Current Day:
"What?!" Hutch exclaimed over the noisy chatter of the room as he fought to maintain his spot opposite Huggy and the beer taps. Happy hour at The Pits had come with a gusto, leaving the tables full and a crowd of drink demanding people swarming the bar. "Why the hell did you let Starsky leave?"
"I didn't have a choice, man," Huggy shouted. Gaze down, he expertly tipped one beer glass after another, filling them to the brim with amber liquid before distributing them to an anxious group of college kids. "He got antsy. I tried to talk him into waiting but then John Blaine showed up, and there was no way he was gonna stick around after that."
"Oh, Huggy, don't tell me that." Rubbing his hands over his face, panic and irritation filled Hutch's chest. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I tried. You didn't answer. You really have to stop ignoring your calls, Hutch. What if it would have been an emergency...?"
Hutch rolled his eyes as Huggy continued his scolding speech—the second one he had endured that day, having been on the receiving end of some choice words from Lucas Huntley for not answering his phone.
It wouldn't have mattered anyway, Hutch thought glumly. Huntley was right: he had waited too long to tell Starsky the truth and now it was too late. He should have ran from the coffee shop the second Huntley told him about Blaine's actions; he shouldn't have allowed Blaine to beat him to Starsky, to tell him his suspicions and God only knew what else.
"What am I gonna do?" Hutch whispered. Leaning over the crowed bar, he shimmied his shoulders in an effort to encourage the patrons on both sides to move over. Neither took the hint and Hutch found himself the victim of twin intense disgruntled stares. "What?" he grunted, lips forming a stubborn line; he wasn't in a mood to be challenged.
"Watch it," one of the men warned. "I was here first."
"So?" Hutch scoffed, his patience with the crowd and the day wearing thin. While the portly bearded man assessing him may have been larger in girth, Hutch was taller and decidedly unafraid of engaging in a fight. In fact, with dread, uncertainty, and anger simmering in the pit of his stomach, he began hoping the guy would escalate their minor disagreement. It would feel good to hit somebody. "Move over," he added firmly.
"No," the man spat, squaring his shoulders and planting his feet on the floor. The crowd shifted around them as they became the focus of curious stares. "And I'm only going to ask you one more time before—"
"Before what?" Hutch challenged, standing up straight to tower in front of the upset man. He was way past reason now; it wasn't the man he was seeing in front of him but John Blaine, eyes narrowed as his lips settled in a smug smile. Hutch frowned. Fucking John Blaine and his arsenal of secrets he shouldn't have been privy to. "What are you gonna do?" Hutch taunted.
"He's not gonna do anything," Huggy yelled over the bar. Hutch and the man stood face-to-face, their eyes sparkling with anger, their chests hovering inches apart as they clenched their fists, each eagerly waiting for the other to make a move. "And neither are you. Let it go, Hutch!"
But full of nervous energy and resentment, Hutch didn't want to let it go, and neither did the other man.
"Somebody ought to teach you some manners, bro," the man growled.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah, you're being an asshole."
"Because I asked you to move over?"
"Because you shoved me."
"I didn't shove you—!"
"With your fucking shoulder, bro—"
"I wouldn't have had to shove you if you would have given me some damn room!"
"Get out of the way!" Huggy shouted. Emerging from behind the bar, he urgently pushed through the crowd. "Move! Move! Move!"
"I was here first!" the man bellowed.
"I don't care!" Hutch yelled.
Coming to a stop in front of the pair, Huggy grasped Hutch's upper arm. Frowning, he felt Hutch's upper body shift as he expertly ducked out of the way of the man's impending punch.
"Hey, man, knock it off—"
The crowd let out a collective gasp as the man's fist connected with Huggy's face. Eyes darkening and arm swinging, Hutch lunged at the man. Then all hell broke loose, dissolving the crowd in front of the bar into a flurry of violent movement.
Xx
True to his word, John Blaine took Starsky to a taco stand in Lincoln Heights. Inserted between a gym and a vacant parking lot, the stand was familiar, family operated, and serving traditional Mexican fare with fresh ingredients, it was a place Starsky and Hutch frequented often when working their beat. Hutch liked it because he was able always to talk the proprietor into making him an off-the-menu salad, and Starsky liked it because of the oversized portions, but listening to Hutch speak Spanish while ordering was always a plus.
