"Do you want to talk about what brought you here today?"

Starsky frowned stubbornly as Doctor Lupton's predictable monotone question hung in the air.

Stuffy and reserved, Lupton had the demeanor of someone who was eternally overworked and never seemed to get enough sleep. Appearing as apathetic and disinterested as Starsky felt, he couldn't have been more contradictory of Doctor Evans if he tried as he sighed, tapping his pen against the blank form sitting on his desk.

"Not really," Starsky said evenly, his eyes locked on what could be a damning form depending on what boxes were eventually checked. Absently, he wondered if Lupton drawing attention to the document that would eventually make its way to both Ryan and Blaine was purposeful. If it wasn't some casual ploy of power, silently teasing and reminding him that anything he disclosed could and would be used against him—at least where his career was concerned.

Maybe if Doctor Lupton was more personable—or interested—he would have felt safe disclosing the truth. But their visits were mandatory and the topics of their conversations meticulously documented, along with even the smallest change to his medication regimen—yet another term Starsky had been forced to adhere to when returning to Bay City PD.

"Okay," Lupton said. "Well, maybe we should call your husband and ask him why you're here today, then maybe we'll get somewhere."

"What did he say to you?" Starsky had hoped that detail of who had made his appointment and why would have been quickly forgotten—or carelessly omitted—by Courtney, Lupton's flighty receptionist. "Did the two of you actually have a conversation?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"That you haven't been doing well."

"And?"

"There's more?"

"Of course not," Starsky lied. "And not doing well is a matter of opinion."

"And your opinion of the situation is what, exactly?"

"Why don't you tell me what he told you and I'll tell you how much of it is true."

"Or you can tell me what you think is wrong and I can decide how much of that is true."

"Nothing's wrong." Forcing a smile, Starsky rubbed his palms nervously over his thighs. "Everything's fine. More than fine. Fantastic."

"Really?" Lupton asked cynically. "Then tell me, Officer Starsky, why are we here? Why did your husband call this morning all-but-demanding I fit you into my already over-packed schedule?"

"I don't know." Starsky shrugged, feigning ignorance. "Maybe he's paranoid."

"He's the paranoid one." Blinking, Lupton stared at Starsky exasperatedly for a moment before shaking his head. Picking up the form, he held it at eyelevel. "Do I need to remind you that this visit has reproductions? One little check mark, Officer Starsky, that's all it'll take to put an end to your time with us. And after all the effort John Blaine put into convincing Chief Ryan to allow you back, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that if deemed unstable again, you will not be given another opportunity to return. I'm going to ask you one more time, why are we here?"

"Right," Starsky grumbled. "Well... I suppose my anxiety has been a little… much lately."

"When you say anxiety, do you mean general overall uneasiness or a sudden onset of paranoia?"

"Uneasiness."

"Any additions to your routine since our last visit?"

"Not really."

"Not really or no?" Lupton eyed Starsky warily.

"No. Everything is pretty much the same as it was last month."

In fact, Starsky thought, maybe things had remained too unchanged. Both his professional and personal life had remained painfully stagnant, suffocating him with stifling feelings of inadequacy, fear, and furious rage.

"How are you sleeping?"

"Fine," Starsky lied.

"Really? Your husband mentioned your nightmares had intensified. I believe the words he used were vivid, night terrors."

"I don't have them that often," Starsky interjected bitterly. How could Hutch have shared such a detail? Why would he? What did he have to gain?

"But they do affect your sleep," Lupton said matter-of-factly. The silent accusation of the question hung between them: if Starsky couldn't be truthful when asked such a small, seemingly unimportant question, what else was he concealing—or lying—about?

