobey laughed, a curt, hard sound that held no humor, and bent a bit closer. “You’re beat. Are you listening to yoursel-”

“Cap’n,” it was a whisper, but desperate enough to make it audible over Dobey’s words.

The captain raised his brows questioningly.

“Don’t take him away. Please. Don’t… admit him.” He waited for a second, and when no answer came, lifted his head tentatively, scared of what the reaction to his request would be. “Please.”

Dobey watched the young man he’d known for so long, took in the exhaustion on the handsome features, the too bright light blue eyes, widened by pain, the seemingly chiseled deep frown on the forehead.

He sighed. “Don’t worry, I won’t. But,” he added over the blond’s relieved breath, “I think you should.”

A quick glance hit him, before sparkling blue eyes found the empty whiskey glass again.

“I know what you think, Cap’n, and with all due respect, I don’t care.”

“I know you don’t,” Dobey replied quietly. “But–you should. Look at you. How long you think you can go on like this? You’re worn out, Hutch. You’re weak. You’re-”

“I’m all he’s got,” Hutch said sternly. “He responds to me. He knew me right away, and he… he responds to me!”

“Of course he responds to you. No one doubts that. But that doesn’t mean he’s sane.”

There. He’d said it. No backing out now.

“Oh, is that what you think?” Hutch snapped. “That Starsky’s some sort of-”

“No,” Dobey interrupted him sharply. “No, I think he’s sick.” He waited to let the words sink in, and continued, “I think he’s very sick. So sick nothing you can do will be enough to help him.”

He knew he’d make a mistake even before Hutch’s icy glance hit him. “Hutch-”

“I think you better go now.”

“Hutchinson-”

“I can’t admit him!” Hutch suddenly yelled, loud enough to send Dobey flinching in surprise, but got his control back instantly, a tired hand fiercely rubbing his face. “He can’t go to any place like that ever again, don’t you understand that? It happened there! What if it happens again? What if they succeed a-and… No. Over my dead body Starsky’s going anywhere like that ever again!”

Dobey watched the despair breaking through on the blond’s face, his heart breaking. “You need to do something, Hutch. You can’t go on like this, watching over him every day. You’re not well yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Hutch said wearily. Suddenly he felt tired. So tired.

“You need help,” Dobey insisted.

Hutch looked at him, and stood, putting the glass on his coffee table. “I have everything I need right here. And now if you’ll excuse me, Cap’n, I’ve to look after my partner.”

With that, he opened his front door in an unmistakable gesture.

Slowly, Dobey followed him, watching him sadly.

“It was nice of you to drop by,” Hutch said, but bit back against the sarcasm, knowing he only took out his own frustrations on a completely innocent person, a friend. “I’ll call you.”

“Yes, you do that. Uh, Ken,” Dobey said, before Hutch could close the door behind him, “if you want help…” He trailed off, unable to get the words out, but Hutch understood and smiled warmly.

“Thanks, Cap’n. I might come back to that.”

“Hmnyeah,” Dobey muffled and left.

Hutch stood in front of the closed door for a long time, his head hanging, his eyes staring ahead unseeing.

He couldn’t seem to bring himself to move.

Gotta go talk to Starsky.

He took a step forward, his head meeting the door with a soft thud. He remained leaned against it, his eyes closing.

Gotta talk to Starsky.

After a few seconds, he wearily lifted his hands as if to push himself off the door, but like his head they remained on the wooden material, glued to it.

Gotta talk to Starsky.

Finally, he pushed–and stumbled backwards, lost his balance. Landing on his butt, he let himself sink further down until he lay on his back with his feet still on the ground, staring up at the ceiling.

This is nice. Think I’ll stay here.

His vision swayed for an instant, the lines seemingly shifting slightly, then returning to their former places. He blinked.

Get up, Hutchinson!

Drawing in a deep breath, he jumped to his feet when letting go of it, grabbing empty air for support. A wave of nausea hit him, and he placed his hands on his knees, bending forward for a moment to keep his balance. When he was sure he’d make it to a standing position, he slowly straightened up again, breathing in and out deeply, calmingly.

Oookay, Kenny, good boy. Now go in there and talk to Starsk.

He didn’t move. Stood staring at the closed bedroom door.

What’s the matter with you?! Go talk to him! Come on!

Again, like before, he breathed in deeply and started to walk when breathing out, his steps quick, but not rushed. He opened the door in one swift motion–and froze.

Starsky lay on his stomach, facing the window. He’d taken off his t-shirt, so that Hutch could clearly see the horrific, fading marks on his back. Seemingly ever cold, the curly haired man was shaking, goose bums visible on his bare arms that were stretched above his head.

He didn’t turn his head to look at Hutch, who quickly lifted one hand to wipe his eyes as if fearing he’d simply run away if he had to look for a second longer.

For the third time, he used the ‘moved by breathing’ trick, approaching the bed with his breathing out and sat down on the edge, next to Starsky’s back. Studying the back of the curly head for a second, he finally reached out and started to softly stroke the thick, smooth hair.

Starsky flinched once, but seemed to recognize the touch and relaxed quickly.

Hutch kept on caressing his partner’s head silently for a few more moments, then carefully dragged the blanket from the bottom of the bed up to cover Starsky’s body, smoothing it on his friend’s neck with a soothing hand.

Again, Starsky flinched, tensed, but calmed when feeling Hutch’s tender gesture. As if instinctively, his hands scrambled back behind his head. Trembling fingers grabbed the edge of the blanket and began to drag it upwards.

Without making a sound, Hutch stopped them gently, unclenched them, drew the blanket a bit down again. When the now empty hands didn’t move from where they rested on Starsky’s head, Hutch picked them up to lay them on the mattress again, his own fingers resting on one of them, his thumb brushing the cold flesh for a while.

Starsky mewed, his head sliding closer to Hutch’s hand, just a little, but enough for the blond to understand. His hand wandered down into the curls again, and he started his stroking motion again.

They sat like this for what felt like an eternity, silent. Starsky’s shivering subsided until he lay perfectly still, his even breathing evident in the slight steady falling and rising of the blanket.

Hutch watched him quietly, never breaking the rhythm of his stroking. He felt incredibly tired, numb, his fingers not registering the sensation of Starsky’s hair underneath them. He felt as though he would never be able to move again.

“Hutch?”

The whispered question broke through the silence like a scream, yet Hutch didn’t flinch, wasn’t startled. Tired. He was nothing but tired.

“Yes?” he whispered back, not stopping in his task of caressing his partner’s head, not moving at all.

A pause stretched itself until Hutch thought Starsky had just wanted to make sure he was still there.

“No darkness, please?”

Starsky, too, didn’t move, but Hutch sensed him tensing just a little as he waited for the blond’s answer.

“No darkness,” he said softly, his voice breaking at the attempt to carry it over the border of a low whisper.

This time, Starsky’s reaction came immediately, and he shifted, sliding away from Hutch, his head turning so that his forehead rested on the mattress.

Reluctant, Hutch drew his hand away, looked at it briefly as if unsure what to do with it now, then placed it next to Starsky’s face, his index finger caressing Starsky’s cheek in the same rhythm he’d stroke his hair before.

Starsky opened his eyes, but didn’t lift his head. His eyelashes brushed against the mattress when he blinked. “I can take everything else,” he said, his voice muffled.

Hutch paused with his finger on Starsky’s cheek.

The other man drew in a tiny, shaky breath and closed his eyes again. “Just… no darkness,” he whispered into the mattress. “I-I promise I won’t… scream.”

A tear slipped out from under his closed lids and dropped onto the soft material directly under his eye. “Just no darkness,” he begged, his voice almost not audible anymore.

Shocked despite his exhaustion, Hutch watched his friend’s shoulders tense up under the blanket, his whole body going stiff, his head bending until his chin touched his chest, the curls brushing against the mattress.

Seconds passed. Starsky lay on the bed, tensed, awaiting his punishment.

Hutch stared, his hand now lying flat next to his friend’s face. When he lifted it slowly, Starsky flinched violently. Just once, before he fought for control, his fingers clawing at the sheet above his head.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Hutch breathed in and out slowly, deeply, then looked at his partner again. Carefully, he grabbed the edge of the blanket and drew it down, exposing Starsky’s back.

If possible, the smaller man tensed up more, a tiny, heartbreaking whimper reaching Hutch’s ears.

The blond sat bent over his friend, studying the dark spots on his back. They were fading, some of them had already healed, but still the damage was visible. The images they filled Hutch’s mind with were unbearable.

Starsky lying on his stomach on some table, shaking with fear, stifling panicked whimpers while waiting for some huge, dark figure to torture him with wires, to cover his back with burns.

Hutch looked away, breathing through his open mouth with a wheezing sound like a sob. His eyes were so dry it hurt. As if they ached for tears.

“I-I promise I won’t… scream,” Starsky’s voice echoed in his mind. Screaming’s not allowed. Screaming will be punished. With darkness. They did this to you and you weren’t allowed to scream?!

Hot fury broke through the surface of control and he had to close his eyes to banish it. No one will ever pay for this! No one will ever pay for what they did to him! “We are very sorry for what has happened to him.” Sorry! You’re sorry, you bastards! You fucking bastards are sorry?! I should kill you! I should burn down your goddamned torture hall with everyone inside! I should… I…

Finally, a tear slid down his face, so hot it seemed to scald his skin. He sniffed, wiped it away, and looked at the injured back before him again.

Maybe it was the relieving sensation of being able to cry or maybe just the realization of the futility of his hateful wishes, anyway, Hutch snapped out of the trance-like state he’d been in, sniffed and gently dragged the blanket back over his friend again, stopping at the neck, where he let his hands linger for a moment.

Starsky’s head slowly moved, hesitantly, his eyes opening to cast Hutch a fearful, confused look. At the blond’s quivery smile, he turned his head fully, looking at him for the first time since he’d entered the bedroom.

Hutch sniffed back more tears and brushed a stray curl away from Starsky’s eyes, relieved nearly to the point of laughing when his friend neglected to flinch.

Instead, Starsky rolled onto his side slowly, facing Hutch. “You’re not going to punish me?” he asked incredulously.

A mixture of a sob and a laugh, a sound of pure desperation, escaped Hutch as he softly shook his head. “No.”

Starsky frowned. “Later?”

“No,” Hutch answered, weeping in earnest now. “Not later, Starsk. Never. I won’t ever punish you.”

Starsky looked at him quietly for a few moments, then pushed himself up to a sitting position, one hand carefully reaching out to hesitantly touch Hutch’s cheek. “Don’t cry,” he pleaded, his brows arched in shared pain.

Some things you couldn’t train away.

Again, Hutch was caught between a sad laugh and a sob. He didn’t capture the hand, but allowed himself to enjoy its brief, soothing contact, before Starsky drew it away again, scared the gesture might have been a mistake. The blond head followed it a little, searchingly, but was restrained from his inquiring motion quickly.

Starsky grew increasingly distressed as Hutch wiped at his eyes without much effect.

“I’m sorry,” the blond mumbled, fighting against the shuddering sobs that shook him, sensing his partner’s frantic confusion. It was obvious Starsky ached for him, just like he always did. He wanted to help Hutch, wanted to comfort him–but was too scared to do it. Hutch hated himself for putting the other man in such an unfair situation.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” he repeated, drawing in deep breaths to calm himself. “I’m so sorry, Starsk.” But his litany of apologies only increased his feeling of guilt, and he cried even harder. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He bowed his head, covered his face, his shoulders shaking violently.

Starsky watched in horror, near tears himself by now. From time to time he’d open his mouth, but no words come out. Then, he’d reach out for the man he couldn’t stand to watch in such agony, the man he wanted to comfort now more than anything else in the world. But as soon as his fingers would touch the blond, fear would stop him, and he would draw his hands away, suddenly scared.

“Don’t cry, Hutch,” he begged again after a while. Hutch had still not been able to calm down. “Please. Don’t cry. Wh-why’re you… Y-you hurt?”

The blond head lifted at that, watery eyes blinking to send more tears running down the damp cheeks. “Yeah,” he nodded, his voice breaking, hoarse, “yeah, buddy, I hurt.” Grasping Starsky’s hand that lay limp on the mattress, he let his head fall down again. “Yes, I hurt.”

Starsky frowned, looked at the hand holding his and back at the mop of blond hair in front of him. “Two Eigh… Starsky is sorry,” he said. “Starsky’s sorry you hurt, Hutch.”

Hutch sniffed, too spent to cry more at this. “It’s okay,” he said without looking up. “It’s not your fault. It’s okay.”

A yawn broke off the next words. Without being aware of it, Hutch tilted to his side, his head seeking the support of the mattress, his body aching for sleep.

Starsky slid away to give him room, his hand squeezing Hutch’s. But the blond didn’t notice, he fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. A few tears were still able to escape his closing lids, but after them there came no more.

Studying Hutch for a few seconds to make sure he was deeply asleep, Starsky brushed the last damp streaks off his friend’s face tenderly.

Hutch whimpered softly when the contact was broken again, a slight frown wrinkling his forehead.

Hesitantly, Starsky touched Hutch’s head again, his fingertips smoothing the frown away, then wandered to lightly stroke through the tousled blond hair. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, when Hutch gave a happy sigh in his sleep, the strained expression on his face being replaced by one of relaxation, peace.

For a moment, he couldn’t understand how he ever could have been scared of the blond. This was Hutch. Hutch, who loved him, cared for him. Hutch, who’d never hurt him, who’d do everything to keep him safe. Hutch, who’d brought him home.

Home.

Starsky stopped, his hand resting on Hutch’s forehead.

Home?

Carefully, he looked over his shoulder. The bedroom door was open. He knew this place. Hutch’s place. He looked down at Hutch, who was starting to squirm a little, his head seemingly nudging Starsky’s hand, pleading to continue the comforting motions.

Hutch meant home, right? Right.

But Hutch had been there before, hadn’t he? Hutch had always been there.

Starsky swallowed against the fear in his throat. He continued to stroke the blond hair, but kept looking over his shoulder, tensing.

Hutch had been away for a while. Maybe because of the darkness. Things like that kept happening in the darkness, Starsky knew that. What had been there before would vanish in the darkness. He could remember once having seen Hutch in the darkness. He’d sung for him.

That’d been nice.

No, no, no, don’t dream now, think, think. Hutch had been there before, but then he’d been gone. Until now. What did that mean?

Home, Hutch had brought him home. But–he’d been here before. Some things weren’t real. Was home real?

Was Hutch?

Think, think, think! Don’t get scared! Don’t get scared! Think! Before… What was before? Before was home. Home was real. Home was real, David Starsky was real. Real name. Me. Starsky. Real. Hutch was real. Hutch was… But in the darkness he wasn’t real. No, no, no, don’t get scared! Think! Hutch has always been real! Hutch was real before, work was real before. Work… Box-folding. Box-folding was real bef…

He stopped. Box-folding had been real. Punishment had been real. Home had been real.

Think, think, think!

He was so close. He could feel it. He was so close to understanding what had happened. There was this thought he wanted to grasp, but it kept squirming away like a small animal, too fast for him.

Hutch had been gone, and now he’s back again. Back.

He flinched. Back… where?

Think, think, think! Don’t let yourself get tricked again! Where are you? Where-

A sudden whimpering sound made him snap out of his frantic thoughts. Looking down, he saw that Hutch was dreaming, his head slowly lolling from side to side. His features were strained again, and he was mumbling something in his sleep. His fingers twitched next to his body.

“S-Starsk… No…”

Starsky looked over his shoulder. No, they hadn’t heard it yet. “Shh,” he soothed nervously when he turned to Hutch again. “Shhh, Hutch, don’t dream. It’s not allowed to dream.”

But Hutch didn’t hear him. He was squirming under Starsky’s restraining hands on his arms, the pupils behind his closed lids moving rapidly as he watched some inner horror movie he couldn’t switch off. “No. G-get away from him.”

