Arms hanging limply at his sides, Hutch climbed Venice Place's staircase at a glacial pace. Starsky's badge wallet was safely tucked out of view, shoved tightly underneath his own, extending the back pocket of his dress pants in a comical manner, a bulbous bulge that seemed to weigh him down, adding countless imaginary pounds to his body weight in the way that objects found under remarkably painful circumstances often do. He regretted finding the badge the second time almost as much as the first. Both situations seemed odd, far too strange to be a moments out of reality, but they were. And, perhaps, that was what unsettled him the most.

Though he tried to recall placing his partner's badge under the Torino's visor, he couldn't. He had no memory of doing such a thing. And he didn't want to believe that the person whom he had retrieved Starsky's badge from after his partner had gone missing had actually had it, but he couldn't refute the stinging truth of such a disturbing moment.

"I have something for you," Simon Marcus had said, his dark beady eyes shining with glee. "A gift." Sitting across from Hutch in the prison's visitor's quarters, he lifted his shackled hands and nodded at the sagging breast pocket of his pale, blue inmate shirt. "You will have to retrieve it yourself, as you can see I am quite inept with my hands bound."

Marcus's wide smile was chilling as Hutch moved to stand beside him. He looked sure of himself, so damn pleased, proud to have Hutch towering over him, moving his hand to cautiously exhume the mysterious object. He had been at the ghoulish man's mercy, Hutch had known that then but it was only now that really understood it. It wasn't until he pulled Starsky's badge wallet from Simon Marcus's pocket and the man's unsettling laughter filled the room, that he realized how disadvantaged he was. He never was any good at games—not really. He could talk a big one but that was only for show.—and without Starsky, he was alone.

"Where hell did you get this?" he demanded angrily. His partner's badge was heavy, covered in thick, crumbling trails of dried blood that ignited a dangerous temper that quickly transformed into cold fear. "Who the fuck gave this to you?!"

"We are everywhere and nowhere," Marcus said calmly. "I would have thought that you would have figured that out by now. After all, you do call yourself the smarter half of your team. Let us see how smart you really are. Let us just see what you are really capable of."

Hesitating on the landing, Hutch stared at his closed apartment door and shook his head, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve the horrid memory. He wished he could forget the past few days altogether. That he could somehow travel back in time, returning to the moment when he and Starsky had stubbornly stood, their hands propped on their respective hips, bickering at Merle's. He shouldn't have given in so easily. He should have demanded they find another place to take the LTD, a different car shop miles away from the courthouse. He should have done something to make them late to Marcus's sentencing, anything to prevent Starsky from being taken, abducted from the secluded bathroom stained with his blood.

Resting his forehead against the door, he closed his eyes, begging himself to ignore his regret. Not for forever, just a few hours, long enough to shower and sleep. He needed a calm moment to center himself, to pretend like things weren't as bad as they were, so he could return to work, feign wholeness and do whatever Ryan expected him to do. He just needed to feel better than did now, so that the next time he saw Starsky he could summon enough strength and bravado for both of them.

"There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say…" Somewhere in the back of his head, he heard the beginnings of a familiar tune. "…How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat; some dance to remember, some dance to forget…" An Eagle's song he had loved upon initial listen but now found that it ignited something deep inside of him, awakening a feeling so powerful he wasn't sure he could contain it.

"…And still those voices are calling from far away, wake you up in the middle of the night just to hear them say…"

No, Hutch thought. No. No. NO!

"…What a nice surprise, bring your alibis…"

Eyes snapping open, he clenched the doorknob and opened the door with such force that it rocked on its hinges. "Turn it off!" he instructed, voice low and dangerous, pointing a furious index finger at the young, brunette girl sitting on his couch. "Turn it off, now."

"Jeez," Molly said peevishly. Turning, she gripped the back of the couch, stood on her knees, and leaned over, removing the turntable needle and successfully silencing the unsettling tune. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing."

"I thought you liked The Eagles."

"I do."

"You said they were one of your favorites."

"They are."

"You really liked this song when it first hit the radio stations."

"I did."

