Current Day:

"Hey, buddy," Hutch said as Starsky emerged from the privacy of Doctor Evans' office. He frowned as he stood, discarding a magazine with a ripped cover on a small table between chairs and noting the mournful expression Starsky was struggling to conceal. "What's wrong?"

Sinking into a chair, Starsky propped his elbows on his knees and silently shook his head. Opening his mouth to press the topic, Hutch closed it instead, his wide eyes settling on Doctor Evans as she watched them paces away. Though it had been years since they'd seen each other, time hadn't changed her much. Petite and pretty, she still looked young for her age, and her smile was the same, kind and easy with potential to turn forceful at a seconds notice. But she remained as dangerous as she had been when Hutch had seen her last.

Apprehension gathered in the pit of his stomach and Hutch cursed himself for not being more aware—for not taking a more active role in Starsky's therapy—he should have known Evans was his partner's psychiatrist before seeing her in person. He should have recognized her name or voice, when she called to request a meeting. He should have known it was her before this moment but he hadn't.

"We should talk," she said, head tilting toward her vacant office.

Entering the office did nothing to ease Hutch's nervousness. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he looked around the room, absently wondering how many hours had he spent in offices like this over the years. Not enough—he was certain—but far too many to count.

"It's been so long since we've spoken," Evans said softly, standing next to the twin chairs in the center of the room. "Should I be professional and refer to you as Mr. Hutchinson or are you still going by Kenneth?"

"You can call me Hutch," he said, face guarded. "Everyone else does."

"Hutch," Evans repeated with small smile. "I suppose that's fitting."

"How so?"

"Kenneth never really seemed to fit you, and I supposed rejecting your father's surname is natural—"

"I didn't reject anything; it's just a nickname. Nothing more, nothing less."

Evans nodded, but Hutch knew his explanation had been unbelieved. She was agreeing for his benefit, dropping the topic to appease his fear. She always was a good listener and keen observationalist. She was friendly and warm, kind but honest, all qualities that provided her ample leeway when making suggestions to others that would impact their behavior and lives for the better. He remembered thinking that she would excel in psychiatry, and seeing the framed awards and diplomas on the wall, it was clear that she had.

"Do you want to sit?" she asked, indicating at the chairs.

Hutch cringed. If history had taught him anything, it was that it was better to stand. It was easier to avoid uncomfortable questions and mask reactions if he moved around the room. "I'd prefer not to."

"Well, whatever you prefer."

Ignoring her inquisitive stare, Hutch turned his attention to the tall bookcases. Smoothing his index finger over the books at eye level, he momentarily paused to inspect a few. A handful of the titles he recognized, but there were far too many titles—dealing with sensitive injuries and crimes—he was taken aback to see. Though they shouldn't be a surprise, he reminded himself; Evans was extremely specialized, as she worked primarily with victims of violent crimes, rape, and sexual abuse. When she had asked him for a meeting she had cited concern for Starsky's recovery, worry Hutch was certain was born from Starsky's unwillingness—his inability—to communicate what he had been through, but now he wasn't so sure. While he had been shocked to see Evans, it was clear she hadn't been surprised to see him. And he couldn't help questioning if he was here to discuss Starsky's injuries or if had she lured him here to discuss his own?

"Are you sure you don't want to sit?" she asked again.

Avoiding the question, Hutch pointed at one of her many diplomas. While he wasn't eager to acknowledge the past, Evans showed no indication of broaching the subject, and he had no interest in continuing to dance around the subject—suffocating on apprehension as he choked on the fear over what she knew.

"Berkeley," he said and cluster of memories suddenly rushed back, leaving him lightheaded, breathless, and struggling to maintain his composure.

How different would his life if he wouldn't have become a police officer? And how different would he feel if he hadn't agreed to meet with Evans today?

"Berkeley's psychology program is highly ranked," Evans said calmly. "Second in the nation. Then again, you already know that. It wasn't so long ago that you and I were in the same class." She smiled. "I had a feeling you didn't know that I was the one treating David."

