"You're quiet today," Whitley remarked, his voice noncommittal, his sunglass covered gaze locked on the empty cars surrounding them in the parking lot.

Arms crossed fitfully, Starsky grunted, shimmying himself further down, struggling to hide himself in the uncomfortable seat cushion of the passenger side of the squad car he shared with his partner. He didn't feel like talking today—hell, he had barely summoned the energy to get out of bed.

The alarm had gone off early that morning, rousing him from fitful sleep, irritating him with a shrill series of beeps that ground on his nerves and awakened deep sadness inside of him. And not feeling ready to face the world just yet—with his apprehension feeling so big and himself so small—he invited Lucky to lay beside him in the bed, burrowing both of them safely beneath the comforting warmth of sheets and weight of the down comforter. Resting his head on Lucky's side, Starsky wrapped his arms around the dog, pressing his palm against the soft fur on the Dalmatian's chest and allowing Lucky's steady breath to lull him into a deep sleep.

"Hey," Hutch's soft whisper had eventually wormed its way into Starsky's consciousness, rousing him as the covers were pulled back and warm fingers trailed first over his stubble-covered cheek then through his hair. "Hey."

"Hmm," Starsky growled, fighting the urge to roll over and return to sleep. Instead, he forced himself to open his eyes. Crouched beside the bed, Hutch smiled—an endlessly comforting sight.

"You slept through your alarm," Hutch said, words quiet and gentle. "If you don't get up now, you're not going to make to work on time."

Starsky blinked, struggling to rally the energy to care about the careful warning.

"What's the plan, sweetheart?" Hutch prompted after a few silent moments passed.

"No plan," Starsky whispered, tired voice ragged.

"Okay." Palm settling on Starsky's chest, Hutch's eyes flickered with concern but his smile remained. "So, does that mean no work today?" he asked carefully.

"For fuck," Starsky sighed, pulling away from his husband's touch. He felt as though the question flipped a switch inside of him, chasing away his sadness and awakening irrepressible fury. "Can't you let me be for one second?"

No work today, what was that supposed to mean? Was it a suggestion or an observation?

Or both?

Or neither?

Tossing the covers back, Starsky ushered Lucky out of the bed then sprung to his feet. His footsteps were firm, weighted and angry beneath his rigid body, as he moved to the closet to pull his uniform out haphazardly, leaving the wire hangers swinging in the wake of his force.

"It was just a question," Hutch said coolly. "I don't understand how you can be so pissed off about something as small as that."

"Yeah, well, you don't understand a lot of things!" Starsky spat, slamming the master bathroom door behind him.

Starsky sighed heavily, his guilt over another poorly managed morning churning in his stomach. Why did he have to be such an asshole? But why couldn't Hutch just learn to leave him alone? Why couldn't he allow Starsky to accept—or ignore—the consequences of his decisions—or his inability to make one—instead of hovering, appearing in the nick of time to prompt Starsky into action, highlighting his numbness, and making Starsky feel more incapable than he had to begin with?

"Uh, oh," Whitley laughed. "I know a frustrated sigh when I hear one. What's going on, the wife giving you a hard time or something?"

"What?"

"Your wife." Whitley nodded at Starsky's wedding ring. "You don't really talk about your personal life, but you wear a ring so, you know, I assumed."

"My wife?" Starsky repeated, struck by the absurdity of the word. Surely, Whitley knew—with Blaine's dislike of Hutch and the horrible rumors swirling the department regarding his departure, everyone had to know—who he was married to.

"Yeah. Your wife," Whitley chuckled. "Look if you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. Believe me, when I start the morning off fighting with my girlfriend it's just about the last thing I want to think about the rest of the day. Especially when I'm trying to keep my focus on the job and my head in the game. What was it about?"

"What?"

"Your argument."

Starsky blinked, struggling to comprehend if Whitley's words were covert probing for more carefully guarded information regarding Hutch or if he was laying groundwork for a poorly placed homophobic joke.

