"I'm sorry."

Standing motionless in space between the where the living room ended and the kitchen began, Starsky cringed as the words tumbled from his mouth. His voice was tired, scratchy from overuse; the statement sounded more like a disgruntled growl than a genuine apology, and it prompted Hutch's shoulders to sink with anticipation as he lingered, back turned, in front of the coffee pot on the counter.

Last night had been bad—one of the worst nights Starsky remembered having since he had begun having nights like these. Captive to an all-too-vivid nightmare, he had screamed and cried untial his voice gave out. When Hutch had finally roused him from the dream, Starsky had come to swinging, making a few solid connections before he felt a foreign set of hands hold him back. Despair had overcome him then, a terrible agonizing panicked helplessness that left his heart pounding and forced deep desperate sobs from the bottom of his chest as he begged incoherently to be let go.

"Let him go!" Hutch demanded.

"Are you kidding?" Mitchell asked, his shocked voice equally as loud. "After the way he was going after you?!"

"Do it. Now!"

Hutch advanced on Mitchell, forcefully pulling Starsky from his grasp. A deep sob of relief escaped Starsky as he was finally released. Body shaking with a sickening mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion, he numbly sunk to the floor.

"Buddy," Mitchell said, his voice laced with concern. "Please tell me you're not going to ignore what just happened here."

"You need to leave the room," Hutch said fiercely.

The danger lurking behind the tone prompted Starsky to look up; the second he set his gaze on his husband he wanted nothing more than to look away. A thick line of blood was smeared between Hutch's lip and nose. His jaw was irritated, red and swollen beneath an oozing split lip. He was livid and exhausted, but the anger radiating from his body only hinted at a deeper, darker pain.

"I mean it, Jack," Hutch continued. "Leave. Now. Go back to bed."

Mitchell stared for a moment, his stubborn gaze refusing to waiver from Hutch's determined one, before sighing exasperatedly and striding to the door. "How many times are you going to make him do this, Cam? How loud does he have to scream before you realize he needs more help than he's asking for, and so do you?"

"I'm sorry," Starsky repeated, gaze frozen on the back of Hutch's red and gray plaid shirt—an item of clothing he was convinced he had never seen before—as his husband refilled his coffee cup. "I know we aren't saying it anymore, but..." he faltered, choking on a thick inhale as Hutch finally turned around.

Starsky had known the night was bad but there was no denying the terrible truth of what he had done or the invisible line he had unconsciously crossed; the proof was clearly displayed on Hutch's face. His chin and cracked lower lip were painfully inflamed, decorated in a horrible array of purple and black bruising.

"It looks worse than it actually is," Hutch said, his words firm and clipped. He assessed Starsky carefully, as though trying to decipher the stability of his mood. "I bruise easily, you know that."

Feeling sick and terribly small, Starsky focused his attention on the cup clenched firmly in his husband's hand. With a stainless-steel lip, the baked enamel mug was green, speckled with white dots, and chipped and rugged from overuse. One half of the pair that had been dug out of their camping gear post move to Venice Place, its presence was odd; Starsky still didn't understand why Hutch felt the need to use it day after day. Why he would choose that mug over the clean white ones kept in a neat line on the top shelf of the open cabinets of the kitchen. But their life was like that now; a mixture of new and old, fragmented and pieced together at the same time, as they both grappled for something to hold on to weather the violence of the ongoing storm. It used to be each other and now it wasn't, Starsky thought sadly—a devastating perception he didn't have the courage to admit out loud.

Somewhere between Hutch's dismissal and Starsky's return to work, something key had shifted between them and now Starsky was clinging to his anger, confusion, and grief, while Hutch clung to whatever it was that got him through the day. The basement project and a childhood best friend, two things Starsky knew he may have been able to understand the need for if his confusion didn't always insist on being quite so loud.

"It's fine, David," Hutch said. "You didn't mean to do it and bruises heal."

"Sure."

Starsky wondered if either of their statements were true. Hutch looked like he had lost a horrendous fight and Starsky had been the one to throw the punches. How could things possibly be fine?

