This is the looooong, dark story I told you guys about, and it´s finally done. I´m gonna chappie-post it real quick, don´t worry. :)

As always, I don´t own the handsome guys, but the jerks. (*sigh* Poor me.)

Enjoy!

TWO EIGHT ZERO

Part 1

Daniel Nylon had killed.

Many people.

Sometimes, at night, when he listened really closely, he could hear them scream. The children. The women. The men. Some of them begged. Some of them swore at him. Some prayed. Some cried.

None of his victims had ever gone quietly. He'd made sure of that. He needed the memories, needed to hear the screams in his head; so loud they'd block out every other sound, every other thought.

He knew he was bad. 'Bad boy. Evil boy.' And that knowledge he needed, too. His father had been right, of course he had. His father had always been right about everything. His father had been the greatest man he'd ever known.

'"You're just scum, Danny! Scum! Like your mother!"'

Yeah, he was scum. His mother had been scum. 'Daddy's right. Always right.'

His father had been the first one he'd killed. Slowly, with wide, tear-filled eyes; staring at the dying, screaming man before him.

'"Oh god, Danny ... please ... Please don't!"'

He had to do it. To prove his father right. His father couldn't have been wrong. 'Daddy's right.' And he continued to be, as Daniel continued to kill.

Until they stopped him. He was 25 and had killed over fifty people in his life. "Life", the sentence had been. Life in an institution for the criminally insane. Life in a tiny cell, staring at a ceiling that had exactly 123 small cracks in it. He counted them every day. When he listened to the screams. It felt good to be in there. Where he belonged.

"Nylon! Get up!"

Slowly, drowsily, he rolled his head on the mattress to look at the orderly, who stood in his cell, yelling at him to stand up.

Daniel frowned. He couldn't remember when the changes had started, but he knew he didn't like them. He could remember the tall man who had one day appeared in the large room where the meals were served, and had exclaimed that things were going to be handled differently from now on.

Daniel hadn't really listened, but shortly afterwards the injections had started. He didn't like needles. And he didn't like how they made him feel. Sleepy. Drowsy. Sick.

And he couldn't hear the screams anymore. Faintly, sometimes. Not like he needed it. But when he cried at night, they would come and give him another shot.

Then, one night, isolation had started. Oh God, how he feared isolation. It hurt so much. It made him see things. His own screams drowned out the ones he needed to hear.

"No," he whispered as the orderly grabbed his arm to jerk him upright on his bed.

"Come on, kiddo, don't mess with me again."

"Please," Daniel begged, but was too weak to struggle when he was hauled to his feet. "Bad boy."

"Right," the orderly sighed, rolling his eyes. This kid was getting on his nerves in particular. "Bad boy, Danny. Now move it, will ya?!"

Daniel sobbed wearily while he was pushed down the hall. "No isolation. Please. No isolation."

"Don't worry, kid, just the good stuff this time."

Carelessly, the orderly dragged the whimpering man into the room next to isolation.

"No!" Danny begged, and despite his wobbly legs began to struggle against the grip in his arms. He managed to slam his elbow in the orderly's side.

"Ow! Damn you, you fucking little ..."

It was the last thing Daniel Nylon ever heard in his life. Something heavy hit his head hard and he felt himself falling forward, his vision blurring quickly. 'Daddy,' he thought, knowing that he was following his father. He wasn't afraid.

****

"Starsk, is there any chance you might be able to finish that report some time this yea..." Ken Hutchinson's voice trailed off as he came to a halt next to his partner's desk, his eyes wandering from the proud smile that met him to the sheet of paper in front of Starsky.

"Uh ... what are you doing?" he asked, dumbfounded, frozen in motion with one hand holding a candy bar in front of his chest.

"Drawing a house with my right," Starsky answered playfully.

"Yeah ... that's what it looks like, but-"

"Pretty good for a lefty, huh?" the still grinning man interrupted his friend and picked up the picture for Hutch to take a closer look at it.

"Breathtaking," the blond commented dryly without looking at it. "Ahm ... is that all you've been doing this morning?"

Wincing in mock hurt, Starsky placed the picture back on his desk again. "You should try drawing with your left hand some time, partner, and see how well you manage. 'Sides the book says to not let yourself be stopped by people's lack of understanding the difficulti..."

"What book?" Hutch asked, realization creeping up his spine. 'I'm gonna kill him.'

""How to become right handed"," Starsky answered with a sweet smile, knowing he'd just driven the point home. "After what you said last night I thought I really should give it a try."

"Hm hm," Hutch nodded in defeat, answering the triumphant grin with a humorless one. "And of course pleasing me was more important than writing the report we're supposed to hand in today, right?"

"Oh," Starsky mumbled, frowning mockingly, "did I say I'd do that? Aw, sorry pal, but, hey ..." Turning back to his desk, he produced yet another crummy picture that he unfolded and showed his partner, "I drew the turkey's car. I was out of blue, though, but we can just write under it that the color isn't right. Would you mind doing the writing? I'm not that far yet."

Hutch looked at him with an unnerved expression, before snatching the picture out of Starsky's hand and folding it neatly, looking like he just had to do something to keep himself from strangling his partner, whose grin grew even wider. The glare he received from Hutch was a perfect replacement for the blond's warningly raised index finger he'd normally have pointed at his friend, indicating that there sure was vengeance to take place. Some time soon.

For now, though, triumph was his, and leaning back in his chair contentedly, Starsky raised his brows at Hutch's hand that still held both the folded picture, and the candy bar.

"That for me?"

"No," Hutch shot back, "candy's only for good children." With that he turned just in time to almost collide with Captain Dobey's door being pushed open angrily. "Captain," he greeted Dobey quickly, "have a candy bar?"

Dobey didn't even listen, just bellowed "Get in here!" and headed back inside his office.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged confused looks. "He refuses food?" Starsky whispered as he stood up to follow closely behind Hutch, looking as if he sought shelter behind the taller man. "What did you do this time, blintz?"

"Me?! I'm not the one who spent the whole morning draw-"

"Close the door!" Dobey's voice interrupted them, and quickly, playfully overreacting, the two detectives turned simultaneously to shove the door closed and take position in front of their superior's desk.

"Hey, Cap, whatever it is, it's Hutch's fault."

"Shut up!" Dobey barked, his voice making both detectives frown, exchange another look and then take their usual seats in front of the desk. It was the tone of voice they knew meant business. Business Dobey didn't like. And usually whatever Dobey didn't like, they didn't like either.

"Okay, what is it?" Hutch asked, absentmindedly shoving the two things he still held inside his jacket.

"I've got a new assignment for you two," Dobey informed them, the frown apparent on his forehead, deep with concern.

When he didn't say anything more, Starsky lifted his brows questioningly. "Yeees?" he asked, stretching the word.

Dobey shot him an irritated look, before sighing deeply. "I'll be honest with you, I don't like the idea of you going in there, but-"

"Captain," Hutch cut him off, "would you mind first telling us what it's all about and save the part where you try to talk us into it for later?"

Sneering at the comment, Dobey nodded after a pause and leaned back in his chair. "Does the name Thomas LaMarre ring any bell?"

Hutch frowned, thinking, and glanced at his partner, who shrugged, joking, "Don't look at me, you know how I am with names."

Before the banter could even start, Dobey explained, "He runs a business down in San Diego, officially dealing with art, but that's not what pays for his life style, if you know what I mean. Anyway, cops down there tried to get him for murder one in at least three cases last year, but none of the cases ever made it to trial."

"How come?" Starsky asked.

"Well, despite what you might think, Starsky, there are lawyers working outside this city too," Dobey stated dryly before continuing, "But now they think they found a connection to a guy named Daniel Nylon, a psychotic killer who was sentenced to life a few months ago." Picking up a file from his desk, he gave it to Hutch who looked at the young man on the picture on the first side of it.

Except for the haunted look in the kid's eyes, he looked nice, almost innocent. And young, incredibly young; the boyish looks of his fine features seemingly underlining the vulnerability written all over them.

Feeling a slight shudder running down his spine just from the look of the man, Hutch handed the file over to Starsky. "What connection?" he then asked Dobey. "LaMarre hired him?"

"From what it looks like," Dobey nodded. "But as I said, Nylon's in jail. In an institution for the criminally insane, to be exact. And they can't just send someone in there to talk to him, because the kid won't talk to cops. He's scared of them. He's scared of himself, for that matter. What they got is a really, really disturbed witness, and they need someone to make a connection with him."

He paused, taking in the disbelieving glances of his detectives. "Now look-"

"Hey, wait a second," Starsky interrupted him, the file lying on his lap, forgotten. "You're not saying that Hutch and I should ..."

"San Diego Police can't send their own people in there, because they'd be known," Dobey explained, the fact that he really, really despised the plan evident in his voice. "Just like you'd be known in every jail around here. They need outsiders. And since the head of the department over there is a very close friend to our chief ..."

"Oh come on, this is ridiculous," Hutch stated. "The kid's scared ... What kind of an explanation is that?! Why don't the just get him outta there and ..." Meeting Dobey's glance, his voice trailed off.

Starsky, who had also seen the expression in his superior's look, straightened in his chair. "There's more?" he asked. "Right?"

At Dobey's small nod, Hutch exchanged a quick glance with his partner, before speaking again. "Let me guess. This institution isn't all that ... trustworthy, is it?"

"They think people there are working for LaMarre, don't they?" Starsky added.

"That's why they can't let them know about Nylon and why they can't send cops go in there; the orderlies might know," Hutch continued. "Right?"

"Yeah, and why they're looking for some idiots who are dumb enough to go inside a looney bin without any backup," his partner concluded. "You gotta be kidding, Cap!"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"I don't know how you look when you're kidding, I never saw you kidding, but I sure hope you are now," Starsky commented, standing up to put the file back on the desk with a loud noise. "This is the dumbest plan I ever heard. It's a camicat operation!"

"Kamikaze, Starsk," Hutch corrected quietly.

"Whatever."

"The plan is not to send both of you in there," Dobey explained, knowing his detectives would take the assignment, anyway. They just needed a little time to rant and rave about it. "Only one, wh-"

"One?!" the detectives asked simultaneously. Now Hutch came to his feet too, adding, "Forget it."

"You just said yourself it'd be stupid to go in there without backup," Dobey said. "The logical conclusion is that only one goes in, while other one stays with the Diego cops for backup."

A quick glance was exchanged, before Hutch asked, "What kind of backup?"

"They're gong to spread the news that whoever of you goes in killed a cop together with his partner who's not yet found."

"And the other one can check on him during interrogation," Hutch concluded.

"Right."

"I don't like it," the blond stated. Starsky shook his head.