Scared beyond listening to his friend’s words, Starsky checked the door again, all the while trying to calm Hutch down. “Hutch, don’t dream. Calm down. Don’t dream. Th-they’re going to punish you. Don’t want you to be punished.”

He swallowed dryly, his nervous hands stroking the blond head once more. “Don’t dream. I-if they hear you, they’re gonna take you away again. I’m sure they will. They took you away before.”

“Starsk!” Hutch cried out softly, but didn’t wake up, not even, when Starsky covered his mouth with his hand, glancing at the door again in fear.

No one came. They hadn’t heard yet.

Looking at his partner again, Starsky found him to have quieted down a little. Though his head was still moving, his mumbles were lower now, less distressed.

Making a decision, the smaller man jumped off the bed, checked the living room with a quick glance through the door and carefully covered Hutch with the blanket, dragging it up over his head to stifle the sounds of his nightmare.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, “when they come, I’m gonna do something wrong. They’re not gonna punish you, I promise.”

With that, he turned and left the room, closed the door and sat down in front of it, hugging his knees to his nose.

He’d protect Hutch. They wouldn’t take him again, no they wouldn’t. Resting his forehead on his arms, he waited.

***

He was under water. Thick, murky, heavy water; its weight unbearable. He couldn’t see the surface, couldn’t get up, the pressure kept him pinned down, yet there was no ground. He struggled or he thought he struggled, his fists lashing out, his feet kicking.

He gasped for air, but found dry heat filling his throat, burning his nostrils. He coughed, retched–and woke up.

Brownish light blurred in front of his eyes, small spots of brightness sparkling through it like sunlight through a roof of leaves.

He groaned, his head responding to the light with equally sparkling pain, and rolled onto his side, burying his face into the mattress underneath him.

What the… ?!

Where was he? Blinking against the sheets, he tried to remember, drew in air and found it sticky, choking.

Frustrated, he kicked out at the weight on him, and suddenly fresh, thin air filled his mouth. He just lay there, enjoying the sensation of unhindered oxygen filling his aching lungs for a few moments, before his mind had cleared enough to torture him with information he didn’t want to have.

He was lying in his bed, fully clothed and had been covered with his blanket. Completely covered.

Starsky?

He didn’t register he’d only thought the name until he licked his parched lips. He coughed slightly and rolled unto his back.

“S-Starsk?”

He coughed again. His throat hurt. His head throbbed. He moaned.

“Starsky?”

No answer.

Blinking against the fading fog in front of his eyes, he forced his mind to keep spilling the memories of the last hours, his crying, his begging… Then nothing.

No, not nothing. Starsk…. Starsk tied to… They… Uh, must’ve dreamed. Starsky? Where’s… ?!

“Starsk?” he asked, his voice steadier this time, and blinked his eyes open, only now noticing they’d fallen closed again. Oh God, his head hurt. At the bright light meeting him, he squeezed his eyes shut again, then very slowly rolled onto his side again, then up to a sitting position.

The air around him seemed to explode. He groaned again, lifted aching arms, rubbed his face.

He felt his body shiver violently, but he wasn’t cold. Hot, he was too hot, his hands icy cold against the burning skin of his face.

“Starsky?”

Finally, he let his hands fall into his lap and looked around his bedroom. He was alone. The door was closed. No Starsky.

Without thinking, he pushed himself up to a standing position–and crashed down instantly, hitting his nose on the floor.

At least that brought him around fully.

“Fuck!”

Sniffling through a few drops of blood that threatened to emerge from his nose, he scrambled to his hands and knees, shook his head that hung between his arms, only to find out that was an unwise thing to do.

The fierce pain that pierced his skull made him stop instantly.

“Double-fuck,” he breathed, closed his eyes one more until he felt the room spinning around him slow down, and carefully came to his feet again.

When he stood at last, he breathed in and out deeply for a few seconds, to be sure he’d really make it, and opened the bedroom door.

“Starsky?”

The living room was empty. He reached out for the wall to steady him and looked around the place from where he stood. The sun was setting outside the window in the kitchen corner. Bright golden and orange colors flooded the sky, thin, long streaks of rain seemingly parted it into small stripes. The air that came through the half opened window smelled like rain, fresh, grassy.

“Starsk?!” he yelled, but stopped as he had to squint his eyes due to the pain that inflamed inside his head. “Starsky?” A whisper this time.

He knew it wouldn’t be answered, though. He could sense he was alone. His friend had left.

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit. That’s great, Hutchinson, just great! Terrific! Hopefully he took the car or somethin’!

“Starsky!” he called out, his panic beating the throbbing behind his forehead. “Starsk, where are you?!”

Of course, there was no answer.

Ignoring his body’s protests, he threw the front door open and raced down the stairs.

Outside, thick, warm drops of rain greeted him, plastered his hair to his forehead after a second.

“Star-”

He didn’t have to move his head twice.

There he was. His partner. Soaked to the bone. Standing in the middle of the sidewalk, looking upwards, his eyes closed, his arms hanging still next to his body, his hands clenched to fists.

Like he’s savoring the rain, Hutch thought. Welcoming it.

“Starsk?” he asked carefully, in a low voice, as he stepped closer, but when his friend didn’t react, he spoke up louder to carry the concerned question over the sound of the rain.

“Buddy, what’re you doing out here?”

Starsky opened his eyes, blinked once, twice, then moved his head, turned it ever so slightly to let his gaze meet his friend’s, the midnight blue shrinking a little as he narrowed his eyes against the liquid falling in them.

“Hutch.”

“Yeah,” Hutch said and stepped closer until he could touch the other man’s arm. “What’re you doing out here? It’s raining.”

Starsky smiled, delighted. “Large drops,” he said, gesturing towards the sky.

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed again, running a soaked hand over his dripping face. “Pretty large. And… wet,” he added, only now looking down to see he was wearing just socks, no shoes.

Starsky, who’d neglected to follow his gaze, was looking skywards again. “They made them large again. Punishment’s over. Did something right. Or maybe you did,” he said, glancing at Hutch.

The blond smiled tiredly. “Hey, you’re welcome.”

His hand still intertwined in the material of Starsky’s sleeve protectively, he looked down the road in each direction. They were alone, though, the rain kept everybody inside.

“Starsk, don’t you think you could look at the rain from inside?” he finally asked his friend who was absorbed in savoring getting soaked again. “Don’t know ’bout you, but I’m freezing here.”

Starsky turned his head to look at Hutch again. His forehead was covered by dark ringlets that were partly glued over his eyes too. Yet, he didn’t make a single gesture to brush them out of the way. “Standing in the rain’s allowed, Hutch,” he informed his partner. “I like standing in the rain.”

“Uh,” Hutch said, rubbing his arms as a violent shudder grabbed him. “I’m glad you like it. B-but it’s not good for ya, you know? Why don’t we go back inside and-”

“You dreamed,” Starsky cut him off, his voice low as if they shared information concerning a conspiracy. He even bent closer to the shivering blond. “It’s not allowed to dream.”

“Really?” Hutch asked and bit his lower lip as if thinking. “Well, as you see, nothing happened. Can we go inside now? Please?”

Starsky blinked, disappointed. “Don’t you like the rain?”

“It’s… uh… Starsk, I’m cold! Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Starsky grinned and spread his arms. Now, Hutch could see he was shivering almost as badly as he was himself.

Without thinking, he crossed the short distance that kept him from his partner and laid a dripping arm around him. “You’re shaking,” he stated, brushing the wet curls off his friend’s forehead. “I thought you don’t like it when you’re cold.”

“But this is rain,” Starsky answered as if he couldn’t understand Hutch’s confusion.

“What’s the difference between being cold and rain?” Hutch asked.

Starsky looked directly into his eyes for a moment, then bowed his head. “Wh-when I … When I hit the wall, I was punished.”

Hutch frowned, trying to follow his friend. “What?”

Starsky didn’t answer. He was studying the pavement. “Darkness. Darkness long time. ‘Snot allowed to hit walls.”

Wiping a cold hand over the damp skin of his face, Hutch drew in a deep breath. He could feel his feet going numb. “You hit a wall?”

Starsky nodded, ashamed.

Watching him, Hutch gently grabbed his left hand to study it. “Why?” he whispered.

Starsky looked up at him and swallowed before answering, “I obey, Hutch.”

The rain was running down his face like tears. Hutch froze, his fingers over Starsky’s.

“I-I… I lost mysel… I… Gotta hit something,” the smaller man finally said with a nervous laugh, but bowed his head again.

Hutch felt like time suddenly stood still. The rain stood still. Everything stood still but Starsky, stammering, sniffing.

“D-don’t want to… Hate to obey. B-but I do it. A-and I-I…” A deep sigh, almost a sob. “If I can’t hit something, then what? What to do? What am I to…” A glance at Hutch, quick, desperate, seeking understanding. “Wh-when not that then… The rain hurts a little, Hutch. At least,” he whispered, his head dropping again, “it hurts a little.”

Hutch stared at the dripping mob of ringlets, as appalled as he’d been the second he’d saw him on that road.

After an eternity, he finally reached out to tip his finger under Starsky’s chin, gently pushing it up so he could look into violet eyes.

“You want to hit something, babe?” His voice was merely a whisper, yet Starsky understood.

He shook his head. “W-want to… want to…” His gaze dropped. “Want to hit myself.”

Hutch let out his deep breath, sobbing himself. Without thinking, he grabbed Starsky’s arms and drew him in a bear hug, crushing him against his chest, his face buried in the soaked material of Hutch’s t-shirt.

“Haven’t you been hurt enough, buddy? You really think you need yourself kicking you too?”

He felt Starsky breathe in, then heard a tiny voice near his ear. “I obey. I shouldn’t obey. I’m weak.”

Hugging him even tighter, Hutch let his hand wander up to press Starsky’s head down against his chest again.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t know what.

****

The sun had completely set outside the kitchen window. Hutch stood, steam of the hot coffee in the cup he held dancing gracefully around his nose, and studied his reflection on the murky glass.

Gee, when did I last clean my windows? I could write my shopping list in this dust!

He smiled wryly at the trivial thought, watching the corners of his mouth twist, arch and fall again. It looked nice, somewhat smooth, though he thought his face felt eerily numb, cold. But then window glass always improved your looks, smoothed your features. You couldn’t see if you were too pale or too tired or too worn out. All you could see were the outlines of your face–every crack in the surface, every emotion written on them seemed to have been filtered out.

Window glass was a true friend.

Hutch shivered, lifted the steaming cup closer to his face and closed his eyes, savoring the warmth circling his nose and forehead. His hands ached from the heat, but he felt as though once he’d put down the cup, he’d get too cold to endure.

God, he was tired. So tired, and his head throbbed dully, almost in a soothing rhythm, almost comfortingly.

Behind him he could still hear the water running in the shower. How long since he’d sent Starsky in there? Not that long, huh?

With a long shaky sigh, he looked up again, his gaze once more wandering over the advantageous blueprint of his face that was surrounded by damp blond strays sticking out in every direction. Making a face, he peeled one hand off the cup to run it through his hair, but left it only more tousled than before. The hand wandered down over his face, its warmth being seemingly absorbed by the cold it was met with there.

The water stopped. Hutch heard the curtain being drawn open and quiet dripping on the bathroom floor. His gaze wandered automatically from his reflection’s face over its shoulder to the closed door.

They hadn’t talked much after slowly making their way up and into the apartment again, both soaked through, dripping all the way. Hutch hadn’t let go off Starsky but had kept a protective arm around his shoulder as if to steady him on the way.

The truth was he didn’t know who he’d tried to comfort with that. Or who’d needed the support.

Once inside, he’d more or less ordered Starsky to get a warm shower and put on some dry clothes, while he himself had made some coffee and just toweled his wet hair.

He’d been so tired he hadn’t even noticed Starsky had mumbled “okay” instead of “yes, Hutch”. He’d just nodded and settled for leaning against the breakfast bar, warming his hands on the hot coffee cup. Up until now he hadn’t drunk one sip.

Hutch couldn’t remember ever having felt so exhausted, so wrapped up in hopeless melancholy. It was a strange feeling, frightening yet somewhat so ridiculous he could have laughed if he’d found the energy. He felt as if he’d instantly fall apart if Starsky didn’t step out of the bathroom and be his old Starsk again. As if he’d break down if he didn’t hear a real Starsky-wise-crack within the next forty seconds.

As if he’d just die if he didn’t feel the comfort of his friend’s presence soon. Not his physical presence, but the existence of the unconscious bond that held them together. More than anything else, he wanted to let himself fall and know he’d be caught. Wanted to sense Starsky–his Starsky–and not just see his body or hear his voice without any proof of the man he knew still being there.

God, has it really been going on for only two days now? Two days? I feel like… Well, shouldn’t forget the months before. 70 days… plus two. 72 days without you, buddy. You can drop in any time now, y’know?

Straining to listen to the sounds Starsky made in the bathroom–fabric brushing against fabric, the curtain again, water dripping then being pulled off–Hutch stared into the eerily colorless eyes of the window-Hutch and made a face.

How very dramatic, Hutch. You’re exaggerating, and you know it. Starsk is here, you’re just too… selfish to deal with what happened. You thought he’d come back and be there for you, because you were… Yeah, what? So damn lonely? he mocked himself, his own voice so sarcastic, so bitter in his head he actually felt the injury sink in. Aw, poor baby. Poor Kenny. Lonely you were? Well, of course that’s really horrible. Terrible. I mean, hey, what’s being tortured out of your mind and locked up in God-knows-what-‘darkness’-means and starved and robbed of every single bit of dignity you have compared to feeling lonely?! Piece of cake! I bet if you just turn around and tell him he’ll understand! Or well… hmmmm maybe not right away, for… I could be wrong, but it seems to me like he has slight let’s say difficulty understanding anything at all!

The thoughts stopped all of a sudden, when he registered the look on the face he’d stared at had changed. Pain had sunken in, in window-Hutch’s smooth features, his eyes suddenly held moisture, there were wrinkles around his mouth, on his forehead. Cracks in the surface.

Hutch stared, held his breath–finally dropped his gaze. Two days. It’s been just two days. Two days and I’m ready to fall apart! I’m never gonna make it. I miss you, buddy. Miss you so much. Oh God, Starsk, I don’t know if I can make it. I don’t know what to do.

His thoughts sped up, his own voice getting louder inside his head, faster. Panicked.

I don’t know what to do! I need help! I need… I need you! I need you so we’ll figure it out. I’m… I’m so tired a-and confused and… I don’t know if I do things right. I don’t know if I do them wrong. I don’t know how I should treat you. What if they’re right? What if it’s not enough? Me. What if I’m not enough to… to make it this time? Every other time before I had you, I had … yeah, well you, something to cling to, someone to make it for, b-but this… I’m… Gee, I’m rambling in my mind! What the hell’s the matter with me?! I should be fighting, should be working, should be there for you! But instead I’m just whining like…

At the sound of the bathroom door being opened, he let his frantic thoughts trail off, turned around.

His partner stepped into the room, unruly half dried curls forcefully pushed back from his forehead but obviously ready to reclaim the area any time soon. He wore a shirt Hutch recognized to once have belonged to him, and a pair of his tight, faded blue jeans.

At the blond’s surprised look, he smiled slightly, his gaze following Hutch’s. “I wanted to… I…” The smile faded as he saw his hands starting to tremble, but when he looked up at Hutch again, it re-appeared, even wider. “My clothes,” he finally stated happily. “I like my clothes.”

Hutch laughed slightly, despite the sudden violent rush of fright that had grabbed his heart like a cold claw when seeing his friend’s face fall in fear. “I know, buddy. Mine too, huh?”

For a second it looked like Starsky would actually shoot back a reply, claim the shirt to be his. Hutch felt his heart stop in anticipation–but the curly haired detective just lowered his head in the end, his hands clenching to fists unconsciously.