"Are you going to tell me what your dream was about this time?" Hutch asked.

Starsky shook his head. He had long promised himself that he would never repeat things he saw or felt when he was captive to his nightmares, for fear that they may someday become a reality.

"That's what I thought," Hutch sighed, a hint of irritation to his tone. "So, I made you an appointment with Doctor Lupton for this afternoon."

"What?" Starsky asked, unnerved at the thought of how a premature visit to his department mandated psychiatrist could be misconstrued. "But I'm not required to go in again until next month!"

"I don't care. You need to talk about your meds. Something's off and it's only getting worse. You're moody and manic, and he needs to know that. It wouldn't hurt if you started talking about a few other things, either."

"I got work today."

"No, you don't."

"What did you do?" Starsky demanded, his anger spiking.

"Don't worry, nothing you can't cover up." Pulling Starsky's iPhone out of the back pocket of his jeans, Hutch tossed it on the kitchen island. "I texted Blaine, told him you had another migraine and you wouldn't make it in."

"For me or as me?"

"Don't even start today." Patience waning, Hutch held up a warning index finger. "Not after what happened last night because you're not going to like the things I have to say. Your appointment is at two. Can I trust you to show up and tell the truth on your own or do I have to drag you down there and do it for you?"

Hutch didn't wait for an answer. Holding his coffee cup in a white-knuckle grip, he strode past Starsky and through the living room.

"I said I was sorry."

Starsky's quiet statement stopped Hutch in his tracks, but he didn't turn around.

"And I said I didn't want to hear that anymore."

Closing his eyes, Starsky was tempted to ask what Hutch did want to hear—what he could possibly say to ease the weight of the all terrible things he could never take back, or what he could do to make things a little bit better—but he couldn't work up the nerve.

Hutch's footsteps were quick and heavy as he treaded down the staircase and out of the apartment. Starsky jumped as the front door was slammed shut but refused to open his eyes, forcing himself instead to absorb the reverberation of the tense action—the only thing Hutch dare do to give a voice to his frustration and pain.

But at least Hutch had taken a break from the basement project to be available when Starsky had rolled out of bed—not that that was a surprise. Though he woke in the early morning hours, Hutch always made sure he was present in the time between Starsky awoke and departed for work. Lingering in the background, he would sip coffee, carefully watching to ensure Starsky made it out of the apartment on time. On Starsky's more difficult mornings, Hutch was more than a passive observer, quietly prompting his husband to compete necessary tasks. But they hadn't had one of those in a while.

Pouring a cup of coffee, Starsky smiled, his balance waning, as Lucky rubbed his body against his legs; a good morning greeting if he ever felt one.

"Hey, kid," Starsky whispered, crouching in front of the dog and rubbing his hands eagerly over the Dalmatian's head and neck.

"It's weird that you call him that."

Starsky hung his head, stifling a groan as Mitchell's tired voice reached his ears.

"The dog has a name, right? Why do you need to call him something else?"

Petting Lucky, Starsky didn't reply. He didn't need to justify his nickname for his beloved dog to Mitchell, and still reeling from last night, he didn't want to engage in conversation with the man who had intruded into their bedroom, tearing Hutch from his violent grasp.

But tact never had been one of Mitchell's strengths. "Boy, what a night, huh?" he laughed, seemingly unware of the fragility of the subject. Reaching for a perfect white mug, he poured himself a cup of coffee, then strode to the fridge to top off the contents with milk. "That Cam always could take a punch; it's good to see that hasn't changed."

Sighing, Starsky stood, wiping at the patches of stray dog hair clinging to his pajama bottoms.

"Why do you call him that?" He smiled as Lucky chirped excitedly, circling his legs and herding him toward the glass treat container on the far kitchen counter.

"What?"

"Why do you call Hutch, Cam?"

"That's his name."

"No, it isn't," Starsky insisted firmly. Reaching for a handful of dog treats, he pretended not to notice the clinical way Mitchell was studying him.