"Me neither," Dobey said flatly and raised his brows at them.

There was a very short silence, before both detectives sat down again, having made a decision without the need to even look at each other.

"Okay, what exactly will be the word about that dead cop?" Hutch asked. "If I'm going in there I don't want to find out that-"

Before Starsky had even opened his mouth to protest against his partner's all too sure assumption that he'd be the one to go undercover, Dobey frowned, asking, "You? I thought Starsky would go in."

That statement drove Starsky's glance towards his superior even faster, as his eyes widened in disbelief. "Huh?! Hey, wai-"

But again he was cut off, this time by Hutch. "No way."

"Why not? He managed pretty well before," Dobey said, his obvious surprise at Hutch's protest sending Starsky's chin to travel slightly southwards. Yet he was still ignored when he tried to say something. "How come you think I-"

"I'm sure no one would notice," Dobey interrupted him again.

"Oh, hey, thank you so much for your trust, bu-"

"Starsk's not going any place like that again," Hutch cut his partner off, obviously not even having heard him talking. "The last time he was drugged out of his mind every day!"

"Only because he was very convincing," Dobey stated, and again Starsky's glance flew from Hutch to him.



"Convinci...?"

"I mean if I didn't know it was his personality, I'd believe he was crazy too," the Captain once more interrupted his detective, this time looking at him directly.

"Gee thanks, Cap," Starsky muttered, but looked at his partner who was about to protest again. "But he's right, Hutch. I should be the one going in."

"Oh yeah? I don't think so. I'm not gonna spent another three days worrying myself sick about you being overdosed. Forget it. Captain, I'm in."

"No, he's not," Starsky hurried to say, before turning to Hutch again. "I don't want no one giving you drugs."

The last sentence was said with such determination and underlined by such a worried glance, that Hutch couldn't find the right words to respond right away, giving Dobey the chance to cut in again. "You know, maybe if you try real hard to keep out of trouble, no one has to be drugged this time."

Slowly, two glances turned to meet the Captain's, and two heads shook slightly as if wondering how a grown man could have said such a stupid thing.

When they looked at each other again, both were kept from arguing further by the concern they saw reflected in the other's eyes. After a moment's thought, Starsky produced a dime from his pocket. "Heads or tails?"

Hutch opened his mouth, but at his partner's look closed it again, then sighed. "Heads."

The smaller man nodded, flipped the coin in the air with his thumb and caught it again, turning it on the back of his hand. After another glance at his friend, he peeked under the hand covering it. "'Triffic," he muttered when he took his hand away to let Hutch see the result. "Tails."

The blond's gaze wandered up to meet his partner's eyes, clearly seeing relief rushing through them, and sighed in resignation. "So what will I be doing while he's in there?" he asked Dobey, sounding like a kid whose turn it was to do the housework.

"They'll have you working on a minor case," the Captain replied. "Officially, that is."

"Okay. When do we start?"

"Plane leaves tomorrow. You'll be bringing the ... prisoner in."

"Prisoner," Starsky muttered. "Nice."

"I've got some clearing to do with the man in charge over there now, but I'll be meeting you at the airport tomorrow at eight to give you last minute instructions and alias information. And now - get outta here."

Without any further words, the detectives left the office, slowly strolling past their desks, knowing they were off duty anyway until the next day.

"Hey," Hutch muttered when he dashed his hands inside his pockets, frowning when he felt something in there. Remembering the candy bar, he held it out for Starsky. "Here."

"What, I'm a good kid now?"

"No, you're one major pain in the ass, Gordo. But don't you know all children get chocolate when they have to go to the hospital?"

****

It took Hutch exactly twenty-four hours to come to despise San Diego, and those were the hours he spent waiting at the hotel after his arrival, before he could go and see Starsky.

Despite their initial plans, the officer responsible at SDPD had decided to bring "the new prisoner" to Mercy Hospital himself, pointing out it would look less suspicious when the outsider, Hutch, arrived some time after him.

It would fit better into their cover story, he had said. It would take a "real" cop a little longer than just a day to find out where his most important witness was, anyway.

So Hutch had been sent to his hotel room right after his arrival, and there he'd sat for a whole day now, trying to distract himself, but failing miserably no matter what he did.

He couldn't concentrate on anything, the thought of Starsky in yet another one of THOSE institutions, all by himself, had left him restless with concern and anxiety.

Who knew what they were doing to him that very moment, while he, Hutch, sat in a more or less comfortable hotel room, watching the evening news?!

Maybe Starsky needed him. Maybe his cover had already been blown. They surely had busted one or three turkeys who had been sentenced to life in an institution as well, so who knew-maybe one of them had been transferred to that particular one at some time in the past.

Had the officers checked that out? he wondered. Both he and Starsky hadn't even thought to ask.

'This is great, Hutchinson, NOW you think of it! One hot shot detective you are!'

Or maybe his ever-energetic partner had managed to get himself into trouble already and had been drugged or worse! Who could really say what the guards were allowed to do to sentenced criminals in those places?!

And Starsky could find trouble in an empty room.

Without hesitation, Hutch picked up the phone next to the bed and dialed the number of the man who was supposed to be their contact during the whole operation, a Lieutenant Sean Frasier.

"Yes? Frasier." Frasier's baritone voice answered the phone after the second ring. He was a man in his mid-forties; calm, patient, rational and, as far as Hutch was concerned, a royal class asshole.

Except for the by now uncountable times the worried detective had called him up to ask when he'd be allowed to check on his partner, he hadn't spoken a single word to Hutch. It seemed he couldn't care less about the two undercover cops he was forced to work with.

"Lieutenant, this is-"

"Hutchinson," Frasier finished with a deep sigh, managing to make the blond's name sound like an insult.

"Uh...yeah, I-I know it's only been-"

"Three hours," Frasier interrupted him once again. "You called here three hours ago. D'you really think things look different now, hm?"

"I just thought-"

"Well, you thought wrong, detective. Last time: I call you. Okay? Is that clear now? When things are ready to get started, I call you, and then I'll pick you up and drive you over to Mercy. Right now, though, things are not ready to get started, so please-pretty please-don't call here anymore."

"But-"

Another deep sigh cut Hutch off once more, and he slowly but steadily felt the anger rise up inside him. This wasn't about him being an annoying little outsider, this was about Starsky's safety! His partner had been at a fairly dangerous place without backup more than long enough for his liking.

"Hey, listen, there're a few really nice places around the hotel, so why don't you just-"

"Why don't you just get your bu-"

Quickly clearing his throat, before anything he might regret later could slip out, Hutch inwardly shook his head at himself-I'm starting to sound like Starsky- while hurrying to say, "I just really think it'd be a good idea to check on my partner sometime soon now, sir. It's nearly been 24 hours. How about we tell the guards I'm a particularly good cop and managed to find out about his whereabouts real quick?"

A soft chuckle could be heard on the other end, and Hutch frowned. "Sir?"

"You've got guts, kid. I like that."

"Uh...th-thank y-"

"You still have to work on your over-protectiveness, though," Frasier interrupted him gruffly. "But, okay, I'm done here, anyway. Ten minutes?"

"I've been ready all day," Hutch mumbled, but the Lieutenant had already hung up.

****

If Hutch hadn't disliked everything about their assignment before, he hated the whole thing the second he entered the room that would be the only place where he'd be able to see his partner for an indefinite period.

The room was like the building. Grey, cold, lifeless. It had no windows, just one long cold neon light at the ceiling. A small table with two chairs were the only furniture.

The man who'd led Hutch inside once Frasier had explained that he was a cop from Bay City who was working on a case that was somehow connected to the new prisoner, had introduced himself as Dr. Martin McCoy, the deputy head of the institution.

He was a rather small, half-bald man in his fifties, who seemed to find his job highly amusing as a constant wry smile never left his thin face.

Hutch decided to despise him too.

"I'm sorry we don't have a real interrogation room," McCoy said apologetically when he opened the door to the small, grey room for the detective to enter, "but you'll understand that we normally don't need it. Our...guests usually don't have any more to say to the police."

"I understand," Hutch smiled humorlessly, looking around with a slight, irrational feeling of dread creeping up his spine.

"So-when can I talk to Saunders?" he asked, using Starsky's cover name. He himself had used his real name as he had no real undercover alias.

"I told the guard on duty to get him right away," McCoy answered, checking his watch. "He should be here any minute now. What exactly is it you need his statement for? As I recall he was sentenced for...shooting a cop, right?"

Hutch looked at the man unimpressed. "That's classified information, Dr. McCoy."

A thin, emotionless smile followed, subtly mocking the doctor's own expression. "I'm sure you understand."

"Oh, sure, sure," McCoy winked. "Sure I--ah, there he is." Looking over his shoulder, he grinned, somehow reminding Hutch of one of his former teachers in high school when reading the latest test results out loud, then turned to meet the blond's eyes again.

"Well, then, detective, I'll leave you and the, uh, witness alone. When you want to leave, ring that bell over there," he pointed at a button on the wall that was obviously connected with the office of the guard on duty. "Mr. Callahan will come and open the door then."

"I will. Thanks," Hutch muttered, forcing himself to not bend over to look down into the hall with anticipation. Not sure himself why, he was downright nervous about seeing his partner.

"Well, goodbye then, Detective Hutchinson," McCoy said, once the guard, Callahan, a tall man with broad shoulders, who reminded Hutch of one of those stereotyped guards in bad jail movies, arrived at the entrance and all but shoved a very small looking Starsky inside.

"Yeah, uhm, bye," the blond answered McCoy, again having to fight the urge to approach his partner immediately. He allowed himself a very brief inspection, though, before he turned to sit down on one of the two chairs. He opened a small suitcase he'd brought, spreading papers on the table, seemingly ignoring the guard, who led Starsky over to the other chair and forced him down on it. Holding him with a hand against his chest, he asked the detective, "You want me to restrain him?"

Hutch looked up, really looking at Starsky for the first time, and frowned when he saw that the smaller man's hands were cuffed in front of him, anyway. Obviously Callahan assumed that the prisoner had to be tied to the chair.

"Uh, no," the blond answered, a little too quickly, he thought, though the man didn't notice.

"No, we'll be okay. Thank you."

The guard nodded shortly and turned without looking back, closing the door behind him.

Hutch looked after him for only the briefest moment to make sure they were alone, then dragged his chair next to Starsky's instantly.

"Hey partner, you okay?" he asked worriedly, reaching out to lift Starsky's face enough for him to look into slightly glassy blue eyes.

"I hate this place," Starsky whined, his speech a little muffled due to the blond's large hand cupping his chin.