Hutch sighed. “Hey buddy, want some coffee? To warm you up?”

Peeking up slightly, Starsky remained silent, but nodded after a while and approached the blond at the breakfast bar.

“‘Kay.” Hutch turned, poured his friend a cup of coffee and watched him nurse it for a few moments.

“Starsk?”

Starsky looked up questioningly. Not afraid.

“What was the darkness?”

The cup Starsky had held crashed down, coffee splashed onto both their pants.

Though Hutch had flinched, he gathered his wits quickly, and without thinking reached out to draw his friend in an embrace, holding him still against himself.

“It’s okay, Starsk. Don’t get scared. Nothing happened,” he soothed, feeling his partner shaking, rubbing a hand over his back in large circles. “It’s okay.”

“Two-”

“Don’t say it,” Hutch cut off the shocked voice, not letting go off his friend. “Nothing to be sorry for. ‘Sjust a cup. Starsk–what was the darkness?”

Starsky tensed up so much Hutch instinctively tightened his hold on him.

“You’re not going to go there ever again, buddy. I won’t allow it. I’ll protect you. No darkness, never again. D’you trust me?”

“Yes,” a tiny whisper reached Hutch’s ears.

“Good. D’you believe me?”

Silence.

Silence that started to unnerve the blond. “Starsky, d’you believe me?”

“Y-yes.” A short pause. “No.”

Hutch thought his heart had stopped. Blown out like a candle-light by his partner’s whisper. For a moment, he couldn’t seem to breathe.

Yet he didn’t let go, stood perfectly still, stared ahead at their reflection in the window glass. A tall blond man–legs shaking, weary as if he’d fall down any second–holding a smaller one, a large hand resting on a curly dark head, the other one on tensed shoulders.

In the window, the smaller man looked limp, lifeless, held up only by the blond who was ready to drag them both down, let them both fall.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked, his own voice seemingly coming from the far, far distance.

“I… Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

Hutch focused at the blurry picture on the window. He didn’t move, didn’t let go. Couldn’t. He feared he’d crash down if he would. “You don’t believe I’ll protect you?” he asked softly, not hurt, not accusingly. Just sad.

“I don’t…” Starsky started, but hushed himself. Hutch felt him tremble against himself.

“Shhh,” he soothed out of reflex. “Shhh, don’t be scared. It’s okay. I won’t get mad, I won’t hurt you. Just tell me, buddy. Tell me why you don’t believe you’re safe now.”

“Tricked.”

The word was breathed more than whispered, yet Hutch heard it near his ear. Still, he didn’t loose the hold on his friend, feeling close to answers he hadn’t known the questions to, but feared the special moment might break once the contact did.

“What?” he finally asked softly, the fingers that were intertwined in Starsky’s hair slowly starting to move in calming, gentle circles. “What d’you say?”

Hesitant, but willing, Starsky repeated, “Tricked. Get tricked sometimes. Believe…” A shaky sigh seemingly cut off his words.

Hutch waited. When Starsky spoke again, his hand found the back of Hutch’s cold, damp shirt, slowly clawing it in a weak grip. “I believed too many things. Believing’s not good.”

“Believing will be punished?” Hutch asked.

“No. Yes.” Starsky’s forehead dropped against Hutch’s collar bone. The blond watched, continuing his stroking motion, feeling his partner sag a little in his hold as if savoring the relaxing effects of the comfort he experienced.

“Everything’s punished,” he suddenly said, tired, resigned. Beat. “Everything’s punished.”

Dismayed, Hutch shifted the smaller form in his arms, looking like he was trying to encourage a worn out child, and whispered, “No, babe, you’re wrong. Nothing’s punished. Here, no one will punish you for anything. I won’t allow it.”

A moment passed, leaving Hutch holding his breath with hope, then Starsky carefully freed himself of his partner’s caressing hands, stepped back to look up at him.

Hutch blinked questioningly, reached out gently, but when the other one backed away–not violently, just so to keep his distance–lowered his hand again, waiting.

Starsky looked at him quietly for a few more seconds, tilted his head to his site like a child studying a large object, then gazed around the room and back at the expectant light blue eyes.

“I saw you. In the darkness.”

Raising his brows, Hutch smiled ever so slightly in surprise. Though now he seemed to strangely miss the warmth of the embrace and started to get increasingly cold, he was more than delighted to be able to look into the face of his best friend across from him–like in a real conversation. Like normal.

“Me?” he asked softly. “What’d I do?”

Starsky responded to the smile, his gaze dropping for a moment as if embarrassed. “Sang for me.”

Mouth open to reply something, ask another question, Hutch froze, when he watched a sudden change dig into his partner’s expression. It was followed by hands being lifted to perform feeble gestures that looked almost clumsy, as if their owner wasn’t used to gesturing anymore.

“B-but you weren’t real.”

Listening, Hutch pressed his lips together to restrain himself from commenting on that whimpered realization. He followed Starsky’s tentative pacing slowly as if afraid that even the movement of his pupils could scare his friend. As if it could make the shy thoughts that kept creeping out jump and rush back into their hiding places like young rabbits.

“Things aren’t real in the darkness. Saw a lot of things,” Starsky added with a frown, seemingly talking to himself now, “but they weren’t… weren’t real.” From where he stood, he shot Hutch a brief, frightened look. “Got tricked a lot. Being tricked’s punished. Hurts.”

The whimpered addition tore at the blond’s heart. He remembered the first night Starsky had been home–was that just yesterday?!–what he’d said before falling asleep. Oh my… He doesn’t believe… He thinks he’s still…

“I’m so tired,” Starsky sighed, running a hand over his features. It was the first absolutely normal gesture Hutch had seen him make in a long, long time. “Tired of hurting,” Starsky continued. “Hurts to think,” he informed Hutch with a miserable look. “And hurting’s going to be punished.”

“Starsk-”

Starsky didn’t listen. He was talking into his hands, cradling his face. His shoulders had slumped, tired, worn out, beat. Done.

“Everything’s punished. Everything hurts. How the hell am I supposed to know all that’s wrong? I don’t know. I…” As his voice trailed off, he looked up at his partner, and Hutch could see clearly, unhindered Starsky-thoughts running behind exhausted eyes. “God, I wish this was real, Hutch. I wish…” Carefully, he reached out to brush his fingers against Hutch’s shirt, but drew them back before the contact appeared, almost instinctively. “I wish they’d stop hurting me. I wish you’d come a-and take me home.” He swallowed against rising tears. “I wish there was a home.”

Hutch watched, too shocked to move and also not wanting to break the litany he witnessed. The explanations. The answers. He wanted to listen, wanted to know–and then make it all go away, all okay again.

“I want it all to be true,” his partner whimpered, rubbing a quick hand over his face, managing to keep his self-control. “I want it all to be real! I want home. I want to go home and have… have my life back. I want my job, I want my apartment, I want my family, I want my friends, I want my memories, I want…” A glance, over trembling hands. “I want you to bug me with whatever–food, cars, whatever! I want you to…” A pause. Long. Then, a whisper. So strained with fear Hutch could barely endure it. “I want to have you and not be afraid it might be a trick, th-that you’ll vanish any second, and then I’m back in the darkness a-and failed at a test and failing’s gonna be punished, a-and… and…”

He was getting agitated, fright speeding his words. Instinctively, Hutch took a tentative step forward, still quiet though.

“And I won’t fight back, because I never do, but that’s wrong. I should fight back, I should… I should try harder, but it’s so… It hurts,” he said apologetically, peeking up at Hutch, who silently gasped at the pain he saw reflected on his friend’s face. Pure agony it was, a despair Hutch had never seen before.

“I’m so sorry I don’t fight harder,” Starsky stated, dropping his gaze. He’d reached his position in front of Hutch again, his head bowed, his hands clenched to fists. “But I… I can’t. Nothing I do is enough. Nothing I do is… right. I want this to be real,” he added, and this time actually touched Hutch, who caught the hand resting on his chest, holding it in his own. “I want you to be real. But if you’re not… If… It hurts so much less this way.” A small bitter smile, then, whispered, “Don’t want to… lose you anymore. I’ve lost you so often. I try to… to not forget you, b-but when you’re there, they take you away, and-”

Hutch couldn’t endure it any longer. As if by its own will, his free hand flew out to stroke his friend’s cheek soothingly. “Shh. Shh, Starsk, it’s okay. It’s alright. I won’t go anywhere. No one will take me away.”

Starsky let his gaze drop, standing perfectly still. As if his outburst had never happened.

But it had. It had happened, had allowed Hutch to take a peek inside a severely tortured, insane mind.

There, Ken. The answers you wanted. There they are. Satisfied?

“Buddy, this is real. Everything here’s real. They let you go. You’re not going into the darkness ever again. You’re home now.”

He was rambling. Futile attempts at convincing deaf ears.

What else could he do?

“I got you now. No tricks. No tests. I’m really here.”

Starsky looked up at him blankly, until his stomach growled loudly, and he flinched, stumbling a step backwards. “Uh… sorry. Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

Somewhat fascinated, Hutch watched every bit of Starsky-like expression being drained from the darker man’s features, only fear remaining.

Stomach growls aren’t allowed, the blond thought grimly, while forcing a reassuring smile on his lips. Nothing’s allowed. Everything’s punished.

Drawing his hands away, he cast his miserable, scared friend a long glance and turned for the breakfast bar, feeling the exhaustion press his shoulders down once more. At the crunching sounds that accompanied his steps, he glanced down at the coffee cup mess still spread on the floor.

Rolling his eyes as if at the poor cup that’d been stupid enough to fall down, he shoved the largest pieces away with one foot, not looking, and headed for the refrigerator.

“Think your stomach settled down enough for a light snack?” he asked over his shoulder.

Starsky stood, silent, trembling, scared.

Hutch felt himself sigh, heard himself say, “Starsk, hey, why don’t you sit down on the couch for a sec, hm? It’s, uh, well, sorta dark outside,” he said, noticing he didn’t wear his watch. “Don’t they always show those plastic creatures conquering New York or so after sunset?”

At that, his partner actually looked up, shooting him a doubtful, very Starsky-like glance.

Hutch chuckled. “Creature Feature, buddy. Don’t they always show that when normal people sleep?”

Tilting his head to one side, Starsky briefly twisted one corner of his mouth as if a reply nudged at the inside, but wasn’t allowed to slip out. Instead, he turned to stroll over to the couch and huddle in one corner.

His head hidden somewhere in the deep insides of his fridge, busy trying to figure out what he’d make, Hutch strained to listen for a few seconds, and at the remaining silence, peeked over the door at the couch. “Come on, buddy, try. I’m in creature mood, aren’t you?”

No reply.

Hutch sighed. “Turn on the TV, bu-”

“Yes, Hutch.”

Instantly, loud growls filled the place, as a 30 foot mixture of a dinosaur and a rabbit planted its feet onto a fleeing bus on the screen.

Closing his eyes in frustration, Hutch sank down and inside his fridge again. “Yes, Hutch,” he muttered. “Here I am with all this power in my hands–and what’d I do?! Order him to watch crap. Great, Hutchie, just great.”

****

Stifling a loud yawn, Hutch lifted his right arm to wipe over his exhausted features, careful as to not stir his sleeping partner who lay nestled up on his left side. They’d both slid down to a full-length slouch with Starsky’s head resting half on Hutch’s shoulder, Hutch’s cheek on Starsky’s curls and the blond’s arm seemingly functioning as a ‘comfort arm’, as the sleeping man held it hugged to his chest. With that gesture he so much gave the perfect picture of a worn out little boy who’d fallen asleep during the late night movie he’d been allowed to watch just this one time, that Hutch couldn’t help smiling affectionately at him, but when his partner stirred even at the slightest movement, he quickly settled himself again, snuggling the side of his face up at Starsky’s head again.

The response was a happy low mew, and Starsky shifted a little, melting into the contact even more, relaxing fully, not aware that his friend struggled to sit very still, to not disturb his slumber.

His gaze falling upon the blanket he’d covered Starsky with some time ago, Hutch ever so carefully let his right hand wander over to place it onto the soft edges as if wanting to pin it down to the couch.

It wasn’t necessary, though. Starsky had succumbed to sleep so fast he hadn’t even had the chance to drag it up over his head.

On the screen, some ludicrous creature that to Hutch looked like a large version of the cartoon squirrel he’d been forced to join on its numerous adventures earlier that day, was fighting an equally big dinosaur in the Central Park. Starsky had missed the introduction of the second monster, and for a brief moment Hutch sarcastically wondered if he should wake his partner so he could watch the one movie of what felt like a hundred they’d seen that night that had two ridiculous things in it.

And if I live to be a hundred years old, I’ll never understand how peop…Gee, Hutchinson, that’s the second time in 24 hours you had that thought. You starting to turn into your father, watch it!

Smiling slightly at that thought–Snowball’s chance in hell!–he widened his eyes for a moment as another yawn broke free, and shook his head as if to clear it. He was so tired his vision started to blur from time to time, yet he forced himself to keep on concentrating on the non-existent story of the movie in order to stay awake. His back would probably kill him the next day, half-lying on that couch for hours, and it sure wasn’t going to do Starsky’s neck any good either to sleep like this, but as far as Hutch was concerned, it was better than ‘sleeping position’. It was normal.

Besides, his actual plan was to stay awake the whole night and coax his friend back to sleep when he’d wake up after the permitted four hours.

Somewhere deep down inside his somewhat knotted thoughts, Hutch knew that meant losing much needed energy, but then he avoided listening to whatever voices came from deep down. They’d also urgently informed him about the necessity of food earlier, and he hadn’t listened to that either. He’d just watched over Starsky’s eating, relieved by the other’s obvious appetite and lack of pain or distress afterwards, but hadn’t eaten anything himself. Hadn’t been hungry. Just tired. Tired all the time.

“Everything’s punished,” he heard the echo of his partner’s words inside his head, the pure exhaustion that’d been evident in them; the despair, the helpless acceptance.

He couldn’t help thinking that that was exactly how he felt. Not like the words, but like their sound.

The dinosaur was dying, its cries muffled through its own fake green blood, its eyes half closing, the robot’s mechanism responsible for that having obvious problems.

Hutch watched, his forehead wrinkled in an interested, concentrated frown, then suddenly jerked his head up as if snapping awake. God, Hutchinson, stop it, will ya?! You just compared yourself to a goddamned dino-bot!

At his side, he felt Starsky whimper slightly and slide down a little more, his head falling from Hutch’s shoulder onto his chest. He didn’t wake up, but dragged Hutch’s arm with him in the process, yanking the blond to his left painfully.

“Ow! Damn,” Hutch hissed, but quickly bit his lip, squeezing his eyes shut briefly until the immediate pain had subsided and been replaced by a constant throbbing as Starsky didn’t let go, but snuggled up on him.

Gazing down at him for a moment, Hutch grimaced, lifting his free hand from where it still lay on the blanket and ruffled Starsky’s hair, not wanting to wake him, but shift again.

Yet the darker man had obviously found the perfect sleeping position. He didn’t move an inch.

Hutch’s hand hovered over the steadily rising and falling shoulder, but he just couldn’t bring himself to rattle the man awake. The image of the panicked, frantic look that’d flicker through confused cobalt blue eyes the second Starsky would jerk awake and then would be replaced by increasing fear was enough for Hutch to draw his hand away again with a pained, resigned sigh. Spotting his half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table, he contemplated for a second, then tried to reach out for it but quickly realized he couldn’t get to it without moving Starsky.

Frustrated, he leaned his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes.

“There,” an actor’s voice exclaimed on the TV screen, “we’ve got it right where we want it. It’s trapped. It can’t move.”

Underneath closed lids, Hutch rolled his eyes. Oh shut up!

