Current Day
"How bad is it?" Hutch asked.
Eyes carefully scanning the sparse crown of the coffee shop, he fought the urge to stand and run from the building. But he couldn't do that—he wouldn't do that—not after missing countless urgent calls and text messages from the man sitting across from him. Though he had avoided this moment for as long as he possibly could, it had done nothing to calm his nervousness. His body was alive with anxious energy. Tapping his fingertips on the table top, his eyes darted around, searching for people he recognized or a hint that someone was casually listening in on their conversation, but quickly finding neither, he was finally forced to set his gaze across the table.
"I'm not gonna lie to you, pal," Lucas Huntley said, his voice soft and serious as his fingers trailed absently up and down the side of his coffee cup. "It's bad."
Apprehension spiking, Hutch turned his attention to ceiling rafters hanging high above them. "Okay," he said deeply, focusing on the dark grain of the exposed wood.
He liked this coffee shop; small and minimally decorated it was a comforting backdrop for a cluster of good memories. It was where, during graduate school, he had escaped from the confines of the tiny apartment he shared with Vanessa to study; where he first met Huntley; where he had taken Starsky the morning after their first night together; and years later, where Starsky, his hand covertly caressing Hutch's under the table, had whispered his desire to be together for the rest of their lives.
Nervously clearing his throat, Hutch hoped that this terrible moment, sitting across from Huntley waiting for his life to change, wouldn't be enough to negate the rest. "Okay," he repeated quietly. "If you had to rank it on a scale of one to ten—"
"We aren't on a scale of one to ten, but if we were it would be a fifty."
"Shit."
"I know you don't want to ask, so I'll just tell you. It was that fucker, John Blaine. He got it into his head that you did something—that you were the reason Starsky was found the way that he was. Jesus," Huntley swore, shaking his head as he lowered his voice, "and you know how he can be when he gets his mind set on something, like a fucking dog with a bone."
"Yeah."
"Most of the time you can ignore him—Shit, you know everyone does—I think Ryan and Dobey, well, they both had their doubts about what really happened. But after your disciplinary hearing they were both intent on ignoring their suspicions where you and Simon Marcus were concerned. That God-damn Blaine, he just kept yelling until he finally got heard."
"What was it?" Hutch asked, though he was certain he didn't want to know. "What was the thing that made Ryan and Dobey listen?"
"It's bad," Huntley repeated, exhaling the words in an exhausted sigh. "I don't know how he did it, but somehow Blaine dug up your psych history, which led him to the police report." He paused as Hutch groaned, his face freezing with pained regret. "I'm so sorry, pal. He took what he discovered to Dobey and Ryan, and they know everything—what happened to you and what your father did to cover it up. And now they're asking questions about the bunker on the Marcus property. Comparing it to the one in Minnesota and Starsky's injuries to the ones you sustained."
Grinding his jaw, Hutch stifled another groan. Huntley was right: this was bad. Though Evans had warned him, he hadn't wanted to believe her words. He had tried to dismiss the anxiety building in his chest, telling himself lie after lie until his worry slightly ebbed. There was no way his superiors could have actually known about his past—the medical records of which, his father had been careful to disguise. But if Huntley's words hadn't confirmed his worst fear than his grim expression did. Hutch felt his apprehension shift in a moment, transforming from dread to terror.
It wasn't enough. Lies would never be enough to change or soothe the pain of what had been done.
"This is going to cost me my career," Hutch said numbly.
"If Blaine gets his way, it's gonna cost you a lot more than your career. There are a lot of uncomfortable…" Huntley paused, seemingly struggling with the proper word. "Parallels," he said, his face becoming guarded. "Between what happened to you and what happened to Starsky."
"Parallels," Hutch scoffed, eyes glistening with abrupt anger. Huntley didn't believe he had planned Starsky's abduction, did he?
"You can't deny the way it looks."
"What do you know about how it looks?"