Hutch smiled in a mixture of relief, affection and amusement, and at his partner's weak grasps at his hand, let go off his chin, leaning back just a little to give the man some space.

"Well, you knew it wouldn't be the Holiday Inn," he pointed out, though he couldn't hide the sympathy in his voice as he looked at his miserable looking friend.

"Nice socks," he stated, glancing down at Starsky's feet that were hid in ridiculously large, thick socks. Their color - pink - stood absolutely contrary to the rest of his clothing; grey sweat pants and a grey, thin t-shirt.

The effect was a nice one, though.

Starsky followed his partner's gaze and shrugged like a sulking kid.

"I wanted blue, but they didn't have them in my size. Oh, here, look," he added as he thought of something and lifted one foot to show Hutch the small rubber spots underneath them.

Hutch grinned.

"Hey!" he exclaimed, taking hold of Starsky's foot to inspect the walking socks more closely. "I used to have some like those when I was a little kid!"

"No kidding," Starsky remarked dryly, rolling his eyes without Hutch noticing it.

"I loved them, they were really comfy and-"

"Shall I ask the guards if I can get a pair for you too?" Starsky interrupted his partner and slightly tugged at his foot in Hutch's grip to get his nostalgic partner's attention.

Returning to the here and now, Hutch let go off Starsky's foot. "I take it you don't find them comfy, huh?"

"They took my sneakers!" Starsky exclaimed. Hutch couldn't help thinking he'd sounded just like that when his parents had taken his walking socks.

"You'll get 'em back when this is over," he assured and wanted to add something to get them into business talk, but Starsky wasn't done with rambling yet.

"I bet they threw 'em away. Or burned them or whatever, like the rest of my stuff. D'you know why we have to wear those stupid things?!" he asked, lifting both his feet briefly to emphasize his point.

"Because we might hurt ourselves with our shoes." He gave a short pause, staring at his partner as if waiting for him to jump to his feet and call Amnesty International. "Shoes, Hutch!"

"I heard you," the blond nodded, suppressing a smile that he knew would enrage his humiliated partner even further. "Bet that's why you don't have any pockets too, hm?"

"Pockets?! I'm glad I'm allowed to wear clothes! I mean, hey, I could strangle someone with the legs of my pants!" To underline his words, he tugged at the material of his sweat pants, not aware that he left a tiny red spot on the grey clothes.

Hutch, though, saw it immediately.

"And it's cold in here! You should think what with the stuff they make us wear they would at least turn up the heat, but nooo, they just-"

The dark man stopped his outburst, startled when he suddenly felt his partner's hands on his. Looking down, he winced, knowing what Hutch had just found.

"Uhm..."

"H-how long have you been cuffed like that?" the blond asked, a deep frown embedded in his forehead as he scrutinized the thin bloody gashes on his friend's wrists.

"Uhm..."

"And why did you struggle against th-" Looking up sharply, Hutch leaned closer, his eyes narrowed as he let go off Starsky's wrists to once more cup his face.

Starsky jerked his head away slightly, but couldn't prevent his partner from grabbing his chin again. "Hutch...It's not-"

"You were drugged, weren't you!"

"No, not drugged. I-"

"Starsk."

Sighing, Starsky bowed his head, thereby freeing it from the blond's grasp. "They sedated me," he admitted. "But it wasn't my faul-"

"When did they sedate you?" Hutch asked sternly, anger at his careless friend already rising inside him. He had no doubts that Starsky had known better than to do whatever it'd been that had left someone forcefully calming him down.

"Yesterday," the smaller man mumbled, rubbing his left wrist absentmindedly.

Unnerved, Hutch took his hands in his again and gently massaged the sore skin. "When yesterday? Five minutes after you got here? Ten?"

When Starsky failed to answer, Hutch sighed, frustrated. "Starsk, how're you supposed to find out about this kid when you're asleep? Huh?"

"I know. I just wanted to test the limits."

"Test the limits," Hutch repeated as if it was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"Yeah," Starsky nodded defiantly. "I've got to know what my limits are in here. Like when I get in touch with Nylon, I've got to know what I'm up against when it comes to risky-"

"I don't want you to do anything risky, Starsk, okay? I want you to be a good little quiet patient-"

"Prisoner," Starsky corrected.

"Whatever," Hutch said, irritated. "And to look for Nylon, get him to talk to you and then get the hell outta here. No risky stuff whatsoever. You got that?"

"You sound like Dobey."

"I feel like Dobey," Hutch shot back. "You're on your own in here and that means private parties are YOUR private parties. And how does the saying go?"

"No private parties," Starsky muttered like a kid who'd been reminded of House Rule Number One.

"Good boy. Now tell me what happened. You made a run for it again?"

"Uh...sorta like that, yes," Starsky answered, deciding that his ever overprotective partner didn't need to know the truth.

Hutch being Hutch, though, he just sighed, raising his brows in anticipation. "C'mon, Starsk, spill it. What happened?"

The dark man blinked innocently. "Like you said, I..." But at the stern expression he was met with, he sighed, submitting.

"I don't know, Hutch, okay?" He shrugged in a big gesture, spreading his hands as much as he could with the cuffs on. "I wanted to make a run for it, but they had me in there before I even had the chan..."

"In where?" the blond asked, frowning.

"Dunno. Looked like an examination room. I don't know. I thought they'd give me a check up, you know, the kinky stuff," he grinned wryly, wriggling his eyebrows, "but they didn't," he concluded thoughtfully as if he had just now come to think about the strange incident.

When it became clear Starsky wouldn't go on, Hutch leaned in closer and asked in a gentle voice: "What did they do?"

"Huh?" Starsky said confused, snapping out of his thoughts, then shrugged again, less enthusiastic this time.

"Oh. Dunno really. Sedated me, I think. It's all kinda blurry. I think I recall..." He stopped, distress appearing in his eyes as he started to once more rub his wrists without being aware of it.

"Must have had a nightmare," Hutch heard him mutter, the feeling of dread he'd had before returning with a vengeance.

"You didn't do anything?" he asked again, for assurance, and Starsky shook his head no.

"Nothing to provoke them?" the blond continued, and again his partner shook his head, a wry smile twisting the corners of his mouth.

"Funny, huh?"

"I'll laugh later," Hutch remarked dryly, the frown on his forehead deepening with every passing second. He felt as if everything he'd feared over the whole day had appeared to be the truth exactly.

"I want you out of here."

"Oh come on, Hutch, it's only been a day! We can't-"

"I didn't say we'll pull the plug," Hutch interrupted him, though his tone of voice indicated that he actually wanted to do just that. "I only said I want you out of here."

Starsky eyed him for a second, then pulled back his cuffed hands, visibly creating a distance between them.

"Hey Blondie, stop worrying! So I took a little nap, big deal. I'm sure it was something regular like - an entrance examination?" he tried, and Hutch smiled slightly, much to Starsky's relief.

Their eyes met for the briefest moment, before Hutch checked his watch, then rubbed a nervous hand over his face, peeking at his partner over it, and finally stood to get over to the table and gather the unused papers together.

"Just find Nylon," he told Starsky, raising the Hutchinson Warning Finger. "And-"

"No private parties," Starsky concluded, lifting his hands in a feeble attempt to salute. "Yes, sir."

Hutch let out an affectionate snort and pressed the button for the guard to open up the door.

The clenching feeling in his gut only increased, though, when he forced himself to leave the room without looking back at his partner.

****

Starsky hadn't wanted to worry his partner more than necessary, though he couldn't help but wonder just how necessary worrying actually was as he was dragged to his feet by Callahan, watching Hutch turning around a corner and vanishing.

It was then he noticed the blond hadn't told him when he'd be back. And though he ordered himself to stop being such a baby immediately, the thought somewhat unnerved him.

It was ridiculous, he knew it. It wasn't like his partner would desert him and never turn up again, yet the question why Hutch hadn't even said so much as "I'll be back" kept nagging at the edges of his mind while he walked along the hallway, not looking left or right like he should have in order to get to know the place.

It wasn't until Callahan forced him to a sudden halt that he noticed he'd failed to do his job properly, and, cursing himself inwardly, he tried to quickly take in where they were and what was happening.

They were standing in front of a steel door he hadn't seen before, and somehow it didn't look like a cell door to him.

"Uh, hey, wha-" he rose his voice, but was silenced immediately by a very painful squeeze on the back of his neck.

As he was busy trying to catch his breath that had escaped him in a gasp, he eyed Callahan, who pushed a large button next to the door, opening it.

The larger man paid absolutely no attention to the prisoner next to him, he didn't even hold him any longer, obviously not expecting the man to make a run for it.

Starsky doubted he could attempt one, anyway. He felt like passing out. His nerves had seemingly cramped and were releasing slowly now, sending waves of pain through his whole body. Carefully, while watching Callahan pushing the door open further, he brought his cuffed hands up to his neck to massage the sore area softly.

'Great, the guard in charge's a Vulcan. Can this get any better?!'

Closing his eyes briefly to gather his bearings, he didn't react immediately when Callahan motioned for him to enter the room and was taken by surprise when he was suddenly grabbed and roughly shoved inside, nearly thrown on a table that stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by machines and smaller tables with what looked like medical devices on them.

Actually it looked like a regular examination room in a hospital or a doctor's office.

Only that there were restraints on the examination table.

'Triffic, Starsky thought and swallowed dryly. He wasn't much of a fan of such rooms, anyway, but this - this was unnerving him immensely.

"Hey, l-listen-" he turned to Callahan from where he leaned against the table.

This time he managed to back away, before the large man's hand could find the already sore spot on his neck again, but he stumbled against the table in the process and crushed to the ground.

With his hands still cuffed he found it extremely difficult to get back in a sitting position and made a feeble attempt at crawling backwards when the guard reached out for him.

It was of no use, though.

Rough hands lifted him off the ground and despite his desperate struggle, placed him onto the table, holding him down firmly.

"What's going on here?! Lemme go!" Starsky was near panic now, the sight of Callahan's completely emotionless expression frightening him even further.

It seemed the guard wasn't only used to this part of his job, but was, well, bored by it. He held the frantically kicking and struggling detective down with no visible effort whatsoever and never said a single word to him, while he waited a few seconds, until a second door to the room opened.

Starsky hadn't seen the door before and laid his head back, stretching to see who was entering.

"Hey, I didn't do anything!" he called out for the figure he still couldn't see clearly, but heard rummaging around in one of the drawers of the smaller tables.

When he received no answer, he looked back at Callahan. "I didn't do anything! You can't-"

"Gee, would you mind?!" the irritated voice of the other man interrupted the detective's rambles, and before Starsky could throw his head back again to see if he now could see the man, he felt one of Callahan's hands cover his mouth firmly, while the other one lowered to rest upon his stomach, still pinning him to the table.