A sudden violent shudder grabbed him, and his eyes snapped open again. Fighting the urge to nestle up on the sleeping figure next to him for comfort, he scrambled the fingers of his right hand inside his sleeve as if that would warm him up.

Now that he didn’t look at the screen anymore, but up at the ceiling, he found that the dull throbbing inside his head that’d been constantly there for the whole evening, had intensified. His throat felt raw, a layer of phlegm thickening in it. Coming to think about it, he had to admit he felt a little feverish too. Moving his head had left him slightly nauseous.

Sighing, he closed his eyes again. Great, just great. Terri-fic. Now you get sick again. Great. Must be all this running around in the rain on your socks, Kenny. Didn’t your mother tell you to always wear shoes?!

A dramatic inward sigh mocked his mother’s way of saying things like that, but was quickly replaced by his own earnest voice again as he chided himself, You know, Starks’s right, you can’t be for real! There he is, needing you like never before and what’d you do?! Break down at a case of the sniffles. Pathetic, you’re pathetic!

Those were his father’s favorite words, and they, too, were displayed in the old man’s gruff, cold voice. Using his parents’ voices to talk himself down was something Hutch subconsciously tended to do. Why, he didn’t want to ask.

You want him to come back so badly, but when he tells you the problem, I mean actually verbalizes the fucking problem, you still don’t know what to do! “Hey, Hutch, I’m afraid to believe you’re real, cause if I do I might get the living hell tortured out of me again.” – “Oh really? How ’bout watching Godzilla vs. The World’s Largest Rodent?”

As if he’d heard his partner’s inward fight against himself, Starsky shifted, releasing Hutch’s aching arm in the process and turned so that his back was now huddled against Hutch’s side, while he curled up on himself, his head lolling to meet the couch’s headrest. A small squealing sound escaped him when he dragged his legs up, much like a rodent’s, Hutch thought with an inward chuckle.

He stretched his freed left arm out with a relieved sigh, then slid away a little so that Starsky’s body, robbed of its support, followed. The sleeping detective gave another low sound, but still didn’t wake up.

Looking down on the curly head now pillowed on his thigh, Hutch decided that that was a satisfying sleeping position for his friend and leaned his head back again, closing his eyes. Almost instinctively, his fingers found Starsky’s head and he started softly driving them through the thick curls in a soothing rhythm.

Gotta stop doing that. Hanging myself out to dry won’t help at all. He needs me to be there for him, to be real. Not to fall apart. But how do you convince someone that the reality’s real? How do you convince someone of your own reality?

Remembering a class in philosophy he’d particularly despised during his time at college, he muttered in a mock version of his former professor’s high voice, “Reality is relative. Whatever a person thinks to be real is…” But as the words sank in, he hushed himself, his hand stopping briefly on Starsky’s head.

“Oh buddy,” he sighed deeply, and continued his stroking, feeling himself slip away, succumbing to his own exhaustion. What can I do to make you feel safe? he wondered. How could he free his friend of the darkness, when it felt as if he himself was trapped in one too? All alone, scared, hurting and lost.

“Me personally,” he heard a very, very young Kenneth Hutchinson’s words, “I think reality’s gravely over-rated.”

Already half-dozing, he grunted a low hateful comment–“smart-ass kid, me”–and fell asleep.

****

He coughed himself awake, his head jerking forward, his eyes still closed. His throat felt like he hadn’t drawn in breath for hours. Something heavy, choking was lifted from his face, and all of a sudden fresh air filled his aching lungs.

“Two Eight Zero is sorry,” he heard a faint voice in the far distance, in his momentary confused state unable to grasp the meaning of the words.

The only thing his body allowed him to focus on was to greedily gulp in air through the painful coughing.

“Sorry… Hutch?” The voice again, concern blinking through audible fear.

Instinctively, he reached out wearily, not sure in which direction, and croaked out some intelligible words, that were meant to sound reassuringly, but even to his own ears bore more resemblance to retching than actual talking.

“`K-kay… *cough* `K… *cough* don’t be *cough* scar… *cough*”

Once he’d leant forward, his head hanging between his shoulders, though, he found it a lot easier to breathe, and the coughing subsided, giving his mind a chance to clear itself off the engulfing fog too. Blinking his eyes open, the moisture the effort of the painful coughing had built in their corners escaping in the form of a few small tears; he stared at the floor of his living room for a second, struggling to figure out where he was and what had happened.

“Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

Alarmed by the miserable tone as much as by the apology, he carefully lifted his head to look at the trembling figure of his partner, who sat next to him, blanket spread in his hands, sheer terror flickering through his eyes, as if he tried to hold it down, but couldn’t quite manage.

“Starsk, wha…” Hutch started, dismayed, but when his gaze wandered down to the afghan held in shaking hands, suddenly understood and forced a warm smile on his lips. “Did I dream again?”

Starsky stared at him for a second, then nodded, his head moving slightly to his side as if he wanted to look over his shoulder, but restrained himself from doing it.

“Well, uh,” Hutch croaked as another cough broke free, and patted Starsky’s shoulder, “thanks for *cough* waking me.”

“It’s not allowed to dream,” Starsky said in a strained voice, obviously concerned by Hutch’s lack of care about the rules.

His head starting to throb mercilessly again and Hutch failed to notice his partner’s increasing distress as he still tried to get his throat to stop tormenting him with what felt like fire every time he drew in a breath. Grabbing the blanket Starsky still held, he tossed it aside as if it was a weapon, and squeezed his eyes shut briefly.

“Yea, well *cough* next time, don’t *cough* cover me, `kay? I’d rather *cough* take the punishment. *cough*”

A small groan escaped him as he rubbed cold hands over his face to get more alert, so he didn’t see the shock working into his friend’s eyes.

It wasn’t until a unusually stern voice reached his ears, that he looked up at Starsky again.

“No. I won’t allow that.”

Snapping alert within a second, Hutch looked up, a confused gaze finding his partner. “Huh?”

“Don’t want…” Starsky started, but his voice broke, and this time he turned fully to look over his shoulder.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked softly, watching in dismay, cursing himself. Uh uh. What’d I do now?

His partner gave a relieved sigh and turned back to face him. “They didn’t hear,” he whispered, and smiled slightly. “Good thing you woke up in time.”

“Uh… Yeah, yeah, good thing I…” Hutch muttered, but as soon as he actually stopped to listen to his own words raised his voice a little. “Starsk… They’re not here. We’re alone.”

“Yeah,” Starsky nodded happily, “yeah, they didn’t hear.” He sighed again, then cast Hutch an apologetic look. “I’m sorry you woke up before time. You didn’t have to wake up, I had you covered. You want to go back to sleep?”

Hutch felt his brows arch in pure hopelessness. “Starsky-”

“I’ll keep watch,” Starsky promised. “If you dream again.” He thought about that for a split second, then added in a careful tone as to not hurt Hutch’s feelings, “You shouldn’t dream, though, you know? Dreaming’s punished. Don’t want you to be punished.”

“Starsk,” Hutch said softly, trying to reach his friend, but without success. Starsky was lost in thoughts.

“You never dreamed before. But if you do now, maybe they hear you and then they take you away again.” A sudden thought hit him, and he cast Hutch an appalled glance. “They didn’t hurt you last time, did they?”

“Uh… N-no,” Hutch assured helplessly, a slightly hysterical smile rushing over his lips. “Starsk, you know I wasn’t really there, don’t you?”

His partner looked at him blankly, the wheels visibly turning inside his head.

“I wasn’t really there with you, Starsky. You just saw me, because they hurt you so much you went, uh, a little crazy there. You told me so yourself, remember? You know they didn’t take me away, right? They took you.”

Hutch could almost see his words falling into place, until Starsky gave a curt nod, as confusion flickered through his eyes, but was replaced by something else quickly. “Right. Right,” he said, frowning. “Right. Not real.”

Hutch’s eyes closed as if out of a frustration of their own. Oh fuck! I hate this!!! “No, buddy,” he said, his voice strained with the effort of keeping it patient, “I’m real. This is real. But I wasn’t real in…” A frustrated sigh cut off his words. Oh, this is going well!

“I’m real,” he stated clearly. “Okay? You’re really home, and I’m real.”

After a moment, Starsky blinked and reached out to ever so slightly nudge Hutch’s cheek. “I won’t let them hear when you dream again.”

Feeling as if every bit of energy was drained out of him again just by his partner’s words, Hutch nodded, resigned. “Thanks, buddy.” With that, he stood, stretching his aching muscles and strolled over to the fridge, not really sure what he was doing.

All of a sudden, he felt funny again. Dizzy, exhausted. “Hey, was that really four hours?” Glancing outside, he found it to be still dark outside. “The sun isn’t up, yet, Starsk, you don’t have to stay awake. Don’t you want to get some more shut-eye?” It was more rambling than an actual question, and even if Starsky had wanted to answer it, he wouldn’t have made it before Hutch stated with a surprised smile, “Hey, you turned off the TV.”

Starsky flinched. “Two Eight Ze-”

“No, it’s great you… Oh man,” the blond sighed, driving a hand through his tousled hair. “Never mind. Want a beer too?” he heard himself ask as he produced a can from the fridge, then shook his head. “I-I mean d’you want anything? You hungry? I still got this candy here somewhere…” Rummaging through his fridge once more, he suddenly stopped, frowned and looked over his shoulder out of the window again, then back at the can he still held.

Man, Hutch, you’re out of it. What’s going on with you?!

Glancing at his partner sitting on the couch, he responded to the increasingly confused and worried look he found himself the target of with a wry smile. “Just tired, never mind,” he winked, let the fridge fall close and slowly walked back to the couch. “Aren’t you tired too? Bet you are.”

Starsky watched Hutch, and it started to unnerve him. “What?”

“You look sick,” the curly haired man stated, concerned.

Oh really? That might explain why I feel like shit. “Nah,” Hutch winked casually, but had to reach out for the couch’s headrest for support suddenly. “Told you, just tired. Don’t get scared.”

Listening to himself, he briefly wondered why he kept saying that. As if it was understood that everything would scare his partner.

“It’s not allowed to be sick,” Starsky informed him with concern.

“I’m not sick, Starsky, don’t worry. And now come on, you’re going to bed.” He swayed slightly when he broke the steadying hold he’d had on the headrest to gently reach for Starsky’s arm, but forced himself to ignore it.

Starsky stood immediately, his head bowed. “Yes, Hutch.”

“Uhm, yeah, good boy,” Hutch muttered, having to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment as his vision suddenly blurred. When he opened them again, he found himself still holding on to Starsky’s arm, more for his own support than to guide his friend. Pretending it to be the other way around, though, he didn’t let go when they slowly staggered over to the bedroom.

Maybe getting some real rest too wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all, Hutchie-boy. Feel kinda woozy here, huh? Hutch thought, once more shaking his head, while grabbing the sweats Starsky had placed neatly folded onto the bed with his free hand and handing them to his silent partner.

“There you go.”

Starsky studied him for a second, something Hutch thought he’d recognized flickering through his eyes, but it vanished before he could figure out what it was, and the smaller man bowed his head as he took the sweats. “You…” he started in a tentative whisper.

“Hm?” Hutch encouraged softly when his friend’s voice trailed off. “I what? Starsk?”

“You’re not going to sleep?”

Hutch frowned as he thought whatever he’d seen in his partner’s eyes appeared in his voice also. Smiling, he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. “Have to clean up the coffee mess.”

“Oh. Uh-”

“Don’t,” Hutch hurried to say, almost snapping, “apologize. It was not your fault. Don’t get sca… Never mind. Just try to get some rest, buddy, okay?”

When he got no answer, he bent down a little, searching for Starsky’s eyes. “Okay?”

To his surprise, Starsky reached out wearily, his fingers flapping against Hutch’s chest, then fell limp at his side again.

“Starsk?”

But Starsky didn’t reply. Instead, he just turned to change into the sweats, and after a confused second, Hutch left for the kitchen, where he stopped to stare down at the crusty coffee spot. Feeling as if he’d faint the moment he’d try to bent down to rub it away, he stretched back his head, closing his eyes.

The dizziness passed, but a sudden thought hit him, and he turned on his heels, heading for the bedroom again. The jerking movement sent his room spinning wildly, he almost lost his balance.

Standing very, very still for a few seconds, he finally cracked his eyes open to see if his own private earthquake had stopped. He was cold, yet hot at the same time, could feel perspiration on his forehead. Starks’s right, should lay down.

Deciding he’d do that, he remembered what had crossed his mind a moment ago, and hurried back into the bedroom, where Starsky was just very tentatively drawing back the covers to get into bed.

At Hutch’s entrance, he flinched violently, let the edge of the blanket he’d held fall, and straightened to face Hutch with his head bowed.

The blond sighed, his right hand leaving the door frame he’d grabbed for support, and stepped next to his startled friend.

“C’mon, buddy, get in.”

“Yes, Hutch,” Starsky muttered, crawled into bed, immediately rolled onto his back, and reached out for the blanket, grabbing only air, when Hutch snatched it away.

“Uh uh,” the blond shook his head, feeling strangely like a father tucking in a child. “No sleeping position, buddy.”

His partner looked up at him, confused, scared. His gaze wandered to his side as if he was contemplating about changing his position. When Hutch playfully tugged at his sleeve, though, his gaze found the blond’s again, the fear vanishing. A tiny, but happy smile spread on his lips, and he slowly complied, following his friend’s gentle dragging, until he lay curled up on his left side, facing Hutch.

“Comfy?” Hutch asked, spreading the blanket in his hands.

The curly headed man smiled a bit wider, but remained silent.

“Okay,” Hutch nodded and covered his partner, making a point out of smoothing the blanket over Starsky’s neck, underneath his chin. When he straightened again, he swayed slightly, but quickly rested his flat hand against the wall next to him, steadying himself. Ignoring Starsky’s questioning glance, he lifted the Hutchinson Warning Finger.

“No sleeping position and no hiding maneuvers, buddy. Got that? I find your head under this blanket tomorrow, I’ll nail it down next time.”

As a sudden, very brief grin rushed over Starsky’s face, he gave a curt nod to underline his words and turned, switching off the light. “Sleep well, buddy. I’ll leave the door open.”

With that, he left, dragging the door almost closed behind him.

He felt a little better, he thought, as he walked back into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes that were burning slightly as if from lack of rest, despite his short nap.

Probably just a cold after all, he assured himself, though deep down he found it hard to believe himself. Should stay away from rain for a while. Aw shit. His gaze fell upon the broken cup and the coffee again, and he sighed over-dramatically. I hate cleaning up. Couldn’t I just plant something in this? Coffee? Grinning at the silly thought, he bent down to gather together the larger pieces of pottery, he froze in his tracks, his vision fading quickly.

“Uh uh…”

Staggering back to an upright position, he closed his eyes, reaching out to grab empty air, trying to keep his balance. Oookay, laying down it is, he decided, wise-cracking against raising discomfort and panic as the dizziness only increased. Why clean it up, anyway, when I can order Gordo to do it tomo… Uh…

Blinking his eyes open, he stared into a sparkled blackness, but was suddenly very aware of having just dropped to his hands and knees. He shook his head, scared when he didn’t feel the movement, his whole body seemingly numb.

“Uh… S-Starsk… ?”

The blood roared in his ears, blocking every other sound, but still he thought he’d said his partner’s name. Trying to shake his head once more, he realized he was now at eye-to-eye contact with the kitchen floor. He could smell coffee. He was cold. He blinked, but he couldn’t see.

Darkness, he thought, so that’s darkness, and passed out.

****

There was a ray of light breaking through the darkness of the room, and he was glad for that.