"Man, my girlfriend, Amber, gets after me all the time," Whitley continued. "She hates that I'm a cop. Well, she likes the uniform, if you know what I mean, and we've had our fair share of fun with the handcuffs, but the thought of having me out here, day-after-day, it wears on her."

"Yeah."

"Is your wife worried about you being back out here?"

"No." Starsky frowned.

"Really?" Whitley assessed him skeptically. "You've got to be kidding me. If I went through half the shit you did, Amber would never let me set a foot back into Metro. Jesus, I mean you were out for two years— "

"How do you know about all that?"

"Fuck, Starsky, everyone knows about that. Now you really are kidding me. What Simon Marcus did to you, where he held you and how you were found, man, that shit was all over the news for weeks."

"Right."

"And then the time it took you to pull your shit together enough to come back, I cannot imagine how you talked your chick into being okay with that."

"I don't have a chick," Starsky said curtly.

"Oh, well, of course you don't," Whitley said, his tone apologetic. "Sorry, man, I didn't mean it in a derogatory way. I just meant it must have been really hard for your wife to stand back and watch you go— "

"Are you fucking with me?"

"What?" Whitley's face contorted with shock. "No."

"You're serious?"

"Yes. God, man, sorry I asked. That must have been some fight the two of you had. Forget I even brought it up— "

"Not your fault," Starsky said, unnerved the moment the well-used statement left his mouth. Yesterday, Hutch had told him they were done with sorry, and though Starsky had uttered the word a few scattered times throughout the rest of the day, Hutch hadn't responded to them. Nor had he expected Starsky to explain or acknowledge his angry outburst that morning. As quickly as it had happened, it had been forgotten; sorry was dead after all. "I'm an ass in the morning," he added softly.

"Aren't we all?" Whitley grinned. "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"Your wife?"

"Don't you worry about it," Starsky rumbled, turning his attention out the windshield. Somehow—despite everything that had happened—Whitley had remained unaware of who he was married to. The knowledge hit Starsky like a summer breeze, wafting over him and loosening the knot in his chest. He felt lighter—slightly more at ease. Whitley didn't know the truth—which meant he could decide how much of it to tell. And for the first time in a long time, he felt in control, elated by prospect of only disclosing what he deemed necessary.

Xx

"I don't know if I want to do this without you," Starsky had whispered in the early morning hours of his first day back at work. His stomach was churning, his hands shaking with nerves as he forced one deep breath after another, fumbling with the buttons lining his shirt. Looking into the large mirror on the back of the master bathroom door, he cringed in a pained manner. Clothed in the foreign stifling fabric of a dark blue police uniform, he didn't recognize the man staring back at him. His hair was cut too short for comfort and his shoulders were sunken, weighted by the sudden new reality the morning had brought; his reflection looked like it belonged to a stranger. "I don't even know if I really can."

"Yes, you do," Hutch assured, his voice soft yet firm. Standing beside him, he gently pushed Starsky's nervous hands to his sides, moving his own to proficiently loop the dark buttons into the small holes of fabric. "This was what you wanted, remember? This is the day you worked so hard to have. Don't ruin it for yourself now. You should be proud; I know I am."

"But nobody else thinks I can do this—that I should be doing this."

"Forget what everyone else thinks; the only thing that matters is what you know."

"But I..." Starsky paused, inhaling a panicked breath. He couldn't return to work alone, not with the way things were now. Why did he ever think he could?

"Tell me what you know, sweetheart," Hutch prompted gently.

"I don't know anything—not anymore."

"Then tell me what you're sure of."

"The only thing I'm sure of is you, and I can't stand the thought of riding in a strange squad car, looking beside me, and not seeing you there."

"I won't be there, and we can't change that now." Straightening Starsky's shirt collar, Hutch smiled encouragingly. "But I'll be here when you come home, and I'm a phone call or a text away in the meantime. I'm always here if you need me, you know that."

"S-sure," Starsky said, the word falling as flat as Hutch's assurances failed to comfort his building anxiety. A lump settled in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him, but he ignored it, forcing a nod, then a small smile.