While Hutch couldn't negate his role in Starsky's abduction, he refused to tolerate the accusation from such a trusted friend. Huntley was his mentor, his ally, a substitute father of sorts. If he couldn't maintain innocence from Huntley's point of view, he had little hope of hanging on to the sliver of truth threating to slip through his fingertips. Regardless of what had been said or done, Hutch hadn't wanted this. If he had any control over the situation, he never would have allowed Starsky to be harmed by Simon Marcus—no matter how it appeared now.
"Hey, don't get mad at me!" Huntley growled. "I'm not the enemy here. For the record, I'm on your side. I will always be on your side. But there comes a time when you have to be honest with yourself about what's going on. You have to stop running from the fallout of the truth and deal with it instead. If you had anything to do with this—and I mean anything—you need to own up to it"
"I didn't."
"You better be sure about that," Huntley said seriously. "And you better hope to God, Starsky is sure about that, because losing your career is the least of your worries. Like I said, there are a lot of parallels, and your behavior subsequent to Starsky's disappearance is suspicious to say the least. Dobey didn't document it, but you can guarantee the night you got picked up wandering the city is still fresh in his mind, and so is your unstable behavior leading up to the night you killed Simon Marcus. It looks bad, pal. Your official reports on the Marcus compound were completely incorrect. Your phone and Starsky's wallet were both found on Blackwell's body. You escaped from the back of a squad car, miraculously finding Starsky on a property that had been exhaustively searched. And don't forget about Starsky's reaction to you. He was afraid of you—terrified to be near you. All those details coupled with your history are damning, and if they connect you—if Blaine pushes Dobey and Ryan to indict you—I don't know if there's a jury that will give you the benefit of a doubt. You're looking at time, pal. Hard time."
Sighing heavily, Hutch leaned back in his chair. Arms hanging limply at his sides he looked defeated, his face falling under the weight of agitated anguish. There was no way out of this—no ideal solution to problem that should have never existed. He should have told the truth when he had the chance. On the night of his father's death, he should have confessed everything to Starsky. Before Simon Marcus crawled into his head; before everything went so incredibly wrong.
"Starsky doesn't know," Hutch admitted quietly, his words defeated.
"About how he was taken?"
"No." Closing his eyes, Hutch struggled to summon the courage to continue the conversation. "He doesn't know about me. About what happened when I was child, how I lied to get into the academy, or the similarities between what happened to us."
Huntley looked confused. Clearing his throat, he sipped at his coffee before palming his chin. "What?" he asked quietly, an edge to the word. "You guys are tight. With the nature of your partnership how is it possible that he doesn't know?"
"I never told him."
"Why?"
"Because," Hutch sighed, shaking his head. "It never came up. I didn't want…" Biting his lower lip, he hesitated. How could he explain the stifling anxiety attached to the notion of Starsky knowing the truth? How could he, himself, began to understand the panic eternally accompanying the idea of finally accepting the truth?
He had been victim. A part of him would always be a victim. He couldn't lose the innocence of Starsky's love, to allow what had happened when he was a child alter the lens of strength and capability his partner saw him through, because a truth still lingered, unheeded in the back of his mind, waiting for silent moments to whisper its dreaded words. There was only one thing worse than Starsky knowing and choosing to walk away: Starsky knowing and choosing to stay.
"But you still see a psych," Huntley pressed.
"He doesn't know about that."
"But you go twice a month."
"Luke, he doesn't know!"
"Shit." Huntley exhaled an exasperated breath. "Well, his response is either going to save you or sink you, but either way it's time to start telling the truth. Before someone else does it for you. Before Blaine worms his way into Starsky's ear and starts disclosing everything you never wanted him to know. If you have any chance of surviving this, you need to keep Starsky on your side. He hasn't said anything incriminating yet, but just think of how this is gonna look to him. You guys were arguing about Simon Marcus before he was taken, how is he going to feel once he hears Blaine's suspicions?"
