Current Day:
Body aching, Starsky sat silently in his hospital bed.
His mind was fuzzy, his body numb as he tried to piece together the last two weeks of his life. He doesn't remember being taken or being found. He has no solid memories of what Simon Marcus did to him but feelings have remained. Terror and helplessness have lingered, twin emotions that consume him, both feelings connected to a newly discovered fear of the dark and a deep-seeded dread that his scattered psyche is struggling to understand how or why he feels so fervently.
Something is wrong. Something has gone so terribly wrong.
Nearly a week has passed since Hutch rescued him—or so he's been told—and he's yet to see his partner; Hutch hasn't come to visit and Starsky refuses to ask him to. He doesn't want to see him, he can hardly tolerate the thought. Something about his partner's appearance is unsettling; his inquisitive blue eyes and pale blond hair are both somehow irrevocably entwined with the terror he feels now.
Arriving early that morning, Aunt Rosie and Uncle Al have been with him most of the day, and every day since he was brought in. Their presence is comforting but it isn't enough to calm him; it isn't enough to ease the pain of what has been done. They've been careful with their comments, their statements of love and support; they've gone to great lengths not to draw attention to the dark bruises and the deep, angry scratches that mar his once healthy skin. The bedsheets, crisp, clean, and white complement his ashen skin tone, matching the newly acquired bandage covering the deep knife wound marking his cheek.
He doesn't know what to say but neither do they and the three of them sit in an odd silence, ignoring his sudden fragility, the remnants of all the horrible things that had been done, all the things he doesn't want to remember and every little detail he does.
Seated next to the hospital bed, Aunt Rosie held his hand tightly. Forcing a smile, she failed to hide the sadness in her eyes. "We love you so much, Davy," she whispered. "We're so happy that you survived."
Eyes set on the muted TV set hung high in the corner, Starsky wanted to reassure her that he was fine. That she could relax the worry etched in her kind features because his injuries look so much worse than they actually were. But he's unable to find energy to speak and he doesn't have the strength to lie.
Nothing about him is fine.
Standing by the window, his back turned on his wife and nephew, Uncle Al silently broods. He doesn't know what to say to make Starsky feel better, but he longs to ease his pain. Despite Rosie's claims otherwise, he never was any good in traumatic situations, and contemplating on how to best help, Al finds himself thinking of another time—years ago—when a troubled little boy walked off of an airplane and became a fixture in their everyday lives.
Al smiled at the thought. Little Davy, only nine years old, ripped jeans, ACDC t-shirt and a fresh black eye. He came to them with a chip on his shoulder, an attitude problem, and C minus grade point average.
"I won't love you," Davy had declared defiantly. "I'm just hanging out here until Mom wants me back home."
"Okay," Al had said, his voice gruff and a hint of Budweiser on his breath. "We won't make you." He and Rosie shared a knowing look as he gripped the boy's shoulders and guided him toward baggage claim.
"Your Uncle and I were thinking about a trip to Disneyland tomorrow," Rosie said. "Won't that be fun?"
"Disneyland is for babies," Davy scoffed. "I'm too old for that shit."
"Don't swear," Rosie scolded immediately, but Al smiled. Boys would be boys.
They took him to Disneyland anyway; Davy had loved every second. He had insisted on repeat rides on the Matterhorn and had giggled heartily when, after the fifth ride, Al had turned and odd shade of green and rushed to the men's room. Al couldn't remember being that sick before—or since—but he didn't mind because in that moment, watching Davy laugh with abandon—with all of his adolescent angst melting away— Al had known it had been worth it.
They spent the rest of their time taking in the milder attractions and with mouse ears displayed prominently on his head, Davy ate his weight in ice cream cones. Before it was time to go home they detoured to a gift shop and Rosie instructed Davy to pick out a souvenir. Al still remembered how the boy's choice had surprised her but how he had half-expected it. He'd heard the boy's soft sobbing in the middle of the night and he had pretended not to notice how the lamp on Davy's nightstand remained on long after sunrise.
"I want this," Davy had said, handing over the Mickey Mouse nightlight. He didn't offer any explanation and they didn't ask; being afraid of the dark at Davy's age was a hard thing to own up to.
As time moved on, it didn't take long for Rosie and Al to discover that a new-found fear of the dark, fistfights with classmates, and a dropping grade point average weren't the only things Davy was dealing with. That first year had been so difficult—for all of them—and Al remembered thinking a how things couldn't get much worse.
Turning to look at his grown nephew, Al grimaced. They had been lucky back then because this situation was infinitely worse. Davy's pain and anger after losing his father had been understandable and easier to contend with because it was a pain they had shared. But this pain, born from horrifying indignities and extreme terror, Al had no idea how to handle.
"Is Hutch planning on visiting today?" Rosie asked softly.
"No," Starsky said, his voice deep and scratchy from disuse.
"Well, what about tomorrow? Will he be able to take you home?"
"No."
"Honey, are you sure—?"
"I said no!" Starsky said, his wavering voice angry and determined, allowing a brief glimpse of the pain and confusion bubbling under the surface of too pale skin and dull blue eyes.