"I didn't recognize you," Hutch admitted, eyes shining stubbornly. He hadn't come here for a reunion, and he had no intention on undermining Starsky by reporting on him like a child. "And I don't press him about his visits. Who he's seeing and what he says are both up to him."

"I didn't know it was you, at least not at first," Evans said, ignoring the ferocity of his words. "When I was preparing for my first visit with David, I came across your name in his records. I thought it was you, but wasn't certain until much later on." She paused, looking at him thoughtfully. "What happened with school, Kenneth? One minute you were then and next you were gone. Your absence was sudden, unexpected, ill-explained."

Looking at the floor, Hutch stifled a snort. The idea that he owed anyone an explanation for leaving Berkeley was ridiculous, but Evans expecting one was ludicrous. They both knew the event that had spurred him to leave.

"I've thought about that night a thousand times," she continued sadly. "Questioning if I could have said something differently or wondering what would have happened if I had never opened those files. If there was anything that would have prevented you from vanishing into thin air."

"I don't think of it at all," Hutch snapped, scandalized she dare bring it up. "And I hardly vanished. I didn't leave the city. I just changed my mind. It didn't have anything to do with you or what you saw. I finally decided to live my life for myself instead of my father."

Evans nodded, another automatic affirming motion accompanying her visible disbelief. Holding her gaze Hutch realized that she didn't believe his reasoning for leaving school any more than he believed her concern over Starsky had prompted their sudden reunion.

"You left because you were intimidated by what I knew," Evans said knowingly. "You came to California to hide from your past and begin a new life. You couldn't bear the thought of someone knowing, of being looked at like a victim again. How earth did you pull it off, Kenneth?"

"What?"

Body alive with agitation, Hutch felt stuck in a dream. How could this be happening? How could someone he hadn't seen in nearly ten years suddenly reappear, speaking about his motivations with such candor, as though they were known to the world? Evans didn't know how he had felt—she couldn't possibly know how he still felt about his past—but somehow she did.

"How did you pass the psychiatric exam? We both know if the police academy knew what you were hiding they would have never allowed you to become what you are."

"Right." Hutch bristled. "Well, we're not here to talk about me," he tilted his head at the closed door, "we're here to talk about Starsky."

"Maybe we can talk about both of you."

"Not today. You're his psychiatrist not mine."

"You're not dismissing the idea. You would be open to talking to me?"

"No," Hutch said firmly. "Listen, Kim, I have shrink, okay? A guy I go see every month to make sure my head stays on straight. I'm fine."

Evans was unconvinced. "Do you think I don't remember the details? The horrible things you endured? Do you think for second that I haven't put two and two together? David's injuries and the place Simon Marcus held him, they were modeled after something. You and I both know what that is. A bomb shelter in the Midwest, the place you were held when you were abducted as a child."

"This isn't about me. What happened to Starsky has nothing to do with what happened to me."

Though he said the words, they did little erase the truth. He couldn't believe what was happening—the absolute impossibility of it all. How could all these small details—long forgotten or repressed moments—suddenly be reemerging, coming together to shatter his life?

He hadn't wanted to disclose his past so Marcus had used it against him. He didn't want people to know the truth so Marcus had made it impossible to hide. Leaving Starsky struggling to overcome events he never should have had to endure and Hutch still hyper-focused on the people who didn't know about his past and disregarding the people who did. He should have kept track of Evans better; he shouldn't have put himself in a position to be caught off guard by someone who was privy to his past.

"Are you sure?" Evans challenged softly. "Or are you just trying to hide your role in something that quickly got out of hand?"

Hutch flinched. He wasn't sure why things had unfolded the way they had. His pain and guilt were continuous reminders of all the things he would never be sure of. He didn't know the extent of his role in what Marcus had done to Starsky, how the man had known anything he had, or how the bomb shelter on the compound had come to be. He didn't know how long it was going to take for Starsky to feel better or if they would ever be the same. But he knew Starsky needed him—they needed each other—neither of them could move passed what had happened on their own.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, his voice low but a hint of anger behind his words. "To make veiled comparisons and accusations about things you know nothing about?"

