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PART ONE
Resonance - Part Two
(Post-Bloodbath)

By

SunnyD

   If possible, Starsky looked worse. Hutch's eyes narrowed as he watched his partner descend the steps and circle around the front of the car. Dark sunglasses might effectively mask bloodshot, heavily shadowed eyes, but they couldn't hide baggy clothing, ashen skin, and a tight, carefully controlled gait. Starsky tugged the door open, fished an empty coffee cup off the floor, and tossed it into the back before sliding in.

   "Mornin'."

   No reprimands about how he should take better care of his car—even if it was a hunk of junk. No annoying whistling or tuneless humming. No puppy dog face trying to convince him to stop for doughnuts. Clipped. Cold. Just as he'd been the previous night, when Hutch had called to say he'd be by a little early so they'd make the meeting.

   "That's right, you didn't. I remember now, it was something about me being self-destructive and not fit to work the streets. Guess the rest was just implied, huh, buddy?"

   "Fine. I'll be ready."

   Hutch had heard the unspoken message, loud and clear. Don't bother coming in. You're not welcome.

   "Good morning." He glanced at Starsky from the corner of his eye as he navigated the car back into traffic. "You ready for this?"

   Starsky had been looking out the window, but his head snapped around at Hutch's question, his glare razor sharp. "I'm fine. Don't start, Hutch."

   Hutch struggled to hold onto his anger, which seemed determined to slide through his fingers. He possessed a seemingly bottomless supply of patience for a wounded, hurting Starsky, but the sullen, taciturn man beside him quickly frayed his temper.

   A slight movement caught his attention and he looked down to see Starsky rubbing his wrist. The skin was smooth and unblemished, the painful abrasions completely healed, yet Hutch had seen his partner perform the gesture countless times since the kidnapping.

   "I didn't... I just meant..." He caught himself, took a deep breath. "I know this won't be easy for you. Randall's going to push hard for details—you know that. But then, he didn't have to live it."

   The hostility in Starsky's face faded to wariness. "What are you trying to say, Hutch?"

   Hutch shrugged, feeling every one of the knots in his neck and shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe just that for this case, you shouldn't expect yourself to be a cop first. You were the victim this time, Starsk. It's bound to change your perspective."

   He expected anger, or even indifference, but not the bewildered stare. "I'm always a cop first, Hutch. Don't think I know any other perspective. 'S who I am, ya know?"

   Hutch's fingers reached out reflexively to squeeze Starsky's shoulder. "Yeah." He sighed, pulled his hand back to the steering wheel. "Yeah, I guess I do."

********

   Dobey was waiting for them when they walked into the squad room. His dark, assessing eyes traveled over Starsky, now minus sunglasses to soften his haggard appearance, before locking onto Hutch. Hutch read unspoken concern in the creased brow and lifted one shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug.

   If Starsky noticed the exchange, he ignored it. "Mornin', Cap'n." He moved to the coffee machine and began pouring a cup.

   Dobey inclined his head. "Good morning. Randall's waiting for us down the hall if you two are ready."

   A nudge to his elbow and Hutch turned to have Starsky place a mug of coffee into his hand. Time slowed and Dobey faded to the background as he stared into a face as familiar as his own, eyes soft with affection, one corner of the mouth curved in the ghost of a lopsided grin.

   Hutch accepted the mug, a knot in his gut slowly uncoiling as his fingers brushed his partner's. Not a word spoken aloud, but a message sent and received.

   Dobey cleared his throat, motioning for them to follow him down the hall to one of the interrogation rooms. A tall, thin man, with salt-and-pepper hair and piercing black eyes, was seated at the long table, a file opened before him. He stood as they entered, extending his hand.

   "Detective Starsky, Detective Hutchinson, I'm Ed Randall. Thank you for coming. Why don't you both have a seat and we'll get this show on the road. I know you're busy, so I'll try not to take up too much of your time."

   Hutch shook the proffered hand and pulled out a chair, observing Starsky respond less than enthusiastically to the greeting and plop into his own seat. He wasn't fooled by his partner's deceptively relaxed disposition, though undoubtedly Randall would be. Starsky was on edge, wired, the slouched, almost insolent posture a careful smokescreen.

   If the attitude irritated Randall, it didn't show. He resumed his seat and opened the file folder, fingers rifling through pages and photos before he lifted his gaze to Starsky.

   "Detective, this is a strictly informal meeting, designed to ensure we have all our ducks in a row before the formal deposition on Thursday. I don't have to tell you how vitally important it is to back up our charges with clear, precise details of the events as they occurred. We want Simon Marcus and his crazy followers locked safely away where they can't hurt any more innocent people."

   Hutch frowned. His attention had wandered to Starsky during Randall's little pep talk, and he'd seen an odd expression flicker across his partner's face for just a moment before vanishing under the bland exterior.

   Randall paused, then continued when it was apparent that Starsky didn't intend to comment. "Detective Starsky, what I'd like you to do is recount your experience, step by step." His eyes shifted to Hutch. "I'll be asking you to fill in some gaps along the way."

   Starsky tipped back in the chair, arms laced across his chest. "Mr. Randall, I've filed a report. I believe you have it right there in front of you." His tone was courteous but firm.

   Hutch inwardly winced, licking his lips. Randall gave Starsky a sharp look before picking up a sheet of paper with his partner's unmistakable scrawl at the bottom.

   "I've read the report, Detective. There are some notable holes that need to be filled. Trust me when I say you will be asked to do so on Thursday."

   Starsky muttered something under his breath about trusting lawyers, and Dobey leaned across the table with a growl and a glare. "Starsky! Tell the man what he wants to know."

   Starsky's lips compressed to a thin, bloodless line, but he began speaking. "All right, all right. When Hutch and me got to the courtroom, I ducked out to use the little boys' room."

   "It was almost time for the hearing to begin," Randall observed. "Weren't you concerned you'd be late?"

   "Nah, I knew Hutch'd hold down the fort," Starsky answered, looking at his partner. "'Sides, it was more from principle than necessity. Every time I go to the john before a hearing, the bad guy takes a big fall. Way I see it, if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

   Hutch let a genuine grin spread across his face, which Starsky reciprocated for a moment before sobering. "I didn't see Simon's goons. Guess they must've jumped me as I was washing my hands, while my head was down. I remember feelin' like my head just exploded, then nothing."

   Randall nodded and made a brief notation on a yellow legal pad. Hutch was pleased with Starsky's calm, matter-of-fact delivery, but he also realized this was safe ground his partner had already covered.

   Randall tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the pad. "What's the next thing you remember?"

   Starsky straightened a little, pulling his legs closer to his body in an unconsciously defensive movement. "Water."

   Randall looked up. "Water?"

   "Yeah. Ice cold. They threw it on me, to bring me around, I guess." He smiled, but it never touched his eyes. "It worked."

   "Go on. Where were you at this time?"

   Starsky's left hand crept to his right wrist. "I...uh...I don't know."

   "I understand you can't tell me the exactly location, Detective. Just describe it."

   Hutch leaned forward, his eyes drawn to Starsky's fingers as they rubbed and circled. Starsky's face had gone even more expressionless, if possible.

   "I can't describe it. I couldn't see. They had me tied up and blindfolded." He stopped massaging his wrist and began picking at a piece of lint on his sweater. "I could hear them all around me, though. The shuffling of their feet in the dirt, the chanting. I yelled at them, tried to get them to talk to me, but they wouldn't say anything but Simon's name."

   Randall nodded, eyes jumping down to the report and then skewering Starsky. "Now we come to one of those gaps, Detective. You state in your report that you blacked out and woke up in some kind of courtyard or pit. What exactly caused you to lose consciousness?"

   Starsky's fingers faltered, but he kept his eyes lowered. "They, uh, weren't too happy with me yelling at 'em. Roughed me up a little."

   Randall ducked his head, trying to chase Starsky's eyes. "What exactly does that mean? Could you be a little more specific?"

   Starsky's head swung up and his eyes blazed with anger. "They kicked the crap out of me—is that what you want to hear? All of 'em. Do you also want to hear what it was like not to see it coming, not to be able to use my arms to protect myself? All I could do was lay there with my face in the dirt and pray they'd get tired."

   Hutch leaned over to lay a hand on Starsky's arm, felt the tension thrumming like live current. Randall had paled during his partner's tirade, the pencil clutched tightly between his fingers. He glanced at Dobey, finding no assistance in the pinched, careworn features.

   "Detective, do you need a moment? A glass of water, perhaps?"

   "No. Let's get this over with." Starsky looked at Hutch with a barely perceptible dip of his head. Hutch gave the arm a gentle squeeze before removing his hand.

   "Okay. When you woke up, Gail Harcourt was watching you, is that right? She had a knife, correct?"

   Starsky bit his lip. "Yeah, Gail was there, but it wasn't like she was guarding me. I mean, sure, she had a knife, but she never threatened me with it. To tell you the truth, I got the idea she was just as messed up as I was—maybe more."