Sitting opposite Blaine at a worn picnic table, Starsky's elbow sat heavily on the tabletop, resting his chin on his palm, he picked absently at the bandage covering his cheek as his eyes darted anxiously around. There wasn't much activity to wary of; it was an odd time to be seeking food. The lunch crowd had cleared out hours ago, leaving the area mostly deserted until people started lining up for dinner. But with the sun hanging high, there wasn't the slightest hint of the darkness that had hidden in the crevices of The Pits and for that, Starsky was grateful. Warmed by the sun and surrounded by Latin American music and the wafting aroma of hot food, he felt slightly at ease.
"Are you ever gonna take that thing off your face?" Blaine asked, lips curling into a small smile. Twisting the tops off of twin beer bottles, he shoved a lime wedge into each of them before placing one front of Starsky and taking a drink of the other. "That cut's got to be long healed by now."
While the words were meant to comfort, they did the opposite, and feeling chastised for the action, Starsky shrugged awkwardly, moving his fingers from his cheek to trail them up and down the beer bottle. He hadn't wanted the drink, and though the smooth glass lip was enticing, he couldn't quite bring himself to take a sip. He had shocked Blaine—and himself—by turning down lunch upon arriving. Stomach churning, the thought of food was intolerable and notion of drinking—becoming uninhibited or losing any variation of control—was unacceptable. He was nervous enough without adding alcohol to his system.
"How bad is it?" Blaine probed gently.
"What?"
"That scar. It's got to be bad if you're so intent on keeping it covered up."
Mouth slightly agape, Starsky shrugged again. He didn't know how to tell Blaine that the covering of the scar was ceremonial. Too afraid to see his marred appearance, he hadn't seen the cut since he was in the hospital. The shock and grief that accompanied viewing the puckered pink skin surrounding a line of stitches had been enough to prevent him from venturing another look. He avoided the mirror while replacing the oversized bandages and shaved the same way—closing his eyes and working from memory as he glided his tri-head electric shaver across his face—and judging by the few times Hutch had volunteered to even out his sideburns after he was done, he did a fairly good job.
Starsky smiled. If he didn't return to Bay City PD, maybe he could begin a career as a blindfolded barber. It would be a real shtick—no haircuts, of course—wearing a dark blindfold with a wacky saying, he would go all out: thick warm shaving cream, sharp razors, and warm towels.
"What are you grinning about?" Blaine asked, face contorting suspiciously.
"Nothing."
"Nothing, huh? Didn't look like nothing to me."
"Doesn't matter," Starsky sighed, his daydream fading.
It was stupid idea anyway; there was no way Hutch would be comfortable with him touching another man's face. Returning his thoughts the present, Starsky found himself wondering why Blaine had chosen to bring him to this taco stand. If he had wanted to relive the old days, he had picked the wrong place to do it. The burrito place they frequented was a cart three blocks away from Metro. And just as quickly as he thought of the question, Starsky knew the answer: Blaine had taken him here because it was quiet and there was little risk of running into someone they knew. It was calculated decision, motivated in part by Blaine wanting to protect Starsky from unsolicited questions and stares—something that would have been unavoidable if they were closer to Metro—and still unsure of Starsky's mental state, Blaine had taken him somewhere where any unstable actions would be easily ignored by the people around them.
"I haven't seen you since you left your aunt and uncle's place," Blaine said, his voice soft but rich with authority. "How are things?"
"Fine."
"That's good to hear. You weren't doing too well before you decided to leave, but you look a little better now than you did then. How's therapy going?"
"Fine," Starsky repeated.
"You getting on with your psych, okay? Oh…what's her name?"
"Evans." Starsky nodded. "She's alright." Pushy, he thought. But mostly okay. Except for the fact that she knew Hutch, and they had slept together. He frowned, the dormant detail emerging from the depths of his memory to assault him with a pang of jealous anger.
"You don't look like you think she's okay."
"She's fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
"Good. How's the old car lot?"
"Same as always," Starsky sighed, thinking of the dreaded day a week—Hutch and Al had covertly arranged—he agreed to spend washing cars.
"I'm sure," Blaine chuckled. "Well, Al's glad to have you around, anyway. I think he likes having you close, especially… well, after everything you went through." Sipping his beer, Blaine's face briefly contorted with a mixture of distain and worry before he forced a smile. "How's Hutch?" he asked tightly.