Chest fluttering with worry, Hutch suddenly realized he didn't know. He should have but he didn't. And though Starsky still loved him after everything he had endured, would it be enough to survive the harmful suspicions of everyone else?
"You have to talk to him," Huntley urged. "I know you don't want to, but you have to be certain of what he thinks happened with Marcus. You have to tell him the truth."
"But he just stopped being afraid of me," Hutch blurted, instantly regretting the words. They made him sound weak and afraid. Guilty, he thought suddenly, heart skipping a beat. "And you don't know that Blaine is going to talk to him."
"You're kidding, right? You know Blaine; it's a miracle he hasn't cornered Starsky already. God, that fucker." Forehead wrinkling, Huntley frowned. "I tell you, people in glass houses should not throw stones. Like he doesn't have anything to hide! Man, I would love to call his wife, fill her in on the studio apartment he keeps on the sly—"
"Luke, being gay isn't a crime."
"Well, being closeted and cheating on your wife ought to be!"
"You don't know that she doesn't know. You don't know their situation."
"And he doesn't know yours!" Huntley said vehemently, pounding his fist on the table. "How dare he do this to you? How dare he threaten your livelihood—your life and future—and Starsky's recovery by spewing this shit? Nobody wants to think you would do Starsky wrong. Nobody wants to believe you planned these horrible events, but he just can't let it go. He just won't let it go."
Hutch didn't have to ask what it was. It was something that—despite the sensitivity of what they were already talking about—he wouldn't dare bring up. Starsky, at one time, had been a favorite of Blaine's, a member of his team and one of his boys. And though nobody really talked about it, there were whispers around the department, hushed secret stories that alluded to Blaine's secret apartment and what was really required of the men in his department in order to move up ranks. Starsky had been one of Blaine's boys before Hutch came along, pulling him away from both his supervision and his team. Something that had cultivated a strange strain between Blaine and Hutch, a tension that had only worsened in time.
"It's because he hates you," Huntley said, seemingly unaware of the sensitivity the subject required. "You stole Starsky from him—"
"Don't," Hutch warned.
"It's fucked up, but you know it's true. If this would have happened to anyone else he wouldn't be pressing it. Just because it was you and Starsky, and Starsky ended up hurt. If the roles were reversed, if you would have been the one Marcus took and Starsky had been left behind, climbing walls and acting crazy before he rescued you, Blaine wouldn't be giving this a second look."
"Can you drop it, please? It doesn't matter why he's doing this. Knowing why doesn't change the truth. It doesn't change anything."
Taking a deep drink of his lukewarm coffee, Huntley shook his head, his face stiffening in exasperation. "You're really too kind," he said. "I mean, here you are purposely not condemning Blaine's intentions when you know damn well he isn't showing you the same consideration. He is going to bend over backwards to destroy you and you won't even talk shit about him behind his back."
Hutch longed to respond, but thinking of the haunting voicemail message he had received the night before, he remained quiet. There was no point in making an already impossible situation worse or adding fuel to the fire that was already engulfing him.
Xx
"I really don't need a babysitter, you know?" Starsky groused. Brows kitting, he fidgeted on his barstool and eyed Huggy with a mixture of annoyance and relief. "I was just fine staying home by myself."
"Of course you were," Huggy assured from the other side of the bar. "And I can't be accused of being a babysitter because we aren't at your place. I believe the use of the word is dependent on the location."
"That makes no sense," Starsky scoffed. "Besides, you picked me up, remember? You said Hutch asked you to hang out with me today, because he didn't want me to be alone. That makes you a babysitter."
Wiping down the beer taps, Huggy rolled his eyes. If he was a babysitter, then maybe he should increase his rate. Any cash would be better than no cash. Not that he minded forcing Starsky out of Venice Place at Hutch's request, but he hadn't expected Starsky's sour mood to linger. Though annoyance was expected, Starsky's explicit displeasure wasn't easily tolerated. Closing his eyes and forcing a deep breath, Huggy reminded himself that an outspokenly displeased Starsky was vastly better than a silent despondent one. And tossing the rag over his shoulder he leaned over the bar and smiled; Starsky was finally beginning to improve—his grouchiness was proof of that.