   Randall raised an eyebrow. "You say here, she cut off your clothes and gave you a bath, Detective. Are you telling me that wasn't against your will?"

   If the situation hadn't been so serious, Hutch would've given in to the grin that tugged at his lips. Starsky flushed a bright red, his shoulders coming up around his ears.

   "Well, no—I mean, yeah! Of course it was against my will!" he stammered. "When someone holdin' a butcher knife tells me to do something, I don't ask a lotta questions. But Gail never hurt me, she was real gentle." He blushed again. "And she acted kinda spacey, like she'd been hypnotized or something. Half the time she didn't seem to know why she was doing what she was doing. Kept sayin' Simon dreamed it."

   Randall's mouth twisted into a grimace. "I don't want to engage in a debate over Ms. Harcourt's guilt or innocence, Detective. Let's skip ahead to your escape attempt. You managed to get loose from your bonds—correct?"

   "That's right. The water loosened up the ropes enough so I could slip my hands out. At the time I thought I'd outsmarted them..." His voice trailed off and he shivered.

   "But now?" Randall persisted, oblivious to Starsky's discomfort.

   Starsky stared blankly into space, his expression becoming distant. "I think it was all part of the game. They wanted me to try and get away. Just like a cat plays with a mouse before it eats it."

   Warning bells went off in Hutch's brain and he stiffened. He opened his mouth to say something, to warn Randall to ease up, but knitted eyebrows and a shake of Dobey's head stopped him.

   Randall ignored them both, too wrapped up in getting information. "So you tried to run. But instead of finding your way out, you found yourself..."

   "Bear." Starsky whispered it, blinking.

   "Bear?"

   "Yeah. A big one—a grizzly, something like that. Came right for me."

   "What happened next?"

   Starsky swallowed thickly. "One of Simon's freaks—Luke, I guess his name is—he was at the top of the pit, lookin' down at me."

   Randall made some more notes on his pad. "Did he say anything?"

   Starsky's eyes went flat, hard. "Yeah. He said, 'Don't make him angry, he bites.'"

   "And then?"

   "I p...picked up a rock." Starsky chuckled, but it was a sad, jagged sound. "Guess I was tryin' to live up to my name." At Randall's blank look, he added, "Don't tell me a hotshot lawyer like you 's never heard of David and Goliath."

   Hutch snickered at Randall's sour expression, and Starsky's shoulders eased a little. "Anyway, something happened. They musta called off the bear, 'cause it went out through an opening in the rocks. I figured that was my cue to get the hell outta there."

   When Randall just looked at him expectantly, he sighed. "It was like a maze in there, and I was pretty mixed up. I came around a corner and Luke was hidin' up on some rocks. He...he had a torch and he stuck it in my face." Starsky fingered his cheek and the pink, still-healing burn. "Thought he got my eye at first. The pain..." He swallowed again.

   "You say in the report there was a struggle, you fought him," Randall prompted.

   Starsky snorted. "As much as I could, half blind and wearing a dress."

   "You overpowered him?"

   A self-deprecating shrug. "Got lucky, I guess. Didn't hang around for a rematch. I saw a buncha steps leading up to a door and I thought I'd found my way out."

   "But you didn't make it."

   Starsky raised a shaky hand to scrub at his face. "Cat and mouse. They were waiting for me."

   "They?"

   Starsky's brow furrowed. "The other two freaks—what're their names? Matthew? And Peter? They had a gun."

   Randall nodded, silent for a moment as he looked over his notes and Starsky's report. When he finally lifted his head, his expression was determined. "Now we come to another one of those holes, Detective. In fact, this one's a veritable crater. What exactly happened next?"

   Starsky stiffened, his spine ramrod straight. "They grabbed me and tied me right back up again. Spent some time tellin' me how much they were gonna enjoy killing me." He closed his eyes, swallowed.

   Randall's voice cut through the fog, startling him back to the present. "Not good enough, Detective. I need to know exactly what transpired, what those three did to you. It could mean the difference between assault and attempted murder."

   Starsky was shaking his head before the lawyer finished speaking. "No. Forget it. They knocked me around some more; leave it at that."

   Hutch heard it—the edge in his partner's voice that signaled he was close to the breaking point. The interview had already taken its toll—Starsky's eyes were sunken, his skin clammy when Hutch reached out to him.

   Randall displayed irritation rather than empathy. "They won't leave it at that on Thursday, Detective Starsky, and I can't, either. They grabbed you. They tied you up. What did they do? Who else was there? Gail? Any of the others?"

   Starsky licked dry lips, still shaking his head, but his face had gone terribly blank. "No. Not Gail, she...she wasn't strong enough...so upset...confused. I didn't want them to hurt her, she..."

   "What did they do, Starsky?" Randall insisted, relentless.

   Hutch shoved back his chair and went to stand by Starsky, one hand on his shoulder. "Back off, Randall!" he hissed. "Can't you see he's had enough for today?"

   Dobey also stood. "Hutch, take it easy. Randall, I think..."

   "He's a cop, Detective Hutchinson!" Randall snapped. "He of all people should realize how important it is to put these lunatics away once and for all. Or does he want them to do this to someone else?"

   "No!" Starsky sprang to his feet, chair overturning. "No, better me than him, he can't handle it! I'm stronger, I...I...c...can take it!"

   Hutch looked into the same, sightless eyes he'd observed in the alley, icy fingers scampering up and down his spine. He gripped his friend's shoulder, struggling to force words from a bone-dry throat. "Starsk..."

   Starsky turned, seizing two fistfuls of Hutch's jacket. He reminded Hutch of a drowning man, desperately groping for a hand to pull him from the water.

   "Don't you understand? I promised." His voice was soft, keening. "I promised."

   Hutch grasped his shoulders, shooting a pleading look at Dobey. "Captain, get him out of here. Please." He jerked his head in Randall's direction, then turned back to Starsky, volume dropping to a soothing murmur. "Take it easy, Starsk. It's okay, everything's gonna be okay."

   Though he didn't understand the drama being played out, the lawyer possessed enough common sense to keep silent. He watched appraisingly as Hutch tugged Starsky to the back of the room, maintaining a quiet patter of reassurances. Dobey pulled open the door and motioned for Randall to accompany him.

   "C'mon, Ed. You heard the man."

   Randall scowled, stabbing his pencil in Starsky's direction. "Captain Dobey, if you think for one minute that I'll let this slide, you are sadly mistaken. We are not done here until..."

   "He's my detective, Randall! If I say he's done, he's done. Now, clear out and give them some space!" Dobey's roar echoed in the small room and Randall visibly jumped.

   Snatching the casefile and his papers from the table, he stalked past Dobey and down the hallway without a backward glance. Dobey hesitated, watching Hutch's continued attempts to calm his partner. With a sigh, he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him.

   Heart thudding wildly in his chest, Hutch tried to hide his own distress from his partner. Not that it mattered. Starsky was practically babbling, most of it meaningless to him.

   "Thought I could stop it...wanted to...she...she was so scared, Hutch! But it hurt, it hurt...hands over m...my head, couldn't touch the ground...over and over and over. And what good did it do, huh? What g...good did it do? They le...left me in the d...dark for days, and they took...took him, anyway!"

   "Starsky. Starsky, stop!"

   Starsky blinked, startled to silence by the sharp command. Hutch finally managed to break the death grip on his jacket and steered his partner to a chair. Pulling up another for himself, he sat down so their knees brushed. Starsky was panting, a sheen of perspiration on his pale face.

   "Look at me," Hutch said, keeping his words gentle but firm. "Deep breaths, buddy. You're going to hyperventilate. Slow it down."

   He watched Starsky fight to regain control, saw when clarity slipped back into his gaze, followed immediately by shame. His eyes slipped shut and he dropped his head into trembling hands.

   Hutch placed his palm on the bowed back, rubbing in small circles. "You okay?"

   A slight nod. After a long pause, Starsky scrubbed at his face and dropped his hands, though he didn't lift his head. "Sorry."

   "Nothing to be sorry about," Hutch replied lightly. "Randall is an ass."

   No response, not even a hint of amusement. Hutch drew in a deep breath, keeping his hand on Starsky's back. "Where were you just now, Starsk?"

   Another shake of the tousled head. "I can't, Hutch."

   Hutch bit back an angry retort, remembering the terror in his partner's eyes. "You have to. It's not buried anymore, pal. It's hanging onto your back like some kind of giant leech, sucking the life out of you. You can't keep trying to carry it alone." He moved the hand from Starsky's back to the dark curls. "You don't have to."

   Starsky finally lifted his head. His face seemed to have aged decades in the space of an hour. "You don't understand."

   Hutch bit his lip. "Yeah. I do. I talked to your mom, Starsk. I know all about those three weeks in Nam." He tried to smile. "Why didn't you tell me? Me and thee, buddy. Did you really think it would change how I see you?"