"Listen, Starsky," Mitchell said evenly, "I know having me here hasn't been easy on you. I know the strain it puts on you to be dealing with the shit you're going through with while having a stranger stay in your house. And it can't be easy waking up in the morning with scattered memories of what happened the night before, only to be forced to share coffee with the guy who keeps intruding in your personal space."

"It's nothing," Starsky lied, tossing a treat in the air that was promptly caught by an eager Lucky. "And I don't care that you're here."

"Except for you do; like I said, me being here wears on you, and I can't blame you for that."

"The name is wearing. It'd be nice if you called Hutch by his real fucking name once in a while."

"Hutch? Nah, that's your thing. I wouldn't want to impede."

"You're fine impeding on everything else."

"So, I do wear on you."

Tossing Lucky a final treat, Starsky shrugged.

"I know I do," Mitchell continued, his tone more matter-of-fact than challenging, his words soft but certain. "Because you and I are the only two people in this city—hell, probably this world—that Cam trusts himself enough to hold on to. Before I got here it was only you, so I can see how having me suddenly show up would threaten you..."

"I am not threatened by you."

"...We are the only people who know how stubborn he is, how secretive he can be. You've seen a little of that, but I've seen a lot. I grew up with him, which means I know more about him than you can ever imagine, and that," Mitchell pointed his index finger at Starsky, "is what really bothers you about me. Which leads me to what bothers me about you, if you want to know something specific about his past be direct and ask. Don't dance around the subject like some chick."

"I already did." Mitchell's words churned in Starsky's stomach like bile. He hated everything about his morning—and this moment. The night had been bad, but this day was already promising to be worse. "If you don't want to tell me why you call him Cam that's fine, but don't be an asshole about it. Don't make a big production about knowing him longer than me."

"I thought you weren't threatened."

"I'm not."

"Sure doesn't seem that way."

"Are you going to tell me about the name or not?"

"Sure." Mitchell shrugged. "Cam is short for—"

"Cameron," Starsky interjected firmly, needing to assert some kind of knowledge regarding Hutch—no matter how insignificant. "Yeah, I figured that."

"Are you telling the story or am I?" Mitchell grinned, and Starsky wondered if the man had ever taken anything seriously in his life. "When the Hutchinson twins were born, good old Dick and Emily Hutchinson were thrilled—at least to the outside eye. Imagine their excitement, a boy and a girl born on the same day meeting the quota of children they needed to keep their high society reputations intact."

Starsky grimaced as Mitchell repeated yet another detail of Hutch's life that he, himself, had only been privy to recently. He had always known Hutch had a sister but his husband never bothered to mention they were twins—not a big deal in Hutch's mind, but a gargantuan omission in Starsky's.

"The girl they named Katherine—Katie—after good old Dick's mother," Mitchell continued in a noncommittal tone. "But the boy's name they couldn't agree on. Emily want to name him Kenneth after her beloved older brother, but Dick was against it. He didn't like Emily's brother, or the wildly inappropriate extracurricular actives he was rumored to partake in from time to time. So, Dick chose a different name; he wanted Cameron, not Kenneth."

"But they did name him Kenneth. That's his legal name. It's what's on his social security card, his driver's license; you pull a background check on him and that's the name that comes up."

"Are you in the habit of running background checks on your husband, Starsky?" Mitchell laughed.

"Of course not."

"Sure, you aren't. Well, as you know, Kenneth is his legal name, but nobody ever called him that. After the twins were born the name debate went on for weeks before Cam's parents finally came to an agreement. They would put one name on the birth certificate but call him something else."

"So he became Kenneth in writing..."

"And Cameron otherwise. We've known each other since forever; he'll always be Cam to me. Shit, I never knew him as Kenneth until..." Mitchell hesitated, a guarded expression settling on his face. "Well, maybe you ought to ask him about the rest."

But Starsky didn't have to. He knew what had happened to prompt the name change. "After his uncle did what he did," he finished quietly. "What was his father like?"