"You didn't even ask if I wanted to come," Starsky continued, voice a low mumble. "You just assumed I didn't have anything better to do than watch you wipe down tables and wait on the late afternoon crowd."
"What crowd?" Huggy chuckled, looking around the empty room.
"This is boring."
"Have a drink."
"I don't want a drink."
"Well, then how about a game of pool?"
"Um…" Picking at the bandage covering his cheek, Starsky eyed the pool room warily. The doorway was dark—too dark—and illuminated only by dim hanging lights the room was much too shadowy for him to feel at ease. What was hiding in the shadows of the room, waiting for the perfect moment to pull him back into the darkness?
"Starsky?" Huggy prompted, watching him carefully.
Grimacing, Starsky closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he whispered.
"No?"
"I don't want to play."
"But you love pool."
"I'm not in the mood."
"Since when do you need to be in the mood for pool?" Huggy challenged jubilantly. "Come on, you're bored and you know you want to play. I'll tell you what, we'll bet like we used to when we played basketball on recess: a pog for every bank shot."
"Where the hell are you gonna find pogs?" Starsky scoffed, nervousness forgotten by the absurdity of Huggy's bet.
"EBay." Huggy shrugged.
"Seriously?"
"Starsky, you can almost find anything your heart desires on eBay—no matter how obscure. Where do you think Hutch got those sweet re-released Adidas kicks he bought you a while back?"
Sucking in a startled breath, Starsky's gaze fell to the floor. Somehow, he hadn't thought about the shoes—the well-loved sneakers that had been taken from him at the Marcus compound, disappearing with countless other things he knew he would never be able to retrieve. His shoes were gone along with his favorite pair of jeans and the favored button up shirt he and Hutch once shared.
His shoes were gone and now he was slowly losing his mind.
"You're never going to be the same," a voice hissed in the back of his head. "You won't be and you shouldn't be."
Sucking in a deep breath, Starsky grimaced and closed his eyes.
"You're as useless as those shoes. Dirty and old."
"No," Starsky murmured. It wasn't true. He was getting better; Hutch had promised to help him get better.
"He did but he doesn't know the truth. And once he does, he'll drop you like those shoes. Like you don't matter. Like what happened didn't matter."
"No," Starsky growled, voice a bit louder.
"Hey," Huggy whispered. "What's going on in that head of yours?"
"I don't..." Starsky shook his head, struggling to clear the echoing of the voice and grasping for the remnants of his conversation with Huggy. "The shoes are gone, Hug. They're gone and I'm never going to get them back."
"Oh. Well, have you put Hutch on the case? I'm sure he can track down another pair. Shit, he probably already has. The boy knows no boundaries when it comes to you. There is no limit to the things he will do for you."
"But there is," the voice whispered. "There is a limit. Once he knows nothing will make him stay. And he'll walk away like it didn't matter—like you don't matter—he'll pretend you don't exist. Just like the other people he's left behind. He'll replace you…"
"No," Starsky said firmly. Clenching his fists as his sides, he felt an inexplicable wave of fierce, irrepressible anger, leaving his breath hitching and chest burning. The voice was wrong and so was Huggy. "My shoes are gone. I can't replace them. They shouldn't be replaced. What happened to them mattered, it can't just be erased by something else! By pretending that they aren't gone or ignoring how much it sucks that things went the way they did!"
"Okay," Huggy soothed, raising his hands defensively. "Forget I mentioned it, man. I get it, you can't replace the shoes. We won't talk about replacing the shoes."
