Climbing the steep staircase of Venice Place, Starsky was overcome by anxiety. He moved at a lugubrious pace; putting one foot numbly in front of the other, each step expelling more and more energy as he moved further and further away from the front door.
He should turn around and run from the apartment, he thought hysterically. He didn't have to face Hutch tonight. He didn't have to face him ever; if he could summon the courage—or harness enough fear—he could turn around, leave, and never look back.
You leave as fast as you can, Blaine's fragmented words boomed in his head. You run the other way.
But Starsky knew he couldn't do that—even if he wanted to. If he continued running he would never be able to understand what he was struggling to escape. Running meant never facing the horrific truth holding him in place, freezing him in an eternal loop of devastation and fear. It meant denying the past at the expense of the future—whatever that was destined to be. It meant never having the courage to find Hutch again, never accepting the events that had led them both here, and never having the courage to burden the weight of the terrible thing Hutch had done—what his love for Starsky had influenced him to do.
He had to go forward because there was no going back, but reaching the top of the stairs, Starsky hesitated. Though well-lit, the apartment was unnaturally quiet. The recessed lights illuminating the hallway in a soft, golden hue had once been welcoming and comforting, but tonight the glow was foreboding and disconcerting, a gentle, lulled warning of the terrible things to come. Grimacing, he ground his feet on the hardwood flooring, clenching one hand in a fist at his side as the other wandered to hover by his cheek. Index finger extended, he dug at the scar poorly hidden under his short beard, ferociously smoothing the sharp tip of his fingernail up its length and back down again, an unconscious manifestation of the anxiety clenching his stomach muscles, as his gaze remained locked on the unsettling row of lights.
The hallway lights only existed because of his fear. Given the choice between lighting the short space between the living room and bedrooms and leaving it dark, Starsky theorized that Hutch would have rather kept the space unlit. There was no real reason to have the ceiling embedded with a line of circular lights. The bedrooms and spare bathroom were close enough together to not necessitate such a thing, and Hutch had always seemed to have a healthy appreciation for the dark. Though he never sought dark rooms or small spaces, he seemed to have an affinity for them as of late, an almost detached curiosity about what was hiding unseen in their depths.
No—Starsky grimaced painfully, his fingernail cutting through the scar and finally drawing blood—all the light fixtures in Venice Place had been purposefully placed for his benefit, not Hutch's.
The kitchen, living room, and hallway had been lined with recessed lighting before they moved in and the bedroom followed not long after. The subsequent lighting additions had been symptomatic of another time, of other deep-seeded fears, and different goals. Hutch—his Hutch—had installed them out sympathy, worry, and, perhaps, a little guilt. He had wanted to help, to ease the pain of the past in the only way he was certain he could. And though Starsky had been afraid of Hutch back then, it had been a different fear. Equally irrational and irrepressible, it had been born from bruised trust, yet, it had been easier to contend with somehow. Back then, he hadn't harbored a repressed belief—knowledge—that Hutch was monster, only a power mixture of anger and fear, unavoidable emotions that came with the knowledge that Hutch had made a terrible—likely, eventually, forgivable—mistake.
Oozing from his stinging scar, blood tricked down his index finger at a startling rate. Failing to absorb into his skin, droplets trailed over his hand and wrist before dropping to splatter on the floor.
"Damn it," he whispered. Echoing through the hallway, the worried words sounded hollow to his ears as he pulled his fingers away from his protesting wound, wiping them haphazardly on the thigh of his jeans, leaving dark crimson streaks behind. "Shit," he added, his eyes moving restlessly, as he heard a telltale jingle in the distance, a swift warning that his statement hadn't gone unheard. Dabbing his knuckles helplessly at over his blood covered scar, he registered a swift clicking on the hardwood floors as he was approached.
Head bowed, tail wagging apprehensively, Lucky's greeting, though passive, was predictable. Briefly, sniffing the blood droplets on the hardwood floor, he abandoned them quickly, rubbing his body against Starsky's legs to invite a few healthy pats.
"Hey, kid," Starsky said weakly. Anxious to appease the dog, he ran his hands over Lucky's head in a loving manner. "How's it going?"
Lucky yawned in reply. The ID tags on his collar jingled as he bobbed his head lazily, inviting Starsky to continue his gentle movements.