For a moment, Evans looked guilty. Dropping her gaze to the floor, she shook her head. "I'm worried about David. I brought you here in the hopes the three of us could speak together, but he's not ready for that."

"Is he talking about what happened?"

"He's beginning to, but don't ask for details because I can't tell you."

"Then why I am I here?" Hutch repeated, holding his hands up exasperatedly as he lost control of his anxiety. "Why are you wasting my time with any of this—?"

"I needed to see you, to reconcile what happened to him and what happened to you. It's been months, Kenneth. His progress has been so slow—which believe me—I expected. It's always a challenge to move past the types of injuries he sustained, sometimes impossible for men, like him, who build their lives and hinge their careers on being resilient and strong—"

"He's strong."

"I needed to ensure you weren't hindering him. I needed to know that his fear for you was invalid. Knowing what I know about your past, coupled with the details of what he endured, I need to make sure that…" mouth closing suddenly, Evans's face contorted with an odd expression as she abruptly turned around.

Though she hide her face and stifled her sentence, it didn't make Hutch immune to the words she didn't say. He knew what she thought, the horrible accusation still floating around in everyone's mind. Dobey, John Blaine, even Starsky, all believed he had chosen for this to happen—that his pursuance of Simon Marcus, his odd obsession with the man had driven him mad—and standing in front of Evans he knew she felt the same. Her knowledge of his past was too damning to be ignored.

"You needed to see me for yourself," he said. He felt sick; his stomach churned and bile rose in his throat, making his voice deep and gravely. "Because everyone knows what happens to kids who experience the things I did. They grow up to be monsters, and you wanted to make sure I wasn't some psychopath hiding behind a badge. But you're wrong. I wouldn't wish the pain I experienced on anybody."

Hutch longed to say that he would never do anything to hurt Starsky but that fact that was no longer true—it hadn't been true for a while. He had brought Starsky to Marcus, he had allowed the events to unfold. But even before that he had been hurting Starsky. His need to hide the past, his intense shame, and violent anger toward his father had been hurting Starsky long before Marcus ever knew his name. But in the end, Marcus had shattered them both, leaving Starsky almost too afraid to contend with pain, and Hutch too guilty to force him to try.

"Do you think I'm hindering him?" he asked. "Do you really think that if I was hurting him—if I did this to him—that he'd be brave enough to stay?"

Turning, Evans eyes sparkled with seriousness. "I think the two of you have a very complex relationship; there are a lot of issues at play here. Whether you admit it or not, your avoidance of the past has manifested, making it impossible for you to view his pain without relating it to your own. And with what David is up against, I don't know if that's going to serve him well in the end."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can't tell you specifics, but this is serious. You need to be mindful of his behavior. If you see anything out of place or if he seems to be deteriorating, then you need to tell me. Don't wait until it's too late to admit what's happening before your eyes."

Gaze fixing on the door across the room, Hutch longed to gather Starsky from the waiting room and escape to their apartment where they both could hide themselves away. Safe and sound, unaffected by the judgement of outsiders who could never understand their love for each other, or their agony. Evans believed he was incapable of handling Starsky's pain and Marcus thought him incapable of telling the truth, but he would prove them both wrong—and so would Starsky.

"You have no idea who we really are. Who we were together or what we'll be again," he growled, brows narrowing as he looked at Evans stubbornly. "Are we done here?"

"Yes," Evans said, but her eyes flashed with conflict as she watched him stride to the door. "I lied to you," she added quickly. Taking a step forward as he hesitated in place, exhaling impatiently.

"What?"

"You asked me why I asked you here." She paused as Hutch turned, his face frozen with unexpressed worry. "I work for the police department," she continued, forcing the words before she lost her nerve. "I didn't request this meeting because I wanted to. I did it because I was told to. Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey are very worried about David's safety, about how he was taken and how he was found. I'm sorry; whatever lie you based your career on wasn't enough to survive the speculation of what has been done, and it isn't enough to bury your past from people who are intent on uncovering it."