He was on his side, curled up, a warm blanket wrapped around him, his nose brushing against its edge. He sniffed it slightly and felt himself relax at the familiar smell. His eyes fluttered closed, yet the darkness didn’t seem so scary anymore. Hutch’s words echoed in his head–“I find your head under this blanket tomorrow, I’ll nail it down the next time!”–and a smile tugged at his lips as he slid down even more, letting himself be engulfed by the smell of home, safeness, while his eyes still half peeked out, focused on the crack of warm brightness coming from the living room.

He liked the light. It wasn’t like the one he had sometimes seen in the darkness. He winced at the memory. That had hurt. Everything had hurt, the darkness as well as the light, its brightness piercing right through his desperately closed lids.

But this light, it was warm, golden instead of white. Comforting.

He sniffed again, briefly wondering if it’d be allowed to uncurl. Many things were suddenly allowed now. He’d thought about that for quite some time now. Hutch allowed him to sleep a lot, to show pain, to eat, to cry. But then, he thought with sudden confusion, of course Hutch would allow him anything. Or better–Hutch would never forbid anything. Like he’d never punish him.

He’d figured that one out right away. Hutch was Hutch. Sure, at times he scared him, but then, Starsky thought, many things scared him. That’d pass.

If he was back home, being scared would pass. If not…

He sighed, frustrated. Things were so damned difficult. And he couldn’t help but think that they hadn’t been before Hutch had suddenly showed up again. Before that Starsky had known what to do to not be hurt. To not be punished. It’d been an awful lot of rules, and at times he grew desperate, sure, but he’d tried, and eventually they had at least stopped putting him in the darkness. He’d gotten food again, he’d been allowed to sleep, and he hadn’t been hurt that often anymore.

He’d had his rain, and when he’d thought of Hutch it had always been comforting. He’d tried to hear his friend’s soothing velvety voice, and it’d been there, inside his head, where they couldn’t take it from him.

But now–now everything had changed. Now he could see Hutch for real, hear him, feel him, smell him. He nestled his nose deeper into the blanket as he continued to inwardly crawl his way through the huge knot of thoughts.

He wasn’t being hurt anymore. And he was called by his name. And there was Hutch. And there was food and warmth, and no pills that made his mind all foggy. Thinking didn’t hurt any longer, it was just so very confusing. Frightening.

He could sense Hutch’s exhaustion, his despair, and as much as he longed for comfort himself, he wanted to smooth his friend’s strained features, wanted to tell him it’d be okay. Hutch had told him once how long he’d been gone, but he’d forgotten. Quite some time, though, he thought.

Time enough for him to start to doubt if anything of his life really had ever existed. He’d started to doubt if there’d ever been a home, a Hutch, a Dave Starsky.

That was over. He knew who he was. He knew who Hutch was. He knew where home was. But along with that realization had come the one that if he was tricked into believing all of this, if he’d one day wake up in the darkness again–he’d give up.

Just like that. No more David Starsky.

No more Hutch.

He wouldn’t be able to do it.

So he had to be careful whether to let himself fall. Whether to believe. If it was a test, it’d be over the second they knew he believed. The second he started behaving like David Starsky again.

Under the blanket, his hands clenched to fists. He was David Starsky, not only the name–the man. He wasn’t a number. He wasn’t a number! How much he hated them for turning him into one. How much he hated them for humiliating him like they had. How much he hated them for everything!

But he couldn’t say so. Couldn’t even think it, irrational fear they might be able to read his mind kept him from it.

How much he hated them for making him see Hutch like this. He closed his eyes, the picture of his partner’s tired smile appearing before his inner eye. Hutch looked so lost. So alone.

If it was a trick, it was a good one. Good tactics. If not…

I don’t know what to do, Hutch. I don’t know what to do! I don’t want to lose you. If I lose you it’s all over. But if this is real… God, I don’t even know if I want this to be real. I don’t want him to suffer like this. Watching cartoons… A small grin broke free. God, it felt so great to be ironic again. To be him again. Confused, careful, but him nevertheless.

Sometimes, anyway.

“S-Starsk… ?”

His eyes snapped open, the grin gone.

He listened. Nothing.

Staring at the ray of light, he ever so slightly lifted his head from the pillow.

Nothing.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Listened. Then, finally, “Hutch?”

Nothing.

He waited, fighting down rising agitation. Something was wrong. Something was so wrong that he could sense it.

He hadn’t sensed things in a long time.

“Hutch?” He was sitting up, still straining to hear a reply. But there was none.

“Hutch!” he called out, flinching at his own voice. He quickly bowed his head, sat very still. But nothing happened. When he looked up again, the door was still almost closed, the room still dark. No Hutch.

Something was wrong.

Driven by instinct, he pushed himself up and left the room, carefully, quietly, his heart beating in his throat.

“Hutch?”

Outside, he saw him. Crumbled. On the ground. Eyes closed. Pale, so pale.

He swallowed dryly, glancing around. They hadn’t come. He was still alone with Hutch.

“Hutch?” he whispered, taking another tentative step forward.

The blond didn’t answer. Starsky stood still for a moment, waiting, looked over his shoulder then back at Hutch. He didn’t look good, Starsky thought with growing concern. His face had lost all color, and he was trembling as if cold, even in unconsciousness.

Suppressing the immediate urge to rush to his partner’s side, he forced himself to approach him slowly, step by step, constantly checking, constantly ready to obey any order that might come from somewhere.

When he finally reached his fallen friend, the blond still hadn’t regained consciousness, and Starsky was scared. He didn’t know what to do. His instinct told him to act, try to wake Hutch up, get him off the cold kitchen floor, do something, but the another part of him, a frightened one, urged him to not believe it.

It wasn’t allowed to be sick. It wasn’t allowed to care. He’d be punished. Hurt. Put into the darkness. No Hutch anymore. No warmth. No home.

Desperate, he sank to his knees next to Hutch and carefully brushed back damp strays of blond hair, contemplating what to do.

Hutch gave a tiny moan, and Starsky drew his hand back as if he’d been burnt. He looked over his shoulder in frantic fright–they didn’t come. They hadn’t heard.

Hutch moaned again, his head slightly moving.

“No, no, no,” Starsky whispered, fear widening his eyes. “No, Hutch, d-don’t let them hear you’re sick.”

Hutch didn’t wake up, but whimpered as a violent shudder grabbed him.

Starsky was off like a shot, yanking the blanket off the couch. Kneeling down next to his partner again, he neatly covered Hutch completely with it, then slid away a little, so that he sat in front of Hutch, hugging his bent legs as he rocked slightly, waiting.

Every now and then, he looked over his shoulder, but they never came.

After almost an hour, Hutch moaned louder under his cover, and Starsky, who’d kept hushing him all the time, couldn’t endure it any longer. Peeling the blanket off the blond’s face, Starsky gently touched his forehead as to soothe him, but frowned suddenly, when he found the alarming heat there.

Being sick’s not allowed, he thought, but at the same time didn’t feel like he cared. Sick. Hutch is sick.

Hutch whimpered, a cough rattling in his chest. Starsky’s hand wandered down to the side of his face, his thumb rubbing away a tear that threatened to escape the closed lids.

“Shh,” he soothed, and after a moment added, “I… I’m…” He swallowed, looked over his shoulder.

They hadn’t come. They weren’t there.

“I-I’m… here. I’m here, Hutch.” Once he’d said it, he couldn’t seem to stop. “I’m here. It’s okay. I’m here now. I’m here.”

He didn’t notice he’d started crying until he felt wetness on his hand. Sniffing, he couldn’t contain a small laugh. “I’m here. I’m here. I’m really here. I’m…” As the laughing as well as the crying increased, he finally reached out to fully lift his partner into his arms, hugging him tightly. “God… I’m here, Hutch. I’m here, babe. It’s okay. Everything’s gonna be okay now.”

Hutch stirred ever so slightly, coughed again. “S-Stars… *cough*”

“Yeah,” Starsky replied instantly, letting go off him just so he could cup his face to look at still closed eyes. “Yeah, Hutch, ‘sokay. Okay. I’m here.”

Hutch’s head sagged again, his forehead meeting Starsky’s chest, and the curly haired detective quickly tightened his hold again to keep him upright. “Okay,” he assured more himself than Hutch, who was out cold again. “Okay.”

Going into partner-mode, he decided to first get his feverish partner off the floor. Looking down at the lifeless form in his arms, he sighed. “Hutch?” he asked hopefully, but like he’d expected, received no answer. “Never mind,” he muttered ironically and started to prepare the standing-up-act by gently dragging the blanket off his partner.

Hutch instantly started to shiver. Starsky frowned, but decided they’d deal with that later. First of all, he had to somehow get his partner on his feet. There was no way he could carry the blond, and he didn’t particularly liked the thought of dragging him by his feet, either. “Hm. Hutch?” Rising his voice, he gently slapped a clammy cheek. “Hutch. C’mon, I need your help here. You can’t sleep on the floor. Sleeping on the floor’s not allow…”

He froze with his mouth open, and tore his head to his side, throwing a frantic glance over his shoulder.

Nothing. They weren’t there.

He let his head hang for a moment, sighing deeply in relief. When he looked back at Hutch again, light blue eyes had cracked open. “St-Starsk?”

The voice was so weary Starsky winced, but he smiled brightly, grabbing Hutch’s cold hand. “Yeah, babe. ‘M here.”

God, how he loved to say that!

“Hutch, we’ve to get you up and into there.” He pointed at the open bedroom door with his chin. “Think you can make it? I’ll help you.”

Hutch blinked, confused, but didn’t reply. After a second, Starsky gently pushed him onto his back, reaching under Hutch’s arms. “Can you… help?” he asked, not really sure what his plan was. Whenever he had to lift a weak Hutch off some ground, he had the same problems at figuring out how to do it. He yet had to discover the perfect tactic.

Without a word, Hutch weakly reached up and laid both arms around Starsky’s neck. Looking down at him, Starsky crooked his lips to a lopsided smile. “That’s not gonna work, Hutch. You’re just gonna drag me d-”

“Miss you,” his words were cut off by the blond’s strained whisper. Closing his eyes again, Hutch drew in a shaky breath. “Miss you so much.”

His heart breaking, Starsky let his head fall forward until his forehead touched Hutch’s. “Missed you too, Blintz.” He kept the contact for a few moments, before gently reaching up to lower one of Hutch’s arms, holding the hand to the front of his sweatshirt.

“Grab that, Hutch.”

Hutch obeyed, and together they managed to get on their feet, Starsky almost losing his balance once they were up and he had to support most of Hutch’s weight. Constantly coaxing his friend, he staggered them both into the bedroom, where he couldn’t help let his burden fall down on the bed with a low thud, crashing to the ground next to it himself, panting heavily.

After a moment, he dragged himself up into a sitting position, leaning against the bed, his head falling backwards until it met Hutch’s legs. Closing his eyes, Starsky tried to catch his breath.

Come on, get up. Resting’s not allowed, you know that. You’re going to be-

His eyes snapped open, fear shooting through him like adrenalin, but at the sight of the ceiling, he felt it subside, sudden relief pressing the air out of his lungs. Like waking up from a nightmare it felt. Like jerking awake after having fallen from a cliff in your dreams.

“Home,” he said out loud and waited, listened to the echo. “I’m home.”

Unconsciously, he reached behind himself and grabbed one of Hutch’s foot. “I’m here, Hutch. Still here. Everything’s under control.”

Almost by its own will, his gaze found the entrance–but they didn’t come.

They weren’t there.

Drawing in a shaky breath, Starsky finally pushed himself to his feet. Carefully, he rolled Hutch onto his back and quickly peeled the damp shirt off of him. It took a few minutes to get his unresponsive partner into his academy sweats and covered. He was appalled when he saw how much weight his partner had lost, the condition he was in, his face sweaty, pale, clammy, while his forehead gave grim evidence of fever. Dark smudges lay under his sunken eyes, like bruises, and a strained feature was visible around his mouth, as if he struggled to get back to taking care, to regain control even after he’d been beaten by his exhaustion.

Taking a moment to just absorb the overwhelming feeling of reality, Starsky stroked the blond hair, sniffing back a few more tears as he studied the evidence of his friend’s ordeal. “I’m so sorry, Hutch,” he muttered. “But I’m here now, you hear? I know you’re real. I… I won’t let you down again. Promise.”

He watched when Hutch mewed lowly and shifted slightly so that he lay on his side, the side of his face resting on Starsky’s hand. “Hutch?”

But the blond was deeply asleep, his breathing even, undisturbed by coughs.

Smiling affectionately, Starsky carefully drew his hand back, while patting the blond head with his other one. “You just rest, Hutch, okay? Starks’s back in charge now.”

He couldn’t help but grin at the words, almost overwhelmed by their meaning. A part of him felt guilty, because he was so damn… glad he could take care of Hutch, because it’d taken Hutch to break down to drag him out of his own insanity–but then maybe that was just what it’d had to take. And if he liked it or not–it had been and was exactly what he needed. Being there for Hutch. Getting them both through this.

Brushing the back of his curled fingers over Hutch’s forehead, he stood to get a wet cloth from the bathroom, and stopped in the door, looking down at his partner. “We’re gonna make it, Hutch. I’ll take care of it.”

That he’d needed.

****

Back in charge, Starsky had been busy.

Though usually teasing Hutch about tending to “fuss a guy to death” when concerned, he didn’t give such a bad mother hen-performance himself when his partner was sick.

It was something they’d both developed as something completely new in both their outfits over the years that had formed their friendship. Sure, they’d both always been kind human beings, both somewhat too soft, both selfless, both quick to like other people, quick to care, but neither of them had experienced the instinctive, absolute feeling of being needed before. And needed not as someone who just happened to be there, but as the distinctive individuals they were.

No one before had ever needed Starsky because he was Starsky. In fact, the only time in his life before Hutch that he himself had thought he would be needed, they had sent him away. Despite being just a teen, he’d truly thought his mother and Nicky would need him. After all, he’d been the older one, the man of the house. He should have been there to take care of things–at least that’d been what he’d thought. But they hadn’t let him, instead, his mother had sent him as far away as she possibly could have.

Sometimes–not often–but sometimes, it still hurt.

Same with Hutch. Hutch had never ever been needed because of who he was. Sure, there’d been a time he’d thought Vanessa needed him, but it quickly had turned out that all she’d needed was for him to be another man.

That’d been something his parents had never failed to make clear, too. Nor had is sister. Every single member of his family, except for those who’d died before he’d reached puberty, had seemingly always needed him to change. Change into Kenneth, Kenny, Mr. Hutchinson Jr.–anyone but Hutch.

With Starsky it’d been different from the start. It never ceased to amaze Hutch that the curly haired, lively, stubborn, forever child-like man had liked him from the very first second. The moment he’d seen him stumble into their room at the academy.

Equally amazing–he’d liked him too. Quiet, withdrawn, rather shy, somewhat sarcastic young Ken Hutchinson had spent many days wondering why he felt so unusually at ease with his new roommate. Wondering why, though it did drive him crazy to listen to all that nonsense the guy could fill the air with in just one minute, he still enjoyed every single second he spent with him. Eventually, he’d stopped thinking about it and had accepted himself to be just plain lucky.

That feeling had changed. After seven years, Hutch knew that he wasn’t lucky. He was blessed. He’d found the one person who not only accepted him as the person he was, but who also needed him to be exactly that. If the friendship had brought one change into Kenneth Hutchinson’s whole composure, then it was the one that he finally could stop trying to change and just be Hutch.

It was a thought Starsky never understood when Hutch tried to express it–usually after the very, very last drink he’d have for that particular night–but that he accepted it to be quite important for his blond friend, figuring that maybe doing something incredibly right without even knowing it was the best one could do in a friendship. And it always worked. Just like now. Starsky knew what Hutch needed when he was sick.

Unlike most men–including Starsky–Hutch never whined, but had other subtle ways of letting his partner know when he felt under the weather, depressed or seriously down.

Though he’d never stopped to think about the how, Starsky could almost always read his friend, and from the very first time they’d traveled that road, he’d done everything right when it’d come to taking care of a sick Hutch.