"If he isn't coming then how will you go home?" Rosie countered softly.
"I'm not going home."
Closing his eyes tightly, Starsky pressed his head further into the pillow. Images of Marcus and Hutch dance in the darkness behind his eyelids, leaving an aching panic in his heart and reinforcing his decision not to return home. He couldn't go home—not after what happened; not after the horrible things that had been done—and shuttering, he opened his eyes once more.
"Okay," Rosie whispered. "I don't think you should be alone. Especially not after…" Biting her lip, she turned her gaze to the floor. "Well, I don't want you to be alone, anyway," she added a moment later, a soft authority in her tone. "Why don't you come home for a while?"
"Okay," Starsky agreed. He didn't care where he went just as long as Hutch wasn't there. He needed a safe space to think clearly; distance to allow his confusion and fear to ebb. It was the only way to compartmentalize what he had been through. The only way he could pretend that none of it mattered, or better yet, that none of it really happened.
He didn't know how he and Hutch were going to deal with what's taken place—or even if they could, because throughout all of his confusion and pain one bothersome truth remained: Hutch was responsible for what had happened; his actions had made Starsky a target; it was he who had tortured him in the darkness.
Xx
Months Prior:
Sitting opposite his partner, at their shared desk in the middle of Squad Room 519, Starsky heard Hutch groan as his iPhone rang once again.
Looking up, he watched Hutch's face darken as he swiped his finger across the screen to ignore the incoming call and then toss the phone back down on the desk. It was the fourth such call Hutch had ignored that morning and Starsky momentarily wondered if he should venture a question to confirm his partner's fatigued mental state or if he should let it go for today.
Face down, his attention focused on the paperwork in front of him, Hutch's body language was alive with fury. The tension in his back was enough to make a bystander grimace. "Jesus-fucking-Christ," he muttered under his breath, the frustrated words not really aimed at anyone or anything.
Exhaling in defeated manner, Starsky decided to let the topic go. For now. He didn't need Hutch to verbally affirm his palpable frustration; he didn't need to hear more empty words from his partner assuring him he was fine or another quick, biting remark. Besides, it wasn't as if he didn't understand what Hutch was going through—he of all people understood.
Death was hard on people; losing a family member—especially under such dramatic and sudden circumstances—was incredibly difficult. The loss allowed a person a certain amount of in his opinion. Hutch, however, seemed intendent on pushing the boundary as far as it could go and in the two months since Richard Hutchinson had passed, he had become increasingly difficult to deal with.
As a man, Starsky understood. Hutch was grieving. Currently that grief was presenting itself as anger, impatience, frustration, and an ever-present icy stare. Hutch didn't need a lecture or an argument; he needed time and space to sort through the complex feelings that came with losing a loved one.
But as Hutch's domestic partner, Starsky didn't understand at all. Wasn't the point of being committed to someone the ability seek respite in them when you were feeling broken? Apparently not from Hutch's point-of-view. He had been avoidant and distant since returning from his father's funeral. Even though Starsky understood that his need for isolation didn't have anything to do with him or something he had done, it still stung. And this new sting coupled with a lingering one was threatening to consume him in an ocean of anger he wasn't sure he would be able to emerge from if he gave into its depths.
Hutch's father had died and he had returned to the Midwest for his funeral, but he had left Starsky behind. He had neither invited nor allowed him to accompany him back home, and Starsky still didn't know the reason why.
Hutch had always been private, that was nothing new. It was a personality trait that Starsky had accepted and, over the years, had become increasingly grateful for. Tightlipped, he was good at keeping secrets, divulging private details on a need-to-know basis and often in creative ways which allowed him conceal more delicate truths. Over the course of their professional partnership this skill had helped them in enormous ways when dealing with shady snitches, nervous witnesses, and even pacifying Captain Dobey when they had traveled too far on the wrong side of the procedural line and violated department investigation guidelines. And over the course of their personal lives, it was a quality that had proved invaluable, saving them from ridicule and possible professional complications should the true nature of their personal relationship ever be discovered. Being a gay cop wasn't prohibited, however, dating your partner certainly was, and not reporting such a detail for the necessary re-arrangements to be made and actively concealing it was an actionable offense.
Hutch's penchant for secrecy and privacy was indispensable but, as of late, it had become a problem between the pair.
There were so many questions Starsky wanted to ask Hutch regarding his family and his father and why he hadn't allowed him to accompany him back home—all things he felt Hutch should have already told him, that he should have already known. But given Hutch's unpredictable demeanor, his quick anger and vicious frustration, it wasn't a question or a topic of conversation that could be easily discussed.
It wasn't as though Starsky could ask him why or what had led him to make the decision he had—at least not right now. Someday maybe, but definitely not now, because Hutch was hurting. You couldn't depend on the validity of answers from someone grieving. They always seemed to be either too upbeat or too pessimistic; they were rarely honest or truthful because their viewpoint was skewed, transiently impeded by pain they hadn't begun to truly process.
And looking at Hutch, Starsky knew that he hadn't begun to process much. He was still reeling from the middle-of-the night phone call that had alerted him of his father's death. The look on his face had been so horrible that Starsky hadn't been able to define his partner's emotion with words. It was unlike any expression he had ever seen.