"What do they know?" Hutch croaked, heart pounding ferociously in his chest.

"Everything. They know everything."

Xx

Prior Months:

Dirt filled and dust covered, the farmhouse was a shell of what it had been. Sporadic holes peppered the crumbling walls; hairline cracks lined the brittle floorboards that groaned and bowed under Hutch's weight, throwing off his balance and threatening to send him crashing into the basement, into the uncertainty whatever lay in depths below. The air was thick and suffocating. Every inhale tasted sour and every exhale left a cloud of fog in front of Hutch's mouth, but an odd calmness had settled into his chest as soon as he pushed through the damaged front door, a strange acceptance that contradicted the chill creeping up his spine.

There was no stopping now, no going forward or back.

He couldn't see where he was going, but it didn't matter. His body felt fluid, his mind blank as he moved quickly, striding through the entry, up the rickety oak staircase only to linger at the top of the stairs. Burning brightly, a small oil lamp waited patiently on the floor. It flame cast eerie shadows on the decrepit walls as he considered it for a moment, an odd skepticism creeping into the pit of his stomach. Where had the lamp come from, and why would it be burning so purposefully when the rest of house remained emerged in abandoned darkness?

Bending to retrieve it, Hutch held the lamp tightly, his fingers slipping against the thick glass base as he looked carefully around. The decrepit hallway was empty and he was alone, but he gasped as his gaze settled on the blood staining the floor. Though the décor of the house had changed, Lucky's bloody paw prints remained, sticking out on the worn floorboards and disappearing underneath the closed attic door. Free hand resting unconsciously on his sidearm, Hutch's heart sank as he stood, paralyzed in place by the sight of the blood. Lucky hadn't been cut or physically injured, so why was there so much blood?

Suddenly, he felt a wetness on his fingertips, a thick warm liquid that oozed from underneath his fingernails. Lifting his hands, he gasped as he realized the blood on his hands had changed. No longer a dry stain, it was fresh and warm, trickling from his fingertips down the backs of his hands before falling to speckle and stain the paw prints on the floor.

What had he done? What the hell had he done—to both Lucky and Starsky, his beloved dog and loving husband?

"You know," a dark gritty voice whispered, echoing through the empty hallway. "You know what you did."

And Hutch did.

Images of the night Starsky went missing swirled in his head. Starsky had laughed when he saw Hutch handcuffed to the bed, kissed him tenderly as he freed his arm from headboard, and groaned wantonly as he pulled Hutch's t-shirt over his head. But Starsky had screamed when he finally noticed Simon Marcus, standing motionless in the corner of their bedroom. And he had fought—oh god, had he fought—before Hutch slammed his head off the floor.

"I brought him here. I brought them both here," Hutch whispered breathlessly, an old familiar ache setting in his chest as he gripped the lamp impossibly tight. "But you... you were there too."

"Me?" the voice asked.

"Yes, you. Marcus—"

"I am not Marcus," the voice growled angrily. "We are not the same."

"What?"

"I was not there."

"Where were you then?"

"Here. I am always here. In the darkness I waited, for you to bring your offering, for you to finally be ready to accept your fate."

"But Marcus took Starsky. He wanted Starsky—"

"Marcus belongs to me; he wants what I allow."

"And who are you?"

"I am everyone and no one. I can be whoever you want me to be. I am the one who wanted Starsky so that you would come."

Blinking numbly, Hutch struggled to comprehend the words. Who was this person? What was this thing with the chilling voice he could hear and a body he could not see?

"Would you like me to show myself to you?" the voice asked.

"No," Hutch whispered.

"Would you like me to show you someone else?"

"No. I came to see Marcus not you."

"You came for yourself."

"No."

"When given the choice between dealing with the consequences of your actions or running away, you decided to run away. Just like you did before, just like you always will."

