A New Dawn

Summary: Starsky has been rescued from Marcus’ cult, but he is still searching for safety.

Hutch—Hutch is here. Starsky tells himself that over and over and over. He leans into Hutch’s embrace, feels the solid muscle, rests his forehead on the cotton of Hutch’s shirt. Hutch smells of sweat and lemon and leather. Alive. Is he reminding himself he’s alive? Or is he relieved Hutch is? He isn’t sure.

He doesn’t know when the laughter turns to tears—or maybe he’s been crying all along and he just can’t remember.

Gail’s weight against his legs is gone and there are others around them—shoes come and go in Starsky’s vision. He’s vaguely aware of other voices and when Hutch speaks, Starsky’s head rises and falls with the rhythm of Hutch’s breath.

Don’t let go. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

Do the words come out of his mouth, or is he just imagining them? But Hutch is whispering in his ear.

“I’m here, Starsk. I’m here, buddy. You’re safe. It’s over.”

He’s being lifted onto his feet. He doesn’t want to look—doesn’t want to see the cleavers and the knife, doesn’t want to see the men who were going to kill him. No, not kill, sacrifice.

He feels a laugh bubble up. Sacrifice. He’s so far from being pure that he would have polluted their sacred circle. There’s blood on his hands, maybe not the blood of innocents, but blood nonetheless. He’d kill again if he had to, if he needed to.

Hutch’s right arm is across his shoulders, warm, strong. Hutch’s left hand grips his upper arm.

“Walk,” Starsky says and leans into Hutch. “Gotta walk.”

“Ah, Starsk,” Hutch says.

Starsky looks at him, then down at his feet. “Not so bad,” Starsky says, even though his feet feel bruised after the walk down the hill and after, well, everything.

The big toe on his right foot is bleeding, and he feels that laughter again even though he chokes it in his throat so it can’t come out. He can’t risk it because he thinks if he starts to laugh, he will never stop.

Hutch is guiding him towards an ambulance and Starsky stops at the sight of the two paramedics.

“No.”

“You gotta get checked out.” Hutch’s voice is wobbly—the way it gets when he is upset that Starsky’s injured and relieved that Starsky is mostly okay.

“Not with them. You.” He’s not able to gather his thoughts enough to make coherent sentences now that the adrenaline is leaving his system.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll take you.” Hutch’s arm tightens on his shoulders, his hair brushes Starsky’s cheek as he bends close.

He lets his mind drift for a bit, thinks of home, a warm bed, a hot shower and something to settle his queasy stomach. Hutch is talking to someone. Starsky keeps his eyes closed, so he doesn’t have to talk to them.

“I drove your car,” Hutch says. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Starsky doesn’t say a word, just lets Hutch settle him into the passenger seat. Then they are driving. Starsky lets his head loll on the head-rest and he spends the time looking at Hutch’s hands on the steering wheel. Strong, large, capable.

He reaches over, puts his hand on Hutch’s thigh, and Hutch takes one of his strong, large, capable, beautiful hands and covers Starsky’s until they stop at the emergency entrance to the hospital.

Tears prickle at his eyes, at the back of his throat, and his nose closes up.

There are too many people around. Starsky sits in the Torino, unable to bring himself to swing his legs around to get out.

The nurse waits, and Starsky sees her mouth form an impatient line.

“I’ll bring him in,” Hutch tells her with that smile that would make anyone do anything for him. She smiles back and nods.

“C’mon. It’ll be okay. We’ll get you checked out and then I’ll take you home.” Hutch rests his fingers in Starsky’s hair.

His head feels too heavy to keep up, and he wants to curl up on the seat and sleep. But Hutch is asking him to get out. He’d do anything to get that fear out of Hutch’s voice.

Hutch is afraid—that thought stays with him as Hutch wheels him through the automatic doors, while they go down the hall in a blur of light and shadow, while they go into a small private room.

He starts shaking when the nurse asks him to take off the robe, to put on another one. It’s cotton—thin and smelling of bleach. He holds it in his hands, lets its softness soothe his fingers. His fingers are clumsy, his hands swollen from being tied up over his head.

“Shhh,” Hutch soothes and helps him out of the rough robe, into the cotton gown.

He lies down on the table and his teeth chatter. He clutches the warmed blanket the nurse places on him. Hutch puts his hand on his belly.

He drowses a bit until the doctor comes in. He’s an older man, one Starsky knows he should remember.

“Detective Hutchinson, you can step out,” the doctor says.

“No!” Starsky surprises himself by shouting it. “He stays. Let him stay.”

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.

“Please,” Starsky says to the doctor. He’ll beg if he has to. No shame in begging.

The doctor smiles gently, motions for Hutch to go to the other side of the table and does his exam.

Starsky answers the questions as best he can. He’s not sure of the date because it seemed like he was with the cult forever, but he’s not surprised it was only a day.

He tells the doctor—and Hutch about the drugged water. He’s thirsty now and hungry.

