19

Starsky's head was a whirlwind of emotions as he came out of his drug induced sleep. He had no recollection of where he was or how he'd gotten there and the bright lights above his head hurt his eye, although the clean sheets over his naked chest felt oddly comforting and he wanted to snuggle down into them and hide. As his eye opened he got a distorted view of the man sat above him and for a mere second, he wanted to flinch away from the big blond, although he didn't know why. There was some vague memory of men hurting him, his bare knees on a cold tile floor as they stood over him, but it was too much effort to try to remember and instead, his eyes focussed on the one familiar thing in the room – the face of his partner. If he looked at Hutch it wouldn't hurt. If he looked at Hutch he could blot out the rest of the world and no-one would hurt him.

With an effort, he tried to make words, but his throat was on fire and someone appeared to have stuffed it full of sharp and blazing hot razor blades. As he swallowed he felt as though they were cutting into the soft tissues of his throat and he tried to cough them away. Finding that to be entirely too painful a procedure, he concentrated instead on breathing and locking his eye…..eye? What was the matter with the other one? on the blond presence. He tried to reach up, but his flaxen haired partner had his hand in his grasp. He'd worry later. For some inexplicable reason he thought Hutch might have been dead, and seeing the comforting presence at his bedside, he relaxed marginally back against his pillow, desperately trying to communicate his relief to his partner.

'Thank….God' he rasped with a whisper that sounded like a match striking over sandpaper.

He saw the eyebrows rise on the blond face and couldn't understand why, but he was happy just to have his partner's presence in the room and very slowly he drifted off into an intense and painful sleep.

In his dreams, Starsky was back in his white cell, cowering in a corner. Half formed shadows danced around him as he tried to swat them away with hands that were still anchored down immobile. He let out a frightened whimper and Hutch soothed his forehead as he snuggled against the comforting hand. The dreams returned and he could feel hands upon him. He was held down although he fought to escape with every fibre of his being. There was a loud noise and lights and pain as he fought for his life and a lancing pain through his head as he tried to reason why he was fighting.

And then he was in a white bathroom and the white floor was cold and the water was hot. There were men around him; men in white uniforms with cold hands, touching his body and making him shudder. They were forcing him to his knees and making him…making….Oh my God! He forced himself awake, unable to process that last small bit of information and lay quietly, his panting rasping through his sore and swollen throat as the sweat trickled annoyingly down the sides of his face, tickling at the bristles of his unshaved skin.

He looked around for Hutch and saw him laying on his bed.

'Utch?' he tried to say, but nothing came out. He tried again. 'Utch?' a little better but still no more than a cough and a wheeze. It was enough to get the blondes' attention though and the flaxen haired man sat himself up and padded over to the bed, still disbelieving that Starsky could forgive him for his actions.

Maybe that's what he wants to tell you Hutchinson. Maybe he wants to tell you to fuck off out of his life.

He bent down over the still trembling body on the bed and was surprised at how agitated his partner was. He braced himself for the inevitable.

'What can I get ya buddy?' the words sounded hollow and meaningless and he hated himself for saying them.

Starsky's lips were working, but no sound came from the tortured throat and Hutch leaned his ear close to his friend's mouth.

'Remembering……hurts' he rasped. His hand grabbed for Hutch's arm and held it in a surprisingly tight grasp.

The blonde's world fell to pieces. 'I'm sorry Starsk. I'm so sorry…you have every right to hate me. Shit, I hate myself! I should just get the hell away…I'm sorry'.

He tried to get up to leave, but the furred arm was still there, hanging onto his and he looked down in confusion. Another eye was looking back at him also in confusion and the silent lips were working again.

'Why sorry?' Starsky whispered, his eyebrows tenting in an effort to understand.

'Because I did that to ya'. Hutch pointed an accusing hand at the bruise around the olive toned throat.

'Yeah…..remember that…..better you…..than someone else….' The rasp ended in a painful, hacking cough and Starsky curled into a ball, trying to take the pressure off his damaged ribs and raw throat. Hutch rubbed his back and then handed him an ice chip from the Styrofoam cup on the nightstand, placing it on the brunette's tongue as Starsky sucked at the piece of melting heaven. He had no voice to speak with, but he still needed to communicate somehow with the man at his bedside. He knew Hutch well enough to see that he was hurting and he wanted to comfort him and to let him know that whatever had happened to him, there was no way on God's green earth that he could blame his best friend.

He took a deep breath and tried to force the words through his swollen larynx.

'I remember the drugs, an' I remember 'em waling on you when we were in that room. You….'another fit of hacking took him and shook him and Hutch paused, poised on a knife edge until Starsky was once again lying back on the pillow gasping and sweating. He handed him another ice chip and the brunette closed his eyes in bliss.

'Don't try 'n talk Gordo. Just lie quiet huh?' the blond tried to pursuade his friend to relax, but Starsky had the bit between his teeth.