Blaine didn't want to ask about Hutch—Starsky knew that—but it was a required. A necessary evil—from Blaine's point of view—and common courtesy to ask about the man Starsky had chosen to share his life with—a decision that Blaine had never agreed with or fully supported. There had been bad blood between Blaine and Hutch for years, though not for the reasons Starsky knew people suspected.
"He's fine too. How's Maggie?"
"Oh, she's fine. Anxious for a visit from you; she's been stockpiling new cookie recipes for the end of summer block party. There's a few she wants to try out on you the next time you decide to spend a day at your aunt and uncle's place."
"Oh, well, next time I'm there, I'll let her know."
An awkward silence fell between them as Blaine finished his beer and ordered another and Starsky resumed his wandering gaze. He didn't know what he looking for or what he expected to see in their harmless surroundings but stomach fluttering he was certain that something was hiding somewhere, watching him closely and waiting for the sun to go down.
"You looking for somebody?" Blaine asked, shoving a lime slice in his beer.
"No. And you better pace yourself," Starsky warned, nodding at the beer. "Aren't you due back at the station soon?"
"No."
"Well, you drove us here."
"And last time I checked you were old enough to drive," Blaine laughed. "If you think I can't hold two beers then feel free to take my keys."
"I wouldn't do that."
And Starsky wouldn't; somehow not trusting Blaine's judgement seemed unwise. His methods may not always be palatable but his intensions were always solid. Blaine was a lot like Hutch that way: sometimes gruff but always dependable and fiercely protective about the people he loved.
"Speaking of cars, are you on the lookout new wheels yet?"
"What?" Starsky scoffed, eyes wide over the absurdity of the question. "I got a car, John, what do I need another one for?"
"Shit." Inhaling sharply, Blaine held his breath then pushed out the air with a groan, his face falling with guilt and a hint of regret. "Bud, I'm sorry. I thought you knew."
"Knew what?"
"The Camaro is totaled."
"No, it isn't," Starsky snorted, certain that car wasn't gone. It couldn't be; it was at home, parked safely in the garage of the beach house—where it had been since before he was taken.
But they didn't live at the beach house anymore, and he hadn't seen the car parked anywhere in their new neighborhood—not behind the building in either of the reserved places for their apartment, or on the street. Frowning, Starsky pressed his hands to the sides of his head, and struggled to recall the last time he had seen his car. He had driven to car to The Pits to play pool and Huggy had sent him home in a cab. Where had the car gone, and why hadn't anyone mentioned—why hadn't he noticed—its absence before?
"Where is she?" he demanded, his hands dropping helplessly.
Blaine looked conflicted for a moment, watching Starsky carefully as if to judge how to best to continue the conversation. Biting his lip, he reached into the pocket of his slacks and retrieved his smartphone. He cringed as he swiped through his camera roll, his finger eventually hesitating as his phone displayed a particularly horrific photo of Starsky's car. Exhaling heavily, he placed the phone in Starsky's outstretched hand.
"No," Starsky gasped, shocked tears filling his eyes as a lump settled in his throat.
The picture was wrong. Someone had made a horrible mistake, because there was no way—no logical reason—his beloved Camaro would ever look like this. It was destroyed, its skeletal remains burned beyond recognition.
"We found her buried among the debris of the Marcus house," Blaine said gently. "I don't know how she got there, but that's where she was. The theory is that somebody drove her through the rotted out walls of the kitchen, then set fire to the house to cover their tracks." Brows knitting, Blaine paused, his face sinking with regret as he grasped Starsky's forearm and squeezed. "Oh, kid, I'm so sorry. I know how much you loved that car."
"It's fine," Starsky lied thickly, placing Blaine's phone in the middle of the table as he swiped at his eyes.
The Camaro was his prized possession; the only tangible link he had left to his father. And now the cherished car was gone. A casualty of Hutch's interest in Simon Marcus, another thing the horrifying events had claimed.
"Where..." Starsky whispered, voice quaking with emotion. He couldn't stand the thought of her sitting abandoned in a lot. Forgotten and unclaimed to be crushed into an unrecognizable heap and disposed of with the rest of the city's trash. "Where is she now?"