   Starsky's violent response blindsided him. His partner recoiled and stumbled to his feet. "You...you called Ma? You had no right, Hutch! How could you?"

   Hutch lurched to his own feet, angry in spite of his better intentions. "I have every right, you're my best friend! I couldn't sit by and watch you slip away, Starsky. If you weren't going to give me the answers, I had to find them myself."

   Starsky backed toward the door. "You will never understand, Hutch. I don't want you to, can't you see that? Why couldn't you just leave it alone?"

   "This is 'cause of him, isn't it?" Hutch blurted, desperation making him throw all caution to the wind. "The kid who didn't make it. You feel responsible, you blame yourself!"

   Starsky staggered, fingers scrabbling at the doorknob. "Shut up," he muttered. "Stop it, Hutch."

   "It's garbage, that's what it is! You can't save the whole world, my friend. I'm sure he understood that."

   "Shut up!" Starsky flew at him, both hands connecting with his chest in a shove that drove the breath from his lungs and knocked him backward onto the floor. "You don't know, damn it! You got no idea. It shoulda been me, Hutch. Me!" He sucked in a ragged breath like a sob. "I wish to God it had been."

   The words were a sucker punch, stealing Hutch's breath more efficiently than the shove. "Starsky..."

   His partner tore open the door and fled before Hutch could pick himself up off the floor.

********

   "What do you mean, 'he just left'?" Hutch towered over the much shorter patrolman, hands propped on his hips.

   "Look, Sergeant, how many ways do you want me to tell it? He ran down that hallway and out the door." He jerked his thumb in the direction indicated. "Now if you don't mind, I've got things to do."

   "Yeah, yeah." Hutch turned away with a dismissive flip of his hand.

   He stared at the double doors leading to the street, a gnawing ache somewhere between his stomach and his heart. He distantly felt a whoosh of air as the squad room door swung open and then a presence at his shoulder.

   "Where's your partner?"

   "Good question." Hutch turned, running a hand over his hair to cup the back of his neck. "I don't know where in the hell he thinks he's gonna go, he doesn't even have a car."

   Dobey's eyes panned the hallway and he lowered his voice. "You want to tell me what happened back there?"

   Hutch dropped his hand, his voice frigid. "I warned you what would happen if Randall pushed too hard."

   "Pushed too..." Dobey noticed heads turn and caught himself. "In my office. Now."

   "I need to find Starsky, Cap." Hutch's tone skirted the edge of insolence, worry making him sound more like his partner than himself.

   "It'll only take a minute." Dobey turned and lumbered through the squad room doors, not bothering to check if Hutch was behind him.

   Hutch stole one final look down the hallway before following.

   Dobey ushered him into his office and shut the door firmly, sinking into his chair with a grunt and gesturing for Hutch to do the same. Hutch pointedly ignored the offer, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets and stalking around the room like a caged tiger. After several minutes of Dobey silently watching him pace, he stomped over to brace his palms on the desk.

   "What is it, Captain? Why am I here instead of tracking down Starsky?"

   "You're here to level with me!" Dobey growled, leaning forward until they were nose to nose. "What I saw just now was not your partner losing his temper. What I saw was a cop on the edge, close to a breakdown. Now I want to know just how long you've been covering for him."

   Hutch took a step back and folded into a chair. He drew a hand wearily over his face. "I was gonna talk to you."

   "So talk."

   Hutch heard the note of compassion that had crept into Dobey's voice; lifted his head to search the captain's face. "Something's been eating him since the kidnapping. Something that's a lot bigger than just Marcus."

   "What?"

   "If I knew, don't you think I'd do something about it?" Hutch snarled. "He's not talking to me, damn it!" When Dobey just looked at him, he wilted. "Captain, I...I've got an idea, but right now that's all it is."

   Dobey sank back in his chair, studying Hutch as his teeth worried his lower lip. After a moment, his brows drew down in a scowl and he waved a hand at the door.

   "Go on! Get outta here."

   Not needing to be told twice, Hutch sprang to his feet and strode to the door. When his hand connected with the knob, Dobey cleared his throat.

   "Hutch."

   He turned slowly, warily. "Yeah, Captain?"

   "You're both on desk duty until further notice."

   Hutch inclined his head, then slipped out the door.

********

   Starsky stared out the window, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest and the dull throbbing behind his eyes. He was in a cab, and judging by the scenery, the driver was taking him home. The problem was, he couldn't remember how he'd come to be there. A black hole in his memory had swallowed up everything from the moment he left Hutch until he found himself on a torn vinyl seat breathing air that smelled of stale cigarettes.

   He closed his eyes, only to be confronted with Hutch's face, worry and hurt etched in fine lines around his eyes and mouth.

   The tightness in his chest grew to a crushing weight and tears burned behind his closed lids. Hutch's patience, his steadfast friendship as he refused to let Starsky push him away, hurt almost as much as knowing it was all coming to an end.

   Hutch knew. Not everything, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. The only thing that topped Blondie's ability to ferret out the truth was his pit bull persistence. He'd sunk his canines into something Starsky had managed to keep secret for ten years, and he wouldn't let go until satisfied he knew it all.

   And once he did, nothing could ever be the same.

   The cabbie cleared his throat. "That's seven dollars even."

   Starsky's eyes flew open and he flushed, scrambling to pull a ten from his wallet. "Keep it."

   He got out of the cab and stood in the driveway, one hand propped against the Torino, as the cabbie pulled away. His apartment, normally a refuge, now only magnified the stress fractures in his soul. There were bogeymen in the closet, the bed had become a place of torment rather than rest, and the air would undoubtedly still reek of his latest middle-of-the-night attempt to silence his demons.

   And he'd done the unthinkable—walked out while on duty. Dobey was probably screaming by now and Hutch would be hot on his trail. Starsky unlocked the car and slipped inside, though he made no move to start the engine. Who was he trying to kid? After his little performance with Ed "tell me all the sordid details" Randall, Dobey would undoubtedly be asking for his gun and his badge.

   Black despair, barely kept in check throughout the cab ride, bubbled to the surface. Suspension. It was the last straw, the one that broke the proverbial camel's back. Everything in his life seemed to be splintering into tiny pieces, and the tighter he closed his fist, the more they slipped between his fingers. The job was all he had left, the only thing keeping him moderately sane.

   The job and Hutch.

   And he was about to lose them both.

   Starsky folded his arms over the steering wheel and dropped his forehead onto them, ignoring the twinge as his ribs protested the position. He was tired—more tired than he'd ever felt in his life. A weariness that settled into his bones and left his brain feeling sluggish and uncooperative. Yet sleep had become the enemy, something to be feared rather than embraced. Like a record player needle stuck in a groove, his life had settled into a pattern that he couldn't seem to change or break. Late night movies, countless cups of strong coffee, long walks around the neighborhood—he'd tried all the tricks, fighting to hold sleep at bay for as long as possible until finally succumbing to sheer exhaustion. Inevitably, the nightmares followed, vivid images burned into his brain, forcing him to relive what he'd tried so hard to forget, until he thought he'd go crazy. Only the booze managed to blur them, to pad their sharp edges so he could fall into an all-too-brief but dreamless sleep.

   And in the cold, bleak light of morning, eyes burning, head pounding and stomach churning, he'd drag himself out into the world to face another day. Ignoring the overwhelming hopelessness. The feeling he was moving down a long, dark tunnel with no light at the end.

   Refusing to lie down. Refusing to quit.

   For the job.

   For Hutch.

   Take that away and...

   When is enough, enough?

   "You okay, Bronx?"

   J.T. understands without explanation. "Four days." He arches a dark eyebrow. "We were beginning to think you weren't coming back."

   The raucous sound of an angry horn coupled with the squeal of rubber on pavement jerked Starsky out of the memory with all the finesse of a bucket of ice water. The interior of the Torino felt stifling, oppressive, and with a small moan he turned the key in the ignition and rolled down a window. He had to go. Now. The where didn't matter, just so he was moving. Maybe if he drove far enough, and fast enough, he could leave Nam behind.

   Dear God, just for a little while.

   He'd had enough.

********

   When he left Metro, Hutch drove around the block a few times, hoping to see his partner walking the streets or sitting on a bench. By the time he gave in and drove to Starsky's place, the Torino was gone. Hutch cursed as he jogged up the stairs and let himself inside. The apartment was dark and cluttered, still no evidence that Starsky was eating, but more than enough that he'd been drinking. His partner hadn't bothered to raise the blinds or open the windows, and the oppressive air reeked of sickness, sweat and tears. Hutch strode across the bedroom, kicking aside a discarded tee-shirt. He jerked the shade so it retracted with a clatter, shoved up the window, and drew in a deep, calming breath.

   As he turned to walk out of the room, something in the closet caught his eye. He eased the louvered door the rest of the way open, worry, guilt and curiosity warring with each other in his gut.

   The object that had captured his attention lay on the floor, slightly protruding from the closet's murky depths. It was, in fact, the reason the door had not shut completely. Hutch crouched down and lifted it, turning and inspecting it with careful fingers.