"If you already know then are you asking?" Starsky fumed as Hutch's earlier words rushed through his head in a fury inducing loop: Can I trust you to tell the truth or do I have to go down there and tell it for you? Of course, Hutch had known when he said words that the threat—and the trust the phrase hinted at—were empty. Hutch didn't need to show up to make sure Starsky disclosed what he needed to nor did he trust him to ask for the right help. Hutch had pushed him in front of the preverbal bus and then ran him over with it—again. "Sounds like you got enough of the story. He's thinks I've been manic, did he tell you that, too? Or that my anxiety is getting out of control?"

"Do you feel manic?"

"No."

"Is your anxiety becoming harder to control?"

"No!" Shutting his mouth abruptly, Starsky leaned over, resting his head heavily in his hands. "I don't know," he added after a moment, his voice calm but sad. "Sometimes I guess it is bad. But..." he paused, exhaling heartily and scratching absently at his stubble covered cheeks. "I don't think it's all my fault. I don't think how I feel can be dismissed or conveniently explained away because of my past problems."

"What do you mean?"

"Some days I feel good. I feel great even, and then, he looks at me a certain way or says something that I don't even know how to respond to, or touches me and I just... unravel. I get angry and nervous and… pissed off."

"Him, meaning your husband?"

Starsky nodded.

"Well," Lupton sighed. "That's been a reoccurring complaint from you. Prior to our first visit, I studied your psychological history and Doctor's Evans was careful to note that each of your major mental relapses occurred subsequent to you adamantly voicing concerns about your husband. Though, those were a bit more illogical. Irrational."

"I don't think like that anymore," Starsky snapped. "Not about him. Not about anybody."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure."

"I don't know if I believe that. Perhaps the current difficulties with your husband are nothing more than ugly marital issues coming to a head, or maybe it's something else that's determined to make itself known. Either way, these are topics best worked through with someone else. I'm neither a marital councilor nor am I specialized in helping you process any long-lasting effects of the trauma you endured. My role in your life—as with everyone else—is a very specific. Once a month, you tell me how you're doing, we touch base about your medication regimen, and I decide whether or not you are stable enough to be allowed to continue your employment. But I would be happy to refer you to someone who can help you work through some of your, apparent, lingering issues."

"I can't do that."

"Because there's nothing wrong?"

"Because you know what that would mean." Starsky nodded at the document. "We both know, if I talk to someone else then it's no longer a matter of a check mark on a simple form. I have twelve months of probation to survive; I can't be caught seeking psychiatric treatment outside of our monthly visits or Chief Ryan will kick me to the curb."

"I see," Lupton said, a hint of regret in his tone. "I would like to say that's first time I've heard someone say that to me, but I can't. It's the proverbial rock and hard place that a lot of officers struggle with after experiencing life-changing traumatic events. Do you save yourself, your family, or your career? Usually, they choose their career and it costs them everything in the end."

"Do you think that's going to happen to me?" Starsky asked quietly, though he was certain he knew what the answer would be. Of course he was destined to lose everything; the life he had known had already slipped through his fingertips.

"If I could offer you any advice, outside of the obvious, it would be this: stick with John Blaine. Trust his judgement, and do what he tells you to. He cares about you deeply; he'll make sure you're taken care of, no matter what happens in the end."

Xx

"I'm a terrible person," Starsky said. Pressing his hand to his eye sockets, he leaned heavily over the bar and groaned. "I don't know why Hutch would even want to be with me anymore—I don't even want to be with me anymore."

Eyebrows inclining, Huggy sighed exasperatedly. "This conversation is starting to sound too familiar." Tossing a cherry in a pink and clear sparkling drink, he pushed it in front of his troubled friend.

"What is this?"

"A Shirley Temple."

"Why the hell would I want that?"

"I'm sure you don't, but you ordered a beer that I'm not going to serve you, so consider this your consolation prize."

"My whole fucking life is a consolation prize," Starsky muttered. Shoving the straw in his mouth, he ignored Huggy's eye roll. "Did Hutch tell you not to serve me?"