"What do you know about before?" Hutch croaked, fear rushing through him. Were the words a boastful jest or did this thing know something more? Did it know what Marcus had—the horrible buried secret that had started this whole mess? Heartbeat quickening with sudden rage, Hutch clenched his free fist at his side and took a step forward. "Tell me what you know!" he demanded, turning in a frantic circle, a futile attempt to see something—anything— that would explain the voice coming from the darkness.

But the hallway remained empty and a deep, grinding laughter filled the air.

"Who are you?" Hutch asked, his voice a low warning growl. "Tell me who you are!"

The laughter stopped abruptly, and for long agonizing moments the only sounds Hutch heard were pounding of his heart and his labored breaths. They came in tandem, forming an agonizing terror-born symphony, threatening his resolve to find Marcus and chipping away at what little sanity he had left.

What was he doing here; why had he come?

"You came because you didn't have a choice," a familiar voice suddenly said.

Hutch gasped, anxiety pounding in his chest as his stomach dropped. It wasn't right—there was no way he could have heard a voice of a man he hadn't seen in years.

"No," he whispered, watching helplessly as the man belonging to the voice emerged from the darkness. With messy blond hair, ripped jeans, and a blood stained henley, the man looked like he had stepped out of the past or a repressed memory.

Slipping from Hutch's hand, the lamp shattered as it hit the floor, splattering kerosene on the Hutch's shoes and seeping into a messy pool to be eagerly soaked up by the pale floorboards. The flame remained, despite the fall, and crackling angrily, it flickered brightly and grew quickly, feeding itself with the freshly soaked wood.

"What the matter?" the man sneered evilly. "You aren't happy to see me?"

"Y-you're not here," Hutch said, voice shaking as he absently stepped away from the flame on the floor, unconscious steps taking him closer to the attic and further from the staircase. "You can't possibly be here!"

"Why?"

"Because you're..." Hutch's voice faltered, cutting off his startled crazed tone. Pressing his palms to the sides of his head, he walked backwards until his back hit the wall, looking frantically between the attic door next to him and the man standing paces away.

Could the man really be here? It wasn't impossible, merely improbable. The man standing before him wasn't dead like his father, but in jail instead. He could have broken out or been released—no. Hutch closed his eyes and frowned, reminding himself that neither of those things had happened, nor would they. As a cop he kept track of the man's current whereabouts and knew he was in prison over 2,000 miles away. As victim he remained hyperaware that the man standing before him was serving two consecutive life sentences without parole.

"You got big," the man sneered. "Tall. Handsome—"

"You take one step closer, I'll—"

"You'll what?"

Hutch snapped his mouth shut. He didn't know—what could he possibly do to a man who couldn't be standing in front of him?

"Cry?" the man laughed. "You cried a lot the last time we were together. Nearly thirty years have gone by, you're bigger but you're still afraid. Jesus, you look like you're gonna start crying any second—"

"Shut up!"

"Boy, we got bossy, didn't we? What happened to your obedience? The little boy who—cried a lot—but always did what he was told?"

"I'm not that kid anymore," Hutch said, voice firm despite the tears welling in his eyes. "And you're not real."

"You can see me, so that makes me real to you."

And the man was real, Hutch thought, heart skipping in his chest; whether he was standing in front of him or incarcerated states away, the man was real. It was his actions that had brought Hutch here. The fear of secrets of what had been done years ago the catalyst that held Hutch captive to Marcus's hold.

If only he would have told Starsky, Hutch thought wretchedly. If only he would have been brave enough to tell the truth.

"You know why you didn't, though, don't you?" the man jeered. "Because you were afraid of having him look at you the way she did. You were afraid that if you showed him your scars, then he'd walk away too."