Staring hesitantly at the light filtering through the doorway of the living room, Starsky relished the comfort of the dog's soft fur, hopelessly hoping that this moment could last forever. Who knew what would become of tonight, or what would happen when he was finally faced with the Hutch who was hiding in the depths of the apartment.
"I'm not crazy," he said gruffly, the terse statement igniting the resolve that had been dampened by his unsettling trek up the stairs. "He's the monster, not me. I don't have anything to hide. I'm not the one—" Glancing at Lucky, he gasped. "Oh, shit."
Abruptly pulling his hands back, he held them high and pressed his wet fingertips together, his face sunken with distress. Though undamaged, his hands were dripping in blood. Seeping from his fingertips, the crimson liquid slid an at alarming rate, coating his hands, running past his wrists to his elbows before falling on the floor in a steady stream of solid taps. It was too much blood to have originated from his cheek, too much blood to be ignored.
Standing before him, Lucky seemed confused by his sudden distress. Tilting his head curiously, he remained unaffected by the blood. Gaping at him, Starsky was overcome by fear. The Dalmatian was marked with the smallest amount of blood, telltale streaks that he had unknowingly transported to rest upon the crown on his head. But absorbing into the stark-white fur, the blood looked wet, dark, and malign. It was too easy to imagine the blood covering his hands had seeped from his beloved dog's fragile skin, and for one horrible moment he was overcome by a startling image—a haunting premonition—a very different version of his four-legged best friend: Lips curling dangerously over sharp teeth, Lucky growled deeply. Fresh blood covered him, oozing down his body to saturate every inch of white fur and black spots.
"No." Captive the vision, Starsky stepped around Lucky and turned in place, backing toward the living room at slow careful pace. "I didn't do that," he added, his words composed of thick breaths as the dog's growling intensified. "I wouldn't do that, Lucky. I would never ever—"
Barking viciously, Lucky lunged, and Starsky jumped backwards, losing his footing as he toppled to lay on his stomach on the hard living room floor. Wind knocked from his chest, he winced painfully, gasping as his throbbing lungs refused to allow him to inhale normal breaths. Scrambling to seated position he wrapped his arms around his center, struggling to reconcile Lucky's thunderous aggressiveness seconds before and the sudden unsettling stillness of the living room. Ears ringing senselessly, he felt overcome by panic. What had spurred the Dalmatian's startling behavior? What horrific event had left him covered in blood?
Peering into the hallway, he inhaled a shocked breath. Sitting patiently in the middle of the passage, Lucky's eyes sparkled with confusion. His fur was clean and unmarked, unblemished without even the slightest hint of blood.
"No." Looking at his hands, Starsky found them clean. Holding them up, he inspected them closely, then rubbed them together, trying to deny their spotlessness. There was no blood. How could there be no blood? He had seen it—he had felt it trickling from his fingertips only moments ago.
Fingering his scar, his stomach lurched and he fought the crippling urge to cry. The scar was dry and untouched, hidden safely beneath his beard. There was no blood; there had never been any blood, not marking his hands or covering Lucky's body. The liquid had existed only in his head.
"I'm not crazy," he said, his voice quiet and taxed, though he was beginning to have doubts. His memory felt fragmented, composed of cloudy non-contextual snippets peppered with the blank spaces of memories that didn't exist at all. But his questions remained, as did the few solid details he was sure of—facts he was no longer certain confirmed the truth he believed so fervently.
He had seen invisible blood on his hands, had imagined a vicious version of Lucky who had chased him into the room. He had found dead felons and formed a friendship with one in his dreams.
What if Huggy was right? What if everyone else was right and he was wrong?
"No," he said firmly, holding on to what certainty he could. He wasn't crazy; Hutch was a monster—he was an imposter. He was dangerous, and he needed to be stopped, but from doing what, Starsky didn't know.
He didn't have solid recollections of a lot of things. He couldn't remember what had made him want to his job back so badly, or what had happened to facilitate Blaine's willingness to allow his return. He couldn't recall if Hutch had been for the decision or against it—if he had been his greatest supporter or adversary.
There had been blood on his hands and now there wasn't. What had happen to put it there?