"You don't have to do this, you know." Hutch settled his hands on Starsky's shoulders. "I know that this was your goal, the driving force that propelled you to get to where you are, but it's okay if you've changed your mind."

"I haven't," Starsky lied weakly. Placing his hands over Hutch's he squeezed, struggling to memorize every detail of this moment—from the soft strength of Hutch's voice to the gentle love reflected in his eyes—knowing that he would need the comfort of the memory to make it through this day and whatever came after that. "You're right, you know. With or with you, I have to go back. This is something I need to know I can still do."

Xx

"Hey, Starsky, wait up!"

Hearing the words, Starsky's face puckered with a frown and abruptly turning, he nearly lost his footing on the steep cement steps lining the front of the towering Metro building.

"Hey, pal." Lucas Huntley smiled, closing the gap between them to linger beside where Starsky stood, frozen, his eyes flickering with poorly concealed confusion. "Long time no see. Where you headed?"

"Inside."

"I can see that," Huntley laughed. "I meant after you go inside, what direction are you planning on going…?"

"Huh?"

"...I'm on my way to the commissary, and I thought if you were headed downstairs then maybe I could buy you a cup of coffee, soda, something to entice you into a friendly conversation."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why?" Huntley cupped Starsky's neck fondly. "I haven't seen you in ages. I just want to know how you've been since crawling back into that suffocating uniform."

"It's not suffocating," Starsky said, annoyed by the underlying truth of Huntley's seemingly innocent words. He shrugged away the man's lingering hand and took step back, assessing him carefully.

Huntley planted his hands on his hips. "Okay," he said his voice light but knowing. "I get it. I've always been closer to Hutch than you and I came on a bit too strong. Let's start over. Hi, Starsky, I'm Lucas Huntley—you remember me, right? I'm the guy who recruited your other-half, the guy who tried to steal you from Blaine's team years ago, long before Dobey came along and scooped both you and Hutch up for Zebra detail. Anyway, this is the first time I've seen you since you've been back to work. If you have a second, I'd really like to talk to you, just to catch up and hear how things are going."

Glancing at his wristwatch, Starsky groaned, feigning disinterest in the offer. "I'm off the clock in 5—"

"Great!" Huntley grinned. "Screw the commissary, let's go have a beer."

Xx

"I saw Hutch the other day," Huntley said, his eyes guarded as he sipped his beer and glanced around the nearly empty bar.

Starsky had wanted to go to the Pits, an invitation Huntley had quickly declined. He wanted to go somewhere new; somewhere neither of them had been before—at least while in the company of one another. And, so, Starsky found himself sitting across from Hutch's mentor in a ratty cigarette charred claustrophobic booth in the back of a tiny hole in the wall bar off of Third Street.

"Yeah?" Starsky asked, though Huntley's statement was far from a surprise. Hutch's once a week lunch meetings with Huntley were no secret. After all, the man was his mentor, his substitute father of sorts, and the only living person in the word, aside from Starsky, who seemed capable of accepting him unconditionally.

"He's looking pretty good these days. Happy. Like he's not as weighted as he used to be. I don't like the looks of you, though. Something about you feels strange." Huntley smiled. "Or maybe it's just that damn uniform throwing me off."

"This damn uniform was the only offer I got when I was finally cleared to come back," Starsky groused. "Drop the bull-shit, Lucas. Why are we really here?"

"I told you, I just wanted to know how—"

"Things are going," Starsky finished forcefully. "Yeah, I know, but why?"

"Oh, that hurts, pal. Really cuts me deep. I'm tight with Hutch but I care about you too. You two guys, you're my like my kids, and you're gonna fault me for wanting to know how your life is going."

"It's going. Though some days I wonder where."

"Well, you can join the club with that sentiment, Starsky. I think that's the furtive feeling that propels most of us through our adult years. Does what I do really matter? And how could I be living my life differently? Those are the questions that haunt most of us; the great insecurities we never bother to talk about. Speaking of ghosts, how's Blaine treating you these days?"

"Fine."