"He called me early this morning," Huggy confirmed. "I'm banned from giving you alcohol until, and I quote, either your moods stabilize, or you murder him in your sleep." He grinned. "If the murdering comes first and you happen to seek respite at my fine establishment after the dubious deed, then I'm to allow you to drink as much as you want until the cops show up."

"Terrific," Starsky said flatly.

"Well, I thought it was funny," Huggy chuckled. "Especially coming from Hutch. Finding the silver lining hidden in a stressful situation doesn't always come easy to him; good for him for trying to lighten the mood with a joke."

Thinking of their rough night, and the marks marring Hutch's face, Starsky grimaced. "It's a bad one."

"I said I appreciated his effort; I didn't say it was good."

"Do you want to hear a worse one? I told Hutch I hated him last night."

"I've heard that one before," Huggy mused. "From both of you."

"But this time was different," Starsky said, though he was unsure if he could properly explain the difference in the occasions he—or Hutch— had angrily spat the damaging phrase. Though the instances where few, the mornings following them had always been the same—trading apologies and promising kisses that always turned into something more—until now. "I can't give him what he wants, Hug. Shit, I can't even give him what he needs."

"And you've asked him what he wants or needs?" Huggy asked.

Starsky shook his head.

"Then what makes you think you know?"

"I don't know. In case you haven't noticed, I'm a pain the ass these days."

"Oh, we are all well aware of that."

"Jesus, Hug." Holding his hands up, Starsky looked at them guiltily. Slight scrapes covered the back of his fingers, emphasized by the mild swelling of his sore knuckles. "I hit him, too."

"Was that a conscious or unconscious action?" Huggy asked, his tone painfully serious. "You're not reverting to old irrational thoughts, right? You're not having weird paranoid feelings about him, again, are you?"

"Unconscious. He was trying to wake me up and I couldn't let go of the dream I was having." Starsky shivered as the fragmented images of the nightmare came rushing back. A dark basement unlike anything he remembered and a grinding voice he recalled all too well. "I threw some punches and Mitchell stormed in and broke it up."

"How did Hutch react to that?"

"How do you think he reacted? He told him to get the hell out. But then this morning, Mitchell gets on me about not being careful enough with Hutch's feelings, like I should treat him better or something."

Of course, there were other things Mitchell had disclosed, but Starsky couldn't talk about those. He didn't want to dwell on what he didn't know about his husband, or the trauma and fractured relationships lurking in the past. Mitchell had said Hutch didn't know how to be loved unconditionally—a haunting statement, to say the least—but Starsky wasn't sure he could disagree.

Secretive and guarded, Hutch had always been a little too careful about who he allowed in his life and what he disclosed. Endlessly protective of Starsky, Hutch had always done things on his own terms, feigning intense bravery and steadfast strength to a fault. Though there were times when Starsky saw him crumble—when tiny hints of the past had broken through—, those moments were as few as they were intense, and all-too-easily ignored by quick Hutch's insistence he was fine.

I'm fine, Starsk. Just tired. Or stressed out. Or hungry. Or not caffeinated enough. Starsky shook his head; pre-Marcus, how many times had he heard those words escape his husband's mouth? How many times had he ignored his gut instinct and allowed Hutch to carefully re-bury his deepest darkest wounds?

"Sounds like a good best friend," Huggy said and Starsky's face set in a bitter scowl. "If you think that there haven't been times when I've said to same to Hutch, or told him to quit being an asshole to you, then you're dead wrong. Sometimes good friends are the only ones brave enough to tell you the truth, that's what makes them good friends." He smiled, a hint of laugher in his eyes. "Now, tell me about those punches. Did Hutch's perfect jawline survive?"

"Are you kidding? Here I am telling you all this heavy shit and all you care about is the damage my hits left behind."

"It can't be any worse than the aftermath of some of your angry words, now can it?"