It hurt. A lot. Either Callahan had no idea about just how strong he was or he didn't mind the idea of the prisoner chocking on his own vomit beneath his hand. Whatever was the truth, Starsky stopped struggling immediately, not eager about finding out.

"Thanks," the other man sighed sarcastically and now stepped in Starsky's line of vision, looking down at him with cold, scrutinizing eyes.

Cobalt blue eyes, wide with fear, followed his gaze as he looked him up and down, then made a few notes on a chart he held.

Finally, he picked up a small light and shone it into the prisoner's eyes. Starsky squinted his eyes in reflex, but widened them quickly when he felt the other man's hand on his face to lift his lids forcefully.

"Hm-mm," the man nodded, writing down a few more notes. When he looked up again, he briefly nodded at Callahan, who drew his hands back from the figure on the bed.

Starsky remained completely still, gulping in air through his mouth, but otherwise not making a sound. The whole procedure was frightening him to death. The way the men treated him, like an animal, or rather a thing, sent cold fingers crawling up his spine.

He remembered the day before when he'd been sedated, and suddenly noticed that then, too, no one had said a word to him. They had led him to a room similar to this one right after he'd arrived at the place, and there they had injected him with something before he'd even had time to wonder what was going on.

Now, the incident seemed to fit into a pattern. If only he'd known what he'd done to make them do this.

Sure they didn't just...

His eyes flying to the man with the chart again, a horrible thought crept inside his mind.

'Experiments. What if they experiment with the...Oh god, oh please...'

Clearing his throat ever so carefully, he lifted his head just a bit to look at the man before him.

"What're you-"

He let out a strangled cry when Callahan's hand cupped his forehead and yanked his head back onto the table again, the blow stunning him momentarily.

The man with the chart ignored the incident. He was finished writing and approached the table.

"Well, let's get him settled," he told Callahan.

Starsky shook his head slightly to clear it when he felt his hands being released from the cuffs. Wearily, he tried to take advantage of his sudden freedom, but his struggles met stone like strength, and all he could do was make it a little harder for the two men to get the thin t-shirt off of him and restrain his arms and legs on the table.

At last, a wide leather strap was secured over his throat, keeping his head down.

"What the hell you're doing, you sick bastards?! You can't-"

"Will you please shut him up, for Christ's Sake?!" Chart Man snapped at Callahan, shaking his head like an annoyed father, then turned back to his chart, turning pages, while producing several instruments from another drawer closer to the examination table.

"Gee, how's a person supposed to work like this?!" the poor, overworked man muttered under his breath.

Starsky stared at him with unbelieving eyes. What the hell was going on here? Who were those monsters? Didn't they care at all?!

He was kept from asking any of those questions by a piece of duct tape that suddenly was secured over his mouth.

He muffled a protesting scream, but only resulted in having it evened a little more, the pressure on his mouth hurting him, so that he gave up making any noise at all.

"McCoy said he killed a cop?" Chart Man asked Callahan, turning to face him, when the man didn't answer.

Callahan nodded, and chart man nodded contentedly, arranging the instruments on the instrument table.

Starsky felt himself starting to tremble with fear despite his efforts to not show how frightened he actually was. What were they going to do to him? His gaze wandered up to Chart Man's, a pleading look popping up in them without him being aware of it.

Chart Man looked away.

"I'd say he's a B," he said. Callahan nodded, not in an agreeing, but obedient way.

He checked his watch and left the room. Starsky stretched his neck, looking after the guard, somehow even more scared by the thought of being alone with Chart Man. He recalled a film he'd once seen about a mad scientist experimenting on humans.

The thought of how the victims in that film had looked sent the bile rising in his throat again. He swallowed repeatedly, watching Chart Man whistling to himself while he filled a syringe with skilled fingers.

'Oh god, please! Hutch! Hutch, I need some help here, partner! Please!'

But he couldn't even squirm away. He couldn't move at all, just jerk his head painfully beneath the leather strap around his throat as the needle was quickly slid home.

****

Hutch sat on the bed in his hotel room and stared at the TV running with the volume down.

Every once in a while he glanced at the phone, willing it to ring.

It never did.

'That arrogant, old fart! He's never gonna call. He'll just sit on his fat...'

Sighing, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying to calm down.

'Three days my ass. No way I'm going to just sit here for three days doing nothing!'

Three days. That was the amount of time Frasier had said they'd have to wait before checking on Starsky again.

Three days. Enough time to get the information they needed.

'Yeah, or to get into trouble. Drugged. Locked away. Killed. Oh, what am I thinking?!'

Jumping to his feet as if trying to get away from the thoughts somehow creeping up inside him from out of the bed, the blond started pacing the small room.

"Uuuhhh, this is fun," he sighed sarcastically, stretching his arms, only then noticing how tensed he was.

'What if they've sedated him again? He said they had no reason for it the first time, so what if they do it with all their patients? Like in all the time? What an easier way to get rid of them?'

"Shit," he muttered, letting himself fall back on the bed.

'Gee, I hate this! I can't even call him. Or see him for that matter. Last time, at least I was there with him. Cop killer. What a great idea that was too...I bet the folks in there are particularly fond of cop killers. What if they beat him up? Or worse? He's a supposed cop killer, for Christ's sake, they probably figure nobody would care, anyway!'

Again, he jumped to his feet, grabbing his jacket in the motion.

'This isn't helping anything, Hutchinson. If you want to do something useful, go and do it!'

Without looking back, he left the room, throwing the door shut behind him.

****

"Hey, Sean, there's a guy asking for you in the office."

Turning from where he'd been pouring water in the coffee machine, Lieutenant Sean Frasier met the eyes of his colleague, frowned, then-as realization dawned-sighed deeply.

"Tall blond irritating kid?"

"Yeah," the other man nodded with a crooked smile. "Says his name's-"

"Hutchinson," Frasier growled, placed the coffee can aside and re-entered the office, where Hutch stood at his table, reading something that lay on top of it.

"Hey, kid!" Frasier's voice startled the younger man enough to make him whirl around, thereby knocking a few sheets of paper to the ground.

As the Lieutenant rolled his eyes, Hutch quickly bent down to gather the mess together.

"Uh...Sorry. I..."

Making his way over to the blond, Frasier shoved him aside and picked up the papers himself, placing them back on the table, turned upside down.

Hutch frowned, but quickly forced himself to smile sheepishly. He didn't miss to make a mental note about the older man's strange behavior, though.

"Well," Frasier finally asked, making the word sound like a principal would before lecturing one of his pupils, "what can I do for you?"

"Uhm..." Though Hutch was a few inches taller than the other man, he instantly felt himself shrinking at Frasier's gaze.

"I'm supposed to...work with you," he finished lamely.

"Work with me," Frasier repeated tonelessly.

"Yeah, well, like...You don't really want me to sit in that room for the next three days, do you?" Hutch asked, a nervous smile slowly spreading on his lips.

"Do you?"

There was a short pause with Frasier just looking at him through narrow eyes, before the Lieutenant sank down on his chair heavily, forcing Hutch to step aside from the table and stand before him, now really looking like a kid about to get a lecture.

"Kid-"

"Ken," Hutch corrected sweetly.

"Ken," Frasier said with a sarcastic little nod. "I don't know what you've been told about this whole assignment, but I'm sure of one thing. You will not work with me."

As Hutch's gaze froze in a mixture of fury and confusion, Frasier asked "Got that?" and without waiting for a reply, turned to his desk, away from the blond.

Hutch looked down at the man for a few seconds, before straightening up and nodding in mock agreement. "Okay, Sean. It was nice meeting you."

Frowning slightly as he saw the younger man turn and walk away slowly, Frasier looked up despite himself.

"Hey, kid!"

Hutch ignored him.

"Ken!"

"Yes?"

"Where're you going?"

"To get my partner and head back to Bay City," Hutch replied unimpressed, and left the office.

When he'd turned three corners, he leaned against a wall, whistling softly to himself, waiting.

It didn't take him a minute to hear heavy footsteps on the hallway, and when he peeked around the corner with a grin, he met Sean Frasier's irritated glare.

"You are a pain in the ass, kid, you know that?!" the older man growled, panting slightly from the exercise.

"Ken," Hutch corrected him stoically.

****

It seldom hurt. And it never knocked him out.

That was the first thing he noticed. Chart Man pulled back the needle, peeked closely into the sapphire blue eyes wide with sudden pain and fear. He found no sign of them closing or becoming glassy, and nodded contently, scribbling on his chart.

Next, he quickly attached EKG electrodes to the still man's chest, checking the machine with professional routine.

When everything was done and working, he too checked his watch and left the room.

Starsky was alone. He pulled against the restraints holding him a few times, but gave it up quickly when he only managed to hurt his wrists. Wisely, he didn't even try to move his head.

He stared up the ceiling, his heart racing in panic, a fine sheet of sweat appearing on his forehead.

'What the hell did they give me? What's happening to me? Is something happening at all? Could something happen? Calm down, Davey, damn it calm down!'

Taking deep breaths through his nose, he forced himself to focus on one spot on the ceiling and concentrate on the beeping of his own heartbeat that was too fast, much too fast to be of any help.

'Stop panicking, Starsky! You're going to hyperventilate!'

He was pretty sure that it wasn't the reaction to the drug, but just his own fear, yet knowing that at one point there surely would be a reaction to the drug made it nearly impossible to fight back the gnawing horror.

'Okay, okay, here's what we'll do, Davey. Who... ?'

A slight frown appeared on his face as he tried to come up with a fairly difficult baseball-question.

'Nah, too easy. Hm...Who invented the game? Oh, that's a good one!'

He chuckled beneath his gag, wincing automatically when the small movement hurt his lips, but not really registering it.

'I bet Hutch would know that. He knows all those nonsense things. I'm gonna ask him when I see him next time,' he decided, content with that solution, then realized it meant he still had nothing to think about to distract him from the panic.

Not that he was afraid any longer. His heartbeat had slowed down rapidly. Yet he simply didn't think about it. He felt calm, satisfied...

'I wonder if I still know all the stanzas from that stupid baseball rhyme Nicky used to yell before...screwing the hell up on the field! That kid wouldn't have caught a ball if his life had depended on it!'

...happy.

****

Starsky knew he hadn't been sleeping. At all. He knew that hour after hour must have passed, slipped away, while he continued to stare at the ceiling, his body too numb by now to find the strength to struggle anymore.

Though, funny, now he felt like struggling.

How much time had passed? he wondered. He had no way of telling, since the bright lights above his head never went off, and there were no windows. He knew his body was getting exhausted, his head throbbed slightly from the lack of sleep, and he felt the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

Yet-he wasn't tired. And he wasn't hungry.