Approaching him warily, Lucky nuzzled his shoulder and fondly licked his scar covered cheek, seemingly offering Starsky what comfort little he could. His peaceful presence seemed to say: You're not alone; I am here. I am right beside you for whatever needs to happen next.
But Starsky didn't know what needed to happen next. Clinging to Lucky, he clutched his fur in-between his fingers, desperately hoping the familiar sensation would be enough to ground him in place. He wasn't crazy; he couldn't be—there were so many other things he'd rather be than that. He hated himself for being so unsure and afraid—for being so entirely incapable of moving his body from where he crouched, frozen in place. He didn't know what was holding him there, whether it was his fear or some unseen force—the invisible power of the moment or the impending threat of seeing Hutch again.
No, not Hutch—he reminded himself. This was someone else, something else—something vicious and evil, something crafty, avoidant, and absent.
The living area was well-lit, silent, and empty, flowing seamlessly into the dim, open kitchen. The counters were well-kept, clean as usual, but Jack Mitchell's overpriced bottle of Glengoyne was sitting next to an empty ice tray on the edge of the timber island. The cap had been sealed the last time Starsky recalled seeing it, sitting unopened next to 12 pack of beer on top of the fridge. He didn't understand why it had been left how it was. His Hutch didn't drink hard alcohol and Mitchell was dead.
"Drinking that stuff is like swallowing bullets," Hutch had said once. "It disgusting. It burns and lights my brain on fire, makes me think of things better left alone."
He hadn't thought much of the confession at the time but now Starsky couldn't help but wonder what kind of memories the dark liquid woke. Vicious recollections of his Uncle Kenneth, his spiteful mother, or his condemning father?
"I don't want to know," Starsky whispered, the admission churning his stomach, filling him with both relief and guilt. He was relieved because the words were honest—a small snippet of the truth he was trying to deny—yet, he felt guilty because there was so much he still didn't know about his Hutch that he certain he never wanted to.
He knew hints of the brutality Hutch had suffered at the hands of his uncle; he had heard loose admissions of the emotional neglect and crippling pressures he had been forced to endure throughout the remainder of his youth. But that wasn't the same as hearing the truth from Hutch. It wasn't the same as being privy to the raw residual pain of such a thing. A part of him had never wanted Hutch to tell him the truth about his brutal childhood; he hadn't wanted to be expected to absorb and cope with ruthless pain he knew would accompany being privy to such a thing.
How do you began to accept that someone you love was treated in such a terrible way? How do you live with the horrific details of vicious events knowing there was nothing you could ever do to change the events or soften the pain of what taken place?
His father was never confident Hutch could live a normal life, the memory of Huntley's telling statement assaulted Starsky's ears, seemingly echoing through the empty apartment. He seemed to be of the opinion that Hutch was capable of more evil than any of us could imagine.
Pulling himself from the floor, Starsky clenched his hands as his sides. He didn't want to believe what he did. He didn't want to agree with Richard Hutchinson in thinking that Hutch was capable of anything evil. Moving numbly to the island, he reached for the Glengoyne and clutched the bottle to his chest, setting his eyes on the darkness lurking beyond the kitchen window. He didn't want to think anything he did; he just wanted his life back.
The reporter called Hutch a murder, you know, bits of Baker's snide statements came rushing back, adding to his apprehension. He's as stoic and mysterious as ever, spends a whole lot of time in the basement, doesn't come up for hours.
A shiver crawled up Starsky's spine as he thought of the basement. What was Hutch doing down there? What was he containing in its dank depths? Why didn't he want anyone to privy to what was lingering its darkness?
Whining, Lucky nudged his legs, swaying his body slightly and jarring his gaze away from the window and settling it elsewhere. Mouth agape, the bottle slipped from Starsky's hands, landing hard on the kitchen island with explosive force. He flinched and Lucky jumped as the abrasive sound echoed through the room, leaving a cluster of negative energy in its wake.
Taped predominantly on the face of the stainless-steel refrigerator doors were the pictures he had found in Hutch's wallet. Tattered, black and white images each depicting an image of a single man standing sternly in the middle of an empty, barren field, with emotionless faces and glistening eyes. Two of them were of old men Starsky didn't recognize, but the third filled him with panic and crippling dread.