"Now, why don't I believe that?"

Starsky shrugged. "It's probably the uniform making the words seem weak," he grumbled. If Huntley was digging for dirt on Blaine then he was asking the wrong person. Starsky may not have been his superior's biggest fan at the moment—and he and Blaine had their differences from time to time, especially where Hutch was concerned—but he wasn't about to foster any ill-will or further the bad-blood that had lingered between Huntley and Blaine since their academy days.

"Probably," Huntley said, brows narrowing skeptically, but he abandoned the question, allowing them to settle into a comfortable silence.

"You said you saw Hutch the other day," Starsky said, moments later, when his beer glass was nearly empty. "What did you guys talk about?"

"Nothing much."

"Now it's my turn not to believe you."

"What do you want me to say, pal?" Huntley asked, holding his palms up exasperatedly. "That he spilled his guts to me? That we had a come to Jesus moment and he broke down in tears? You know him as well as it do. Shit, you know him better than I do. That isn't his style. He's gonna bottle his shit up until he breaks and all hell will break lose after that."

"Is that what you think he's doing?"

"Is that what you're doing?"

Pursing his lips, Starsky held his gaze for a moment, considering the seriousness sparkling in Huntley's blue eyes, until dropping it to the table. "Of course not," he whispered, though his statement was less than convincing.

"Sure." Huntley nodded. "You're hanging in, right?"

"Of course I am."

"Of course you are."

"I really shouldn't," Starsky protested as Huntley lifted his fingers, motioning at the wandering bartender for another round.

"Why?"

"One is kinda my limit these days."

"Unless Hutch says it's okay?" Huntley scoffed. "Oh, I get it, unless he's around to babysit you and never on a school night, right? Come on, Starsky, I won't tell if you won't."

But it was more than that, something that, if Hutch was confiding in him, Starsky knew Huntley was well aware of. "It isn't the drinks, Lucas," he growled, quietly seething that the man sitting across from him would even make him utter words hinting at his greatest weakness.

"It's the interference with your meds, right?"

"I'm not going to talk about that."

The bartender came and went, trading their empty glasses for ones brimming with foam and glistening with amber liquid, all while Starsky's scandalized gaze didn't leave Huntley's knowing one.

"Of course you aren't," Huntley said finally, voice soft and understanding. "Why would you want to? That shit with Simon Marcus and what happened after Ryan and Dobey canned Hutch, that's in your rear-view right?"

"What the fuck do you know about it?"

"Only the same shit you do," Huntley countered. "You asked me why I asked you here and what Hutch and I talk about. Well, you're the only topic of conversation, I'm afraid. He's worried about you; he thinks you've taken on more than you can handle, and he wants me to keep an eye on you."

"Great." Starsky frowned, enclosing his beer glass in what he wished was a grip tight enough to shatter the frosted glass. Maybe if he could splinter the milky walls insulting him with their steadfast solidarity then it would fully explain the frustration pounding in his heart or the claustrophobic helplessness threatening to overwhelm him.

"So, what do you want me to say to Hutch?" Huntley asked.

"Tell him I'm doing fine—that I'm going to be just fine. He already worries too much."

"Right." Huntley looked unconvinced. "You know Starsky, you and I aren't all that different…"

"Bull-shit."

"…Hutch never really wanted to be where you are, you know? Being a cop was never his goal. He could have just as easily become a fireman, an accountant, or a doctor—Jesus, his dad would have loved that. The thing that changed his life was a chance meeting with me in a coffee shop, but you and I, we're different. Your third-generation law enforcement. Your grandad, your dad, they were both cops; this shit is in your blood. You couldn't stop being a cop if you wanted to; you eat, breathe, and live blue. And I know what that's like because I'm the same way; there's no other option for us, pal. If we can't do this then we may as well shrivel up and die. I love Hutch like crazy—you know I do; that kid and I are tight—but he's not like you and me. The generational pull, the loyalty to a badge, those are things he will never understand, and that's why he's fine not being a cop, and why, when faced with wearing a uniform or nothing at all, you chose what you did."