Some things, of course, were simply the bit medical knowledge everyone had, like how to bring fever down, stuff like that. Others, though, were completely partner-instinct. For example had Starsky at a very early point in their friendship found out that his friend hated it to be alone when he wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t that Hutch appeared needy when he was sick, but to Starsky it always was obvious that he was.

Hidden in his tough, self-confidence outer appearance, Hutch constantly carried a deep, gnawing fear of not being good enough, of failing, of being left alone. Starsky had seen it break through the surface more times than he’d have liked. Enough times, anyway, to know that Hutch wasn’t scared of being alone, what he was scared of was being forced to be alone.

It’d taken some time for Starsky to find out that it’d been something that in the Hutchinson’s logic had been considered a proper way of training young Kenneth’s ambition. Whenever Hutch had failed to accomplish something he’d been left alone to “think about it”, meaning he’d been locked in his room, alone. No one had ever consoled him when he’d faced a personal failure, no one had ever once given him a cuddle for comfort.

After his divorce, his parents hadn’t called him for almost six weeks, and when they had, they hadn’t once mentioned Vanessa. To them, it’d been understood that he’d failed–and you didn’t speak about failures.

As far as Starsky was concerned, that was the reason why his partner seemed so eager to hide it when he was getting sick or depressed. He’d rather OD himself with aspirin than lay down and admit he was ill, out of subconscious fear he might be considered weak.

While rummaging through Hutch’s half-filled fridge, looking for some juice for his sick friend, Starsky thought that at the Hutchinson Home, things seemed to have been at least a little equal to another place he now knew about; being sick hadn’t been allowed.

Whenever Hutch did come down with something–and Starsky had had his share of nursing him through several flues or other things over the years to know about it–and got really sick, he’d watch every one of Starsky’s moves like a hawk, as if afraid his partner would leave him at some point. He knew better, of course, but the fear was there, and it didn’t look like he’d be ever able to banish it.

It was this, his own fear, that bore the origin of the line he himself always used when he tried to comfort Starsky: “I’m here.”

After he’d found out about all of it, Starsky had slowly but steadily took it over, so that it’d become “their” comfort line. “I’m here” meant nothing more and nothing less than that neither of them would be left alone. No matter what.

“I’m here, Hutch,” Starsky muttered softly, when he returned to the bedroom with the juice. Hutch, though, who’d waken up for a moment, coughs cutting off the croaked out call for his friend, was asleep again; his left arm hanging limply down the side of the bed as if he’d been reaching out for Starsky, but had only found empty air.

Gently, the curly haired detective picked the arm up and placed it under the blanket again, then felt the blond’s forehead again.

The fever had, though not completely vanished, subsided a bit. Enough, anyway, for Starsky to sigh with relief. The sun had risen outside a long time ago, and he felt his own exhaustion increasing as he sat down on the chair he’d dragged next to Hutch’s bed for his vigil.

Exhausted. That was how Hutch looked too, he thought. Now that the fever had stopped tormenting him with nightmares and chills, the expression of illness had given room for the clear, appalling evidence of everything the blond had been through for over two months.

He hadn’t eaten right, he hadn’t slept much, he hadn’t allowed himself to rest, and it showed. Adjusting the blanket on his partner’s chest, Starsky recalled Hutch breaking down earlier that day, before the rain. At the memory of the utter, raw despair he’d seen on the pale, strained features then, he closed his eyes with a pained sigh.

“I’m here, babe,” he whispered, briefly resting his forehead against the blond’s. “Hear me, okay? I’m here. We’re gonna make it.”

You’re not alone anymore, he added in his thoughts, aware of everything Hutch had had to face over the unendurable long time span of two months. Alone. I left him alone. Alone to run himself sick. Aw, damn it, Dave, you know it’s not your fault! Hanging yourself out to dry won’t help at all. Just help him get better and it’s all gonna be okay again.

Hutch moaned slightly as if he’d heard the thoughts, and Starsky smiled, bending over so he could stroke his friend’s cheek. “Hey Hutch, you wakin’ up?”

Another small whimper escaped the blond, bearing some resemblance to Starsky’s name as Hutch struggled to lift his heavy lids.

“Yeah, I’m here, right here,” Starsky assured him, sitting down in the edge of the bed next to his partner. Gently, he brushed a stray lock of blond hair from the still too warm forehead and was dismayed when Hutch flinched.

“Hutch? Hey, ‘sokay, it’s me, Starsk. I’m here now, hear me? No more numbers.”

“N-no,” Hutch moaned with half open eyes, his gaze unfocused, searching the room, haunted. “S-Starsk?”

Sighing, Starsky grabbed the damp cloth he’d brought along with the juice and gently placed it on Hutch’s forehead. A shudder swept over him when he looked at Hutch’s startled reaction and remembered the nightmares that’d tormented his exhausted friend the whole day long.

Nightmares he himself had only too often been the star of.

Nightmares that’d hit strangely close to home, as if Hutch could really see the truth before his inner eye.

Starsky didn’t want him to see the truth.

Most of the time, though, the dreams had been about being left alone, Starsky could tell by the croaked, frantic calls for him that had kept him on the run for hours, trying to soothe Hutch, to get him, and if subconsciously, to understand that he wasn’t alone anymore. That he didn’t have to carry the burden alone any longer. That he didn’t have to be strong. That Starsky was there now.

“Shh, it’s okay, Hutch, it’s me. Look at me, huh? C’mon.”

Watery, glassy baby blue eyes finally settled upon him, and Starsky smiled. “See? I’m here. Right were I should be.”

Wearily, Hutch reached up, his fingers clenching around a fistful of the material of Starsky’s shirt. Still, the blond’s eyes looked haunted, panicked. “D-don’t…”he started, but a cough cut him off. When he spoke again, his voice seemed even more strained. “Don’t… c-call anyone. D-don’t go.”

Reaching for the juice at the sound of his friend’s painfully raw throat, Starsky frowned, surprised. “Who would I call, Blintz? What’re you talking about? Hm? C’mere,” carefully, he helped Hutch to sit up a bit, holding the glass to his lips.

Gratefully, Hutch drank a few sips, before falling back on the sheets, a bit more alert, but now spent. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said, his gaze changing into one Starsky thought he’d seen often over the past days. “They’ll… They mustn’t… I-I’m…” He blinked rapidly, trying obviously to stay awake. “I’ll be okay.” A deep sigh. “God, buddy, I’m sorry.” Looking around as if for the first time, he yawned slightly. “I don’t even remember… D’you bring me here?” he asked, looking back at Starsky, who nodded.

“You really have to work on your fainting places, Blintz,” he wise-cracked with a sad smile, overwhelmed by the deep exhaustion, the despair he suddenly saw in the light blue eyes that’d cleared enough to show it.

Hutch chuckled, and yawned again. “I’m sorry. You didn’t get scared, huh?” he added softly, dragging his eyes that’d fallen closed, open one more time to cast his frowning friend a worried look. “Don’t be scared. Just tired, I guess… I’m just tired…” With fading mumbles, he fell asleep again, while Starsky worked on moving his jaw.

Oh, that went well. “Uhm… Hutch?” Starsky asked, softly nudging the blond’s cheek. “Hey, can you wake up just for a sec again? I think you, uh, don’t understand.”

But the blond was sound asleep again, his features peaceful for once, so that Starsky didn’t have the heart to wake him. “Never mind,” he whispered, smoothing the blanket over Hutch’s chest. “You just sleep, and I’ll tell you later.”

He sat for a few more seconds, allowing himself a moment of rest too, studying his partner in his sleep. God, look at you, he sighed inwardly, I can’t even leave you alone for two months! The wise-crack brought a sarcastic smile on his face that he wiped away along with the nagging exhaustion. Two months.

Now that he could think of it, he’d started trying to sort out the real impact of the words, wanting to share his partner’s pain, much like Hutch had shared his. Two and a half months. Hm. Two times of washing the Torino. Maybe three. Two phone calls to Aunt Rosie. Ten to Mom. At that thought, he hesitated. God, Mom. Gotta call her.

But then, the thought of talking to anyone but Hutch seemed to cause him more distress than joy, and he pushed it aside, assuring himself he’d do it–later.

35 days of driving my car on the job. Wow. 35. Well, minus weekends. His head tilted to one side as he, lost in thought, watched the steady rising and falling of Hutch’s chest. 70 days. 70 days of waking up, driving to work, sitting on that desk, hitting the street, going back home at night… 70 days of… The sudden realization hit him, that ever since they’d left the academy, he and Hutch had never been separated for so long. At first, he cringed inwardly, thinking how silly that sounded, like they were married or something–but he couldn’t help finding a nagging truth in the words. Of course, part of it came with the job. Being working partners, they were bound to see each other every day, but when searching deeper, Starsky figured he’d consider two months too long a time to not see or hear Hutch under any circumstances. 70 days without Hutch… the mere thought seemed to stretch the time spam out until it looked like an eternity.

Add not knowing where he’d be, but definitely in danger… Add searching for him every single day… Add growing more desperate as time goes by…

Hell, he didn’t want to know how he’d look!

Add finding a number, he continued sadly and finally stood, as if having inwardly been pushed to do something useful for a change. Add finding… this. Looking down on himself, he let out a deep, frustrated breath. God, I’m so fucked. Who am I trying to kid?! The first sec they… At the sound of his thoughts, he trailed off, turning slightly to look back at the open bedroom door.

They?

Hutch had said that. “Don’t go anywhere. They’ll… They mustn’t…”

They? Who were they? Not… No, Starsky shook his head fiercely. They were gone. He was home, he was with Hutch. They couldn’t get to him again. But then, who…

And then it hit him. They. Everyone. The world outside. They.

Suddenly feeling very weary, he slowly made his way into the kitchen, swallowing past rising panic, his thoughts racing again as they tended to do ever since he’d really come back. Gee, what d’you do, Hutch, hide me? No… Dobey knows. Dobey was here. Glancing over his shoulder from where he’d rummaged through a cupboard, he frowned. Wasn’t he? Yes. Yes, definitely. I saw him. So Dobey knows. A-and there was this… doctor. At the hospital. A shudder grabbed him, and he turned quickly to start preparing something light to eat for his patient, in order to keep himself distracted, going. Yeah, remember the doc. Scary. Thinking about that, he arched his brows as if mocking himself. Okay, to me, everyone’s scary, but he was… mean. Okay? Better choice of words? Mean.

So people knew. Well, probably not… everything, he mused, fighting desperately to keep the urging confusion at bay. Confusion–the enemy within. Whenever he tried to figure something out, he started to feel like an eggshell, like he had to be ultra careful to not break the fragile bridge to the sane part of his mind he’d managed to build.

Okay, so there are ‘they’, and then there’s him… Hm. “Don’t go anywhere.” Like outside again. Glancing up almost involuntarily, he found bright sunlight outside. No rain. When realizing what he was doing, though, he quickly looked back down at the breakfast bar. Get a grip, damn it! Think! Hutch’s afraid, they… Well, someone might… Uh… Take me? Insecure, as if seeking a positive nod, he found himself looking in the direction of the bedroom again. That it? But why… Oh. Right. I’m probably officially insane. Screwed up. And what d’ we do with screw ups?

Shuddering at the answer, he muttered, “Oookay, not going anywhere. Uh uh,” under his breath, starting to chop a lonely carrot he’d found somewhere, when the phone rang.

He jumped so badly, he almost cut his finger, and wheeled around, staring at the noisy thing on the coffee table.

A second ring. Starsky stood, staring.

Phone, his mind suddenly spilled, and another, very alert, very sane, very Starsky-like part added, Yeah. Phone. C’mon, Davey, what d’you do when a phone’s ringing?

In slow-motion, as the third and forth ring followed, the curly haired man walked over to the table. The fifth ring saw his hand hovering over the receiver–just before the sixth, he picked up.

And listened. In silence. Tensed. Scared. So scared.

“Hutch? `Ey man, you there?”

“Huggy.” The surprised whisper was out before Starsky had even time to think what to do. A strange feeling swirled in his body, so glad to hear his friend’s voice again, yet so scared of it at the same time. He looked over his shoulder.

Still here. Still real.

A shocked silence answered him, then, “Oh my… Starsk?! That you?!”

“Uh… uhm…” he stammered, swallowing past rising panic. “Y-yeah, I…” He cut himself off, a sudden voice seemingly screaming in his mind. What the hell ‘re you doing?! What if it’s a trick?!

“What… Where’s Hutch? Are you okay?”

“H-Hutch is…” No trick! C’mon, `s no trick! “Uhm… he’s…”

“Starsky? You alright? What happened? Where’s Hutch? What happened?!”

Hutch is sick, c’mon say it. Hutch is sick, and you’re taking care. – B-but… `s not… allowed to be… sick. Not allowed to… care. Not…

“Starsky?”

He hung up. Stared at his hand on the receiver. Tilted his head to his right.

Huggy. Home. Fun. Laughter. Friends. Good times.

‘Kay. A deep sigh almost broke into a sob, but he restrained himself, strolling back into the kitchen. `Sokay, Davey. We try again next time. We just keep on trying.

Despite his own encouraging words, though, he felt like a failure. When passing the bedroom, he cracked the door open a bit to peek inside.

Hutch was still sleeping peacefully. Starsky smiled, turned and went back to his work.

****

After he’d tried a couple of times, when it at least looked as if Hutch would be alert enough to understand it, to explain to his weak partner the changes that had occurred, Starsky finally gave up and settled for just nodding–“No, Hutch, don’t worry, won’t go anywhere.”, “Yeah, I’m fine.”, “Sure, you’ll be up and about in no time.”–and coaxing his patient to sleep, eat, drink and out of his ever so often returning nightmares.

At the end of the day, he felt like collapsing himself, but couldn’t help finding it’d was a good exhaustion. A somewhat earned tiredness, not something artificial, not from sleep withdrawal, not from pain. From taking care of his friend.

Normal.

A normal exhaustion.

He’d never known how much he loved everything that was normal.

“Hutch, want some more juice?” he called from the bathroom, having thrown all the cloths he’d used over the day to cool the blond’s face into the laundry basket. The fever seemed to have subsided at last, and thinking about it, Starsky assumed that after all Hutch wasn’t really sick, just so beat his immune system had decided to kick him into awareness. It wouldn’t have been uncommon for his stubborn partner, anyway. Since Hutch tended to keep his feelings to himself in times of distress, it was often left to his body to ask–or rather scream–for help.

Knowing that, Starsky hoped that after a whole night of undisturbed sleep and some more of his “lonely carrot soup”, Hutch would be on his feet again. Or at least finally able to understand the information that’d sure help him to recover like nothing else.

Smiling as he imagined Hutch’s reaction when he’d realize what had happened while he’d been out, Starsky walked back into the bedroom, sighed and shook his head in mock helplessness.

Hutch had drifted off again, the empty glass he’d held a minute ago lying next to the bed on the floor, along with the top blanket Starsky had draped over the other one to keep him warmer. His face was hidden somewhere in a pillow, strays of blond hair sticking out from under it, and one of his arms hang somewhat awkwardly over the whole bed, his hand hovering just above Ollie who sat in his normal place on a chair next to the bed.

“Even in sleep you’re a slob, you know that?!” Starsky muttered while gathering up the blanket and covered the sleeping man again, thereby carefully rolling him onto his side to check on his temperature again. Relieved to find Hutch’s forehead cool enough, he then picked up the glass and was about to leave, when his gaze fell upon Ollie on his chair.

“Hm.”

As if on cue, Hutch gave a tiny whimper and shifted, so that he now lay facing the teddy.