"It's worse," Starsky said, though he was helpless to explain how. Maybe it was because the physical assault left a mark, a gut-wrenching tangible reminder of what had been done. Harsh words were different; quickly absorbed and internalized, the pain they caused were easily dismissed—or seemingly forgotten. "If someone else would have hurt him like that, if they left marks like that, I'd want to kill them."

"What did Hutch say about it?"

"He said it was fine."

"And I'm sure it is," Huggy assured. "He'd tell you if it wasn't."

But Starsky wasn't certain Hutch would, not with the way things were now.

"He treats me like I'm broken, Hug. Everyone does. Like I'm something to be taken care of, like they're afraid that any second I'm going to fucking snap."

"You can't blame people for that." Huggy tilted his head thoughtfully, his expression sinking. "Starsky, the flips in your mental status have been worse than roller coaster, and you may not want to remember or dwell on the things you've been through, because you're trying to move forward, but that doesn't mean they're easy for the people around you to forget. In two years, you have gone from completely unstable to paranoid and irrational to seemingly stable again, and then back to irrational and paranoid. And the last time you experienced stability like this, I'm sorry to say, it didn't last very long. Being forced to watch you slowly lose your grip on reality was devastating; you can't fault the people around you for wanting to protect you a little."

"But this time is different," Starsky insisted.

"Not from where I'm sitting," Huggy said sadly. "And you can't fault Hutch for treating you too gently. Christ, Starsky, there was a time when you wouldn't even look at him, let alone live with him. He's still figuring out when he can push you and when he needs to leave you alone. When he can hold you accountable or when he needs to let it go. You can't deny how hard this has been on him. We all watched you fall apart after his dismissal, but he was the one who lived it with you. He's the one who had to make the tough choices about what to do for you when your paranoia took over and things got really bad."

"But he doesn't fight with me anymore. He doesn't push back like he did before; he just gets mad, gives up, and walks away."

"And you're afraid that one of these days he'll keep walking."

"I would."

"Jesus," Huggy sighed. "Do you want to know what I think? I think that all your insecurities in your relationship don't have anything to do with Hutch, at all, because, despite everything that's happened he's still here; he's not going anywhere and deep down you know that. And that's why he's become an easy target for your anger and frustration. You take your fear out on him because you know he'll take it and because, when it comes down to it, the person you're most unhappy with is yourself. You're too afraid to accept the fact that maybe the person who's changed the most in the past few years, is you."

"Ouch, Hug."

"Sorry, man, I'm just being honest with you. It may not always be pretty, but at least you know I'll always tell it to you straight."

"Well, rumor has it, that's what makes you my best friend," Starsky said, repeating Huggy's earlier reasoning with small smile.

Xx

"Davy," Uncle Al had said, his worried voice muffled as he stood outside of the master bathroom door. "Come out and talk to me."

Barefoot and boxer short clad, Starsky stood, frozen in place, inches from the door. Hearing his uncle repeat the calm plea, he inhaled sharply, cringing in a pained manner and squeezing his hands into nervous fists as his sides.

"Unlock the door, kiddo."

"No," Starsky whispered, his voice too low to be heard. He couldn't do that; he wouldn't do that, not without knowing what was still lingering outside, hiding in the darkness of the bedroom.

Something had been there—he was certain of it. Waking him out of a deep, drug induced sleep in the dead of night, he had felt a coldness touch his skin as goosebumps prickled his body and terror filled his chest. His eyes snapped open to find Hutch's side of the bed empty and the bright night light—always shining predominately, filling the room with a comforting, warm glow— off. The room was too dark to see anything, but he had known something was there. He had felt it, an all-too-familiar stifling evil presence, and heart pounding fitfully in his chest, he was overcome by a desperate need to hide.

Grabbing the comforter frantically, he sprung from the bed, locking himself behind the bathroom door. Seeking respite in the brightness of the recessed lighting lining the ceiling of room, he had sunk helplessly to the cold tile floor, sobbing as an agonizing thought assaulted him—a terrifying truth he had known since the day Hutch had miraculously reappeared—Hutch was gone, but something else had taken his place.