'Scared. I should be scared,' he thought, his eyes wandering once more over to the IVs that ran into both his arms.

One had been set a few hours after Chart Man had left, by another man. Probably a new shift, Starsky had thought with dry humor, watching the man's movements closely.

That IV was the one that was refilled every now and then, new bags were attached to it, and it was that on which the by then numerous scientists' attentions were centered.

The other one had been set by a man who wore the same clothes as Callahan, so Starsky had assumed he was a guard. At first, the detective had been incredibly glad to see him, thinking he was done there and would be brought to his cell, where if not a real bed at least a real bunk would be waiting for him and the gag and restraints would be removed.

He'd been painfully thirsty by then, and though he'd felt no pain at all from his wrists or neck, his mind knew he should have felt pain. The knowledge without the body reaction to prove it had been even more disturbing.

Instead of releasing him, though, the guard had set yet another IV on his other arm. Despite his weakness, the restrained man had struggled feebly, only resulting in getting the stomach treatment again, the other man's strong hand pressing him down onto the table hard. He'd never even looked at the man, just checked the IV flowing nicely and turned, leaving the detective alone, who'd coughed underneath his gag, desperately trying to make the nausea caused by the guard's action pass.

It hadn't taken him long to notice that the light-headedness vanished. His throat still burned from thirst, but his head hadn't been throbbing anymore, and he'd felt a little more alert.

His eyes crawling to their corners, he had eyed the new IV, frowning slightly. Obviously it wasn't in the scientists' plans to let him get dehydrated. With a shudder he'd wondered if he'd be fed through a tube next.

'What a better way to gag someone?' he'd thought, snorting at his own comment.

Again, hours had passed. The bag of the second IV was empty, though the other one was steadily replaced by ever silent scientists, all carrying charts, all scribbling on them, all ignoring the object of their studies.

Not one of them ever looked into Starsky's face, not to mention talked to him.

The times of happiness and nonsense-question to distract himself were over, another period of the experiment had begun without the exhausted man being alert enough to notice it. Slowly, but steadily, he was beginning to feel devastated. Desperate. Hopeless. Lost.

Sad.

'I wonder how much shit they've forced through my veins already! Is this the sixth or the seventh bag? What day is it, anyway?! Hutch would be back by now, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? He didn't say he'd be back. Maybe he left me here. Maybe he's here somewhere. Or was here. And I missed him. But I didn't sleep, did I? No, I didn't sleep. I think I didn't. Was awake the whole time. I'd have noticed him. So he wasn't here. Why didn't he come back? Is this right? Maybe all of this is right. I'm sick. I need this. I need medication.'

A confused frown crept over his face, his eyes narrowing while focused on the neon light above his head. How had he gotten there, anyway? Right, an assignment. This was a cover assignment. He was not sick. He was in trouble. He didn't need medication. He needed to get out.

'Hutch. I need Hutch. Hutch, help! I think...I think I'm losing it here, partner! Where the hell are you?!'

But what if he was sick? What if he was sick, and they all had tricked him in there, because they'd feared he wouldn't go by himself?

'Stop it, Davey!!! That's not what happened! That's just the shit messing with your mind. You're not sick, and Hutch did not trick you in here. He'll come back, you know that. He'll come and get you out of here.'

He couldn't feel the few tears that slowly made their way down his cheeks, soaking into the material of the strap over his throat.

'What if he won't?'

****

"Hey," a gruff voice to his right startled Hutch enough to make him jump half-way to his feet, glancing around wildly. He must have dozed off, he thought, rubbing a spot on his forehead where he'd rested his head on the desk, then let his hand travel down to his tired eyes.

"Yeah?" he asked, peeking over his fingers at one of Frasier's colleagues who stood in front of him, smiling dryly at the pitiful sight.

"You know, maybe you ought to get home too, kid. You look like hell."

"Ken," Hutch corrected automatically like he had all day long, and, slowly massaging his sore neck, he shook his head no. "No, I'm fine. I just need another cup of coff-"

Looking over to the coffee machine, he noticed it was empty and smiled sheepishly.

"Maybe you're right," he then told the older man with a sigh.

The officer laughed sympathetically, patting the detective's shoulder. "Go home and get a good night's sleep, sport-"

"Ken."

Ignoring him, the man continued: "Sean's gonna have your hide if you'll fall asleep in the morning, you know. He's sorta-"

"Annoying?" Hutch sighed tiredly.

The man laughed again.

"Strict," he corrected, giving the younger man a friendly parting slap to the head, before turning to go. "But he's one hell of a great cop, kiddo-"

"Ken."

" -once you've got to know him. You'll learn a lot, you'll see."

"Uh huh," Hutch said without enthusiasm. It had been sometime during that day that he'd found out about the "cover alias" Frasier had come up with for him. He'd been carrying some files about LaMarre over to the desk Frasier had allowed him to use for his research, when suddenly a loud voice had cut through the occupied silence in the room.

"Hey junior, you're already standing. C'mon, take care of the coffee flow, will ya?"

Hutch, not aware that he was junior, had continued on his way, until he'd felt a tip on his shoulder.

"You know, kiddo, it's a good thing you're a hard-working man, but..."

Staring at the man, an older detective who was sometimes working with Frasier, Hutch's eyes had widened slightly, while he unconsciously interrupted the man with a mumbled "Ken."

The officer had rolled his eyes, casting a look at his friend over Hutch's shoulder. "Hey Sean, what good is that kid anyway, huh?"

"I don't know yet," Frasier had replied with a shrug, grinning at Hutch who'd whirled around to shoot him a glance to kill.

"You're any good, ki...Kenny?"

'I'm going to kill him. When this is over, I'm going to strangle him myself.'

What with Frasier having spread the news that he had a newbie in training on his hands for a few days, Hutch had been powerless to struggle against the older men's treatment, thereby spending the day making coffee, carrying files from desk to desk and listening to more than one senior's lecture about the importance of desk-work before hitting the street.

That not one of them had ever bothered to recall his name hadn't been helpful to improve his mood either. Not to mention that he hadn't had the chance to get some actual work done.

Somewhere beneath the fury he'd felt at Frasier, he'd seriously wondered if that last fact may have been the purpose of the whole scheme. Though he didn't know why, he couldn't shake the feeling that Sean Frasier didn't want him to go through LaMarre's files, to get into the case at all. He wanted him out of the way, and Hutch was determined to find out why.

So after Frasier had left that day, "junior" had settled on his "superior's" desk and had started to go through the files spread on it.

It hadn't taken him a minute to fall asleep.

"Well," Frasier's colleague drew his attention back to the here and now, "I'm off then. See you in the morning, junior."

"G'night...sir," Hutch mumbled sarcastically, but the man was gone before he could hear it.

Once more massaging his tensed muscles, Hutch closed his eyes. He was beat. He was beat, sore, tired and pretty sure he hadn't felt that pissed off for a long, long time.

Shuffling over to the coffee machine to see if there was anything he could do about its poor condition, he contemplated about playing a practical joke on Frasier.

'Yeah, like maybe put something in his coffee. Cyanide.'

He smiled a little at the thought, his eyes narrowing in one of his very seldom wicked grins, and fumbled with the coffee can, when he suddenly, as if someone had pointed that out to him just now, noticed that he was alone in the office.

Slowly, can still in hand, he turned to scan the room. There was no one in there. Except for him.

His gaze wandering to Frasier's desk, he took a step away from the machine towards it, moving as if in slow-motion.

Once he'd reached the desk, though, his body instinctively pressed the forward button, as he searched through the mass of papers on his 'superior's' desk with a speed his partner-the world's record holder of food-snatching--would have been proud of.

Gathering together as much files as he could hold, the blond practically bounced to 'his' desk, spreading sheets of paper all over it.

He sat down just in time, as two seconds later two uniformed officers entered the room, chatting happily with each other, only stopping on their way to their desks to crack a few jokes about the hard-working rookie Frasier had brought in.

Hutch was still reading, when their shifts ended and they left again, hours later.

****

He couldn't understand.

He'd tried, until it had become too exhausting to think about it anymore, but still he couldn't understand. He wanted to. Desperately. He wanted to understand why they were doing these things to him. Why were they hurting him?

Maybe if he understood, he could do something about it. And then, maybe, they would stop. That would have been nice. If they stopped.

He shifted a little, just so much as his restrained arms would allow, on the table he'd occupied for days now.

It hurt. Moving hurt. Thinking hurt.

'I didn't do anything.'

That was the truth. He had kept silent. Even when they had removed the duct tape from his mouth he had kept silent, knowing noises would only lead to them hurting him more.

And he hurt enough already. Not only had his arms gone completely numb over the endless hours of his captivity, he also still hadn't slept. Not at all. Whatever they were pumping through his veins held his eyes open forcefully. They seemed to be secured to strings that wouldn't allow them to fall closed. They always popped open again instantly.

He was tired. God, he was so tired. He didn't even care anymore what they'd do to him when he'd be asleep, if only he would be asleep.

'I didn't do anything. Let me go.'

He pleaded in his mind, not daring to speak out loud. He didn't know when he'd started to plead. It had shocked him at first, but shock was too exhausting a feeling now.

Isolation. The pain in his head, the confusion, the fear, the tears, the anger, everything-it seemed that everything he'd ever felt had started with isolation.

Isolation had hurt. God, it had hurt.

'It hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts.'

Hutch.

The memory brought back the image of his partner, his own pain reflected in light blue eyes.

Hutch had not come.

Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he was dead. Or didn't care. Or maybe this was really what he, Starsky, deserved, what he needed. Maybe he was sick. But why did they hurt him to cure him?

Why hadn't Hutch come? What had he done that had made his partner so angry he'd deserted him in this place?

'I didn't do anything. I'm sorry if I did, Hutch. I didn't mean it. Just come back. Please.'

In his confused, abused state of mind, the realization that only two days had passed since he'd seen Hutch the last time didn't find a way inside his head. He had no way of telling how much time went by with him staring at a white ceiling, begging his partner to come.

Isolation. He knew that before isolation, he'd known what it was. It was something else, not what it sounded like. Before isolation, he'd known a lot more than he knew now.

Had he known then why exactly he was there? Had he known then that he was sick? Or maybe there was another reason for him being there. Had he been kidnapped? Or was this an assignment? One that had went wrong?

Definitely wrong.

It hurt to think. It felt like his thoughts ran against solid walls inside his head, and he could feel it as if the thoughts themselves were nerves of his. And whenever one of them crashed into a wall, it died.