"Before or after Cam was taken?"

"Both."

"Well," Mitchell sighed thoughtfully. "Dick never really was the touchy-feely type. He was strict but there was softness to him. He doted on Cam and Katie; he was quick to praise them when they'd done something worthy of it. He wanted them to have the best and be the best—piano lessons, tutoring to learn foreign languages, elite private schools, the whole bit. He expected a lot out of those kids, even early on. He was grooming them to be successful, high-functioning adults."

"And then?"

"And then dear Uncle Kenneth set his sights on little Cam and nothing was ever the same again. What happened tore that family apart, not just immediate but extended, too. It fractured relationships in a way that can't ever be fixed. Old Dick, he couldn't deal with what Kenneth had done to his perfect little son. Being a doctor, he knew how that kind of trauma at an early age could shape a person. He never looked at Cam the same. He was too distant and too judgmental. He kept waiting for Cam to turn into a monster, to model psychopathic tendencies or some kind of sexual deviance. And Emily," Mitchell exhaled heavily. "Jesus, she was awful. Callous and cruel. She treated Cam like some dirty secret. She never did forgive him for what he had "made her" brother do."

"That's terrible," Starsky whispered. Dealing with the aftermath of his own assault continued to be horrific, he couldn't imagine having to work through it surrounded by people who held him accountable for the things he had endured. He didn't want to think about the kind of issues or insecurities experiencing sexual trauma at such a young age could instill in a person, but it was a hard thought to ignore. There were certain covert anxieties pre-Marcus Hutch had always struggled with—difficulties that, now, somehow didn't seem to have a hold on him at all.

"I probably shouldn't have told you any of that," Mitchell said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. "Don't tell Cam, okay? I can only share his secrets with you if I know you're going to keep them."

"I will."

"And, Starsky, I know the two of you are struggling through your issues right now; I don't know the details of what happened and I don't need to. But please don't do what his family did. Be careful with your anger and resentment, and don't be too upset about the truths he has to keep buried or the ones he chooses to disclose. He's not used to having people stand beside him through the hard times. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone love him for exactly who he is."

Xx

"I have to talk to you about something," Hutch had said. Sitting on the side of the bed, his eyes glistened brightly but his gaze was nomadic, traveling nervously around Starsky's sterile hospital room. "And I know this isn't the best moment to do it, but I don't have a choice."

"What?" Starsky asked.

White t-shirt and pajama bottom clad, he pulled his feet to sit cross legged at the head of the bed and fiddled nervously with his hospital bracelet. Although he could stick his fingers between it and his wrist, the foreign plastic felt too tight on his skin. The edges were rough and biting, awakening a panic in his chest that refused to be ignored. They were tapering his sedation, he thought suddenly. Soon the incapacitating drugs would finally wear off and he'd be discharged and sent home.

But to what? How long would he last this time before his paranoia took over and Hutch had no choice but to admit him again?

"An old friend of mine is in the city, he's going to be living with us for a while," Hutch said.

"What?" Starsky snorted nervously. He wasn't sure Hutch had friends at all—outside of Lucas Huntley, of course. All the key people in their life had more attachment to Starsky than Hutch. "But you don't have any old friends," he whispered, biting back a panicked sob as his ID bracelet still refused to budge.

Why did they have to fasten the ID's so tightly, and why did he need a bracelet at all? He knew who he was—even if he couldn't remember anything else, he would never forget that.

"I have one old friend."

"Who?"

"Jack Mitchell."

Pulling Starsky's hand away, Hutch stuck his fingers between the ID bracelet and Starsky's wrist, pulling the offending item with his other hand. It gave way with a solid pop, and Starsky felt a rush of relief and then overwhelming dread.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said, his voice shaking with horror. "They don't like it when you do that."

"It's fine."

"But it's not. What if they don't know who I am? What if they confuse me with somebody else?"

What if they thought he was someone sicker? What if they mixed him up with somebody dead?