"Come on, Davy," Al prompted.

"Who's with you?" Starsky demanded weakly.

"Nobody."

"Are you lying?"

"When have I ever lied to you?"

Hard pressed to contradict Al's question, Starsky asked his own. "Where's Hutch?"

"He thought it would be easier for you to come out if he wasn't here. He left with Lucky; they'll be back in a few hours."

"Did the two of you talk about me?"

"No."

"He lies, you know. Whatever he told you isn't true."

"I tell you what, kiddo, you open the door and then you can tell me what the truth is."

"I can't," Starsky admitted thickly. "You won't believe me."

"I'll believe you," Al assured. "When have I ever not believed what you had to say? Please, David, open the door."

Forehead resting heavily against the door, Starsky clutched the doorknob firmly. It felt odd in his hand, solid, weighted, and warm. He wanted to recoil anxiously, tear his hand away and calm himself under the spray of another hot shower. But he couldn't do that. Not with his worried uncle on the other side of the door. Not without knowing what Hutch disclosed to coerce Al away from his busy car lot and into the claustrophobic confines of their bedroom.

Forcing a deep, shaky breath, Starsky reached for the lock on the door. The latch ground against itself, filling his head with an echoing creak as he turned it, and long—agonizing—seconds passed before Al finally opened the door.

"Hey, kiddo," Al whispered gently, his familiar face illuminated by the afternoon sun streaming through the bedroom window. Struggling to conceal his concern, he forced a smile. "Hutch said you've been locked in there since the middle of the night. What's going on?"

Pressing his lips together, Starsky shrugged. He didn't have the right words to tell his uncle what he had felt or the truth he believed so fervently. "Is he really gone?" he asked, his anxious eyes tracking the darkened corners of the room.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I watched him leave. Are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

Al's brow puckered worriedly as Starsky refused to look at him, instead, dropping to gaze to stare aimlessly at the floor, his eyes clouded with confusion and fear.

"Still not gonna spill, huh?" Al asked softly. "Well, that's alright. How about we get you out of here and into some clothes? That way you can be ready for things when Hutch gets back."

Ushering Starsky out of the bathroom, Al pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed, He took a step back, planting his hand on his hips as he looked thoughtfully around the room—not searching for clothes for his scattered nephew, rather the right words to say.

"Hutch did a pretty good job on this place." Al nodded approvingly. "You can't even tell what mess it used to be. You know, when he first showed me the listing, I thought he was nuts. Why would he want sell the house you guys were living in for this dump? He said he liked projects and challenges, but I knew the truth. I could see it in the stubborn glint in his eyes. The kid wants what he wants; he doesn't care how much work he'll have to put into it, or what anyone else sees." Tilting his head, Al smiled. "He's a lot like you in that way."

"He's nothing like me," Starsky whispered numbly. "Not anymore."

Al flinched, grinding his jaw then clearing his throat to combat a wave of sudden tears. "You know that your aunt and I love you," he said, his deep voice uncharacteristically weak, cracking under the strain of the moment. Crouching in front of Starsky, he gripped his knees, squeezing comfortingly as he struggled to catch his nephew's wandering gaze. "I love you so damn much, kiddo. I'm so sorry things are going the way they are, but locking yourself in the bathroom for hours because your nightlight burned out or harboring paranoid feelings against Hutch—the man you love more than anybody—isn't normal."

"But it's the truth," Starsky whispered thickly, his soft voice wavering but insistent. "Why can't any of you believe that? Why am I the only one that can see what's going on?"

"You're confused."

"I'm not confused!" Eyes filling with frustrated tears, Starsky pointed helplessly at the empty doorway. "That… that thing is not Hutch."

Uncle Al had promised to believe him but he didn't, and neither would anyone else. A painful feeling of desolation overwhelmed Starsky, crippling him with panic and dread.