“Do you think you can give us a urine sample?”

Starsky nods and with Hutch’s help, sits up and walks down the hall to the bathroom.

The door closes behind him and he stands in the white-ness, alone, and looking into the mirror. There are monsters there—monsters who come up behind him and…

He drops to the floor and puts his hands over his head.

“Don’t hurt me. Please.” Tears come and they don’t stop. He tries to stop them, but he can’t. They slip through his fingers, burn against the flame-licked skin of his cheek, stain the white of the hospital gown, fall on the floor.

Hutch is beside him, holding him, keeping him from spinning so fast he’ll fly apart into a million little pieces.

Somehow Hutch gets him back to the exam room and still the tears fall. Hutch rubs a finger over the back of Starsky’s hand and says nothing. Just is.

There’s nothing really wrong with him. The drugs will work their way out—some sort of herbal concoction that Marcus must have dreamed. The doctor says so, and Starsky knows so. Nothing that food and water and sleep and time won’t take care of. The tears are okay too—Hutch says so. That’s the only opinion that matters to Starsky now.

“Your place or mine?” Hutch asks when they leave the hospital.

“Yours.” He thinks of Hutch’s apartment, of sunshine and green growing things. “My sofa hurts your back.”

He’s looking at Hutch when he says it and Hutch glances at him, opens his mouth and shuts it without saying a word. Starsky wonders what that means, but he stays silent.

He listens to the car rumble, feels the power of the engine coursing through him as Hutch drives through the city to Venice Place. When the Torino’s parked and the engine turned off, he feels adrift, unmoored. Alone.

But Hutch is there, at the door, drawing him out with a touch, a word, a smile. Starsky follows him, shuffling in slippers they gave him at the hospital.

Hutch’s apartment is cool and just dark enough despite the midday sun, and he sinks down on the sofa and just sits. He pretends it’s an ordinary day—they got here from a shift at work. He wasn’t a victim of a kidnapping.

Victim—such a little word with such a big meaning. He screws his face up tight because he doesn’t want to think. He wants the goddamn tears to stop. He wants to not be afraid.

He takes a few deeper breaths and listens to Hutch in his kitchen. Hutch is singing something—Starsky can’t make out the words or the tune, but Hutch sounds happy. He concentrates on that. The sound of Hutch cracking eggs and the sizzle of butter in the frying pan. The whisk of eggs being beaten with a fork and the toast popping up. Table being set. Hutch rummaging in his cutlery drawer for knives and forks—he never puts them in the same spots.

“Food’s ready,” Hutch says, but he’s a safe distance away.

Starsky appreciates that now he’s more aware of his surroundings. He gets to his feet and winces—his body gone stiff. But he feels slightly better—more Starsky the detective and man, less Starsky the victim and sacrificial lamb.

Hutch smiles at him as he sits down at the table. Scrambled eggs, toast, some weird jam flavor of Hutch’s. It looks good. It smells good. He’s suddenly ravenously hungry.

“Thanks,” he says and looks directly at Hutch. He hopes Hutch knows it’s for so much more than the meal.

Hutch smiles back and shakes his head. “Drink your root beer.”

Starsky takes a sip—it’s icy cold, and he feels tears well up again. Such a little thing—a cold frosty root beer, scrambled eggs, toast, and a friend to share them with.

That’s not such a little thing at all, he thinks—the whole friend thing. He takes a bite of toast, a forkful of egg and watches Hutch. Hutch who has dark circles under his eyes, that deep groove on his forehead, and weariness in every line of his body.

He realizes that while he was a prisoner in the old zoo, scared and alone, Hutch was too, even though surrounded by people who could help. Hutch was doing his job of finding Starsky while Starsky was doing his job of staying alive.

He finishes his meal and a wave of fatigue washed over him— so strong he thinks he could put his head on the table and sleep.

Hutch guides him to the bed, pulls down covers, turns on the light in the corner when Starsky asks.

Starsky thinks of those purple shadows under Hutch’s eyes and Hutch holding him up as they walked down the hill to the Torino. He thinks of Hutch’s hand covering his while they drove and Hutch whispering soft words of comfort. He thinks of Hutch sitting by him on the white floor of a white bathroom and letting him cry and wiping his tears away.

“Hutch,” he says and holds out his hand.

Hutch takes it in his, and Starsky rubs his finger over familiar calluses.

“Stay?” Starsky asks.

Hutch makes a little sound, deep in his throat. He says nothing but walks around to the other side of the bed.

Starsky doesn’t turn around. He listens to the snick of the belt buckle, Hutch kicking off his shoes.

Hutch is behind him then, warmth and strength and safety. Hutch rests his arm over Starsky’s waist, and Starsky pulls Hutch’s hand close. He encloses it in both of his, holds on tight. He holds on, lets his breaths sync up with Hutch’s slow, even ones.

He’s not afraid as he closes his eyes—Hutch is here. Hutch is with him. Hutch is everything.