"That's not going to happen," Hutch soothed, smoothing his hand through Starsky's sweat-covered curls. "Everyone in this wing knows who you are by now."

"I need a haircut," Starsky said manically, his frantic thoughts shifting as Hutch's fingers highlighted yet another thing he could barely endure. Thick, hot and heavy, his hair was stifling. Claustrophobic. And the color was too dark. Near black, it reminded him of the darkness and horrible things that Hutch had done.

"But you've always liked your hair a little long." Hutch forced a smile as Starsky violently shook his head. "No, huh?" he whispered deeply. "Well, sweetheart we can get you haircut if that's what you really want to do, but I don't think it's going to help how you feel on the inside."

"Tell me about your friend," Starsky demanded, grappling for a distraction as he pushed Hutch's hand away. The touch should have felt comforting but it wasn't. Hutch's hands were somehow too warm and too cold at the same time. "The one I didn't know you had."

"His name is Jack. He's a doctor—"

"Where did he come from?"

"Las Vegas, but I knew him when I lived in Duluth."

"But you never lived in Duluth," Starsky corrected fiercely.

"Old habit."

"Old lie."

Lips forming a frustrated line, Hutch hung his head, forcing a series of deep inhales and exhales before looking at Starsky again. "You're right," he said tightly. "But it doesn't matter where Jack and I grew up. He was my best friend." He shrugged. "My only friend for a while."

"And now you want him to live with us?"

"Yes."

"Why would you want that?"

"It isn't about what I want. It's about what's best for us; what's best for you and me and—"

"If I'm too much for you than just say it. Don't hide behind your friend; don't use him as an excuse because you can't handle me at my worst."

"David," Hutch said evenly. "That has nothing to do with this. Don't turn this into something it isn't."

"You said he was a doctor! Why else would you want to bring him into our home?"

"Because he needs somewhere to live and we have the room. We'd do the same for Huggy, wouldn't we?"

"No," Starsky whispered, though he knew the word was a lie. Shaking his head, tears filled his eyes, streaming down his cheeks in thick wet lines.

"Don't cry, please." Wiping his thumbs over Starsky's tears, Hutch grimaced as his hands were once again pushed away.

"D-don't touch me," Starsky sobbed. "You know I can't h-handle you touching me."

"I'm sorry. You know I'm not any good at watching you cry."

"I won't go home if he's there!"

"Then where are you going to go?"

"Somewhere." Anywhere but home.

"Lucky will sure miss you," Hutch countered quietly. "And he's already aching for you now. Poor guy hangs out by the door most of the day, waiting eagerly for you to come back."

"I'll take him with me."

"You will not," Hutch protested in a quiet teasing tone. "Venice Place is his home, wouldn't be fair for you to take him away from it. It's your home, too. Yesterday you couldn't wait to come back and now you're saying you won't."

"Only because you want to bring strangers into the apartment," Starsky whispered.

Tears calming, he wiped his palms across the five o'clock shadow peppering his cheeks. They hadn't let him keep his beard in here; they wouldn't let him use a razor himself when they insisted his face needed a shave, either. One hand dropped limply to his side, while the other lingered behind, picking nervously at the faded scar on his cheek. He grimaced, his fingernails pinching his skin as he pressed harder, taking solace in the stinging pain. Watching him curiously, Hutch didn't pull his hand away until he drew blood.

"You know, you and me were strangers once," Hutch said, holding Starsky's wrist a little too tight.

"I'm not so sure we aren't now."

"We can never be strangers. We've shared too much to claim such a ridiculous thing now."

"What have you and your friend shared?" Starsky spat bitterly, a hint of confusion to his tone.

"Everything, and, yet, nothing at all. He's dying, you know."

"Your friend?" Starsky asked apprehensively. Finally pulling his wrist way, he avoided Hutch's piercing gaze, setting his own on the white tiled floor. "Did he tell you that?"

"No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I just know," Hutch said eerily. "He's got a brain tumor; he'll be dead in eight months. Whatever fears you're still harboring about me will long outlive him, and so will you."