'Hurts too much to talk….shut the fuck up an' listen' the whisper was sounding more painful by the minute and Hutch did as he was told, sitting back and waiting.

'I don't remember everything, but I do remember the fight. An' I was as bad as you. I felt that need to fight an' I probably would've tried to throttle you too. Just let it be Blintz. Not your fault'. he saw his partner look away and grabbed for the big square hand.

'Are ya listening to me?'

Slowly Hutch nodded, love and amazement at his partner brimming over.

'I just needed to say I was sorry' he said quietly.

Starsky nodded, the pain in his throat exacerbated by the whispered conversation. He wanted to sleep, but there was too much to say to the big man; too much to share. 'I think I'm gonna need you to be you, Blintz……to help me?'

Hutch's eyes travelled up his partner's body, fixing on the battered, bruised face. 'I'm always here for ya. You need to ask? What're ya tryin' to tell me buddy?'

The curly haired man looked away, thick black lashes veiling his stormy eyes. 'Dunno exactly. Dreams…..hope they aren't real'.

'Do you wanna tell me?'

The dark head on the pillow shook wearily. 'Too tired now….need t'sleep. Stay?'

Ice locked on indigo and Hutch smiled, more relieved than he cared to admit to his friend. Although his body craved rest just as much as Starsky's did, he sat back on the hard plastic chair and nodded, watching as the brunette's body closed down and his breaths acquired the quiet regularity of sleep.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The tall dark haired soldier walked into the hospital that afternoon and made his way up to the reception desk on the third floor. He smiled at the pretty young nurse and flashed his bright green eyes at her as she melted behind her desk.

'I'm looking for two friends. They were brought in early this morning. Dave Starsky and Ken Hutchinson?'

'Are you family?' she asked, seeing the similarity between the soldier and the dark haired cop.

'No, just a friend. But a very close one' he winked at her and she giggled.

'Could you hold on a moment, Sir? I think Doctor M'Benga wanted to see any visitors before they went in. I'll page him'.

Traff waited by the desk, idly drumming his fingers on the formica top as the nurse muttered into the telephone and within minutes, a tall black doctor bustled onto the ward, his white coat hanging open as he walked. He held out his hand to Traff and directed him into a small visitors' room. They sat down on the small spongy chairs.

'I'm Doctor M'Benga. I've been looking after your friends, Mr….?'

'Trafford. Tom Trafford, but please, call me Traff' Traff liked the straight forward approach of the doctor and warmed to him instantly.

M'Benga was continuing.

'Are you a close friend of Mr Starsky and Mr Hutchinson?'

The soldier nodded.

'Traff, I've seen some rough treatment of men in my time, but I'm afraid your friends have been through quite a lot in the past two weeks'.

Traff's eyebrows knitted together in concern. 'I know they were drugged and I know they were experimented on and made to fight. Hell, I had to watch 'em going at each other before we could rescue 'em. Is there something else, Doc?'

M'Benga nodded sadly. 'When they were brought in, they were still unconscious, as you know. We did a thorough examination of them when they were admitted to the ER. Erm…what do you know of their….erm….sexual preferences?'

The question took Traff by surprise and he paused. 'Two more red blooded heterosexual men I've never met' he said, wondering with dread where this line of questioning was going. 'Why?'

'Their memories are already beginning to return. They can already remember the last fight and the fact that they were drugged. Fortunately, in that respect, the drug's effects are short lived. The only reason they were as docile as they were when they were in captivity is because they were given the drug each day. But I'm afraid when we examined them, we found signs of abuse'. The doctor paused, letting the statement sit in the air between them.

The soldier nodded. 'Yeah, I know. They had to fight, so of course there'd be signs of abuse' he saw the look on the black man's face and the colour drained from his own.

'What are you saying here….that they….they were abused in another way? They were….' He couldn't bring himself to utter the accusation, the words sticking in his throat as his eyes searched M'Benga's for clarification.

The doctor nodded sadly. 'I'm afraid there is evidence that they were both sexually abused….maybe even raped' he said gently.

Traff got up and paced the small room, his blood boiling at what his friends had had to endure. Finally he turned back to the doctor. 'Do they know?'

'As I said. Their memories will return in full. How they will deal with this depends on how they remember it…… how they are told about it?' M'Benga's face looked enquiringly up at the soldier.

'And you think you should tell 'em?' Traff asked quietly.

'No, I think it would be best to come from a friend…..someone they trust and with whom they can let their true feelings out'.

The curly haired man let out a deep breath, understanding the enorminty of what M'Benga was asking. 'Shit, Doc. I only came to see how they were….I dunno…..dunno if I can do this. They''ll…fuck….how do you tell a guy he's been…..ya know…….and that sooner or later he's gonna remember?' He sat down heavily and put his head in his hands.

The doctor rested a reassuring hand on his shoulder. 'You said you were a good friend. You would be doing them both a great favour' he said gently, and proceeded to tell Traff the details of their injuries.