"No." Taking a shocked step back, he nearly tripped over Lucky as the dog struggled move out of the way. "No, that's impossible," he whispered. "That can't be.
But somehow it was. The picture of Simon Marcus he had torn up was now whole, carefully placed in the middle of the other two.
"So, you finally decided to come home, huh?"
Gasping, Starsky turned in place, his heartbeat quickening as he found Hutch standing paces away. Patches of gray dust clung to his t-shirt and pants and his work boots were smeared with dried mud speckles. Crossing his arms, he assessed Starsky coolly.
"I'm not crazy," Starsky croaked, pointing his index finger at the offending pictures.
"Of course you're not," Hutch said. "But we do need to talk about what been happening lately."
Fearful goosebumps prickling his skin, Starsky shook his head. "No," he whispered, his voice thick with fear. There were so many things he wanted to say—so many horrendous accusations he had intended to spew the moment he walked through the door—but finally faced with the opportunity he was overcome with the desire to run. Dread weighed down his body, a heavy inescapable sensation that left him unable to move. He didn't want be here. He didn't want to have this conversation anymore. He should have taken Blaine's advice—he should have run and never looked back.
"Yes, we do," Hutch insisted. "I'd ask you how your day was, but I get the impression I already know more than you intend on ever telling me."
Starsky ground his jaw. What was the point of providing accounts of events that this version of Hutch was destined to already know?
"Huggy called me," Hutch continued. "What were you thinking throwing a temper tantrum like that? Tossing your pills was a terrible thing to do. How do you plan to sleep tonight or make it through tomorrow or the day after that?"
"I'll survive," Starsky said, the words sounding flat and weak.
"Yeah, but what about the rest of us? You picked a terrible day for such a public scene; The Pits has security cameras, that footage can be used against you."
"For what?"
"Evidence of threatening, irrational behavior for starters, or whatever anyone wants to accuse you of. Blaine pulled you from the car; you are at the center of a murder investigation."
"That's a lie. I'm out of the car but I didn't do anything. Nobody actually thinks I did anything."
"You don't think you did anything," Hutch corrected. "But there is a difference between what you think and what you know. And appears that your certainty isn't shared by your superiors or peers. Whitley came by this afternoon, he had Dobey with him. They questioned me and confiscated your gun."
"What?" Starsky breathed, hardly comprehending the words. "Why would they do that? Why would Whitley be with Dobey?"
"Oh, come on. You must know why. You've been partners with the guy for months. You text each other every day. There is no way you don't know why he and Dobey would be spending time together." Face frozen with seriousness, Hutch's lips formed a tired line.
"Know what?"
"Dobey's claimed Whitley, he wants him to be a part of his team. The kid is going to a Zebra, that is, if passes initiation and shows enough promise on this serial case."
Eyes widening, Starsky's stomach flipped, his mind awake with horror. "How do you know they're looking for a serial killer? They're not releasing that information to the public."
"Now is not the time to be fixating on the wrong thing," Hutch said firmly. "I know you had a very painful day, and I know you're afraid, but you have to ignore all that for a second and listen to me. It's the only way to survive what is really going on—"
"I don't have to do anything you tell me to! You're a fucking liar, and a monster," Starsky screamed hysterically. Hutch took a step forward and he took a step back, balling his trembling fists at his sides. "You stay away from me! Where's Hutch? What the hell did you do with him?"
"There is only one Hutch, David, and that's me."
"You're a liar. You're just saying this to trick me…!"
"I'm not."
"… To make me second-guess what I know! But I know the truth, and I'm not afraid to admit it now!"
"I am begging you to ignore your fear and listen to me."
"Hutch would never beg me for anything!" Starsky exclaimed. "Never. Not once did he ever allow himself to be weaker than me. He doesn't need me the way I need him."
"That's not true."
"It is! He's not any damn good at needing anyone or telling the truth!"
"Then what's the difference between us?" Hutch asked. "If he couldn't tell the truth and you think I'm lying then what makes me different from the man you don't think I am?"
"You're trying to confuse me," Starsky whispered. He refused to consider the question for fear of the answer he would glean.