"I don't know, bud," Blaine sighed. "Forensics went over her as soon she as she was found, but the fire didn't leave anything useful behind. She sat in the evidence lot for a few weeks, before Hutch requested she be set free and Ryan and Dobey gave him the green light. Of course, that was before."
"Before what?"
Sighing, Blaine removed his hand from Starsky's forearm and reached for his beer bottle. Taking a deep drink, his eyes became guarded as he, seemingly, debated what to say.
"Before what?" Starsky repeated, his voice demanding as his grief over the car transformed to fear.
"Before we knew what we know now," Blaine said hesitantly, his bottle clinking against tabletop.
"Which is?"
"How much do you know about Hutch's past?"
"What do you mean?" Starsky asked, struggling to maintain his composure as his heart pounded in his chest. No, he thought. They can't know about Hutch's past; please let them know anything but the truth.
"I mean, what do you know about how he grew up and what happened to him the summer he was seven years old."
"Nothing."
Starsky's lie fell flat, and watching him expectantly, Blaine inhaled in an overwhelmed fashion.
"You don't have to be afraid to tell me the truth, bud," he coaxed softly. "You've been to hell and back, and I want you to know that it's okay to be confused about what happened, it's okay to be scared—"
"I'm not confused," Starsky contradicted, his voice too soft and unconvincing. "And I'm not scared."
But Starsky was scared, not of Hutch—not anymore—but of what the future promised. Inhaling sharply, his gaze fell to the ground. He felt numb, overwhelmed by the sudden certainty that he was about to lose something he would never be able to get back. If the department knew about Hutch's history they'd never let him return. They'd strip him of his badge, and Starsky would be left off-center, partnered with a stranger, and struggling for footing in uncertain surroundings. He couldn't go back alone, Starsky had known that early on, but having Hutch by his side meant he didn't have to—Hutch had promised they would go back together, and he had to be allowed back, his stabilizing, protective presence was the only hope Starsky had of returning to his career.
"That's what I thought," Blaine said regretfully. Leaning back in his chair, he pinched the bridge of his nose, before grimacing and slapping his hand on the table.
Starsky jumped at the sound but refused to look up for fear of what he would see reflected in Blaine's eyes. Sadness, pity, or maybe even disappointment. Sadness and disappointment he could handle, but pity was something he couldn't endure.
"I don't have to tell you how all this looks, bud," Blaine said. "You're smart. I know you've put the pieces together—"
"What pieces?" Starsky's head snapped up.
"Listen," Blaine continued, ignoring Starsky's question as he gently grasped his wrist. "I know that you know what this looks like," he repeated, his voice too gentle, his eyes too somber. Blaine was speaking to him as though he was a victim, Starsky realized. He recognized the approach because he used too, when a skittish witness or battered spouse was too terrified to tell the truth. "I know what you know," Blaine said. "But I don't know how you feel. I need you to be brave enough tell me what Hutch did, so I can protect you from anything else he might do."
"He didn't do anything."
"You and I both know that isn't true, bud."
"It is," Starsky lied, pushing the memory of Hutch hitting him to back of his mind. It didn't matter, what Blaine thought he knew, or the truth of what Hutch had done. He wouldn't incriminate him; Starsky would never betray the man he loved.
"David," Blaine said, squeezing his arm supportively. "It's okay to be afraid of telling the truth—"
"I'm not afraid!" Starsky insisted but his tear-filled eyes and shrill tone negated his claim.
"It's okay—"
"It's not okay!" Choking on his words, Starsky knew it wasn't. Nothing was okay. He couldn't lose Hutch. No matter what happened, he refused to allow anyone to tear them apart.
"I know this is hard. I know you love Hutch very much, and it's difficult to accept when people we love hurt us, but you need to tell the truth."
The truth. Starsky closed his eyes, the words echoing in his head. How could he have been so stupid? This wasn't a causal lunch, it was covert interrogation, an official interview meant to coax him into incriminating his partner.
"What happened to Hutch has got nothing to do with what happened to me." Starsky cringed, face contorting with nervousness. "What Simon Marcus did to me."
"What the darkness did to you," a familiar voice hissed in the back of his mind. "Hutch was in the darkness, how can you be sure he didn't coordinate what happened to you?"