He'd read once that when you listen to too loud music, nerves in your ear died. Thousands of them. It wasn't that bad, because you had a lot of them. Lots of lots of them, but eventually you'd lose them all and go deaf.

Was he losing his thoughts? He'd already lost the one about the reason for his being there, hadn't he? He'd lost the thought about how sleep felt. He lost the thought about what isolation was and why he should try to memorize what it was.

What if he lost even more? What if he lost the thought of Hutch?

He caught his breath in a surprised, shocked gasp at that, but frowned a second later. No, he'd never forget Hutch. It was impossible for him to forget Hutch. He could see Hutch if he wanted to, right in front of his eyes, without even having to close them.

Hutch was with him. Always.

Hutch cared about him. Right. That thought popped up a lot. Hutch cared about him. So, logically, if Hutch had decided to send him in there, it had had to be for a reason. Hutch didn't do anything without a reason.

So if Hutch thought it right for him to be there, it should be okay with him too, right? 'Right.'

Satisfied and happy about finally having been able to think a whole question through and even reached a logical conclusion, Starsky smiled to himself.

****

Hutch felt like a kid on the way to the amusement park.

Today was the day he was allowed to check on Starsky again, and he felt actually excited about it. Not necessarily in a happy way, but definitely excited.

He sat on the passenger seat of Sean Frasier's car and nervously drummed on his leg with his fingers. From time to time he shot a brief glance in Frasier's direction. The older man never noticed, though. He seemed to be lost in thoughts about some case.

Of which he had quite a lot, as Hutch had found out the night before.

After the first twenty minutes of going through the files he'd collected from Frasier's desk, a frown had clawed itself into his forehead, and there it had stayed throughout the night.

A lot of files, sure, but not one--not one--had been about Thomas LaMarre or Danny Nylon.

Sure, the man was Lieutenant, so he probably had to check on some rookie's reports too, and maybe he was just a slob, a slow worker. Maybe he hated paper work as much as Hutch and Starsky did, but, anyway, the fact that he didn't have a single file related to the case he was actually working on, on his desk, was more than strange.

'IF he's working on that case...' Hutch thought, once more glancing over to the silent man behind the wheel.

The dreadful feeling he'd had about the whole assignment since day one returned with a vengeance. Something was definitely wrong. About Frasier, about the hospital, about the whole thing.

And he'd be damned if he didn't find out what before...

'...before Starsky does,' he thought worriedly. He had a slight, a very, very slight suspicion, and he desperately hoped he was wrong.

"You know, Kenny," Frasier suddenly broke the silence without looking at the blond, "you shouldn't pull all nighters like that. You look like shit."

"Thank you, sir," Hutch replied dryly, but tensed involuntarily. He had yet to figure the older man out, and until he was finished with that, he knew he had to be careful around him. The man could be a great danger not only to him, but also for his partner. If Sean Frasier was working both sides, Hutch didn't want Starsky caught in the middle; defenseless and...without shoes.

A quick side glance brushed the younger man, and Frasier snorted. "Kinda edgy when tired, huh?"

"I'm not tired," Hutch said, adding a clear "sir" after a second's thought.

Frasier grinned slightly, but didn't say any more.

****

Long fingers drummed on top of the desk in the small, windowless room. Checking his watch like a businessman before a meeting, Hutch shoved fake files from one end of the desk to the other. Then, he shoved them back.

He checked his watch again. It couldn't be more than fifteen minutes that had passed, but still every second that went by without Starsky appearing at the door made the blond tense a little more until it felt like he'd actually shrank.

He leaned back in the chair and stretched slightly.

'This doesn't mean anything. Maybe he's in a far part of the building. Or eating. It's really hard to get Starsk away when he's eating...'

He forced himself to smile slightly at that, though it never reached his eyes, and nearly jumped off the chair when finally the door was opened and Starsky entered, followed by the same guard Hutch had seen the first time. Callahan, he remembered. Callahan, the giant, who wore the same blank expression he seemed to have been born with.

"Hello," Hutch greeted him, ignoring the prisoner like his alter ego would do, though he couldn't help glancing at his partner from the corner of his eye.

Something was definitely wrong. He couldn't see Starsky's face, and that alone sent alarm bells off in his head. He couldn't see Starsky's face, because the smaller man's head was bowed so much his chin almost touched his chest. A mob of damp, dark curls hang over his forehead, and his cuffed hands were pressed onto his stomach.

He was wearing clothes of the same kind and color like he had before, only this time the socks were a bright orange. If things hadn't been the way they were, Hutch definitely would have had to stifle a giggle at that.

He didn't feel much like laughing, though. The clothes Starsky wore looked new, still smooth like he'd put them on just now. Somehow, Hutch found that thought disturbing.

Quickly forcing himself to push his concern aside for just a second longer, he watched Callahan drag Starsky to the chair and push him down onto it.

Starsky didn't struggle. And he didn't look up.

"Uh...Y-you," the blond said, inwardly cursing himself for his stress stutter. He really wanted to be alone with his partner, and he feared he would blow both their covers, anyway, if he had to just stand there and watch the back of Starsky's head much longer.

"You don't have to restrain him, guard. We'll be okay."

Callahan gave a quick nod, obviously not having noticed anything strange about the cop, and turned to leave.

"Push the button, when you're ready," he said in a monotone voice and closed the door behind him.

Hutch was on his knees next to Starsky's chair in a split second.

"Starsk. Buddy, hey, what happened? You okay?"

Starsky didn't lift his head, but now that he was closer, Hutch could see tiny tremors running through his body, and reaching out to gently touch his head, he noticed that the man was damp.

The ringing of the alarm bell grew so loud it was impossible to ignore any longer.

'Twenty minutes. I waited here for at least twenty minutes. They...they bathed him in that time?! Not good. Uh uh. Not good!'

"Starsk, talk to me. Starsky. Look at me."

Hutch was getting frantic. The thought that he'd been right all the time, that everything he'd feared had come true almost taking his breath away.

'Three days. Oh God, I left him here for three fucking days! Damn you, Frasier! Damn you!'

"Hutch?"

The fearful whisper cut through Hutch's thoughts like a scream.

"Yeah," he hurried to say, bending down to look into his friend's eyes. Starsky still hadn't lifted his head. "Yeah, Starsk, it's me. It's Hutch. I'm here. What happened?"

"Hu-Hutch?"

"Yes," Hutch said desperately, raising one hand to lift Starsky's head, but thought differently. "Yes, it's me. It's okay. Can you look up? Huh? Starsk? Can you look up for me? Lift your head?"

"Tired," Starsky mumbled, but managed to raise his head a bit, so that Hutch could at least see his face.

"No kidding," the blond said softly, ever so gently tipping his index finger under Starsky's chin to get a closer look at him.

He looked terrible. Hutch had last seen him that pale when he'd been shot, and there were deep dark smudges under his eyes, like bruises. The sea blue eyes were barely visible under heavy lids.

"God, Starsk, what happened?" Hutch asked again, smoothing his free hand through the damp curls that clung to his partner's face.

Starsky flinched.

"Shh, it's okay, buddy. It's okay, I'm here. Everything's fine. Can you tell me what happened?"

The smaller man seemed to think about the question, tilting his tired head to one side, though it looked more like it just lolled there. Hutch's finger wandered to the back of Starsky's head as if to hold it upright.

"I...I didn't do anything," Starsky finally said, his voice quivering a little, making him sound like a child who'd been accused of breaking a window.

Somehow, though, the sound of the sentence, or rather of his own voice, brought a tiny smile to the confused man's lips, and he looked directly at his partner when he repeated more firmly: "I didn't do anything, Hutch."

Hutch was confused and even more concerned. He smiled nervously, stroking the backs of curled fingers over Starsky's clammy cheek.

"You didn't, huh?" he asked like he would a kid.

Starsky frowned just a bit, and moved his head away from the blond's loving touch.

"You're mad at me?" he asked in the same little-boy-voice, his expression defeated. As if he wanted to understand why Hutch was angry with him, but at the same time felt it to be unfair.

Hutch's eyes widened in horror when he saw moisture in the corners of Starsky's eyes.

"No," he answered quickly, almost yelling the word. "No, I'm not mad at you. Jeez, Starsk, what the hell happened here? What did they do to you?"

Gently, but firmly, he peeled Starsky's hands off his stomach and turned his arms so he could see the small injection spots.

"How often have you been drugged?" he asked, looking up into Starsky's eyes again.

His partner frowned as if trying to grasp a thought he couldn't seem to hold onto.

"Buddy? Talk to me."

"I..." he started, then suddenly lifted his hands from Hutch's hold to touch the blond's face.

"Am I sick?" he asked, absolutely serious.

Hutch coughed in surprise, almost chocking on the words that wanted to pour out all at the same time. Realizing the touch on his face was meant to comfort him, he grabbed Starsky's hands almost roughly and held them as if restraining the smaller man.

"No! No, you're not sick! You're on an assignment." He let go off the shaky hands and cupped both sides of Starsky's face to look him directly into the eyes. "Starsky, do you remember our assignment?"

The blank look he received was answer enough.

"And you don't remember Danny Nylon?"

"I'm not sick?"

Hutch stared at his friend unbelievingly and suddenly found himself wrapping him in a tight embrace. Pure reflex, he guessed.

"No, buddy. You're not sick. You don't belong here. Ah jeez," he sighed, when he let go off his confused partner who stared at him with a mixture of relief and confusion. "What a mess have we gotten ourselves into again?!"

Running a hand through his blond hair, Hutch took a deep breath as if bracing himself for the actions necessary.

"Starsk, you know who I am, right?"

"`Course," the dark man replied, the first appearance of his usual tone of voice. Hutch could have hugged him again.

"Good. You know you're a cop, right?"

Starsky stared at him, his lips moving slightly as if he was silently talking to himself. Then all of a sudden, the sea blues cleared, just a bit, and he frowned.

"I..." he started, but winced.

"Buddy? What is it? Starsk?" Hutch asked a little panicked, placing a warm hand on a tensed shoulder. "Buddy, talk to me. Come on, don't-"

"I didn't...I...Hutch," Starsky interrupted him, wincing again at the pain in his head. "I didn't see Danny Nylon," he finally said softly.

Hutch's eyes widened. "You remember?"

"I...Thinking hurts," Starsky stated, squinting his eyes closed briefly. "Hurts to think."

Stroking the side of the curly head again as if he could smooth away the pain inside, Hutch asked, "You remember our assignment now?"

"I'm not sure. I'm not...Hutch," a sudden urgency colored the dark man's voice and uncoordinated attempts at grasping the blond's sleeve, "please, I don't wanna go back to isolation. It hurts. Hurts," he repeated in a whispered whimper, bringing his trembling fingers up to rub his forehead.