   It was a small, hinged box, not unlike the type that would hold a watch or a necklace. Hutch pried the top open, disappointed to find it empty; though when he ran his thumb over the smooth velvet inside, he could feel two small holes as if something had once been pinned there.

   Casting a quick look over his shoulder, Hutch stood and flicked on the light, sharp eyes roaming over every inch of the closet's interior. He was just about to give up, guilt beginning to win the upper hand, when he spied one corner of a battered cardboard box where it peeked out from beneath a pile of old magazines on the floor. Stuffed in the very back. Not so unusual, except that the box looked to have been deliberately buried, yet now lay partially excavated.

   Hutch stared at the box for a long time, his rapid respiration sounding like a hurricane in the utter stillness. He couldn't have explained how he knew the box was important. It was a sudden electric charge in the air, a prickling at the nape of his neck.

   "I should go." He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until the sound of his own voice made him jump. Belying his own words, he dropped back down to his knees, never breaking eye contact with the box.

   "What are you doing, Hutchinson?" he muttered to himself. "Nothing like sneaking around behind his back, going through his things." Hands reaching, then recoiling.

   "It shoulda been me, Hutch! Me! I wish to God it had been!"

   Forgive me, Starsk. You're slipping away, and I don't know what else to do.

   Hutch carefully extracted the box and scooted backward until he could prop himself against Starsky's bed with it cradled in his lap. He pulled off the lid and set it aside, first wrinkling his nose and then smothering a sneeze as a little puff of dust wafted upward. He peered inside...and sucked in a sharp breath. One by one, he lifted out the items with trembling fingers.

   A set of dogtags for Sergeant David Michael Starsky. A packet of letters from his mother. A worn photo of an impossibly young Starsky, his trademark curls cropped short, but still wearing the blinding grin. Standing with several other young men, arms slung across each other's shoulders. All wore army fatigues, a jeep parked in the background.

   Reluctantly setting aside the photo, Hutch pulled the final item from the box—a letter of commendation awarding David Michael Starsky a Purple Heart for injuries received in the line of duty. Frowning, Hutch picked up the hinged box and ran his thumb back and forth over the empty holes.

   With a weary sigh, he began putting things away, taking care to replace each item as he'd found it. When he picked up the pack of letters one slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird. As Hutch scooped it up from the carpet, he noticed the handwriting differed from the rest of the letters, as did the return address.

   "Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Harper," he read aloud. The line between his eyes deepened and, after only a brief hesitation, he pulled a single sheet of pale blue notepaper from the envelope and unfolded it.

   The handwriting was neat, feminine. Hutch smoothed the creases so the letter would lie flat and began to read.

   Nineteen-sixty-seven. From the little Starsky had mentioned about the army, he knew that his partner would have been back in the States for less than a month.

   Hutch retrieved the photo from the box and studied each of the grinning faces.

   There.

   On Starsky's left. Deep blue eyes in a round face framed by white-blond hair. All of them young, but this one with an aura of wide-eyed innocence the others lacked—or, more likely, had shed along the way. While the others were mugging for the camera, his eyes were fixed on Starsky, an almost worshipful expression on his face.

   Hutch tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. Thought about the times he'd teased Starsky, smugly superior as the college boy half of the partnership. What a crock. While Hutch had been taking exams and chasing pretty coeds, Starsky was fighting for his country. For his life. Surrounded by blood and death and unimaginable horrors, but able to put aside his own fears to ease the way for friend.

   To protect and serve. Starsky'd had the heart of a cop long before he'd earned the badge.

   With a sigh, Hutch levered himself upright, replaced the photo and letter, and tucked the box back into the closet. When he couldn't remove the sooty dust streaks from his hands by brushing them on his jeans, he detoured into Starsky's bathroom for some soap and water. He stared into the mirror, face pale and haggard under the unforgiving fluorescent lights, and tried to hypothesize where his partner might have gone. Normally, he and Starsky had an uncanny sense of what each other would do under any given set of circumstances. But this situation was about as far from normal as east from west, and Hutch found he had no idea where his distraught partner might have gone.

   "When in doubt, try Huggy's," he murmured, reaching for a towel. "I hope to God I find you in a back booth trying to drink yourself into oblivion. At least then I'd know you were safe."

   He leaned over to drape the towel on the rack and froze, eyes zeroing in on an object shining starkly against the white porcelain at the bottom of Starsky's toilet. He swallowed hard, his throat making a dry click, and plunged his hand into the bowl to fish it out. Stood there, oblivious to the water running down his arm and pattering onto the tile, his brain laboring to catch up with what his eyes were seeing.

   Starsky's Purple Heart.

   Several minutes later, he was out the door, headed for Huggy's place with the medal washed, dried and tucked into his jacket pocket for safekeeping.

********

   "Well, if it ain't one of Bay City's finest come to grace my lowly establishment," Huggy drawled, leaning on the bar as he wiped it down.

   Hutch walked over to perch on a stool. "Knock it off, Huggy."

   Huggy dropped the rag and held up both hands in surrender. "Be cool, m'man. Don't know who's been rainin' on your parade, but it sure ain't me."

   Hutch folded his arms on the bar, wincing as tense shoulder muscles protested. "Sorry, Hug. Been a helluva day and it's not over yet. You seen Starsky this morning?"

   Huggy stared at him, then picked up the cloth and continued polishing with a shake of his head. "Haven't seen Curly for more than a week—you, either, for that matter." He smirked. "I was beginnin' to feel unloved."

   Hutch ignored the theatrics. "Look, if he comes by, I want you to call me. Do whatever it takes, but make him stay put until I can get here." He slid off the stool.

   "Whoa, hold on a minute! This is the Bear you're talkin' to. You don't really expect to lay that on me and just walk away, do you?" When Hutch hesitated, he drew up a glass of orange juice and set it on the bar with a flourish.

   Hutch eased himself back onto the stool, cradling the glass between his palms, but not drinking from it. "I just need to talk to him. Got a few things to work out."

   Huggy walked around the bar and sat down beside him. "Last time I saw Starsky...he was lookin' a bit rough around the edges, if you take my meanin'."

   Hutch swiveled to face him. "Hug... Has Starsky ever talked to you about being in the Army?"

   Huggy ran long fingers over his chin. "You mean 'bout when he was in Nam? Yeah, he's mentioned it a time or two." He shook his head. "Man, Starsky is one tough dude to survive all that."

   Hutch's jaw dropped, and the juice very nearly joined it. "He told you about Vietnam? About what it was like?" He knew he must sound ridiculous, like a jealous child, but he couldn't seem to keep hurt from seeping into his voice.

   Huggy plucked the glass from his hand and sat it back on the bar. "Only once, and he was drunk as a skunk at the time."

   "What exactly did he say?" Hutch worked to keep his voice mildly curious.

   Huggy shrugged. "You probably heard it all already."

   "If I had, I wouldn't be asking you, now would I?" Hutch snapped.

   Huggy looked as if he were waiting for a punchline. When Hutch just glared at him, his expression turned contrite. "Sorry, Hutch. I just assumed, you two bein' so tight, an' all..."

   Hutch braced an elbow on the bar and massaged his aching neck. "Yeah. Well, he hasn't. And I'm pretty sure that in order to help him now, I've got to understand what happened back then."

   Huggy looked quizzical, but something in Hutch's face must have warned him not to ask questions. "Lemme see... Guess it was over a year ago—right after your run-in with that cat that was after your girl."

   Hutch frowned. "Gillian?"

   "Naw, not Gillian. Jeanie." He shook a finger at Hutch. "Best waitress I ever had."

   "Forest," Hutch mumbled, hit with a rush of still painful memories. "Ben Forest."

   "The one and only. I'll never forget when Starsky showed up on my doorstep with you. Man, you were hurtin'!"

   Warm arms wrapped around his shivering body, making him feel safe in spite of the pain. "It's okay, you're gonna make it. I'm right here."

   "Get to the point, Hug. What's this got to do with Starsky?"

   "Starsky came in the night after you busted Forest. You were at home, still in pretty rough shape. It was right before closin' time. He sat over there in that corner booth all by his lonesome and really tied one on. Finally had to cut him off." When he saw Hutch's troubled expression, he shrugged. "The man busted his hump to find you, then played nursemaid while you was kickin' the monkey off your back. I guess it finally all caught up with him."

   "There's such a thing as a mercy killing."

   Hutch pressed thumb and fingers to his temples for a moment, then pulled the hand down his face. "Go on."

   Huggy turned to lean back against the bar. "He started talkin' 'bout what they'd done to you—tyin' you up, workin' you over, the smack..." He sent Hutch an uncomfortable look. "He just kept sayin' how no man should haveta go through somethin' like that. How it made him crazy, knowin' what they'd done to you." Huggy paused and his voice got quiet. "And then all of a sudden, he started talkin' about Nam."