He wasn't crazy and Hutch was monster, the pictures on the refrigerator were proof that, weren't they? As was Hutch's secrecy, his obsession with the basement and his startling drunken admission the night before. He had known things and spoken about fate the way Simon Marcus once had—he had talked about Jack Mitchell's death as though it was preventable. He had talked about Starsky's mental instability—the voices he had once heard—as though they had been healed.
"I'm not trying to confuse you," Hutch said. Holding his hands up in surrender, he closed the gap between them with slow careful strides. "I have never tried to confuse you. Not since Simon Marcus's death have I ever lied to you. The only thing I have done is tried to help you."
"Who are you?" Starsky whispered. He took a step back, then another and another, panic building his chest as Hutch matched his strides. He only stopped retreating when his back hit the side of the kitchen island. The contact was startling and stinging; grimacing painfully, he inhaled a taxed breath as Hutch stopped, leaving mere inches between their chests.
"You know who I am. I'm Hutch."
"What do you want from me?"
"I only want you to see the truth."
"About you?"
"About yourself."
"Where is my Hutch?"
"Listen to me," Hutch said carefully. "The version of me you're clinging to was weak and fearful. Bound to the past, I was terrified of the future and the slightest glimmer of truth, of the past, that anyone hinted they knew. I wasn't a real person back then. But I've changed and grown. I'm not the same as I once was, but I'm not an imposture. It's ridiculous to think such a contrived thing."
"That's a lie! Where is Hutch? What did you do with him?"
"Nothing."
"Did you do to him what you did to Jack?"
"I am the only Hutch that exists, and I am right here in front of you. Jack is dead; his death has nothing to do with what you believe or don't believe about me."
"Then why won't you tell me how he died?" Starsky demanded, his voice shrill as he lifted his hands and attempted to push Hutch away.
Hutch stood strong, tall and immobile, clenching his wrists in a fierce and powerful grip. Patience fading, his demeanor shifted in an instant. "I'm surprised you care so much about the details of Jack's death," he said, his voice cutting, his expression dark. "You never gave him this much consideration in life."
"I didn't hate him," Starsky spat, writhing his body and twisting his arms in effort to free himself. "Let me go!"
"You didn't like Jack," Hutch said matter-of-factly. He squeezed Starsky's wrists impossibly tight, then abruptly let go. "Why can't you admit the truth?"
"Yeah, well, I don't like you much, either."
"You hated Jack."
"I just said I didn't hate him!" Starsky exploded.
"Which means what, exactly?" Hutch scoffed, his face set with anger. "That you didn't want him living in your house but you didn't want him dead? Oh, I know, it means you wanted him to whisper the answers to questions you didn't have the courage to ask me, but you didn't want to live with the guilt of knowing what an underhanded person you really are."
"That's not true," Starsky said, though he was unnerved by the words. He may not have liked Mitchell but he didn't want him dead. He had probed him for information about Hutch but that didn't mean he wanted to be his friend.
"Of course it is. You see, I'm still Hutch, but that doesn't mean that I haven't changed. You can't hide anything from me. There is nothing about you that I don't already know. That's the thing about the truth, David, it always finds a voice and a way to into the ears of the people you want it to remain hidden from. You can't stop what fate wants and you can't contend with time. You were jealous of Jack. You hated that he knew me when I was a child, that he was privy to everything that I tried so hard to hide from you. You hated him and you're afraid of me. You think I'm a monster. Well, I really hate to break it to you, but you're hardly the first person who ever believed that. It really is too bad that you never had the chance to meet my father, the two of you would have had a lot to talk about. He thought I was monster, too. I'm sure he would have been delighted to hear your fascinating point-of-view on the subject."
"I'm nothing like Hutch's father," Starsky insisted. "I would never—"
"Never what? Hold me hostage for mistakes I can't change? Hate me for the past while insisting that you don't? Call me a monster while violently and loudly morning the loss of who I used to be?"
Mouth snapping shut, Starsky stared at the floor, guilt churning his stomach. Anger vanishing, he was overcome by grief; he was helpless to deny the correlations between Richard Hutchinson's behavior and his own.
"I'm sorry that everything happened the way that it did," Hutch continued, his voice softening. "But clinging to the way things used to be—the person I used to be—isn't going to change what is in front of you now."
"I don't want to see it," Starsky admitted, his voice thick. "I just want my life back."