Hutch was beyond caring about what any guard who might enter the scene would figure. His hands wandered once more down to cup his partner's face as he looked directly into fear-filled blue eyes.

"Starsk," he soothed. "Buddy-"

"I'm sorry," his suddenly scared friend said over his words, "I'm sorry i-if you're mad at me. But I-I don't want to go-"

"Starsky!" Hutch practically yelled, but instantly bit his lip, cursing himself for the lack of self-control that could get the both of them in a lot of trouble in a place like that.

"Buddy, it's okay. You hear me? Everything's alright. Look at me. Buddy. Starsk. Look at me!"

When the deep blue eyes kept slipping away from his gaze, he grabbed Starsky's chin, lifting his head even more, until he was looking up at Hutch's face.

"I'm not mad at you," Hutch said firmly. "I did not send you here. You don't belong here. D'you understand?"

Starsky hesitated, but nodded.

"Okay. Now--what does isolation mean? What-"

"Hurts," the confused detective answered without missing a beat. "It hurts, Hutch. It scares me. I don't want to-"

"Why does it hurt?" Hutch cut him off, desperate to find out what had been done to his partner to leave him in such a horrifying state of mind. "What happened in isolation?"

Starsky stared blankly at him as if not understanding the question.

Hutch sighed, let go off his chin and crouched down in front of him, feeling like he was getting on eye-level with a frightened child.

"What is isolation, buddy? Solitary confinement? Huh? They put you in solitary confinement?"

"No," Starsky shook his head. "Isolation."

"What does that MEAN, Starsk?!" Hutch asked, frustrated. "What did they do to you?"

"I..." Starsky started, but suddenly the fog in his eyes lit up again like it had before when he'd remembered the assignment.

"I don't know," he whispered finally, the sound sending a bunch of cold fingers clawing down Hutch's spine.

"Hutch," Starsky continued, still in a whisper, but more coherent than he'd been throughout the whole time, "something's happening in here."

"No shit," Hutch muttered, sitting back on his legs as he lowered himself to his knees. He looked up at his partner questioningly.

"I don't remember what isolation means, but...the word alone scares the shit outta me. It hurt. I-It hurts to think about it...It..."

Breathing in deep, Starsky tried to calm himself, to hold onto the think rope to the coherent part of his mind. The fear, the pain, the sadness, the anger, the emotions were roaring, grabbing waves beneath him, a deep black sea of confusion. A thick, choking liquid that threatened to reach out for him, to drag him back into it.

He shook his head fiercely to clear it, then focused his eyes on Hutch as if he was his lifesaver, the branch that reached out of the sea, the only hold he could find.

The words tumbled out, afraid they might not make it.

"They shot me full of stuff, I don't know what, b-but it's...I think it were psychedelic drugs. I-I dunno. I feel like...like crying and laughing and screaming and hiding a-and..."

Violently shaking hands tried to come up to drive nervously through his thick curls, but with the cuffs on, he couldn't really complete the action and hit his legs in frustration.

Hutch watched in unbelieving horror as his friend curled up on the chair the very next moment. He felt sickly reminded of some of the junkies' behaviors during interrogation. When they'd been on the road down, but had not yet arrived in hell.

He swallowed dryly, but forced himself to sit still, to let his partner say it all first.

"I don't know what the hell's happening to me! A-and I remember isolation, b-but at the same time I don't! I..." Starsky's voice broke, his eyes snapped shut.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked, alarmed.

"They're experimenting with the patients in here, Hutch," Starsky said clearly, his eyes squeezed shut as if he feared he would lose the fight against the drugs if he looked at the world.

"They're testing out psychedelic drugs, I'm sure. I didn't do anything to deser-"

He interrupted himself, bit his lip as if trying to kill the sentence. The sentence that tried to push him back into the roaring see.

At Hutch's careful touch on his knee, he opened his eyes again.

"I don't think we're in here because of Danny Nylon," he stated, anger coloring the words.

Hutch felt all color drain off his face. "Wh-what you mean?"

Starsky's blank look returned, but he blinked hard once, pushing the tugging sensation in his heart aside.

"We've been set up, partner."

His gaze held Hutch's for a while, before finally dropping to the ground. "I'm hungry," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Hutch muttered and stood up, producing a candy bar from a pocket of his jacket. "I-I brought you some can-"

He frowned, surprised at Starsky's wide grin. It almost looked like one of the famous Starsky specials. But he knew it wasn't. It was an artificial grin. Placed there.

"Some candy," he finished uneasily and handed Starsky the candy bar. "How...how long since you've eaten anything?"

Starsky shook his head, eyeing the gift in his hands happily. "Dunno."

"Aw jeez," Hutch muttered and wiped a hand over his drawn features. When his fingers had passed his eyes, he looked over his fingertips and saw the corners of Starsky's mouth twisting slightly as he still focused on the candy bar.

Once more, he gave the image of a little boy. It looked like he was trying to figure out how to get past the paper that was wrapped around what he desired so much.

Almost out of reflex, Hutch took the candy back from him and ripped the plastic material open. It was only when he absentmindedly looked back at his partner that he saw the shock in the wide blue eyes. The sadness.

His eyes wandering back down to the candy in his hands, Hutch felt disgusted at the realization that the thought of his present being taken away from him again had sent the tough street cop that was his partner to the verge of tears.

"H-here," he said, but the words were somehow trapped in his throat and didn't quite make it out. He avoided looking at his partner when he laid the candy bar back in his hands and also ignored the flinch he felt beneath his fingers.

Once assured that no one would take his candy away from him again, Starsky happily wolfed it down, almost swallowing the whole thing without chewing.

Hutch watched, pursing his lower lip. "I take it they don't experiment with food, huh?"

"More?" Starsky asked instead of an answer, looking up at the blond.

A wry smile played on Hutch's lips as he shrugged a silent 'sorry'.

Starsky gave an unappreciative noise. "What good're you?"

Hutch laughed slightly, more out of relief at the familiar Starsky-sound of the insult then at its actual content.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked over the blond's light chuckle.

"Yeah?"

"Will you...get me outta here? B-before..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

Hutch nodded quickly and crouched down in front of Starsky's chair again. "Don't worry, buddy. As soon as I'm back at the precinct, I'll call Dobey and tell him what's going on here. We'll have you out of here in no time and then you and me, buddy, we'll kick some old-timers' asses!"

A confused frown appeared on the smaller man's face. "Huh?"

Hutch smiled, the fury he felt at Sean Frasier twinkling like black sparkles in his eyes. "You'll see, partner. Just kick whatever ass I'll point at."

"Uh...'kay," Starsky agreed matter-of-factly.

****

Despite his usual calm self, Ken Hutchinson was ready to kick ass, when he stormed into the SDPD office a short while later.

He'd actually driven to the precinct with the siren on, speeding the borrowed patrol car he'd used to get to Mercy to its maximum.

He was furious.

"Hey slow down, kiddo, or you might-" the elder officer who'd spoken to him the previous night advised with a fatherly smile as Hutch bounded passed him, but the blond ignored him, walking on with large, fierce steps.

"Gee, those young fellows today," the man muttered to himself, shaking his head, and continued his way to the cafeteria.

Hutch didn't stop in the doorway to take a second look when seeing that Sean Frasier wasn't in the room, but headed straight for his 'superior's' desk, where he sat down and shoved a huge bunch of files onto the floor.

Questioning gazes crossed the room above his head, but Hutch didn't care. He rummaged violently through the papers, until he froze with his hand hovering in mid-air.

The file he stared at had been hidden inside another one and only now fallen out.

It read "Mercy's". Not LaMarre, not Nylon. "Mercy's."

Hutch felt all color drain from his face, and he was just about to flip open the thing open, when a strong hand grabbed his arm.

"Hey, what the hell you're think you're doin´ here, Hutchinson?" Sean Frasier barked. He stood behind the younger man, his voice shaking with anger.

Hutch drew in a deep breath to prevent himself from strangling the man before he'd gotten some answers, and without looking up or turning around to face Frasier; he lifted the file for him to see.

Frasier snapped the file out of Hutch's hands after a brief moment of hesitation.

Hutch still didn't move.

A tensed silence flowed through the whole room like fatal gas. Officers started to leave quietly, discretely.

Finally, Frasier walked around his desk slowly and sat down across from Hutch.

"What did your partner tell you?" he asked quietly, his brows almost touching in a seemingly concerned frown.

Hutch blinked in surprise then snorted grimly, shaking his head slightly.

The older man bit his lip. Despite his hard, strained features, he suddenly looked like a kid who'd screwed up.

Who knew he'd screwed up.

"Listen, kid-"

"Ken," Hutch said in a dangerously low voice.

"Yeah," Frasier smiled nervously, "right, Ke-"

"Do they experiment on their patients?" Hutch interrupted him calmly, as if he was asking out of mere interest.

Frasier sighed. "I want to explain this to you, Ken. It's not what y-"

"Do they," Hutch cut him off sharply, "experiment on their patients?"

"Yes," came the defeated answer. "Yes, they do. But it's hard to prove. D'you have any idea how long we've tried to-"

"What exactly are they doing?"

"They're testing out new drugs. But, as I said, it's hard to prove. A doctor can always claim he's done everything just for the patient's welfare. I've been on this case for over a year now, and all I got is what you see here."

He held up the thin file. His hands were trembling.

"I know you're pissed now, Ken. That's okay, but try to understa-"

"What is isolation?" Hutch asked. The fury boiling behind his eyes was almost shining.

Frasier frowned. "How d'you know abou..." As understanding hit him, his voice trailed off. His old, job-wise eyes grew wide in dread. "Oh no. Oh no, he wasn't...Oh God. Did your partner tell you about isolation?"

Hutch nodded very slowly.

"Uh...wh-what did he say?"

"That it hurts," the blond answered, his tone of voice so low and icy it make Sean Frasier shudder.

"You probably won't understand this, Sean," he added coldly, "but I don't like my partner being hurt. I don't like my partner being scared. And I don't like my partner being set up. But," he lifted his index finger, and Frasier actually flinched, "what I like the least is being set up myself. You tricked us. You used us. You fucking set us up! And now you're gonna tell me what isolation means or so help me, I'll-"

"Shocks," Frasier said quietly, looking away. "Electroshock therapy. They're...they're testing out new ways of shock therapy and they're doing it in a room they call isolation, because they don't have the right to do electro at all. They've got no license for it."

Hutch looked like he'd been shot. The light blue eyes seemed to have been glazed over with terror.

"Sh-shocks?" he whispered and had to clear his throat. "Y-you mean Starsk was...You're telling me my partner has been SHOCKED?!"