   "He was captured by the Viet Cong—did you know that?" It sounded more like Hutch was talking to himself than asking a question. "They had him three weeks. His mom told me."

   "He wasn't exactly rowin' with both oars." Huggy's expression was unusually soft. "The stuff he described—he never said it happened to him. But I had my suspicions." He shook his head. "It ain't pretty."

   "Tell me, Hug. I gotta know."

   Huggy stood and walked back around the bar where he could fiddle with some glasses. "There was the stuff you'd expect, I guess. Interrogations. Beatings. Said they liked to hang ya up by your wrists so's your feet could hardly touch the ground and go at ya with a metal pipe."

   Hutch closed his eyes, swallowing the queasy feeling in his gut. Saw Starsky in a long, black robe with his hands tied above his head, surrounded by cultists holding knives and chains.

   My God, Starsk. No wonder it's all come back at you.

   "What else?"

   Huggy grimaced. "Weird stuff. Tyin' you to a stool and leavin' you in the sun all day long with no water. Makin' you kneel for maybe four, six hours at a time. Said if you tried to move they'd beat the shit outta ya. And somethin' about a pit in the ground—'cept he got all pale and clammed up."

   "I've always been a little scared of the dark—I ever tell you that?"

   All the blood left Hutch's head and he swayed a little.

   "Whoa. Yeah, just like that. Take it easy, Hutch. You want I get you somethin' a little stronger than that OJ?" Huggy's hand was on his shoulder, bracing him.

   Hutch waved him off. "No. I'm okay, thanks, Hug."

   Huggy rolled his eyes. "Sure you are." He straightened up and went back to his glasses, but his movements were jerky and distracted. After a moment, he set down the mug in his hands and planted his palms on the bar. "Hutch...Starsky was wasted when he told me that stuff, dig it? I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to, and once he sobered up, I don't think he remembered that he did."

   Hutch nodded. "I understand." He slid off the stool, but hesitated, one hand still on the counter. "You ever wonder what makes one man a hero, Hug? Why one guy can survive that kind of...of horror, while another falls to pieces?"

   Huggy folded his arms. "Ain't no mystery there, my brother. 'S called heart. Some got it, and some don't. Starsky happens to fall into the first category."

   Hutch's lips curved in spite of his worry. "Yeah." He feigned surprise. "You know, my friend, you're a lot smarter than you look."

   "Can I help it if most folks don't look past my devastating good looks to see the genius within?"

   Hutch shook his head. "Just call me if you see him."

   Huggy was still expounding on the curse of beauty when he walked out the door.

********

   Even though he'd been looking for it, the splash of red and white in Starsky's driveway surprised him. Hutch pulled to the curb and killed the engine, staring bemusedly at the Torino. It was nearly nine o'clock, twelve hours since Starsky had stormed out of Metro, and his worry for his partner had reached critical mass. One more pass by Starsky's apartment, he'd told himself, and then he would ask Dobey to put out an APB on a missing officer. Starsky would be furious, but, frankly, Hutch was long past caring.

   But there it was, parked innocuously in its usual slot, the sheer normality of the picture making Hutch's fears seem ridiculous. He struggled to quell a burst of irritation. All day long he'd searched, visiting every conceivable haunt that might attract his partner—from Merle's garage to the park where Starsky used to picnic with Helen. Every time he'd come up dry, the worry within Hutch had ratcheted up another notch, until he was imagining Starsky in any number of horrible predicaments. Now, presented with evidence that suggested his partner was safe and sound, the fear turned to annoyance.

   Hutch got out of the car, pausing for a moment to draw in a breath of the cool evening air before heading toward the stairs. When he slid his hand into his pocket to deposit the keys, his fingers brushed the smooth surface of the medal and he faltered, staring up at the dark windows. Whatever Starsky had been up to all day, it hadn't been joyriding.

   He ran his hand over the Torino's hood as he walked past, able to detect lingering warmth from the engine. Not home long, then. He climbed the steps, pausing with his knuckles just inches from the door. No lights appeared to be lit, and the apartment was silent. If Starsky was actually in bed, getting some real sleep...

   He pulled out his key and let himself inside.

   "Starsky?" He pitched his voice low, hovering by the door as he listened for a reply.

   Nothing, not a sound. Hutch moved silently through the living room, past the empty couch and mute television, and peeked into the kitchen. Everything appeared exactly as it had been earlier that morning, no indication that Starsky had returned. Heart speeding up a bit, he crossed to the bedroom, stopping just inside the doorway. With the shades drawn, the light was nearly nonexistent, and he could just make out the bed among the deep shadows.

   Sheets rumpled and twisted, pillows askew, comforter falling off the end.

   Empty.

   The breath whooshed from Hutch's lungs and he turned, sticking his head briefly in the bathroom before dropping onto the living room couch. He propped his elbows on his knees and cradled his throbbing head in his hands, overcome by frustration and worry.

   Gone. But where? Starsky was a city rat who believed any form of transportation was superior to one's feet. Hard to imagine him wandering around in the dark no matter how distraught he might be. Still, in spite of the Torino's presence, it didn't appear his partner had even come inside. Nothing moved, no lights, shades drawn...

   Wait a minute.

   Hutch saw himself in Starsky's bedroom that morning. Raising the shade and opening the window to let the cool breeze circulate. Distracted by the medal, he'd left without closing things back up. Yet just now he'd barely been able to see, the lowered shade effectively blocking any moonlight from aiding him in his search.

   Someone had been there after all.

   Heart thudding, Hutch stood and walked slowly back to the bedroom. Stepping inside, he froze, listening. This time he heard it—the faint soughing of breath.

   "Starsky?"

   "Go away, Hutch."

   He barely recognized the voice, so toneless and pale. Hutch's ears tracked it to the vicinity of the closet where he could just distinguish a dark form huddled on the floor, back propped against the wall.

   Slowly, carefully, as if he were approaching a wounded animal, Hutch crept closer. "Can't, buddy. You know that."

   A laugh that was more of a sob. "Yeah. A regular pit bull."

   Hutch wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but the ragged, nearly hysterical tone to Starsky's voice scared him more than the fact that his partner was sitting alone in the dark. He reached toward the small corner lamp, then changed his mind and crossed to the window.

   "Need a little light," he said by way of warning, and lifted the shade before his partner could object.

   A clear night and a nearly full moon provided a colorless spill of light that pushed back the shadows. Starsky's knees were drawn up toward his chest, his head bowed as he contemplated something in his hands. Hutch took a step closer, craning his neck to get a good look at the object, and froze.

   Starsky's gun.

   Unholstered. Clip loaded. Safety off.

   His partner turned the weapon over and over, fingers running across the smooth metallic surface of the barrel. Staring at it as if hypnotized, seemingly oblivious while Hutch's heart lurched into his throat, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead and palms.

   Slowly, so slowly, Hutch inched closer. "What are you doing, Starsk?"

   Slight quirk of one shoulder. "Thinkin'."

   "In the corner with no lights? Thought you didn't like the dark." Hutch kept an iron hold on his voice, the tone soft, casual. He eased a little closer. If he could just get one hand on the barrel...

   "Don't come any nearer."

   A warning without anger, but he could hear that Starsky meant business. Hutch sank to a crouch.

   Starsky continued speaking, his fingers easily curling around the grip like shaking hands with an old friend. "Don't make no difference how many lights you turn on if you're carryin' around darkness inside you."

   The words, and the resignation in Starsky's voice, made Hutch want to weep. He wanted to pull his friend into a comforting embrace, to tell him there was no problem they couldn't solve together, but he knew the physical contact would be rebuffed and the reassurances would ring hollow.

   He licked his lips. "Starsky, I know you're hurting. Give me a chance to help you, to understand. You don't want..."

   "What I want, is for you to leave me alone."

   Just a hint of anger, but it was the first normal emotion Hutch had seen. He decided to push, praying he wasn't making a deadly mistake.

   "Well, you can forget it. I'm not going anywhere."

   Starsky's head came up for the first time, and Hutch nearly gasped at the despair and grief in the blue eyes. The gun turned until the muzzle was leveled at Hutch's chest.

   "Get out, Hutch."

   Perspiration trickled between his shoulder blades like ice water and he barely suppressed a shiver. Though he knew without a doubt Starsky would never deliberately pull the trigger, the fact that he was pointing a loaded gun with such casual disregard spoke volumes about his state of mind.

   "You gonna shoot me, huh, Starsk?" Quietly, calmly, but allowing hurt and reproach to come through his eyes. And the unspoken—

   Starsky stared at him, his breath accelerating to shallow pants. His eyes went impossibly wide, then slammed shut, and the gun swung up to nuzzle his own temple. Hutch's legs slid out from under him and he landed on his seat. His mouth moved, but at first nothing came out.

   "Starsky... Starsky, don't. Please."

   "Have to. 'S no other way." Lost. Broken.

   "That's ridiculous, Starsky! There's always another way!" Hutch's voice was high, panicked. The voice of a stranger.