“Hm-mm-mm,” Starsky grinned. Quietly, as to not wake Hutch, he crossed the room to grab Ollie off the chair and crouched down next to the bed to ever so carefully lift Hutch’s arm slightly. As Starsky knew he would, Hutch instinctively nestled his face into the teddy’s soft fur as it was placed in his arms, sighed a little and fell into a deeper slumber.

“Still works,” the curly haired man chuckled under his breath, patted the blond head and turned to leave, a wide grin spreading on his lips when he looked over his shoulder again.

Gee, it felt great to tease Hutch again!

Normal.

He loved normal.

Back in the kitchen, he started washing the dishes, humming softly to himself, amazed at how great his mood had suddenly become just by doing his teddy joke on his partner again. Every so often when Hutch was on the mend after a flu or something, Starsky would play it on him, partly because he just needed the relief of some serious teasing after having been worried–and partly because deep down he felt the gesture somewhat… necessary. His own mother had used to do that when he’d been sick as a kid, and since no one had ever done anything nice for Hutch as a boy, Starsky figured it was his turn now.

Of course he’d never admit that to his partner. In spoken words, the teddy joke was teasing, something Hutch would roll his eyes at. The start of the after-illness-banter.

Still humming when he dried a plate, Starsky opened the cupboard again, put the thing inside–and froze. Pinned by a bowl, a folded sheet of paper lay against the wooden wall, seemingly having been stashed inside in a hurry. Its edges were crumbled, but the colors shining through the white paper seemed familiar. Frowning, Starsky grabbed it and unfolded it.

A red car. Clumsily drawn. Like a child’s work.

“I drew the turkey’s car. We can just write under it that the color’s not right. Would you mind doing that? I’m not that far yet.”

His mouth hanging open, humming dying in his throat, Starsky stared at the picture. “Only good kids get candy.”

He swallowed dryly. “Miss you. Miss you so much.”

A breath escaped him he hadn’t known he’d held. His knees felt weak all of a sudden. Picture still in hand, he slowly sank to the ground, back against the drawers.

The whole scene enfolded like the picture before his inner eye–Hutch’s irritated look, the conversation with Dobey. “Maybe, if you’re careful, none of you will have to be drugged this time.”

Throwing a coin, leaving the office. “All kids who go to the hospital get candy.”

The last time he’d seen Hutch before…

Drugs. Isolation. Pink socks.

“Hutch, something’s happening in here.”

Places. So many places. Dark cells. Hunger. Thirst. Tables. Examination tables. Too many. Hurt too much. Hurt too much to think.

“I’m no number, ya hear me?! You can’t do this to me! You can’t do this to me!!!”

Darkness. Punishment. Bright lights. Tied down. Chained.

“Sorry! I’m sorry!”

Rats. Cold. Screams. His own.

“Sorry! I’m sorry! I forgot the fucking number! Honest! C’mon, please! Tell me the number and I’ll say it! I promise! Please! I’m sorry!”

And then–nothing. Not, not nothing–fear. Healing fear. Helping fear. Fear that’d prevent him from being hurt. Fear that’d get him through the darkness alive. Fear that’d silence him.

“Two Eight Zero is sorry.”

He blinked, snapping to the present. The sheet of paper in his hands trembled along with them. His eyes burned from unshed tears. His face felt flushed. His whole body hot, his heart beating in his throat.

“I. Am. Not. A. Number.”

He didn’t look. They wouldn’t come. They weren’t here. They’d let him go.

“I. Am. Not. A. Number.”

He hadn’t escaped. Hutch hadn’t come. They’d let him go. They’d beat him. Destroyed him. And then let him go. Their game. Their rules. Their triumph.

“I’m not a number!” Too fast for himself to actually register what he was doing, he was on his feet, facing a wall, punching it. Fiercely. “I’m a human being, you hear me?! I’m not a number! I’m not a number!” He was screaming, blood appearing on the wall as if he’d hurt it with his pummeling. He didn’t feel the pain.

Not the physical one.

“I’m David Michael Starsky! I have a name! I have a life! I’m not a number! I’m no-”

“Starsk.”

He wheeled around, fists still up, and almost punched Hutch. Only the blond’s jumping backwards saved him.

Blood dripped on the floor. They stared at each other, eyes wide. A split second passed, but to them it felt like an eternity. Realization sank in light blue eyes. A tear escaped cobalt ones.

Starsky sniffed. “I’m not a number.”

Slowly, carefully, Hutch shook his head. “No. You’re not.”

“*sniff* I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No.” Tentatively, the blond took a step forward. “You didn’t.”

Starsky blinked, another tear cascading down his cheek. He sniffed, wiped it away, looked at the bedroom, then back at Hutch. “You shouldn’t be up.”

A mixture of a laugh and a choked sob caught in Hutch’s throat. Gently, he reached out, lifted one of his friend’s hands, studied the bloody knuckles. “And you shouldn’t try to kill the wall. I might still need it.”

“Oh.” Feeling a bit silly, Starsky glanced at the blood splattered wall. “Sorry `bout tha-”

“No,” Hutch quickly interrupted him, almost frantic. “Don’t.”

Starsky lifted his brows, but understood, and smiled. “Okay.”

Returning the smile, Hutch nodded. “C’mon,” he said, starting to guide his partner to the kitchen table, “we better get that cleaned.”

Starsky followed, sat down. When Hutch returned from the bathroom with bandages and a clean cloth, he carefully grabbed the blond’s arm. “Hey. How’re you feeling?”

Hutch stopped in his tracks, his gaze meeting Starsky’s. “You gotta ask?”

The smaller man opened his mouth to reply, but Hutch cut him off before. “After you played that silly teddy thing on me again?”

Staring at his friend, a wave of affection seeming to overwhelm him, Starsky couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m so… You looked like you needed him, y’ know?”

“Oh yeah? Bet I did,” Hutch shot back, equally giddy, while he carefully wiped the blood from Starsky’s knuckles. The other one didn’t even flinch. Compared to what he’d been used to for a long time, cleaning small cuts was a piece of cake.

Hutch noticed, but didn’t comment on it. He was far too lost in utter relief to think about anything else at the moment, anyway.

“Pity I didn’t take your picture. I always wanted to do that,” Starsky continued. “For the Police Force Calendar. Bet they’d pay me a-”

“Don’t you dare, buddy.”

They both laughed slightly, then fell silent, Hutch busy bandaging Starsky’s hands, Starsky watching him.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here.”

“Starsk-”

“No,” Starsky interrupted him softly, his fingers brushing against Hutch’s sleeve. “Let me. Please.”

After a second, Hutch nodded, drew his hands back; listened.

“I’m sorry I left you alone. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I’m sorry you had to… see…” He trailed off.

“Starsk,” Hutch started, wanting to soothe, but his partner closed his eyes, as if to brace himself. As if he couldn’t say his say when looking at his friend.

“I’m sorry I was scared of you. And I’m sorry I…” He swallowed, his voice quivering a little when he spoke again. “I’m sorry I lost myself. I’m sorry I lost… you.”

Close to tears himself, Hutch couldn’t restrain himself any longer from reaching out to place his hand carefully over his partner’s bandaged one. “Buddy, please… You didn’t lose anything. You’re here, aren’t you?”

The curly head was bowed, a shudder grabbing the slumped shoulders. “Why?” a whisper reached Hutch’s ears, but before the blond could answer, Starsky looked up again, his eyes bright. “Why me? What’d I ever do to them? What… How could they do this to me?”

“I don’t know,” Hutch answered softly, brushing his thumb over the smooth skin under Starsky’s eyes. “I don’t know, buddy. I don’t understand it myself.”

Starsky’s gaze dropped. “When I hit a wall last time…” He trailed off. When he peeked up at Hutch again, the tears that’d threatened to fall seemingly dried in his eyes, froze from the cold of despair. “It’ll never go away, will it?”

Hutch widened his eyes in dismay. “Starsk, hey, course it will!” he said, bending nearer. “You’re going to be okay. We’re going to be okay.” A smile tugged at his lips. “D’you trust me?”

Looking directly into his partner’s eyes, the smaller man nodded, understanding. He returned the smile with his gaze. “What kinda question is that?!”

Now fully grinning, Hutch tilted his head to the right. “And d’you believe me?”

Again returning the grin, Starsky replied, “Don’t get funny. ‘Course I believe you. Always.”

Laughing in relief, Hutch patted his friend’s arm, stifling a yawn. “That’s my partner.”

“Okay, Blondie,” Starsky cut him off, standing to drag Hutch up with him. “You’re going back to bed.”

“Starsk-”

“No arguing! You’re-”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by a sudden loud knock at the door. Instinctively, Hutch took a step forward as if to shield his partner who’d, also instinctively, flinched.

“Starsk? You there? C’mon, open up.”

“Huggy,” the detectives said in unison, and before Hutch could even move, Starsky had walked passed him to open the door. The tension drawing his shoulders back was visible, but still Hutch restrained himself from interrupting the proof of control over himself Starsky was trying to give.

Huggy stood in the open door, staring at the curly haired man in disbelief.

“Hey,” Starsky finally smiled. “Hug.”

His gaze wandering to Hutch, who nodded with a wide grin, Huggy stepped inside, turned–and wrapped Starsky in an original Bear Hug.

Starsky flinched, but laughed a split second later, returning the hug. “Good to see you too, Huggy.”

Releasing the smaller man, Huggy stepped back in mock embarrassment, straightened his shirt and wiped his eyes in a quick, discreet gesture. “You’ve been missed, man. And I’m only gonna say that once.”

Starsky laughed. “Sure thing, Hug. Missed you too. Well,” he added after a moment, waggling his hand sarcastically, “sorta.”

Giving a short snort, Huggy looked over at Hutch, who had one hand placed against a wall as if for support. Following Huggy’s gaze, Starsky frowned and quickly approached him. “Hey, y’okay?”

“Sure,” Hutch winked. “Stop fussing.”

Huggy smiled, hearing the utter joy over Starsky being able to fuss in the blond’s voice. “You do look pale, Blondie, y’know. And you,” he turned to Starsky again, “don’t you ever scare me like that `gain, ya dig? Hanging up on me like that, I thought-”

“Huh?” Hutch asked. “You called?”

“Yeah, but it seems your mother hen of a partner was just too busy wipin’ your nose to talk to me,” Huggy joked, knowing his words would be understood right.

They were. Starsky cast him a quick, grateful look and grinned. “Someone has to be in charge here. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” Huggy nodded, a shadow rushing through his dark eyes, “I know.”

At Starsky’s deepening frown, Hutch quickly said, “Uhm, hey Hug, d’you mind giving Dobey a call to, uh, explain… things,” he finished lamely.

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks,” Hutch smiled, but in that moment sagged a little more as a sudden wave of dizziness swept through him. Starsky caught him by his arm. “Okay. That’s it. You’re going back to bed, Blintz, c’mon.”

“I’m just tired,” Hutch protested.

“That’s why I said bed,” Starsky replied, shot Huggy a quick glance and guided his partner into the bedroom.

When he returned, he closed the door behind him, his expression suddenly serious. “Hug, when I was gone…”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but Huggy understood. He sighed slightly. “Let’s say Blondie had a rough time. We all had,” he added after a moment’s thought. “But I don’t need to tell you, huh?”

Smiling, Starsky lifted one brow briefly.

“He was pretty out of it,” Huggy continued, “but I get the feeling he’s gonna be okay now.”

Their eyes met.

“Yeah,” Starsky finally said.

“Yeah. You take care of him.”

“I will,” Starsky replied and paused. “Hug–thanks.”

“Hey, man, no need thanking me. I’m just glad you’re back.”

Starsky nodded absent-mindedly, his gaze wandering over to the bedroom door.

“Starsky.”

“Huh?” His head snapped around, facing Huggy again. “‘M sorry, what?”

Huggy studied him for a moment. “Hey, I won’t… ask anything, you know that, but if you two need…” He hushed himself as if listening to his own words and then rolled his eyes. “I’m here, okay? Just wanted to say that. The bear’s there, and don’t hang up on me again.”

Chuckling, grateful, Starsky patted his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, I won’t. Thanks, Hug.”

“Don’t thank me, just remember it,” Huggy replied, hesitated a moment and then turned for the door. “I better not keep you from fussing over your patient any longer.”

“Hey! He’s the fusser. I’m just…”

At Huggy’s expectant look, he trailed off.

“Uh huh. See you, Starsk.”

“Hmpf,” Starsky grumbled mockingly.

“You take care,” Huggy called over his shoulder, but in the open door, turned once more, suddenly serious again. “Starsky, uhm…”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Once more, their eyes met.

“Yeah. See you soon.”

With that, the door fell closed. Starsky stood in the living room. After a moment, his gaze fell upon his bandaged hands, and absently, he rubbed his knuckles, smiling to himself.

See, Davey, not so scary. Everything’s okay. Just keep on trying.

Humming again, he returned to the kitchen to dry the rest of the dishes. Picking up the picture still lying on the ground, he studied it for a second, then grinned. Rummaging through one of Hutch’s drawers, he found a small magnet and pinned his masterpiece onto the fridge. Pursing his lips, he thought again, and grinned even wider.

After looking for a pen in another drawer, he scribbled–with his right–“For Hutch” over the red car. Chuckling, he then turned to the waiting dishes.

Normal nonsense. Normal bugging.

He loved normal.

****

Hutch wasn’t sure what’d woken him. Blinking against the sleep still seemingly gluing his eyelashes to his skin, he raised his head off the pillow, confused. It was dark outside the window, almost dawn, a few birds were already up.

But it hadn’t been the birds. He’d heard something else, hadn’t he?

Rubbing his face, he sat up, yawned–and froze when he heard it again.

A whimper. So soft it seemed he’d imagined it.

Starsk.

Scrambling his way out of the tangled blankets and sheets, he rushed out into the living room. It was dark, the dim mixture of moonlight and the first rays of sunshine illuminating the outlines of the apartment, the furniture.

And a huddled figure in a far corner next to the green house entrance.

“Starsky?” Hutch asked, cringing when his whisper seemed like a scream in the silence.

Slowly, the curly head came up, eyes squinted to make out Hutch’s approaching form in the darkness. “Hey Hutch.” A sniff followed like the ones Hutch had heard too often recently. Starsky wasn’t crying, but on the verge of it. His voice quivered with fear, and he himself trembled as if cold, though he still wore the clothes Hutch had last seen him in. He obviously hadn’t gone to sleep, the blond thought, glancing at the couch in confusion. A neatly folded blanket lay on the armrest.

With a sudden shudder, he wondered just how long his friend had sat there already, huddled in the dark, scared.

Crouching down in front of Starsky, Hutch could now see that the smaller man had his knees drawn up to his nose, his head resting against the wall beside him. What shocked Hutch mostly, though, was the awkward position Starsky had his arms in. His shoulders painfully drawn back, he’d folded his hands behind his back, as if…

Oh my god.

“S-Starsk?” Hutch asked again, swallowing dryly, fighting rising panic. “Y-you know where you are?”

“I’m glad you came back,” Starsky whispered instead of an answer, but the following words were answer enough, anyway. “Get so lonely when they don’t let me sleep.” He sighed slightly, exhausted. “You keep me ‘wake, ‘kay?”

His heart breaking, Hutch reached out to cup Starsky’s cheek, gently forcing him to look at him. “Starsky. You’re home. Remember? You’re safe.”

Starsky stared, sniffed. “You think they’ll make that sound again?” he asked fearfully, cringing at the mere thought. “I-I hope not. Hurts. But… doesn’t hurt you, does it?”

Looking directly into his partner’s wide, staring eyes, Hutch realized there was nothing he could do at the moment but wait for the flashback to pass. All he could do, was to ease his partner’s pain.

Kenneth Hutchinson, welcome to the darkness.

“No,” he whispered, amazed that his voice didn’t break, “it doesn’t. Don’t worry `bout me.”

“Good,” Starsky sighed. “Wouldn’t want you here if it did. Hurts pretty bad, y’know,” he added sadly.