When Hutch had flown back to Duluth he had gone alone and he hadn't called Starsky once while he was there. He returned five days later, looking tired and broken, overwhelmed and lost—emotions which had lingered, presenting as anger Hutch refused to control. He had returned to work soon after and refused to speak about what had taken place, how he felt about his father or his brief visit home.
"I need you to sign this." Starsky pushed a freshly printed report across their shared desk. "You don't even have to look at it because, buddy, I'm telling you, it's perfect, right down to the very last dirty detail."
Scowling, Hutch grabbed a pen, scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page, and then pushed the paper haphazardly to the floor.
"Uh… thanks," Starsky said. Inhaling deeply, he held the breath and counted to ten, giving himself a moment for his knee-jerk anger to ebb and Hutch an opportunity to apologize or at least pick up the paper he had so rudely discarded. When it became apparent his partner was going to do neither, he exhaled heartily. "You didn't have to do that, you know." His eyes narrowed as he stood, then bent to collect the report. "You're having a shit time, I get that, but that doesn't mean you have to be asshole all the time."
Slapping the report on the desk between them, he sat back down, his eyes unwavering as he waited for Hutch to respond.
"Sorry," Hutch muttered disingenuously.
"No." Starsky shook his head. "Don't tell me that. You don't want to say it and I don't want to hear it."
Head snapping up, Hutch's eyes flickered furiously. "What do you want to hear?"
"I don't know; considering that's the first word you've spoken to me all morning, I was hoping for something a little more sincere."
"I'm sincere."
"Not lately."
"That's bull-shit, take it back."
"Are you kidding? No."
Brows narrowing, Hutch's mouth hung slightly agape as though he waiting for Starsky to finally realize the error of his words and retract them. Watching him carefully, Starsky waited for a furious outburst. He was surprised, however, when Hutch's anger and attention shifted, eyes frozen the stack of files on the edge of their desk and pulled a manila file from the top.
"Blackwell?" he whispered sounding almost in awe as he read initial intake report. "A missing person's case? I didn't hear about this, when did Dobey assign this one?"
"While you were back home," Starsky said, providing as little detail as he could. "Give it to me." He extended his hand expectantly. "I don't want it. I was gonna talk to Dobey about it later."
"You just left it sitting here for all that time?" Refusing to surrender the file, Hutch leaned back in his chair and flipped through the crisp contents. "That's great police work, Starsk."
Starsky watched, a mixture of dread and hope filling his chest, as the palpable anger and frustration which had surrounded his partner for weeks slowly disappeared and settled into something else.
"Blackwell," Hutch whispered absently as though he didn't intend voice his thought. "And a missing person's case. That's… odd."
"The whole-fucking-case is odd," Starsky said. "Like I said, I don't want it."
"I don't know, it sounds kinda… interesting to me."
Hand dropping to the desktop, Starsky was troubled by the words. The case was interesting—he wasn't going to disagree with that. It wasn't every day that an affluent, disenchanted, twenty-something male disappeared; however, in this instance, the primary suspect promised to be more fascinating than the missing man as Brian Blackwell was rumored to have last been seen living on property own by the notorious Simon Marcus.
Simon Marcus was a mystery unto himself. A hermit who lived a private existence on a vast private compound on the outskirts of the city, he didn't sound like someone who would be a powerful man. Though he had never the met him, growing up in Bay City Starsky had heard the stories—cautionary tales traded on the school-yard about Marcus's powers, what he could and would do to anyone who dare cross his property-line. According to the stories, Marcus was a strange man—a self-isolated and creepy one, at that—and he was dangerous. It was rumored he had powers that people couldn't explain, that they couldn't even began to understand; it was alleged that he could read minds, that he could take one look at someone and somehow gain access to their most private of thoughts; and it was assumed that he killed people—although that particular detail had never been substantiated, there were plenty of rumors regarding individuals he had supposedly taken who had never been seen or heard from again.
"I don't think we should be on it," Starsky said, unsure if his determination was due to worry for Hutch or apprehension from the tales he had been told. But he refused to entertain the idea of taking on an investigation that would demand long hours and sleepless nights—something that would undoubtedly widen the already growing gap between them. They had enough to think about, enough to work through once things Hutch's grief calmed down.
"Starsky," Hutch said. "I want this case."
Starsky wanted to disagree. To grab the file out of his partner's hands and firmly refuse to consent to such a thing, but there was something about Hutch's tone and the way he was looking at the file, his blue eyes gleaming as though it was something he had been waiting for—the right case and puzzle to distract from how terrible he was feeling. He looked almost normal, as if they had suddenly traveled back in time, before Richard Hutchinson's death, before Hutch had begun to silently unravel, and before a quiet tension had settled between them, slowly but steadily transforming them from lovers and partners into strangers.
"Okay," Starsky conceded, though later he would wonder why. He felt a warmth rush through chest as Hutch's face broke into a brilliant smile. His joy was palpable, intoxicating, and reassuring. And presented with a version of Hutch he hadn't seen in far too long, Starsky was unable do anything but give into his wishes. "We'll do it."