   Tears slipped from beneath Starsky's eyelids and trailed down his cheeks. His voice was blurry. "I can't do it anymore. I'm tired, Hutch. I just want it to stop."

   "Then quit trying to do it alone. Talk to me, damn it! It...it's like y...you're hanging off the side of a cliff and you won't take my hand!" His breath caught in a sob as he leaned forward, extending his hand. "Give me the gun, Starsk."

   His fingertips brushed Starsky's knee, and his partner jerked away, finger twitching on the trigger. "No! Can't you get it through your thick skull? You're not the White Knight, Hutch, and I sure as hell ain't some damsel in distress! You can't fix this."

   "You think blowing yourself away while I watch is the answer? You selfish bastard! You might as well point that gun back at me, it'll hurt less." Hutch's voice cracked and he looked away, futilely trying to blink back tears.

   It got to Starsky when perhaps nothing else could. He didn't lower the Beretta, but it wavered a little. "I don't mean to hurt you, Hutch. God, it's the last thing I want! But you got no idea..." His breath hitched in his chest and he tightened his grip on the gun. "There's parts of me you don't know, and if you did... I can't live with it, how the hell do you think you could? Better to end it now than watch you walk away. Because you will, Hutch. You will."

   The heart-wrenching despondency in Starsky flipped a switch within Hutch, and a grave sense of calm blanketed his emotions. "You think you know me so well? Try me, Starsk. Share whatever deep, dark secret has been eating you alive." He paused. "Tell me about Jon."

   Starsky's face went deathly pale. "Wh...what did you say?"

   "I want you to shake the monkey off your back, once and for all. I want you to tell me about what happened to Jon." Hutch moved in close, but didn't attempt to touch Starsky.

   "No!" Starsky's face contorted, and he pressed the Beretta so tightly to his temple that it left a ring of white flesh around the muzzle. "Please back off, Hutch! If you're my friend, leave it alone."

   "So, I'm supposed to make it easy for you? Just turn away and let you check out in peace? The hell I will, Starsky! You want to end it? Then have the guts to tell me why."

   "I can't!" The words were something between a sob and a moan. "Don'tcha see? I spent ten years tryin' to forget it ever happened, to make sure no one ever knew."

   "Maybe I should tell you about him, how about that?" Hutch continued, smoothly relentless. "Jon Harper. You met him in Nam—or maybe in the States before you shipped out. He was younger than you, eighteen, maybe nineteen. Never been away from home before, real naïve, but a good kid."

   "Eighteen," Starsky whispered. "He turned eighteen a few months before basic training." Unnoticed, the gun slipped down until the barrel rested against his shoulder.

   "He was like a little brother, reminded you of Nick—except Nick would've been able to take care of himself. So you made it your job to watch out for him, make sure he didn't get in over his head." Hutch searched Starsky's face, his voice gentle. "Then you were captured by the Viet Cong. Interrogated. Tortured. You could barely hold it together yourself, let alone help the kid. But you tried, Starsk. You tried."

   Starsky's eyes locked desperately onto his and his entire body trembled. "I told him I'd get us both out. I promised." The gun dropped to his lap.

   Hutch swallowed, his throat tight. "You were stronger, buddy. You went through hell and came out the other side. It wasn't Jon's fault he couldn't hang on. And it's not your fault that you did."

   The pendulum swung and Starsky was abruptly furious. "You don't know what you're talking about! You know nothing, Hutch! Nothing!"

   "I know about something called survivor guilt!" Hutch retorted. He didn't want to feel anger, but it was so much easier than the other emotions churning inside him. "It's not your fault, Starsky! So you promised him you'd both make it out, so what? You can't blame yourself for not saving him."

   Starsky lunged for him, the gun clattering to the floor, forgotten. He twisted his fingers in Hutch's shirt, nearly hauling him across the carpet as Hutch struggled to break the grip.

   "I don't blame myself for not saving him, damn it! I blame myself for killing him!"

   Silence, and Hutch went limp. He searched Starsky's face, features twisted with grief and rage, and read the truth. Starsky released him with a shove that nearly toppled him over backwards and scooted back against the wall. His eyes, behind a veil of tears, were distant, unfocused.

   "I tried to stop them from taking him, I tried to get them to take me instead. Four days in that hole, no light, no air, no idea how long you been there or how long before they'll come let you out. And it didn't mean shit because they took him, anyway." Starsky's voice broke and he swiped angrily at his face with the back of one hand. Hutch could only watch, mute.

   "It musta really pissed 'em off when he fought them, 'cause they beat him until his insides were all messed up. Busted up his leg so bad the bone came through the skin and gangrene set in. They brought him back and dumped him like a piece of garbage, left him to die slowly, in agony. There wasn't a damn thing we could do about it but watch him suffer."

   Hutch swallowed, managed a hoarse croak. "Starsky..."

   "You wanted to hear it, so hear it!" he snarled. "It wasn't enough for them, I guess. The bastards came for him again, though God only knows what more they thought they could do to him. I wouldn't let them have him, made a few suggestions in Vietnamese 'bout what they could do to themselves." He paused, shivered. "So they took us both."

   Starsky scrambled to his feet, started pacing. Hutch shook off the numbness and picked up his partner's gun, tucking it into his pants at the small of his back. His eyes never left Starsky.

   "Most of 'em were dumb as posts." Starsky's laugh was like nails on a chalkboard. "Mean as hell, but dumb. But the one in charge..." He shuddered again, wrapping his arms tightly around his middle. "He was a master at figurin' out your weaknesses, what would send you over the edge. They dragged us in front of him and told him what was going on. Jonny..." Rapid, uneven breaths for a moment. "Jonny screamed when they first picked him up, but he wasn't strong enough to keep going. He just kept making this little whimper, like a kicked puppy or somethin'."

   Hutch closed his eyes, unable to watch the memory play out on Starsky's face.

   "The captain looked at us for a minute and then ordered the guards to..." He trailed off, staring out the window, seeing not the starlit sky but a cinderblock room. "There...there was this rope and pulley. They liked to tie you up and haul you off the ground before they worked you over." His mouth twisted into a bitter grimace. "Added to the helplessness, the fear."

   Hutch sensed Starsky turn; opened his eyes to find himself pinned by a frighteningly intense gaze. "The son of a bitch ordered them to string Jonny up. I went ballistic, started screaming and cursing at him, anything to make him focus on me instead. He held up his hand—" Starsky imitated the motion, "—for them to wait. And he...he smiled at me. Told me I had a ch...choice."

   Hutch sensed where Starsky was headed. He rose slowly to his feet, not even realizing he was shaking his head. "Starsky..."

   "He pulled out his piece and discharged all the bullets. All except one. Then he handed it to me. Said Jonny was gonna die...one way or the other. Fast, by my hand...or slow, by theirs."

   Hutch sucked in a sharp breath of air. "My God."

   Starsky was so far down into the memory he didn't notice. "I threw down the gun, told him I wouldn't play his sick little game. He didn't get pissed, just nodded at the guards to tie Jonny up. He screamed..." Starsky buried his face in his hands, shoulders hunched. "God, I wouldn't've thought he had any screams left. Sounded like they ripped it out of him. I begged 'em to stop." He pulled his hands down his face, smearing tears across his cheeks. "The bastard picked up the gun and handed it back to me. I walked over to where they were holding Jonny. He...he was like some kinda rag doll, he could barely lift his head. I stood there holding the gun, bawlin' like a baby, and he...he..." Starsky pressed a fist to trembling lips. "He took the barrel in his hand and he p...put it against the s...side of his head. And he said...he said...pl...pl..."

   "He said 'please,'" Hutch finished, voice choked with emotion. "Didn't he, Starsk." It wasn't a question.

   Starsky's eyes darted to his and his face crumpled. "I c...covered his eyes with m...my hand and I...I..."

   Hutch caught him when he started to sag, pulling him into a hug as Starsky's body shook with wracking sobs. "Shh, shh. I know what you did, babe. Maybe better than you. You kept your promise. It just wasn't the way you intended."

   "You d...don't understand! We were re...rescued two days later. T...two days! If I hadn't...hadn't... I shoulda been the one laying in that grave, Hutch!" Starsky clutched at him like a drowning man, tears as hot and hard as bullets scalding the flesh of Hutch's neck.

   Hutch tightened his hold, blinking furiously. "It's okay. Let it out, Starsk. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere. Everything's gonna be all right. I promise."

   Thirty minutes later, Hutch was seated at the kitchen table, a shot glass of whiskey cupped in his hands. Starsky was sprawled across his bed, out like a light. Breaking his self-imposed silence, sharing the events surrounding Jon's death had left him nearly catatonic with exhaustion, literally asleep on his feet. Hutch had eased him onto the mattress, tugged off his shoes and covered him with a blanket, then methodically raided the kitchen until he located Starsky's stash of booze.