Foam clinging to his upper lip, Starsky shook his head, glancing at the deep navy material covering his body, his gaze fixating on bottom of unbuttoned sleeves cuffed on his forearms. The uniform was foreign, uncomfortable, suffocating—just as Huntley had said. He felt panic build in his chest as an uncomfortable thought settled in the back of his mind.

Did Lucas Huntley understand him better than Hutch? Did the man sitting across from him understand the fragmented motivation propelling him forward more than his husband ever could?

"Listen to me," Huntley laughed. "Carrying on like some old man, talking to you like the shit I have to say is valuable. I know it's not, not for a determined guy like you. Starsky, you know what's right and wrong, what's worth sticking around for and what to walk away from. I've always admired that about you; you've always known when to fight and when to quit."

Draining his beer, Starsky didn't answer; he wasn't sure if the person Huntley was describing was him anymore.

Xx

Entering the front door of Venice Place, Starsky heard muffled laughter trickle down to the landing as he hung his jacket and his head. He wasn't in the mood for this, not after the residual exhaustion from the both beers and conversation he had shared Huntley seeped into mind and body, weighing him down.

"What do you think, old buddy?"

Starsky rolled his eyes as Mitchell asked Hutch the same question that always seemed to leave his mouth after one round too many, peppering his sentences like a qualifier.

"I don't know, Jack," Hutch said. "I think I'm going to sit this one out."

"Why?" Mitchell asked.

"Because I need to be here."

"Oh, that's an excuse! You know, as well as I do, that Huggy would be happy to stay with Starsky, or his Aunt or Uncle would—"

"I'm not leaving him, Jack."

"Buddy, all we're talking about is a couple of days. A weekend away, somewhere you can blow off some steam, take a breath and a break from—"

"What makes you think I need a break?"

"Are you kidding me?" Mitchell snorted humorlessly. "With the nights he has and the way he talks to you? It has to be grinding on you, Cam, tearing you up inside. Taking a break doesn't make you terrible person, it makes you human. Jesus Christ, even live-in caretakers take a day off once in a while—"

"It isn't like that!" Hutch protested.

Starsky frowned. Damn right it wasn't like that.

"I'm home," he growled, jogging up the stairs and down the hallway. "Where's Lucky?" he asked, ignoring the guilty looks exchanged by Mitchell and Hutch as he scanned the empty living room floor.

"On the patio." Mitchell said.

"Why?" Starsky asked.

"He wanted to be out there," Hutch assured. "It's a beautiful evening, you know how he likes to lay on the hot pavement and soak up the sun."

Xx

"Hey, kid," Starsky whispered. Emerging through the half-open patio door he found Lucky, laying contentedly on the side on the sunniest part of the enclosed patio. Hutch was right: the dog did enjoy the sun. Hearing Starsky's voice, the Dalmatian pulled his head off the ground, his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as his jaw dropped, extending his lips in a smile peppered by joyful chirps.

"Don't get up," Starsky laughed as the dog shifted lazily on the ground. "Really, I'll come to you." Dropping to his knees, he smoothed his palms through Lucky's fur, leaning over to rest his scar-covered cheek atop the crown of the dog's head. "I missed you today," he whispered, a hint of uncertainty to his tone as he breathed in the dog's familiar smell. A comforting mixture of the natural shampoo Hutch insisted on bathing him with and a lingering hint of cologne and crisp dryer sheets, sparse tangible evidence only hinting at all the mornings—and nights—Starsky had allowed the dog to accompany him in bed. "You're my only friend," he admitted, the buzzed thought bubbling from the depths of his mind, spilling from his mouth.

"I really hope you know that's not true."

Starsky should have been shocked by the soft statement but he wasn't. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, seeking comfort in Lucky, the feeling of his fur under his fingertips and the smell filling his nostrils and heart with nostalgic relief.