"The bunker was identical," Blaine said regretfully. "The one we found you in is a perfect match to the one Hutch was found in."
"That's impossible," Starsky breathed. Leaning over the table, he rested his head in his hands. Blaine was lying; there was simply no way that could be.
"Is it really impossible?" the voice challenged.
"Your injuries are oddly similar to the ones documented in Hutch's case file."
"They're not the same," Starsky whispered.
"They are," the voice said.
"No," Starsky murmured, in spite of his thoughts. Hutch didn't do this—he wouldn't have.
"I'm worried about you," Blaine said quietly. "And so is Dobey. This whole situation screams Stockholm Syndrome so loud that I can barely handle it. His behavior was sketchy toward you before you disappeared…"
"John, I'm not—" Bile rising his throat and stomach churning, Starsky couldn't finish his insistent statement. He wasn't Hutch's victim—his partner hadn't done this; he would never do this.
"You know what Hutch did," the voice taunted. "And you hate him for it, and if John has his way, so will everyone else."
"I need him," Starsky whispered, anger building in his chest.
"You don't," Blaine assured. "You don't need—"
"We're done," Starsky interrupted, his voice wavering but demanding. "This conversation is over. Hutch didn't do anything, that's my story—my statement. He didn't do anything to hurt me and he will never hurt me. You be sure to document that verbatim in the report for whoever sent you to ask me about it."
Blaine's face contorted with guilt. "I'm so sorry; I didn't want to talk to you like this."
"But you had to get my statement somehow, right? And you thought you had a better chance of slipping me up—of getting me to admit something I didn't want to say if you took me to fucking lunch!"
"No, I…" Blaine hesitated, rubbing his hands over his face. "I couldn't stand the thought of hauling you down to the precinct, putting you on display for the department, and having you cry on camera in one of those tiny interrogation rooms."
"I didn't cry," Starsky insisted, though he nearly had. Wet, angry tears clung to his eyelashes, threatening to trail down his cheeks any second and refute the firmness of his words. It was all so infuriating. Didn't anyone understand that he couldn't tell the truth about what had happened? He would never be able to tell the truth—about Hutch's involvement or what had really happened in the bunker—and it was slowly making him mad.
"Or sick like your mother," the voice hissed. "You can't explain the unexplainable. You can't wish away the darkness that has wormed its way into the depths of your soul."
"Yeah," Blaine sighed. "I know what you're thinking, bud, and you're wrong. I don't want to think Hutch did anything to you. You're like a son to me. I love you, and I'm glad that you love him—that he loves you—I'm happy you've found someone you can be honest with. But I'm sorry, I don't think he's doing the same for you. He's got problems that are larger than I think you even know about, and I can't ignore what I know about his past. I can't overlook his friendship with Simon Marcus…"
"Friendship?" Starsky yelled, his voice raising an octave making the word sound loud and shrill. Irrational, he thought quickly as he closed his eyes and forced a deep breath. He couldn't allow himself to lose control; there was too much at stake to fall apart now.
"... I can't ignore what the evidence is suggesting he did. I'm so sorry, but if you won't protect yourself from him, then I'm going to do whatever is necessary to keep you safe."
"He knows," the voice whispered. "He knows everything, and he's going to make Hutch pay. He's going to take him away from you. They will take him away from you."
"John, please," Starsky pleaded. "You don't know what you're talking about. You can't possibly know what really happened."
"I know that you were brutalized by Simon Marcus and I know he didn't work alone. Someone you trusted gave him access to you."
"No! That isn't what happened—Hutch wasn't involved!"
"I thought you didn't remember what happened?"
"What?" Heart pounding in his chest, Starsky was overcome by a chilling waive of uncertainty. "How would you know that?"
"Doctor Evans—"
"My records are private! You can't look at them, you can't use them against—"
"David, you are a victim in an open investigation," Blaine said, voice soft and calm, as though he was explaining a complicated concept to a small child. "You know as well as I do, that your medical records can be subpoenaed, that the department can procure them to justify official charges if a victim is too compromised, confused, or frightened to speak to authorities on their own behalf."
"And you think I'm compromised," Starsky said, angry tears streaming down his face. This conversation was unbearable, and the thought of losing Hutch inconceivable. This couldn't be happening; Chief Ryan and Captain Dobey couldn't be allowing this.