   Not a fan of hard liquor, he sipped the amber liquid slowly, grateful for the warmth that spread through his chilled body and steadied his trembling hands. Still struggling to come to terms with a burden Starsky had carried alone for nearly ten years.

   He'd never really seen Starsky cry. Oh, he'd seen him near tears, emotions on the jagged edge. Lonnie Craig. Helen. Gillian. Starsky tended to spend his tears on others, not himself. When he did grieve, it was controlled, private. For him to break down so completely...

   Hutch shoved the glass aside and stood, wandering aimlessly through the darkened apartment until he somehow found himself leaning in the doorway to Starsky's bedroom. He watched the steady rise and fall of his partner's chest, his hand reflexively touching the gun at the small of his back.

   Too damn close.

********

   Hutch bolted to his feet, scrabbling for a gun that wasn't there. Before finally lying down on the couch and succumbing to sleep, he'd locked his own weapon and Starsky's in the trunk of the LTD. His feet moved, taking him toward the bedroom before he'd managed to pry his eyes all the way open.

   Starsky was thrashing on the bed, the blanket tangled around his legs. He moaned and mumbled in his sleep, parts of it in a foreign language that Hutch assumed to be Vietnamese. Feeling an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, Hutch flipped on the small table lamp and sat down on the side of the bed.

   "Starsky. Starsky, wake up."

   His partner's whole body jerked as if zapped with electricity, then went still. Hutch watched his eyes fly open and dart around the room, clarity gradually seeping in.

   Starsky scooted back against the headboard, swiping an unsteady hand over his sweaty face. "Sorry."

   "You okay?" Hutch chased Starsky's evasive gaze but couldn't quite catch it.

   A nod was his only reply. He let Starsky be for a few minutes, watched the violent trembling gradually ease.

   "Water?"

   Starsky looked at him, dryly amused. "Not quite what I had in mind."

   Hutch stood and walked over to the chest of drawers, rooting around until he found a clean tee shirt. He tossed it to Starsky before heading out the door.

   "I'll be in the kitchen. Why don't you join me?"

   He rummaged through Starsky's refrigerator and cupboards, finding a quart of milk that still smelled fresh and a bottle of the chocolate syrup his partner seemed to squirt over everything from ice cream to cold cereal. By the time Starsky appeared in the doorway, having exchanged his rumpled clothing for sweatpants and the tee shirt, Hutch had combined the milk and syrup in a saucepan and was heating it on the stove.

   "What's that supposed to be?" Starsky's voice was still rusty from his earlier tears.

   "Hot chocolate. It'll help you get back to sleep." Hutch eyed him surreptitiously, not liking what he saw. Starsky was a rubberband stretched to the limit, ready to snap.

   "You gonna read me a bedtime story and tuck me in, too?"

   Hutch's head swiveled at the bitter venom in the jibe, but he merely tightened his jaw and went back to stirring. From the corner of his eye, he saw Starsky's shoulders slump.

   "Sorry. You didn't deserve that." Starsky shuffled over to the table and sat, resting his head in his hands.

   Hutch tested the cocoa with his pinky finger, and finding it warmed to his satisfaction, poured it into two mugs. He set one near his partner's elbow and claimed the other chair. Sipping his own drink, he watched Starsky absently swirl the liquid before taking an apathetic swallow.

   "How long has it been since you've really slept, Starsk?"

   The guarded expression that spread across his friend's face broke Hutch's heart. One shoulder twitched. "Dunno. Guess it depends how you define 'slept.'"

   The weak attempt to joke didn't deflect Hutch. "Through the night. At least six hours straight."

   Starsky tipped his chin up. "Ah. Well, you know, I'm not too big on sleepin' lately." He took another sip of the cocoa and continued to play with the cup, making no attempt to answer the question.

   "Yeah. I noticed."

   Starsky looked up through narrowed eyes. "You don't have to stay. I'm not gonna try and off myself again, so you don't need to babysit me. You could be home in your own bed, gettin' those six hours."

   "That's not what I meant, and you know it," Hutch growled. "And if you think for one minute I'm leaving you alone after what happened tonight, you're..."

   Starsky's lip curled in a sneer. "Crazy?" he finished.

   Hutch set down his mug and folded his arms. "It's not gonna work, Starsk. I'm not walking away, and I'm not letting you push me away. And for what it's worth, no, I don't think you're crazy."

   Starsky's bravado evaporated, leaving a frightened child in its wake. "I'm not so sure, Hutch."

   Hutch leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. "I am. You're not crazy, Starsky. You're traumatized. There's a difference. You just need some help dealing with what's happened."

   Starsky stared at him in disbelief. "Did you even hear what I told you? I killed a man, Hutch!" His voice rose. "Shot him, in cold blood! How can you sit there so calmly and act like nothin's changed?" He ran trembling fingers through his unruly hair.

   Hutch grasped his wrist. "Listen to me, buddy. You were in an impossible situation, forced to make an impossible choice. As far as I'm concerned, the Viet Cong killed Jon."

   Starsky yanked his arm away, eyes blazing. He raised his left hand, and for a brief instant Hutch though his partner was going to strike him. "Yeah? Well, let me tell you something, buddy, it was this hand that held the gun and this finger that pulled the trigger. Ain't no way to change that or pretty it up."

   Hutch heard the grief beneath the anger. "And if the situation had been reversed, Starsk? If you'd been dying and Jon had the gun?"

   Starsky's eyes cut away to the wall clock. "You don't know how many times I wished it had been."

   Hutch drew in a long, slow breath and released it before replying, emotion coloring his words. "Call me selfish, but I'm glad it wasn't."

   Starsky didn't look at him, but his hand crept across the table, palm up. Hutch laid his own hand in it. He sensed his partner struggling to speak, and waited him out.

   "What you said before..." So quiet Hutch could hardly make out the words. "When you ...when you said I kept my promise. What did you mean?" Starsky's eyes slid slowly over to Hutch's face.

   Hutch met them head on. "You told Jon he could count on you. That you'd get him out of there. Right?"

   A barely perceptible dip of Starsky's head.

   "Well...didn't you?" Hutch held up a hand when Starsky began to protest. "I know it's not what you planned, Starsk. But you didn't let him down, not even when the price was almost more than you could stand to pay. You couldn't bring him home alive. But you freed him."

   Starsky stared at him, his throat working soundlessly. Like a dam giving way, the tears began as a trickle that escalated to a torrent. He dropped his head onto his folded arms, shoulders shaking with the force of his weeping.

   Hutch laid his hand on Starsky's head, stroking the tousled curls. "You kept your promise, babe," he murmured roughly. "You took care of him. Now it's time to take care of yourself."

   The muffled reply tore his heart. "It hurts so bad, Hutch."

   Hutch closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "I know. But you don't have to deal with the hurt alone anymore, Starsk. And it's going to get better."

   The shuddering gradually tapered off until Starsky curled limply over the table. When his partner's breathing began to deepen, Hutch moved his hand to a shoulder and squeezed. "Hey. You still with me?"

   "Mmm-hmm."

   "You fall asleep like that and your ribs'll hate you in the morning. Go to bed, Starsk."

   It was as if he'd shouted "fire." Starsky's head popped up and he straightened, smothering a yawn that slipped out.

   "Nah, I'm not tired. You take the bed if you want. I'm gonna watch a little TV."

   Hutch collected their mugs and took them to the sink. "It's one o'clock in the morning, Starsky."

   He heard Starsky rise stiffly to his feet. "Hey, they got great old movies on in the middle of the night. Real classics." The unspoken plea came through—Don't push me on this.

   Hutch deliberately continued to rinse the mugs, keeping his tone light and offhanded. "Yeah? Mind some company?" The only thing he really wanted was someplace he could get horizontal and close his eyes, but he sensed it was crucial not to leave Starsky alone. His partner had already spent far too many long nights with his solitary thoughts.

   A hesitation. "Suit yourself."

   But he heard raw emotion behind the words, and it wasn't anger.

   Incredibly, the late, late movie turned out to be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, one of Starsky's favorites. Three quarters of the movie passed before Starsky curled onto his side, eyes beginning to droop. When the credits rolled, Hutch flicked off the set and pulled the afghan from the back of the couch to cover his slumbering partner. He was almost to the bedroom when Starsky spoke.

   "We're kinda like Butch and Sundance, aren't we, Hutch?" The words were slow, slurred with sleep.

   Hutch turned back, only able to detect Starsky's outline in the darkness. "Yeah, buddy. I guess we are."

   A long pause, and he was just about to move when Starsky spoke again. "Wouldja jump off a cliff with me?"

   He considered it. "Nah. I'd be there to pull you back up."

   Very, very soft. "'S a long drop, Hutch."

   Hutch's lips curved. "That's okay, Starsk. I won't let go."

********

   "Starsk?"

   "In the kitchen."

   Hutch stepped all the way into the apartment and shut the door. He headed for the kitchen, pausing for a moment to pan his eyes around the neat-as-a-pin living room. A small sign of Starsky's continuing recovery, but a sign nonetheless.

