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No More Dreaming

By LovinFace

He woke up screaming again. It's been a week since we got him away from Simon Marcus' goons. He's fine during the day, but when the nighttime comes, so do the dreams, not that he can remember anything he dreams about. So using Starsky logic, he decided to try and sleep during the day. How did he put it, "Whoever heard of daymares?"

It didn't work.

I peeled myself off the couch and rushed to his side. He was thrashing in bed; his bruised and burned body tangled in the covers. I could tell he wasn't awake. He was just screaming and trying to push himself away from something or someone that I couldn't see.

I tried to calm him down. I held down his shoulders and he bucked the rest of his body up off the bed, nearly pulling my feet off the floor. I shudder thinking about how hard Starsk must have fought against Marcus' followers. His statement is full of gaps. He assumes he was unconscious for long amounts of time. I suspect that it's more than that. But I have no way of knowing for sure. I do know that the things he remembers don't jibe with the injuries he sustained. I believe that he was tortured after he ingested the drugged water. That's where his biggest memory lapse is, between that and being strung up before the ceremony -- his execution -- was to begin. The doctors say that if he could just remember, then the nightmares should subside.

Starsky was still thrashing his arms and legs, despite my trying to hold him down. "Get off me. Hutch, get them off me! Please!"

My heart broke, hearing the pain in his voice and his calling out to me. How long did he scream for me at the hands of those punks? A knife to my heart would be less painful than knowing that he called for me to help him and I wasn't there.

Then in an instant, he was still. I released my hold on his shoulders, but hesitated to move away from him. I absently stroked the sweat drenched curls a couple of times and then went to the bathroom to get a wet cloth to wipe his forehead.

I dreamed Starsky's death. He's already dying.

Marcus' voice pushed itself into my mind as I remembered those words, words that I hear in my own nightmares, knightmares as Starsk calls them. Thinks he's clever. A tug of war ensued and I managed to push Marcus out of my thoughts and turn my attention back to my partner.

His eyes were still closed, his head rocking from side to side. I studied his face. He was still dreaming – I could tell because his eyes were roaming beneath his eyelids. I took the cloth and wiped his brow again, paying careful attention to the burn on the side of his face. I looked at the deep purple bruises scattered around his chest. But it was the burn they had inflicted on his torso that caused him the most pain. An inverted cross about eight inches long burned into his body. Thankfully it will heal without leaving a permanent scar. It wasn't branded into his skin, but more than likely they drew the shape on him with gasoline or gunpowder and then lit it. But the pain had to be excruciating for Starsky. Just seeing it was excruciating for me.

I contemplated waking him. Maybe if I woke him in the middle of the dream, he would remember and we could start healing the mental wounds inflicted by Simon Marcus. I put my hand on his shoulder and shook him slightly.

"Starsky? Wake up, Buddy."

Nothing.

"Starsk? Wake up, Buddy. Wake up."

I saw his dark lashes flutter and then slits of blue. But then his eyes were closed again. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Well, to hell with it. I was already committed.

I shook him a little harder. "Starsk! Wake up!"

His eyes snapped open then and he immediately began to scan the room, then locked onto my eyes. I swear, sometimes I think those blue eyes of his give me vertigo.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God. They were…they were…" he squeezed his eyes closed, as if closing his eyes would make the memory go away.

I placed one hand on his shoulder and ran the fingers of my other hand through his hair.

"It's okay, Starsk, I'm here. Keep going. What were they doing?" I tried to keep my voice calm, when all I really wanted to do was scream.

Damn you Marcus. Damn your dreams.

Starsky struggled to sit up, grimacing in pain as he positioned himself against the headboard of his bed. He pulled a pillow around from beside him and clutched it to his chest just below the burn. His eyes were closed and he was taking deep breaths, as if trying to calm himself down.

He spoke barely above a whisper. "They put a plastic bag over my head and I couldn't breathe. They had me suspended from a pole of some kind… I couldn't breathe, Hutch. I thought I was gonna die. Then I guess I passed out because the next thing I remember is waking up with my hands and feet stretched out and bound to a big table and I…I….was on….fire….God, it …and I tried not to scream….but it hurt so…..then Gail threw water on me…I think I passed out then."

Starsky's breathing was becoming rapid and shallow as he spoke. "That's all I remember," he whispered.

That's enough.

I patted his thigh. "Hey, you did good. Everything's going to be okay now."

He looked at me with weary eyes, wanting – no – needing to believe me. I wanted to look away from him – the pain reflected in his eyes was so intense. But I held my gaze, willing both of us to be okay.

He finally closed his eyes.

It's hard to see someone you love go through pain. Starsky and I have nursed each other through physical injuries, illnesses, and even hangovers. It's hard, but we can do it. With physical injuries, at least you can watch them heal. But with the mental stuff like grief and now this….it's hard to gauge if someone is really healing. I mean, I still have nightmares about Forrest every once in a while – though I would never tell Starsky that because he would just worry about me. That's been over a year and a half ago…and if remembering is supposed to make you heal…hell, I just wish I could forget.

I went into the kitchen to get him a glass of water. When I returned to his room, I saw him holding his finger about half an inch above his burn, tracing its outline.

"Is it hurting you?" I asked, handing him the glass of water.

"Maybe a little," he replied, which I know from experience since he's even admitting to pain means it's hurting him a lot.

I reached across to his nightstand and picked up the bottle of pain pills the doctor had prescribed. I palmed one and handed it to him. He waved it off.

"Don't need that."

I looked down at my stubborn partner. "Just take it, would ya? It's getting dark. Take this and let it knock you out. You're exhausted and in pain. You need rest…real rest….and I think you'll get it now. So just take one…for me, okay?"

I could tell he wanted to make some kind of wisecrack, but he said nothing and took the pill from the palm of my hand. He popped it in his mouth and swallowed it down with a gulp of water.

"I'll be in the living room if you need anything. Just try to get some rest." I took the glass of water from his hand placed it on the nightstand.

He settled into his bed and pulled the covers up, then slowly turned to his side away from me. I just stood there, knowing he was reliving the horrors in his mind. And that's supposed to be a good thing?

I know that he needed to remember -- so the experts say – but part of me thinks that maybe he would have been better off not remembering the hell he suffered at the hands of those bastards. I mean, surely the nightmares would have subsided eventually, right?

I flicked off the light to his bedroom.

"Good night, Hutch," he said in a muffled voice.

I wish it were, is what I thought. "Good night, Starsk," is what I said.

The End