"You can't have it back. Too much time has passed, too many things have happened to allow us to be who we once were. You have to stop fighting the change that surrounds you, David. You have to have to courage to cease avoiding what you know about me. You must go forward because there is no going back."
"But I want to go back!"
"You can't," Hutch assured. "You need to stop ignoring what you know and antagonizing fate. She is angry enough at you as it is. Do you think that the connection between you and those dead men is random? Do you actually think you can survive the speculation and doubt fate was careful to insure your behavior implanted into people's minds? Everything is as she intends it to be. Fight her and she only make things worse. Reject her power and she will make you suffer in the most terrible of ways. Simon Marcus told you to be mindful of your fears because fate always has a way of making them worse. She sees every aspect of your deeply-seeded pain; she is privy to even the most hidden of your fears. She allows me to see them too. But the difference between her and I is that I will always do what I can to protect you, whereas she won't hesitate to use your past, your pain, or your fear as ammunition to destroy you if she deems fit."
Starsky flinched as Hutch extended his index finger, trailing it purposefully over the scar marking his cheek. "Scars are interesting, aren't they?" he asked. "They fade with time, but they're always there. You can ignore their presence, try to conceal them beneath other things, but they never really go away. Their pain defines you; they change you in a way that can never be explained; they fill you with fear and leave you grappling with the weight of all the painful events of the past you can't change." He smiled, lips curling over sharp teeth. "You probably don't remember how you got this scar, but I do. You probably don't understand why so many others have been burdened with the same mark, but in time you will."
"Who are you?" Starsky asked softly, bewildered by the sensation Hutch's fingertip was awakening. Warm and tingling, his scar felt different. The puckered white line of tightly healed skin seemed to loosen beneath the touch. And for the first time since the mark had appeared on his body, his brain registered the feeling of someone caressing the damaged nerves. "How can you stand there and talk about things the way you do?"
"I already told you who I am. If you would spend less time talking in circles and clinging to contrived theories you'd remember what you've known all along. You know exactly who I am, who I've been, and who I've become. But the real question is this: Who are you?"
"I know who I am."
"No, you don't," Hutch chuckled. Removing his finger, he evaluated Starsky carefully. "You say you know, but you don't, not really. Your hands are bloody and you have no idea why."
Face contorting dreadfully, Starsky lifted his hands and held them at eyelevel. "There isn't any blood," he said, his tone forced, as he smoothed his thumbs over his clean fingertips. There was blood, the thought, almost absently. But it's disappeared now. And Lucky was angry, frightened, and feral, but he's okay now, too.
"Just because you can't see it now doesn't mean it was never there," Hutch countered calmly. "It doesn't mean it won't return in the future to assault you with its truth. You know, I saw blood on my hands once. It was invisible to everyone else but I knew it existed and what I had done to place it there." Turning, Hutch looked at Lucky, smiling as the hair on the dog's back sprung to attention and he emitted a low warning growl. "He's afraid of me," he scoffed, his face contorting with something akin to awe. "Twice I saved him, once from living his life as a stray on the street, and then from the attic of the Marcus Compound. He has seen me for who I really am, he still has the audacity to growl at me."
"Lucky was never at the Marcus Compound," Starsky protested.
Chewing on his bottom lip, Hutch looked between Starsky and the dog, seemingly wanting to say something, but choosing to remain quiet, instead.
"Was he?" Starsky pressed, suddenly uncertain of himself and all the things he thought he knew.
His heart ached at the thought of gentle, loyal Lucky having ever spent a second on the property that had left them all so shattered. But little-by-little, standing in front of this version of Hutch, speaking to him in the same manner he had once spoke to Simon Marcus, he felt his fear shift. It ebbed quickly, transforming to into something between sorrow and concern. Though he knew this man wasn't his Hutch—at least not in the way Starsky liked to remember him—he wasn't a stranger either. He wasn't as golden as he used to appear but he was familiar. Blond and tall, he was a maddening combination of infuriating and comforting; his complexion was right but his eyes were all wrong. Their deep depths reflected an all-too-familiar gleam. A sparking hint of something dark—something sinister.