"No!" Hutch furiously denied, though he knew it was the truth. He had been afraid—he was still afraid—of Starsky knowing the truth. He would never forget the look in Vanessa's eyes the day she found out—a mixture of sadness, pity, and something else—she looked at him like a victim, like he was too damaged to love, and Hutch couldn't—he wouldn't—chance seeing the same look in Starsky's eyes, even if it meant keeping his past buried and living a lie, even if it meant—

"Even if it meant letting him die," the man finished.

"No," Hutch murmured, the word contradicting the truth he knew in his heart. He hadn't come for Starsky right away because he hadn't wanted to; he hadn't been ready to tell the truth.

"For someone who knows what it feels like to be held captive in darkness, broken, bound, and tortured while awaiting help that comes too late, you certainly waited long enough to come for him."

"I didn't come for him," Hutch whispered dreadfully, realizing the truth of the man's earlier words. He hadn't come to rescue Starsky; he had come to hide from his past because even after all this time, it was easier to run away—to disappear—than it was to live with the consequences of the truth. "I came for myself."

Hutch's soft statement echoed through the hollow farmhouse walls, intermixing with the popping and crackling of the fire engulfing the staircase.

"Uh, oh," the man grinned, eyeing the flame, "looks like it's too late to go back now." He evaluated Hutch for a moment, before his fragmented figure begun to slowly disappear, evaporating into thin air as the attic door opened slowly, letting out a long loud creak.

"It is time," a deep gritty voice hissed from the darkness behind the door. "It is finally time."

Xx

"Simon… Simon… Simon…"

"Wait," Starsky said. Cringing as the chorus of voices continued echoing up the stairwell, he ground his bare feet against the floorboards and struggled to pull his hand from Marcus's grasp.

"Why?" Marcus asked disinterestedly. Turning slightly, he lingered on the top step, holding Starsky's hand tightly as he peered up at him.

"I don't wanna go down there," Starsky protested quietly, his eyes wide with fear.

"Why not?"

"Simon… Simon… Simon…"

"I…" Starsky hedged. Marcus said Hutch was on his way, what if he arrived and joined the group—what if his partner was awaiting his presence to finally do what Starsky had dreamed?

"It will not be that way." Marcus smiled, his thumb jetting across the top of Starsky's hand. "I promise you, it will not end the way you dreamed."

"Simon… Simon… Simon…"

"Because the dreams… they weren't mine," Starsky said, his soft voice afraid and unsure. "Right?"

"Correct."

"Simon… Simon… Simon…"

Biting his bottom lip, Starsky eyed him hesitantly, his stomach churning with fear. "But… if the dreams weren't mine, then how does end?"

Smile growing, Marcus's eyes twinkled with delight, but he remained quiet, grasping Starsky's free hand and entwining their fingers, he pulled him swiftly down the stairs.

"Simon… Simon… Simon…"

Feet slipping, Starsky stumbled forward. Legs moving quickly but unsteadily beneath him, his body threatened fall down the stairs with each precarious step, but Marcus's grip didn't waver. The strength of his hold was somehow able to keep Starsky upright. Coming to the bottom of the staircase, Starsky absently noticed the incessant chanting suddenly ceased—not that he cared.

"No…" He shook his head desperately. "This isn't right. I didn't dream this. I-I'd rather have the dream!" he exclaimed, voice catching.

The basement of the farmhouse was gone, replaced once again by the dank darkness of the bunker. The thought of returning to the foreboding space was unbearable, filling Starsky's chest with dread and fear, and he let out a series of thick sobbing gasps.

He couldn't go back; he wouldn't go back.

"I w-want the d-dream!" Starsky cried. "I w-want to c-come d-down the s-stairs in the h-house and I want H-Hutch to smile b-before—"

"That is not what fate wants," Marcus said indifferently.

"I want it to be over! You said—"

"Shhhhhh!" Marcus lifted a warning finger in the air, setting his gaze on the closed bunker door. "Listen."

Gasping against his tears, Starsky stood frozen in place, his eyes widening in terror as he watched the bunker door creak open.

"It is time," a deep gritty voice hissed from the darkness. "...it is finally time."

"N-No," Starsky whimpered, his stomach churning.