"David—"

"It's an imposter!"

"David, there is only one Hutch, and right now, he's doing his best to help you."

"It doesn't help. Don't you see that? It can't, and it won't. It doesn't want to. Which is why you can't let it come back. Terrible things are going to happen if it does."

"To you or Hutch?" Al asked sadly.

"It'll hurt me first, then him but only after it pushes me too far."

Xx

The aroma of hot pizza filled Starsky's nostrils when he walked through the front door.

"I'm home," he said, repeating same greeting he always did when returning to Venice Place. The words were firm but automatic. A warning that escaped his mouth before he time to consider it—or say anything else.

If he was home, Hutch never responded to the statement, but someone else always did.

Smiling, Starsky heard the telltale sound of Lucky's nails rapidly clicking against the hardwood floor, and jogging swiftly up the staircase and down the hallway he met the dog in the entry to the living room.

"Hey," Starsky said playfully, crouching to great the Dalmatian with a few purposeful scratches. "How was your day, huh? Was it a good one?"

The dog didn't answer—not that Starsky expected him to—but the joy in Lucky's eyes, the way he pushed his body happily against Starsky, licking the backs of his hands gratefully, was answer enough.

"How about your day?" Hutch asked suddenly.

Startled by the question, Starsky's head snapped up, his eyes tracking the living room anxiously.

Standing behind the sectional, Hutch smiled. Freshly showered, his wet hair glistened under the ambient lighting, offsetting the worn gray material of his worn A's t-shirt. Arms crossed, he assessed Starsky, peacefully waiting for a reply.

Fingers still buried in Lucky's fur, Starsky was too shocked to utter a word. The terrible bruising that had marred Hutch's face that morning was nearly gone; his split lip was scabbed over and nearly gone and the discoloration lining his cheek and jaw had faded to the slightest hint of yellow. Mouth agape, Starsky lost his balance, falling on his butt with a thud.

What he was seeing was impossible, but somehow it was real.

"I love you like crazy, baby," Hutch grumbled lightheartedly, remaining unaffected by Starsky's shocked response. "Please tell me you had a better day."

"Uh," Starsky breathed dumbly. "I-it was okay."

"Just okay?"

"Uh, huh."

Starsky looked away from Hutch, blinking rapidly before looking at him once again, hoping that he would see the damage that he seen that morning. But Hutch's face remained the same, somehow miraculously healed.

Miraculously healed or the way it had always looked?

The haunting question rushed through Starsky's mind. Maybe the injuries hadn't been as bad as he had originally thought; maybe, guilt-ridden, he had imagined their intensity that morning. But the explanation wasn't comforting, nor was the icy fear gathering in the pit of his stomach.

He wasn't imagining things, again—he couldn't be.

"Are you going to get up or spend the night on the floor?" Hutch joked. "I ordered pizza for dinner."

Closing his eyes, Starsky forced a deep breath, willing his anxiety to ebb. "Why?" he asked. Always striving for a staunchly healthy lifestyle, Hutch never ordered pizza on a weeknight—at least not voluntarily.

"Because I was an asshole this morning, and because, maybe, I'm little sorry, too." Bare feet padding lightly against the floor, Hutch strode to stand inches in front of Starsky. "Last night was rough," he added deeply, offering him his extended hands. "Things shouldn't have gone the way they did, but I talked to Jack today, he won't be barging in like that again."

"I talked to Jack, too," Starsky said. Staring intently at Hutch's hands, he couldn't bring himself to accept the help, for fear of what other panicked feelings the close contact might suddenly trigger. "I'm good," he mumbled, keeping his gaze locked on Lucky as he pressed his hands to the floor and finally stood.

Hutch smiled, his brows narrowing with confusion. "You talked to Jack about last night?"

"No. About other stuff."

"Good stuff, I hope."

"Okay stuff, I guess. Mostly you."