   Six weeks had passed since the night he'd found his partner poised on the edge of the abyss. In that time, Starsky had made real progress toward coming to terms with his memories—not only of Vietnam, but of his abuse at the hands of Simon's followers. With a lot of prodding from Hutch, he'd found a psychiatrist who specialized in treating veterans. Dan Gardner broke every one of Starsky's preconceived notions for a "typical shrink," first winning his respect, and with time, his trust. He'd even put a name to Starsky's condition—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a common malady among POWs.

   The often grueling therapy had required Starsky to relive each trauma while Dan taught him to cope with the memories rather than bury them. It had been a rocky road, but gradually the good days began to outnumber the bad. The depression and flashbacks grew less intense, the nightmares infrequent, and in the last week Hutch had glimpsed the bounce return to his friend's stride. Hutch knew the pain hadn't completely gone away, and probably never would. But Starsky was healing.

   "What's this?"

   Hutch toed a crumpled ball of notebook paper so it skittered across the linoleum to join the pile erupting from the trashcan. Starsky sat at the table, head propped on one fist, teeth clamped around a pen, hunched over a pad of the same paper.

   "'S nothin'. What bringsh you here?" Starsky replied without removing the pen.

   Hutch shrugged. "It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and for once we're not on duty. I thought maybe you'd like to get out for a while, take a drive up the coast. I'll even spring for dinner at that place you're always raving about."

   Starsky's face lit up like a candle and he yanked the pen from his lips. "Gianelli's? Yeah?"

   Deep inside Hutch, something like a tightly clenched fist loosened, and for a moment he felt nearly giddy with happiness and relief. It must have shown on his face, because Starsky's expression switched immediately from gleeful to concerned.

   "Hutch? You okay?"

   Hutch crossed to the counter and leaned against it, giving Starsky a reassuring smile. "Yeah. It's just... It's good to have you back, Starsk."

   Starsky ducked his head, flushing. "Yeah. Guess it musta felt like I went away, even though I was right here, huh?"

   Hutch nodded slowly. They could talk about it now, but cautiously, carefully. Mindful that although the wound had scabbed over, there was still deep hurt just beneath. "Something like that. Is that what it was like for you?"

   Starsky traced a fingertip over the words on the pad before him. His voice was very, very soft. "More like fallin' down a deep, dark hole. At first, I could see you at the edge, looking down at me. But after a while..." He sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face. "After a while there was only the hole. Only it was inside of me, 'steada the other way 'round."

   Hutch closed suddenly blurry eyes, saw a desperate, pain-riddled face.

   Amazingly, it was Starsky who pulled them back from the somber mood.

   "Hey. Hope you aren't tryin' to distract me so's you can weasel outta that dinner you just promised me."

   The grin came easily to his lips. "Offer still stands, Gordo. You've earned it. What is that you've been working on, anyway? Looks like you've gone through a couple trees."

   Starsky grimaced. "It's a letter."

   When he didn't volunteer further information, Hutch raised an eyebrow. "To?"

   "Jon's folks." He made another face. "It was Dan's idea. Well...mostly."

   "Hard letter to write."

   Starsky snorted. "You got a way with words, Blondie." He looked up from the paper, expression guarded. "You...you want to hear it?"

   Hutch inclined his head. "Only if you want me to."

   Starsky studied his face for a minute, then bobbed his head. He lifted the single sheet of paper, running one hand nervously over his chin.

   Dear Mr. and Mrs. Harper,

   I suppose this letter is going to come as a shock. Ten years is an awful long time to take to answer your mail, even for a lousy letter writer like me. Hearing from you back then did mean a lot to me. I was just in too much pain to let you know.

   For a long time I tried very hard to forget I ever knew Jonny. Thinking about him, remembering everything we went through together, hurt too much. I told myself I had to move forward, to get on with my life. I graduated from the police academy, and for the last seven years I've been a detective for the Bay City Police Department. After some of the stunts we pulled on the MPs, Jonny must be laughing his head off!

   The reason I'm telling you this, is because I've been through some difficult times lately, times that made me realize I'd never forgotten Jonny after all. That I've been carrying him with me all these years, but not in a good way. Not out of love, but out of guilt. Jonny deserves better than that.

   Starsky swallowed, took a deep breath.

   You see, I promised Jonny I'd get us both out of Nam alive. And somehow it didn't seem right, or fair, when I came home and he didn't. I couldn't stop feeling guilty. I guess I still do. I think maybe that's part of the reason why I became a cop, even though I didn't understand it at the time. I couldn't protect Jon, but I could do my best to protect the people on my beat. To get it right.

   Anyway, I think I'm finally starting to accept that Jon's death was something I couldn't change. But I need you both to know a few things. First, that you should be proud of your son. He was a good man, and a good soldier. I was so very lucky to call him my friend. Second, that I did...

   Starsky's voice wavered, and he cleared his throat, blinking hard.

   ...I did everything I could to save Jon. And he...he did everything he could to hang on for you. He was very brave, and he loved you both very much.

   Hutch had wandered over to stand beside Starsky. As his friend paused to suck in another deep breath, he laid a hand on his shoulder.

   Finally, I need you to believe how terribly sorry I am about Jon's death. That I'd have given anything to be able to bring him home to you, safe and sound. And that I promise to honor his memory in the job I do every day. That's what he would have expected. That's what he deserves.

   I hope you both have been able to reach a sense of peace about Jon's death. I'm not there yet, but I think I'm finding my way.

   Love,

   David

   Silence descended over the kitchen. Starsky carefully placed the letter back on the table and smoothed his fingers over it. "That's about it," he said with forced levity. "Only took me about twenty-four tries."

   Hutch squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand and sank into the chair beside his partner. "It was worth the trees, buddy. You did good."

   Starsky's head swung up. "Yeah?"

   Hutch leaned back, shoving his hands into his pockets, fingering the object still tucked into the left one. "Yeah. I know how tough these last couple months have been for you. Facing it head on the way you have, not letting it beat you—it took a lot of guts, Starsk."

   Starsky looked away, but not before Hutch detected the pleasure beneath the embarrassment. "Thanks, Hutch. That means a lot."

   Hutch pulled his hands from his pockets and leaned onto the table, tapping Starsky's arm to get his attention. His partner turned, eyes widening when he spied the medal in Hutch's fingers.

   "That's... H-How did you get that?"

   Hutch twitched a shoulder, a small smile playing about his lips. "A friend of mine misplaced it. Thought maybe I should hang on to it for safekeeping until he was ready to take it back." He reached out and gently pried open Starsky's hand, dropping the medal into the palm and curling the fingers back over it.

   Starsky closed his eyes, swallowed hard. "It got so I couldn't stand to look at it. I never felt like I deserved it, and it was just another reminder of everything I wanted to forget."

   "You earned it, Starsk. Injured in the line of duty? Hell, you earned it ten times over!" He put his hand over Starsky's arm. "Don't look at it and think about death. Look at it and think about life. Yes, you were wounded—about as badly as a man can be and still draw breath. But you survived, buddy. You made it through, stronger than ever. You should be proud of yourself. I am."

   Starsky's eyes searched his face as if looking for the truth. He finally tucked the medal into his own pocket and swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "So, we gonna get outta here or what?"

   Hutch shoved his chair back and stood. "Car's right out front."

   "Oh, no! No way am I goin' for a long drive in that junkyard on wheels. I'll drive," Starsky protested, scrambling to his feet.

   "It was my idea," Hutch persisted, not because he really cared, but because it felt so good to argue with his partner.

   "But it's my party," Starsky pointed out. "If I recall, you said I earned it—remember?"

   Hutch followed him to the front door, feigning irritation. "Oh, all right. If it's that important to you, we'll take the tomato."

   Starsky tugged open the door, halting him with an outstretched arm as he started to pass. His eyes sparkled, but his face was still, intent. "Hutch, the last few weeks... I...uh...I want you to know..."

   Hutch let the smile spread unchecked across his face. "I already do, Starsk." He swatted his still too-thin partner in the stomach. "Come on, Gordo. Let's get you that dinner. I heard they've got great vegetarian lasagna."

   Starsky's answering groan was worthy of an Oscar. "Vegetarian? Aw, Hutch, you're not gonna be pushin' that health food crap at me, are ya? How do you expect me to..."

   The slam of the front door punctuated his partner's ongoing tirade as they headed down the steps, but Hutch tuned him out. He slipped on his sunglasses and grinned to himself. It really was a perfect day.

THE END

   AUTHOR'S NOTE: Resonance originally appeared in the gen Starsky and Hutch zine "Seasoned Timber," which can be ordered here: www.agentwithstyle.com. Many, many thanks to Barb D. for her thorough and insightful editing, and to Lin P., cheerleader extraordinaire, for providing terrific motivation and support. This story was quite a journey for me. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have time to drop me a line.

   ~~~ Dawn (SunnyD)