"There's a difference between what I feel and what I know," he said finally. Opening his eyes, he stared absently at the bricks lining the far wall of the patio, enclosing the area, hiding them away from prying outside eyes all-the-while supporting the brick floor that suspended them two stories in the air. It was mind-boggling when he thought about it—a small miraculous detail of modern ingenuity that assaulted him at the oddest of times. What would happen if the bricks crumbled? How hard would he have to throw his body against it to cause a crack? What would shatter first, the mania propelling the action, his body, or the cheerful red bricks? "You, of all people, should know that by now."

"What can we do to help that?" Hutch asked, the question intermixing with the abrasive shriek of a patio chair being pulled across the ground to rest inches away from where Lucky and Starsky sat. "There's got to be something I can do."

Squeezing his eyes shut, Starsky cringed painfully, the noise echoing relentlessly in his head. "You can't do anything," he whispered. "And, really, you've done enough."

Hanging his head, Hutch exhaled heavily, running his hands over his face. "Where were you today?" he asked quietly. "You got off hours ago. You know you can't just disappear like that. You need to tell me where you are."

"Nowhere."

"Who were you with?"

"Nobody."

"Nowhere and nobody," Hutch snorted sadly. "Sounds exactly like last week."

When Starsky finally allowed his eyes to open, he stared at the ground, counting the seconds that passed as he struggled to summon the courage to look at Hutch. But captive to the fear etched in his memory, his gaze remained frozen, fixated on rugged desolate cement floor. There had been a time when Hutch had hurt him, hadn't there been? An obscure time, a confusing time, when he had been held in the darkness and Hutch had been someone else.

If Starsky looked at Hutch now who would he find staring back at him?

"David," Hutch breathed, his voice a low desperate rumble. "Please, I can't help you if you don't talk to me, and we can't move past this if we don't—"

"I'm sure you do just fine," Starsky interrupted evenly, neither able to comprehend nor contend with the hint of pain Hutch was allowing himself to expose.

"You're right," Hutch murmured guiltily. Clearing his throat, he sucked in deep breath, only speaking again after long seconds passed, his words filtering out in an exhale, "I'm fine and we're fine, too. You're tired today; you knew that when you woke up and didn't want to get out of bed. I should have listened to you then, kept you home and let you ease in an out of this mood until it passed gracefully, instead of..." he paused, inhaling another taxed breath. "Well, whatever this is going to turn into, now."

There was weakness to Hutch's voice, a hint of weariness that fueled Starsky's foolish skepticism. "You're a liar," he said quietly, the callous words sounding foreign on his lips, leaving him nauseated and afraid. "I know it, and you know it, too. This won't ever pass. It can't. Not with the way things are now."

"Whatever you say, sweetheart." The legs of Hutch's chair groaned in protest as he stood. "I guess I'll leave you alone with your only friend," he added, the words a low mumble as he moved toward the door.

"I hope you have fun with your best friend, tonight."

Grabbing the door frame, Hutch hesitated in place. "Jack's not my best friend," he said evenly, turning to assess Starsky with crisp clear eyes. "If you had a firm grip on what's happening around you, you'd know that."

"You made me this way," Starsky retaliated thickly. "And I fucking hate you for it."

"Well, at least that's one truth we can both be honest about." Hutch hung his head, lifting his hand in an exasperation, his sudden sunken posture declaring a silent surrender, as he disappeared into the apartment.

Xx

Mitchell went out alone that night; though Hutch remained at Venice Place, he and Starsky didn't speak again. But it was Hutch who, when the sun dipped low in the sky and the darkness of night began to seep into the corners of the patio, took Starsky gently by the hand, leading him into the illuminated apartment and into the bedroom they shared.

When Starsky slept, he dreamed of the darkness. Hiding in the corner of a dank black basement, it was surrounded by cracking concrete floors and bleeding walls. Choking on stale air, he felt long invisible fingers clench his throat, crushing his windpipe as he violently gasped for air. Razor sharp fingernails sliced into his skin, leaving deep cuts that oozed thick trails of crimson blood. The pain was intense but the panic was immeasurable.

And when Starsky finally awoke, sweat covered and screaming, it was Hutch's steady hands that were holding him down.