"Me?" Hutch laughed, ushering Starsky to sit at the kitchen island in front of an oversized pizza box. "I'm incredibly boring. Why would you want to talk about me?"

Except for you're not, Starsky wanted to say. With all your secrets and your propensity not to tell the whole truth.

"He told me about your name."

"My name?"

"Cam."

"Root beer or iced tea?" Hutch asked causally, standing in front of the open refrigerator door.

"What?"

Hutch's determination to ignore the seriousness of the topic was infuriating—as was his nonchalant demeanor. Didn't he care that Mitchell dared disclose the secrets he had carefully guarded for so many years?

"What do you want to drink?"

"Nothing!"

Rolling his eyes, Hutch grabbed a can of root beer. "I'm not doing this with you again, David," he said, opening the can and placing in front of Starsky. "You want to be mad at me then you're going have to pick another room to do it in, because I'm not going to listen to it tonight."

"I'm not leaving," Starsky said stubbornly.

"Well, neither am I," Hutch countered calmly. "So either change your attitude or eat silently."

"Don't tell me what to do."

"Then don't be an asshole to me when I'm trying to be nice to you."

Face contorting, Starsky felt a rush of guilt. The change in Hutch's injuries had left him feeling unsettled, off-center, but what was he really angry about? Hutch divulging his erratic behavior, undermining his careful relationship with Doctor Lupton or Mitchell disclosing Hutch's secrets.

"I don't like when you don't trust me to do things," Starsky admitted tersely.

"I don't like not trusting you to do things."

"And I don't like hearing shitty details about your childhood from someone else."

"Then don't ask someone else."

Hutch shrugged noncommittally, prompting Starsky to grapple with his anger again. Don't ask someone else. The simple statement implied that topic was something that could be easily brought up and causally explored—as though Hutch's previous obstinate avoidance of his past had never existed, as though he had never lied to cover it up.

"Anything you want to ask Jack, you can ask me," Hutch continued. "It's just as easy to talk to me as it is him."

"When?" Starsky challenged. "When has it ever been easy to talk to you about that?"

"Well, I don't know because you never tried."

"This isn't my fault," Starsky fumed. "Don't flip this on me and tell me it's my fault that I don't know the truth!"

"I'm not saying it's your fault. I'm only saying that we wouldn't know what that conversation looks like because we've never had it."

"Yeah. Because of you."

"What do you want, sweetheart?" Hutch asked calmly. "What are you trying accomplish with this conversation? You want a fight? I already told you I'm not going to give you one. So, what do you want to do, huh? Do you want to tell me you hate me or punch me again? Is that going to make you feel better?"

"No."

"Then what do you want?"

"The truth."

"About the name?"

"About why you never told me about the name."

For a moment, Hutch looked perplexed. Confused as to why Starsky would want to know such a thing. Leaning over the island, he grabbed the can of root beer, thoughtfully taking a series of drinks.

"Never told you about the name for the same reason you never told me about what happed with your mother," he said, his words taunting as his eyes gleamed with a, sudden, ill-repressed joy. "It didn't belong to me anymore."

Inhaling sharply, Starsky held his breath, frantically trying to comprehend the words that had been said. The statement itself was as troublesome as the lack of bruising on Hutch's face, but not nearly as unnerving as the panic rushing through him. A full body warning that filled him with nausea inducing dread, sending nervous chills through his extremities and leaving his heart feeling as though it might pound out of his chest.

Everything about his moment was wrong—it couldn't possibly be.

He never spoke about his mother, how bad things gotten after his father's death, how CPS had eventually removed him and his younger brother, Nicky, from her mother's care, or how, after spending two years in intensive treatment, Rachel Starsky had done everything in her power to regain custody of Nicky but hadn't wanted Starsky. She had refused to allow him to come back home.

Starsky didn't want to talk about or unearth ancient memories and the pain connected to some of the most defining events of his childhood. He had never told Hutch the truth about his mother; there was no way he could have known.