"John used to hold you in high regard," the voice hissed. "He valued your judgement, trusted your intuition, but now that's gone. How many times did he call you a victim? Were you counting? Oh, well, doesn't matter. He is right: you are a victim. You'll always be a victim. Hutch will be torn away from you and you'll spend the rest of your life being passed from person to person. Your wishes will never be respected, your opinion won't be valued. You're a victim; nobody will ever look at you the same again."
"I think you are very traumatized," Blaine whispered, his eyes sparkling with sadness. "After what you endured, how could you not be? I think, deep down, you know the truth about what happened, but your love for Hutch, your co-dependency and misplaced loyalty, prevent you from seeing him for the person he really is. Your need for him to be strong for you is holding you back from verbalizing the truth of what happened, because I think you're afraid of living a life without him. You're afraid of tainting the perfect picture you have of him in your mind."
"He's right," the voice whispered. "You know he is. You don't want to see Hutch for who he really is. It's easier for you to deny the pain than it is to admit the truth."
"If you charge Hutch, I'll never forgive you," Starsky threatened thickly. "If I lose him, I'll never speak to you again."
"I know. But if that's the cost of protecting you then it's something I'm willing to live with."
Xx
"God-damn it, Hutch!" Huggy screamed angrily, swiping his hand over the blood spilling from his split lip. Sitting heavily on a barstool, Hutch pressed a bag of ice to his swollen eye and shrugged, an action that only intensified Huggy's frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you? You need to stop being such a crazy fucker and check yourself—"
"What happened here?" Lucas Huntley asked, his eyes scanning the small specs of blood peppering the alcohol soaked floorboards of the bar. A pair of inform officers stood at the door, questioning the last two patrons in the building as a group of EMT's assisted the remaining fight participants on the other end of the room. "Anybody get sent to the ER?" he asked. Reaching to hook his finger under Hutch's chin, he smiled as Hutch promptly pushed his hand away.
"No," Huggy said. "Thank God."
"What are you doing here?" Hutch scoffed. "This isn't your beat."
"I was in the neighborhood." Huntley shrugged. "And with all the squawking on the scanner about a brawl at The Pits, I had to see what was going down. Who started it?"
"You're looking at him," Huggy growled, nodding at Hutch.
"What?" Huntley laughed.
"I didn't actually start it," Hutch said defensively.
"You baited the guy!" Huggy exclaimed.
"He was the one who threw the first punch!"
"I know, I caught it!"
"With your face, I see," Huntley said, transferring his gaze from Huggy to Hutch. "Looks like he got a good one on you too. Where's Starsky, was he invited to this little soirée?"
"No," Hutch mumbled.
"Ah, lucky for the dude who hit you."
No, not lucky, Hutch thought, his uncovered eye widening with apprehension. Not lucky at all. "Starsky's with Blaine, Luke."
"You're kidding," Huntley exclaimed.
"I wish I was," Hutch whispered.
"Man, what is all hubbub about John Blaine?" Huggy grumbled.
"Nothing," Hutch said absently, his wide eyes locked on Huntley's protective gaze. "Doesn't matter, Hug."
"Like hell it doesn't!" Huggy fumed. "He's the reason you taunted that guy, isn't he? Your mood went sour the second I told you he picked Starsky up."
"What do you want to do, pal?" Huntley asked Hutch, his voice soft and understanding. "Want to go try find them or are you gonna wait it out?"
Hutch shrugged, transferring the ice pack from his eye to his swollen knuckles. He didn't know what to do. If finding Starsky and Blaine would help or hurt him, or if there was anything left to wait for.
"Pal?" Huntley prompted.
Swallowing thickly, Hutch's throat burned as he fought tears. All he wanted was to go home, to find a way to go back to how things were before. But it was too late for that now.
"There's something I got to tell you, Luke," he said, voice trembling. "Something that even you don't know."
"Whatever it is, we can work it out—"
"No." Tears spilled down Hutch's cheeks as he shook his head. "I don't think we can. You see I—"
Hutch's phone vibrated against the bar top, a low reverberating sound that echoed through the room and elicited the attention of the trio standing in front of the bar. Grabbing it swiftly, Hutch held it tightly in his hand, his heart plummeting in his chest as he read the text message displayed across the screen.
Starsky: I need you home NOW!