"Then what's the problem?" Turning to sit cross-legged on the couch, Molly stared at him expectantly. "What changed?"

Everything and nothing all at once, Hutch thought pessimistically, though he couldn't tell her that. He couldn't tell her anything. There was nothing that could make him disclose the remarkable sense of ineptitude the last three days had made him feel; there were no words to describe the anger-inducing panic something as simple as a song had awoken inside his soul. The lyrics were too chilling, too eerie and mysterious to be insinuating anything good. He was wary of the complications unconsciously absorbing the song would bring; he was terrified of how it would emerge later, taunting him in his ferocious dreams.

Then, looking at Molly, the negative thought disappeared as quickly as it emerged. Lips curling into a slight smile, his apprehension eased and his chest felt lighter. He was grateful for the girl's company; her presence was a welcome distraction. It gave him something else to think about other than Starsky's condition or the events of the past few days.

At thirteen years old, Molly Edwards was shrewd, sassy, and much too pessimistic for her age. Tall and tanned, she was lanky in an awkward way; rail thin, her body seemed to be solely composed of elbows and knees. Sporadic growth spurts had gifted her long limbs but left her clumsy, a difficult, uncontrollable, attribute to contend with at her delicate age. Her sudden gawkiness bothered her—not that she would ever admit to weakness or such a juvenile concern. There was a foreign rigidity to her once graceful movements, an occasional insecurity in her eyes that hurt Hutch's heart. He wanted to tell her that it would be okay—that one day she would grow into herself and her current troubles would cease to matter. She would find other things to focus on outside of being too tall and too clumsy; she would grow up, find people to love, learn about issues that ignited her passions, and she would discover new things to hate about herself.

"Molly—"

"Pete."

"Pete," Hutch sighed. He had thought she had given up on the nickname. "What are you doin' here?"

"What's the problem? If you don't want visitors then maybe you should move your spare key. We all know where it is by now."

Propping her sneaker covered feet on the coffee table, Molly nearly kicked a condensation-covered can on to the floor but righted it between her feet just in time. Looking guiltily between the can and Hutch, she grimaced.

"The problem is," Hutch started, then stopped. Following her gaze, his eyes widened, focusing on the incriminating white and red labeled can sitting between her feet. "You're drinking beer!"

"I only took a sip!"

"My beer!"

"I only took one!"

"You're thirteen...!"

"I'm old enough! I'm a teenager!"

"Teenagers can't drink beer!"

"I just wanted to see what it would taste like, okay?!" Molly roared, matching Hutch's tone.

They stared at each other, fiery hazel eyes holding furious blue.

"No." Hutch shook his head. How long had this been happening? Where there other occasions she had snuck in and stolen booze that he hadn't noticed? "Not okay. Not okay at all."

Retrieving the beer can, he strode to the sink, dumping its contents then tossing it in a disgruntled manner to raddle hollowly against the bottom of the aluminum sink. Striding to refrigerator, he opened the door, intent on counting his remaining beers, then hung his head and counted to ten instead, forcing himself to regain his composure. He was too tired to negotiate adolescent noncompliance; he was in no mood to argue. If had wanted to engage in parent-child disagreements and enforce punishments for misbehavior then he would have adopted Molly—which he hadn't.

But of course, he had thought about it. How could he not?

Her arrival in his life had been spontaneous—unpredictable as good things often were. Orphaned after losing her father, Molly had quickly become a fixture in Hutch's life. Their kinship had been immediate, and over time their bond had grown, transforming from mutual pessimism into a deeper understanding. He was happy to remain an influential force in her new life with Francisca and Keiko Ramos. He was fine occasionally—sometimes more than occasionally—being sought out by Molly when she needed space away and time to adjust to her new life, when she needed somewhere to be while she figured out where she should be. He had offered his home up as respite.

Before The Marcus Family investigation had imbedded itself into his life and brain, stealing his attention, forcing him to neglect the people around him, Hutch had become a little too accustomed to returning to Venice Place and finding Molly there, watching TV, flipping through his record collection and books. She would work on her homework while he made dinner; she would ask him for advice and he would ask her about her day. They had found a peaceful rhythm in their fictitious home-life—each needing the other for reasons they couldn't quite explain.