“Yeah, I know,” Hutch replied, wondering what kind of sound hurt. Probably some high frequency designed for… well, torture.

“You cold?” he asked softly, rubbing his hands over Starsky’s arms, trying to get the hands up front, but was met by a strong, though unconscious resistance.

Starsky shrugged. To Hutch it looked like he shivered even worse. “No, ‘sokay. Not as bad as last time.”

“Hm. Still, you’re cold,” Hutch insisted and carefully stood up. “Be right back.” With that, he turned for the couch, hurrying, when Starsky’s startled cry followed him.

“Hutch! Please, don’t go! Don’t-”

“Shh, ‘sokay,” Hutch soothed, when he returned to his position before his friend, stroking his head. “‘Sokay. Just went to get a blanket. Everything’s fine. I’m here. I’m here. Okay?”

Letting out a shaky breath, Starsky nodded. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. Don’t go again, huh? Please? Don’t wanna be alone. Please? Hutch?”

“Okay,” Hutch whispered, unfolding the blanket, his gaze wandering over Starsky’s form. He still hadn’t released his hands from their probably painful hold. “I won’t go, promise. Starsk…” he started, biting his lip, not sure if he was doing the right thing. “Hey, buddy, uhm, can you…” His hands reaching forward again, a sudden thought hit him. “Hey, I’m gonna untie you, okay? Starsky?”

Starsky frowned. “D’you think it’s allowed?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s okay. Trust me.”

“Uh… Okay.”

Sighing inwardly with relief, Hutch reached around his friend, let his hands linger on his wrists for a moment and then slowly drew his hands up front. Instinctively, he started softly massaging them as if Starsky had really been tied. “There. Better, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” the smaller man smiled shyly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Hutch replied and was about to suggest the blanket again when Starsky lifted one of his hands out of the blond’s grasp and lightly scratched at his throat.

Only then did Hutch realize his friend’s head still rested against the wall, even if it made it difficult for him to look at Hutch.

“Uh… Buddy, y-you, uhm, you… There something else you want me to do?” Underlining his words, he brushed the back of his curled fingers over Starsky’s throat, causing a violent flinch.

“Shhh, ‘sokay. I won’t hurt you. There something else?”

He felt Starsky swallow under his hand, felt him tense up.

“Starsk? What’s here? I-I can’t see it, cause it’s too dark.”

Hutch had almost stopped hoping for an answer, when Starsky finally whispered, “Chain. Hurts.”

Squeezing his eyes briefly, Hutch fought for control. I knew why I didn’t wanna know `bout the darkness, didn’t I?!

“I see. Want me to take it off?”

“You’d do that?”

“Sure, buddy,” Hutch smiled, once more reaching around Starsky and gently stroke the back of his neck. “There. It’s off. Can you feel it?”

Stretching his neck a bit, Starsky nodded and presented him with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And now c’mere, you’re shaking.” With that, Hutch scrambled over to sit beside his huddled friend, wrapped one arm around him and spread the blanket over them both.

With a happy sigh, Starsky’s head lolled against the blond’s shoulder, seemingly bathing in the comforting warmth.

Thinking that maybe just some rest would drag his confused friend out of this, Hutch settled them both back against the wall, his free hand softly stroking through the curly hair. “Just sleep, Starsk, okay? When you wake up, it’s gonna be alright again.”

“Hutch?”

“Yes, babe?”

“I didn’t mean to hit the wall.”

His heart leaping in expectant excitement, Hutch swallowed dryly. “‘Sokay, you-”

“I didn’t know it’d be punished like this,” Starsky continued, much to his friend’s dismay. “I’ll never do it again. I told them. But–looks like they didn’t believe me, huh?”

“It’s okay, Starsk. Why don’t you just sleep a little, hm? I’m right here. I won’t go.”

But in the safeness of his partner’s presence, Starsky’s fears seemed to release themselves, and Hutch felt him tremble against him, not because of the cold this time. “Hey, buddy, shh, don’t think of it. Close your eyes and sleep, huh? Starsk?”

“L-last time they sent in rats,” Starsky whispered, snuggling up closer, as if wanting to hide in Hutch’s arms. “Think they’ll do that again?”

Rats?! What the hell is this?! Medieval Times?! “No, buddy, they won’t. Don’t worry. I’m here and I won’t let them send in anything, got that? Trust me and go to sleep now.”

“No use in that,” Starsky replied, sounding almost disappointed, like a sulking little boy. “They won’t let me sleep, anyway.”

“I’ll let you,” Hutch promised, gently brushing his hand over his partner’s eyes to close them. “I’ll stay with you, and I’ll make sure nothing will happen to you.”

Silence followed, and Hutch was almost convinced that Starsky had really fallen asleep, when a tiny, heartbreakingly sad voice reached his ears. “You won’t be here when I wake up.”

“Babe, of course I’ll be here,” Hutch replied in dismay, shifting Starsky in his arms to fully hug him, his own face suddenly wet. “I am here. Right here.”

Lifting his head, Starsky looked at the blond, suddenly very still, then glanced around, then back at Hutch. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “I…”

“Starsk?” Hutch asked hopefully. “Y-you with me?”

Starsky swallowed, scrambled away from Hutch, just a bit, but so that the blanket still covered him. His gaze dropped. “Told you it’d never go away.”

“Oh, c’mon, you know that’s not true,” Hutch replied softly, tipping his finger under Starsky’s chin to lift it. “You just had a flashback.”

“That’s pretty much what I meant.”

“Starsk… Buddy, look at me.”

Hesitantly, Starsky obeyed.

“What you experienced would have been enough to break anyone. I know it would have destroyed me. But you survived.”

Starsky sniffed.

“You survived, because you’re stronger than this. You were smart enough to know what you had to do to not get killed or…” A half shrug was accompanied by an ironic smile as Hutch stated, “In a way you tricked them, you know? You didn’t forget, but you submitted enough to not let them know. No one else would have managed to do what you did.” Reaching over, he brushed away a tear glittering on Starsky’s cheek. “These flashbacks, they’ll pass.”

“`Nam didn’t pass,” the smaller man mumbled.

“No,” Hutch said calmly, wiping away another tear, “but you live with it, don’t you? You know how to deal with it, you know when you’re getting in trouble and you know what to do then. Like you do with Marcus and Bellamy and-”

“Forest?”

“Yeah,” Hutch smiled, understanding, “all of them. We’ll get through this too. Like always.”

“Yeah.” A pause, then, ashamed, whispered, “I hate them, Hutch. I want to… All those other times, we… we did something, you know?”

Since yes, he knew, Hutch looked away. “Buddy-”

“We arrested them or, I don’t know, but we did something. How can I ever watch someone being sent to… one of those places ever again?”

“Starsk-”

“What if we come across a lunatic again, a-and… I wouldn’t know if he wasn’t going to…” Agitation took over, a haunted gaze tried to catch Hutch’s. “We don’t know how many we’ve already sent just there! Think about it, Hutch. Diana,” he added, grasping a name that popped to his mind. “Diana might be in there just now. And we sent her there.”

“Starsky, stop,” Hutch cut him off softly, grabbing his arms. “It’s no use, buddy.”

Panting from his outburst, Starsky frowned at him. “What’re you talking about?”

“Y-you…” Hutch started, swallowed, braced himself. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Wha-”

“I made a deal. To get you out of there.”

Starsky’s eyes grew wide as the full impact of the words sank in. “You made… What? I don’t under… What the hell d’you do?”

Still holding onto his friend as if for support, Hutch briefly closed his eyes. “I turned over the leak inside the… firm. In return, they let you go.”

Starsky’s chin traveled south. “Th-the leak?”

“San Diego,” Hutch replied. “I guess they’re gonna… fire the management there. But I-I had to guarantee you’d never… talk about it.” He looked away again. “You can’t do anything, Starsk. You wouldn’t make it to any trial. Y-you probably wouldn’t even make it to utter an… accusation.”

He could almost hear the wheels behind Starsky’s forehead start to move, could sense the tension growing. “I can’t… I don’t know where I was, anyway! I wouldn’t… But… Wh-what’d you tell the doctor at the hospital? What d’you tell Dobey?!”

“I’m a cop, Starsk, I don’t have to explain anything to doctors. Dobey… knows as much as he should. Huggy too. You and me, we know. And it will stay that way.”

“No,” Starsky shook his head, anger replacing confusion. Furiously, he kicked the blanket away and came to his feet. Hutch remained where he was, looking up, ready to take it. “You know! You know at least some who are involved! You have to, you made a deal with them!”

Panting from rage, he stared down at the blond, who wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“I don’t believe it! D’you realize what you did?! That leak might have destroyed them one day! And you… Oh, you’re a cop alright, but the kind that immobilizes the only witness he’s go…” He stopped in the frantic pacing he’d started, mouth open. His gaze flew back upon Hutch. “They’re gonna kill me if I talk, aren’t they?”

After a moment, Hutch gave a small nod.

“And…” As the thoughts rolled on, he frowned, still hovering over the blond on the ground. “You don’t think they’ll let you get away with it then, do you? You know they’ll kill us both.”

“I guess so,” Hutch muttered.

“You gue… That’s so unfair, Hutch!”

“I know.” A whisper.

“Even if I would want to take the risk, I couldn’t, because it’d mean endangering you too!” Starsky almost yelled, exasperated. “What d’you think?!”

“I thought,” Hutch muttered to the ground he looked at, “that I don’t want you to take the risk.”

“You had no right to do that!” Starsky was furious by now, gesturing wildly, while at the same time knowing exactly that he didn’t want to scream at Hutch. Didn’t really think about what he said. He just wanted to scream.

Hutch didn’t watch, but took it, silent, accepting, huddling on the floor, like his partner had before.

“You’ve no idea what it was like! How can I ever be a cop again knowing that I let them off the hook?! Knowing that I didn’t do anything against them doing… this?! There’re humans in there, Hutch! And they use them like… like animals! Like guinea-pigs! That’s all I’ve been! They didn’t enjoy sending me into their little chamber of darkness, they didn’t care! D’you have any idea what they tested me for?!”

The question acted almost like a kick, and Hutch flinched, hugging his knees tighter. “N-no. I don’t.”

“You wanna know what the darkness was?!”

I’ve seen it, Hutch thought, but remained quiet. He’d let Starsky yell at him all he liked. And if he wanted to blame him, that was okay. And if he’d never ever talk to him, if he’d leave him. It’d be unbearable, but he’d know he was safe. That was all he wanted. He’d know he was somewhere, alive. That’d be enough. Enough to not feel so alone again.

“It was the severest punishment you could possibly get. It was hell. Th-they tested…” Starsky clenched one hand to a fist, fighting for control at the memories. “They’d not let you sleep, eat, anything. Just keep you like some… some sort of animal and sent all kinda things in there. Rats, gas, they could make it cold or hot, dark or bright, loud…” Briefly, he squeezed his eyes shut and curtly shook his head.

Hutch peeled up, concerned, but stayed on the floor. His heart beat in his throat. Don’t leave, Starsk. Please. Please, don’t leave again. – Now, you’re begging, Ken! Make up your mind.

“They’re doing this, Hutch,” Starsky continued. “To people. If we are cops, we have to fight them.”

Silence.

“Aren’t you going to say anything, damn it?!”

“I’m not a cop first.”

At the quiet whisper, Starsky stopped in his tracks, looking down at his partner. “What?”

Hutch swallowed passed his fear, his gaze focused on his knees. “If I have to choose between fighting against windmills and saving you from them…” Finally, though it seemingly took him over-human strength to do so, he glanced up, his eyes meeting Starsky’s. “I understand it if you hate me for what I did, but I’m not sorry.”

All anger vanished from the standing man’s face, as if an invisible hand had wiped it away. “I don’t hate you,” he said, surprised.

Hutch looked down again.

“I could never hate you,” Starsky continued, truly shocked by the words. “I just…” But he didn’t know what to say. His own words seemingly echoed in his head, and he arched his brows, appalled. “God, Hutch, I’m-”

“When I first found out,” Hutch interrupted him in a low voice, sounding strangely as if he thought he’d never get the chance to talk to his friend again, “where you were, what… wh-what they’re doing to… people,” he finished, using Starsky’s words, “I never…” Once more, he broke off, but closed his eyes as if he could only then say it. “I never cared about them. I never stopped to think about them.”

Starsky felt his heart wrench looking at his friend who suddenly seemed so small, broken. Images of Hutch lying on the kitchen floor flashed through his mind. The exhaustion on his face, the despair in his eyes.

He couldn’t believe what he’d just yelled at the man. Couldn’t believe his own blindness. What if it’d been him? What then, oh brave, selfless rescuer of the suppressed? What then?

“Hutch-”

“I-I know I’m selfish, but… I…” A tiny, chocked sob broke free, as Hutch tensed up even more. “I didn’t mean to… I just wanted you back,” he finally said and looked up again, moisture shimmering in his eyes. “I hate myself for it, but I don’t care what they do to the others, Starsk. I just want you to be out of there. I want you to be safe. A-and,” he continued, not able to keep back the tears that threatened to spill any longer, “if that means you’ll go, I-I mean, if you can’t forgive me, than that’s okay. As long as you’re… safe,” he finished and sniffed. Before the other one could cut in, he added, in a voice so empty, so desperate it tore at Starsky’s soul, “You’re right, I don’t know what it was like. I wish I would. I wish it would’ve been me.”

It was the truth. Not just a phrase. And Starsky knew. Even after witnessing the aftermath, the flashback, everything–Hutch would change places gladly.

Hutch would do everything. Put his life in Starsky’s hands. Link them.

Slowly, carefully, Starsky approached his partner, who wept silently, his face buried in the blanket over his knees. Gently, he lowered himself next to him, wrapped an arm around him and drew him close. Like Hutch had cradled him so often the last days.

His hand finding the blond head, Starsky softly stroked him, rocking them both as Hutch cried.

“Don’t say that, Hutch,” he said in a soothing voice. “Please don’t say that. I couldn’t stand thinking you…” Realizing just then what he was saying, Starsky hugged him even closer. “Oh god, babe, I’m so sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“B-but y-you’re right,” Hutch whimpered.

“No,” Starsky replied softly. “I was just taking everything out on you. I’m sorry. I didn’t think what it… Look at you,” he said in a mixture of a chuckle and a sob, nudging Hutch’s cheek, “look at what it did to you.”

“I’m just too weak,” Hutch muttered sadly, clinging to Starsky’s shirt as if he wanted to make sure the other one wouldn’t nod and leave.

“Weak? Blintz, if you ever were to vanish for two months, I’d … Maybe I was better off after all,” he added with a pure Starsky-chuckle. “At least I saw you.”

A sigh that sounded like a quivery chuckle escaped the blond, and they sat in silence for a moment, both savoring the presence of the other one.

“Hutch?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry you had to collapse to bring me back.”

Hutch smiled. “I’m glad I did.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Starsk, I’m…” But Hutch’s voice trailed off. It wasn’t necessary to apologize anymore. It wasn’t necessary to say anything.

“You know what?” Starsky broke the silence again after a few more moments.

“What?”

“At least we didn’t lose.”

“What?”

“If we can’t win,” Starsky explained, “then… at least we didn’t lose.”

Hutch grinned, and closed his eyes. “Did I ever tell you I think you’re a genius, buddy?”

Starsky laughed slightly as he lifted his head to again stroke his friend’s hair. “Oh yeah? Funny, I thought your fever drop…”

But at Hutch’s even breathing, he hushed himself. Adjusting the blanket around them both, he leaned his head back and also closed his eyes. “No way I’m carrying you again.”

I’m here, Hutch. I’m here. Here with you. Normal.

Already half-asleep, he smiled as he drifted off.

I love normal.

---

You can find more of wuemsel’s Starsky and Hutch stories at fanfiction.net.