How could this Hutch know any of the things he claimed to? How could he talk about fate the way Marcus once had? And what was the price attached to being privy to such things? Where had Hutch been and what had he done? What kind of horrors had he invited into their lives?
"How much don't I know about that time?" Starsky whispered numbly, the question escaping almost unconsciously.
"What time?"
"When Hutch disappeared. The time between when he left and you returned."
"David, we've already been through this," Hutch said patiently. "I am the same Hutch who left and then came back."
"But you're not. You can't stand there and tell me you are when I know you're not."
"Are you the same as you were before?"
"Well, no."
"But you expect me to remain unchanged, unaffected by everything fate has put before us?"
"What do you know about fate?"
"More than I could possibly tell you. My knowledge would span lifetimes; it's more than any one man knows." Hutch tilted his head thoughtfully. "Or probably should." Eyes glistening, he offered Starsky his hands. "Don't be afraid of me," he rumbled. "Don't seek easy solutions, temporary stays in hospital rooms or medications, in an effort to soothe and deny what you don't want to accept. Stay here with me. Right now, in this moment, pick me over your fear. We aren't how we once were but we could be good again. After all, there's blood on your hands, too. If you please fate she will protect you; anger her and she will throw you to a pack of carnivorous wolves."
"I'm not afraid of you," Starsky said, though he was. He didn't want to take his hands. He was terrified that if he touched him now there would be no going back.
"Oh, sweetheart, there never was any going back. You knew that before and it's time you realized it again. The only question that remains is what are you going to do now? Are you going to hide behind another mental collapse or are you finally going to be strong enough to accept what you see in front of you?"
Starsky didn't want to hear the words that were flowing effortlessly from Hutch's mouth. He didn't want to accept that the man standing in front of him—looking too familiar, too understanding, and too gentle—was his Hutch. But his mind was weighted, his body exhausted from the tumultuous day.
Everyone else thought he was crazy or well-on-his-way to another breakdown, and this Hutch didn't. Standing before him, this Hutch wasn't denying his fears, and though he wasn't confirming them either, he wasn't asking him to be anything he wasn't. He wasn't telling him to lie or scolding him for voicing his obstinate opinion. Instead, he was accepting him. And suddenly, Starsky struggled to justify denying this Hutch the same benevolence.
He gasped as he grasped Hutch's hands. The contact was foreign but familiar; it filled his heart, warmed his skin, and soothed his frantic mind. He felt oddly at peace. Calm, comforted, detached in the most pleasurable way. Suddenly, he overcome by the truth: his Hutch left and then he had come back. No one—nothing—had returned in his place, rather, he had returned a changed man.
Hutch had changed—something had changed him deep inside—leaving his demeanor patient and detached, allowing him to be all knowing, and liberating him from the pain of his past. There was no distinction between this Hutch and his Hutch; they were one in the same. It was Starsky who had refused to see, refused to accept the truth, allowing the image of the Hutch he had once known meld into the pain of the past and all-but-disappear into the depths of his confusion and dread. But in this moment, Starsky saw him for who he really was; he was his Hutch again—his love was infinite, his strength unbounded, his touch bolstering and healing.
Nose twitching, Starsky reached for his scar; tracing his cheek, his fingertip was met with nothing but dark stubbly hairs flowing seamlessly into his beard. The scar was gone; it was as though it had never existed. "Hutch, what did you do?" he asked. "What the hell did you do to make yourself like this?"
"Nothing that can ever be taken back, and nothing I would want to if given the chance." Hutch grinned in self-satisfied way, his eyes glistening with pure joy. "Are you afraid of me?"
"No," Starsky breathed. Intoxicated by the moment, the admission easy; he had no control over his statements, no gatekeeper preventing his thoughts from becoming words. "But I'm terrified of myself. What if I'm imaging all of this? What if all of this is nothing more than vivid hallucination? I can't be crazy."
"And why not?" Hutch asked, lovingly carding his fingers through Starsky's dark hair. "There are a million more terrifying things you could be required to endure in life than that."
Though he was calm—comfortably captive to the man standing in front of him. Content, for the moment, to seek respite in the revitalizing power of Hutch's touch.—Starsky couldn't help the voice emerging from the depths of his mind: Run, the memory of Blaine's words echoed insistently. You leave as fast as you can; you run the other way.
TBC