Sometimes, she would summon her courage and ask him why it had to be the way that it was—why she had to become an adopted daughter of a Ramos instead of a Hutchinson—and he would wish the painful question could be enough to implore him to abandon his fear.

But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Molly had already seen and lost too much; he wanted to protect her as much as he could. He loved her and she loved him, but he couldn't be her father. There could never be any paperwork to legally bind them together as parent and child. She needed a more stable home life than he could ever provide, and he couldn't tolerate the idea of failing another person he loved so much—not now, not ever again.

The all-encompassing Marcus Family investigation had put an end to their impromptu evenings. In fact, the investigation had stripped Starsky and Hutch of a lot of things.

"Mol—Pete," Hutch sighed tiredly. "I told you I didn't want you hanging around here when I wasn't home." It isn't safe to be here alone. Turning, he crossed his arms and assessed her carefully. "It's ten in the morning, you should be in school."

"And you should be at work, or bumming around with Starsky," Molly countered, feigning disinterest. "Where is he, anyway?"

Hutch winced. "He's busy."

"Everyone's busy these days."

"What are you doin' here?"

Molly looked scandalized, embarrassed by the very thought of the question. "I..." she hedged, her face contorting. "I stopped by to ask you something before school but you weren't around."

"And since I wasn't home, you thought you'd just camp out for the day? Listen to music and steal my beer?"

"No."

"Then what were you doing?" Hutch asked. Molly shrugged mutely and he changed tactic. "What was the question?"

"What question?"

"The thing you wanted to ask me."

"Oh, well… The Eagles are playin' at The Forum next month in Inglewood."

"Thus the song, huh."

Molly smiled hopefully. "Can we go?"

"To a concert in Inglewood," Hutch said flatly. "I don't know, kiddo. Why don't you ask Keiko if he's interested in going and then we'll see, huh?"

Molly frowned. "He's been busy, too. He made first string on the football team, you know."

"I know."

"He's good at it, too. Freshman don't make first string unless they're good. He practices a lot and then he's busy with games. He's got all of these new friends, cheerleaders and jocks." Sighing hesitantly, Molly picked at a growing hole in the knee of her jeans. "Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"Do we have to ask Keiko to come?"

"It'd be the nice thing to do. He's my little brother, you know."

"He's not really your little brother. That's just some dumbass YMCA thing—"

"Watch it. I can't have you hanging out in my empty apartment, stealing my beer and swearing. What will your mother think?"

"She ain't my mom," Molly contradicted. "Not yet, not really at all. I was kinda hopin' it would just be you and me and the concert."

And I'm not your father, Hutch thought, his tired melancholy getting the best of him. I can't promise to take you to concerts outside of the city without someone else's permission, and someday you're gonna realize that I don't have anything to offer you. I can't make you feel better about the change that surrounds you. I am not nearly as smart or brave as I seem.

"So?" Molly asked hopefully.

"So, what?"

"Can we go? Just us?"

"We'll see." Hutch looked at the front door. "Time to go, kiddo," he added tiredly. "I'm hitting the shower. I want you gone and on your way to school by the time I'm done." He nodded at the turntable. "Take that record with you when you go."

"But you just got it; it's brand-new."

"I'll get another," Hutch lied as he strode to the bathroom. He had no intention of listening to it again.

Grinning, Molly leapt to her feet, bounding around the couch to retrieve the gifted album. "Have a good shower," she said wryly. "Use soap."

Hutch laughed, surprised by the familiar instruction. Leave it to Molly to remember his orders, flippantly repeating them when he least expected it. "I will."

"Wash your face."

"I will."

Author Note:

The following lines aren't mine:

"There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say…" "…How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat; some dance to remember, some dance to forget…" "…And still those voices are calling from far away, wake you up in the middle of the night just to hear them say…" "…What a nice surprise, bring your alibis…" All credit goes to Don Henley and Glenn Frey—may he Rest in Peace. : (