Staring at each other, they both knew Starsky's anger wasn't over the lost shoes, rather the complicated emotions the topic had awoke. While he was doing better, Starsky was far from healed. His fear was slowly ebbing but anger was starting to fill the gaps it left behind. If he wasn't so worried about the fury in his best friend's eyes, Huggy would have been relieved. Anger was to be expected—it was comforting to see one of Starsky's normal coping mechanisms reemerge—but the fury was frightening. Dangerous and unpredictable, it only hinted at the hurt and helplessness lurking under the surface.
"How about that game?" Huggy prompted, nodding at the entry to the poolroom.
"What do you see in the darkness?" the voice hissed. "Marcus asked you that, but the real question is: what does it see in you?"
"Come on, Starsky," Huggy coaxed. "Pogs for bank shots, remember?"
"No," Starsky said defiantly.
Jumping from the bar stool, he shook his head and backed toward the door. He had no intention of entering the darkened room. Not with the voice whispering in his head; he couldn't—he wouldn't—risk melting down in front of Huggy. Doing so in front of Hutch was one thing but displaying his instability in front someone else was something else entirely.
"I'm gonna go," he added, turning and walking purposefully toward the front door.
He didn't want to leave; he didn't want to brave the city streets or a taxi ride, alone, but he couldn't stay. The room was claustrophobic, filled to the brim with the haunting hiss of the voice in his head. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't bear another moment as the darkness stared at him from the doorway of the poolroom.
"What?" Huggy scoffed. "You don't have a car, where are you gonna go?"
"Why do you care?"
"I brought you here, you should at least let me take you home. My bartender's shift starts in 30 minutes; I can take you back if you just hang around for a while. Or we can call Hutch and I'm sure he'll come get you. You just gotta hang tight for a few, okay?"
"I don't need a babysitter," Starsky spat, grasping the doorknob.
"Starsky, please just wait!"
Pushing the door open, Starsky rushed to the sidewalk lining the busy street. Bending over, he closed his eyes, forcing a series of deep chested breathes as he willed his anxiousness to subside. The darkness was gone; the voice inside of him was slowly calming, drowned out by the noisy street; and with a smile tugging at his lips he relished the comforting feeling of the afternoon sun as it chased the chill from his body. He was fine—things were going to be fine.
"Starsky," Huggy said, coming to a stop behind him. "What are you—?"
"There you are!" a familiar voice boomed over the sounds of passing traffic. "I've been looking for you for hours!"
Huggy frowned, his forehead wrinkling with disapproval as he looked over Starsky's shoulder and watched the familiar man approach.
Turning abruptly, Starsky's eyes widened in shock. "What?" he asked. "Why would you be looking for me? You could have called, you know, saved yourself some time."
"I tried." John Blaine smiled. "Apparently, you aren't into answering your phone these days. Besides, do I really need an excuse? It's been too long since I've seen you. I thought I'd check in, maybe see if you wanted to join me for lunch."
"It's a bit late for lunch," Huggy muttered.
"An early dinner then," Blaine said warmly. "What do you say, kiddo? Burrito and a beer, like the old days, my treat."
Looking between Huggy and Blaine, Starsky ground his jaw. This was an interesting turn of events but not an unwelcome one. Joining Blaine would get him away from the stifling bar and soothe Huggy's worry about him leaving alone. He didn't want to be alone.
"Sure." He shrugged. "But I don't want to go anywhere dark. I want to be outside."
"Whatever you want," Blaine assured. Nodding at Huggy, he clasped the back of Starsky's neck and squeezed it fondly, propelling him down the sidewalk toward his car.
"See you later, Hug." Starsky waived noncommittally.
Standing in front the bar, Huggy waived—an action he knew neither man would see—as an odd apprehension gathered in the pit of his stomach. For a moment he wanted to run after them, to pull Starsky away from Blaine and back to the bar to wait for Hutch. But he dismissed the idea quickly. Starsky had known Blaine for years—so had he— and he was trustworthy enough. There was no reason to feel uncomfortable, and no past interaction to support the overwhelming feeling of wrongness born from seeing Blaine and Starsky slowly disappear down the sidewalk.