"I'm sorry, Ken, I didn't think they would..." A nervous hand rumbled light hair, as Frasier stood to pace before the desk agitatedly. "They normally don't send people to isolation who've been there for just three days!" he almost yelled in defense. "I didn't think he'd be in any danger of that. Maybe he provoked them. I mean, hell, I've read his record and-"

Hutch practically jumped in the ranting man's face, his long fingers grabbing the front of Frasier's collar to hold him inches from his face.

"Don't you dare," he hissed and after a second of just staring into startled, fear-filled eyes, shoved the man back, panting with anger. He took a moment to compose himself before turning to look at Frasier, who'd not moved and pointed at him accusingly.

"You knew what we'd be up against. You fucking KNEW! Hell, you wanted Starsky to get into trouble in there, didn't you? That's why we waited three days before checking on him, right? Cover story my ass! You wanted them to shoot him full of shit so you could drain him afterwards to get your fucking proof! And that's..." he stopped, the parts of the puzzle visibly falling into place behind his clearing eyes. "That's why you wanted us in the first place, am I right? You read our records. You read about Cabrillo."

He stared at the man in disbelief for a few seconds, then turned without any further words and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Frasier called after him. "Ken, wait. Hutchinson! God damn it, wait!"

He grabbed the taller man's arm to whirl him around in the doorway. "I'm sorry, okay? Yes, I set you up, you and your partner, and it's all my fault. I know that. And I'm sorry about that. But you gotta believe me I didn't know they were going to shock him. I didn't think they wou-"

"That's right, Sean. You didn't think. And because of that, my partner had to go through electroshock treatment. Unqualified electroshock treatment."

"I know, bu-"

"You know?!" Hutch yelled, finally having lost his weak hold on patience. It took all he had to not throw Frasier into the nearest wall. "D'you have ANY idea what that means?! He said it hurts to think! He doesn't even remember what they did to him! He can't REMEMBER, Sean! D'you know what that means? Maybe they damaged something INSIDE HIS HEAD! We're talking about brain manipulating treatments here, d'you get that? Did you just once take the time to think about what psychodelic drugs can do to a healthy person?! Or weren't you aware that Starsky is healthy? Huh? Normal? He believes he belongs there!"

He had to stop for a second to draw in air.

Frasier looked away. Hutch's look seemed to scale his skin, pierce through it right into his heart.

"Starsky thinks he's SICK, Sean," Hutch added in a threatening whisper, then closed his eyes for a moment before he could say more.

When he looked at the older man again, his blue seas looked like frozen water. "I'm going to get him out of there now. You'll get your proof. And you'll take responsibility for the way you got it."

Frasier nodded.

Hutch stared down at him hatefully for a while longer, then turned, but stopped to look back again.

"You should be in there, you know that?"

With that he briskly walked on, throwing the following door shut behind him.

'Electroshocks! Oh God! Please hang in there, Starsk. Somehow it's gonna be okay, I promise.'

But beneath his assuring voice inside his head, he knew that nothing would be okay. The impact of his own words hit him as if he'd only now heard them.

'"We're talking about brain manipulating treatments here, d'you get that?!"'

He ran a hand through his light blond hair, stopping for a moment just outside the building to gather his bearings.

'Please let him be alright. Please let him be okay. Oh hell, what are you thinking, Hutchinson? You saw him. Did he look okay to you?!

"Thinking hurts. Hurts to think, Hutch."

Oh God, Starsk! What a mess we've gotten ourselves into?!'

Or rather--what a mess they'd been forced into, he thought.

'I should've killed that son of a bitch. I should've shot him there and the-'

"Ken," a quiet voice behind him made Hutch jump around.

Sean Frasier stood on a stair step above him, his face a mirror of his inner turmoil. All tough cop facade gone, the wrinkles surrounding deep, old eyes seemed to have deepened in the few seconds Hutch had seen him last. What was written all over the strained features was guilt. Honest, accepted guilt.

"I don't think it's wise for you to march in there without backup," Frasier said.

Hutch eyed him for a long moment, then opened his mouth briefly almost as if he just wanted to draw in breath, and nodded shortly, before turning to continue on his way down the stairs.

They took Frasier's car and sat through the whole drive in silence.

****

That they weren't sent to the interrogation room immediately after their arrival, but accompanied by another tall, broad guard to McCoy's office was enough to make the alarm bell go off in Hutch's head instantly.

One look at Frasier told him that his wasn't the only one ringing.

They were told to have a seat while waiting for McCoy who would be with them in a minute.

Again, their time alone was spent in silence, but this time it was a shared one, full of unspoken words and glances.

McCoy entered the room with a smile that seemed two-colored--wide, open, friendly on his lips, but devious and triumphant in his narrow eyes.

The fear gnawing at Hutch's inside felt like stomach rumbling, and it was all he could not to hold the seemingly aching area.

"Lieutenant Frasier," McCoy tilted his head forward slightly, "pleasure meeting you again."

"Likewise," Frasier grumbled.

Hutch looked from one to the other and opened his mouth, but Frasier quickly said, "You've met our guest detective, so you know why we're here. Let's skip the yaddah-part, okay?"

McCoy nodded, the smile never leaving his face.

Hutch couldn't help wonder if that man had ever set his cold, narrow eyes on Starsky. Did he ever actually see his victims, the terror in their eyes? Did he hear them scream in panic and pain?

Could anyone hear them scream?

He snapped his eyes shot briefly and actually turned his head away for a split second, earning a frown from Frasier. He quickly gathered his bearings, though, and said in a surprisingly steady voice, "we're going to take Saunders back with us. The investigation has turned in a completely new direction and we need him back in Bay City."

McCoy nodded while Hutch spoke, like someone who already knew what another person was talking about and wanted him to knew that too.

"Well, I'm sorry, detective, but it seems that there's been a misunderstanding," he finally said.

Somewhere in the chaotic whirlwind of concern and dread that flowed through him like blood rushing to his face, one of Hutch's reasonable parts wondered if it was possible to train oneself against paling at shocking news.

"P-pardon?" he asked, not sure whether it had been more than a whisper.

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Frasier barked.

McCoy shrugged. "Those things happen in a large place like this. Large administrative machinery. Mistakes happen all the time."

"What kind of mistakes?" Hutch asked fearfully.

"False news," McCoy answered. "I had the impression that your investigation would be over after your last visit here."

"Wh-"

"And since we're horribly overcrowded ever since Christmas this year, I made some necessary decisions and transferred Mr. Saunders to another place. I'm truly sorry if that in any way effects your running inves-"

"Transferred?!" Hutch almost yelled, and Frasier had to put a heavy hand on his arm to physically restrain him from jumping in the deputy head's content face.

"Mr. McCoy," Frasier himself said, while slowly drawing his hand away from Hutch as if he'd just got a wild animal back under his control, "I'm sure you had every reason to believe your decision was right, and we're not here to doubt the way you run this place."

Though the words were quiet and clear, the implicated addition "not yet" was audible.

McCoy nodded in mock approval.

"Unfortunately, though, your decision have made the running investigation a lot more difficult," Frasier continued. "So please tell us immediately were Mr. Saunders has been sent to so that we won't lose any more time."

Hutch watched McCoy seemingly think about the lieutenant's words, and suddenly it clicked in his head.

"Mr. McCoy," he said calmly, "you are aware of the fact that Mr. Saunders is actually an undercover cop who was sent to your institution on purposes of investigating crimes taking place in here, aren't you?"

The older man turned from Frasier to Hutch, lifting one of his brows in mock admiration. "Yes," he then answered, "I'm more than aware of that fact."

Frasier was about to bark something at him, but this time it was Hutch who held him back if only with his calm voice.

"Mr. McCoy, I know you'll deny everything once we've read you your rights and arrested you for kidnapping a cop, and this is probably a very long shot, but I want to give you a chance here. Where is my partner? If you tell me right now, we can make a deal. Maybe even about this here," he made a wide gesture that included the whole building.

McCoy's smile grew even wider. "I won't need a deal, detective. This here," he repeated Hutch's former movement mockingly, "will never get back to me in any way that would make a deal with you gentlemen necessary. As to where your partner is..."

He shrugged dramatically.

"I have no idea. And that's the truth," he added with a laugh as if he was surprised at having caught himself telling the truth for once. "Now, if you please would read me my rights now, detective? Especially the part about me having the right to remain silent from now on."

Hutch closed his eyes and mentioned Frasier to do it. While the older man's angry voice echoed through the room, Hutch stood and turned his back to the scene.

He didn't want either of the men to see him cover his cold face with both hands.

****

Ken Hutchinson sat on a bench in the hallway of the police building they'd brought Martin McCoy to for interrogations.

The coffee mug in his hands looked like it had cooled down a long time ago, and his gaze was set on a spot in the emptiness of the white tiled wall across him.

Frasier couldn't help thinking that now the blond actually appeared like a kid. Like a little boy lost. He reminded Frasier of the victims and family members he saw sitting on benches just like that in hallways just like this every day, their eyes equally wide, their shoulders equally slumped.

"Hey," he muttered when he sat down beside the younger man. He kept his distance, forcing down the urge to squeeze the blond's shoulder comfortingly. He knew he wasn't allowed to do that, besides, he himself felt responsible for the whole situation. He had no doubt that the detective thought likewise.

"Ken," Hutch replied tiredly, and Frasier smiled slightly.

"Didn't say anything." He held his hands up as if showing he wasn't armed.

"Uh, sorry," Hutch mumbled, and pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger, before cracking the ghost of a smile at the lieutenant. "Reflex. How d'it go?"

Frasier sighed, regretting their brief moment of humor passed by so soon. He shook his head. "He won't talk. Called his lawyer."

"So what, we just let him lawyer up and that's it?" Hutch asked angrily.

Frasier sighed. "Things are...complicated, Ki-Ken. Really complica-"

"What's so complicated about it?!" Hutch snapped. "My partner's been sent to god knows where and all you're doing is twiddling your fucking thum-"

Frasier shot him a side glance. "There's no way any place would have taken Starsky in such a short period of time. You know that. This whole thing isn't a one-place-case, it's a ring of medical institutions working together for..." He shrugged, letting out a deep breath. "I don't know. Someone. Someone big."

Hutch frowned. "What d'you mean? Like... organized crime?"

"Try something more close to home," Frasier said quietly. "Try home itself and I bet you still won't be even close." He made a very long pause. "You understand?"

Hutch swallowed dryly. After a moment, he said in a voice barely above a whisper, "I want my partner back. And I'm gonna find him. No one's going to prevent that from happening. No one. Not you, and not home itself. You understand THAT?"

Frasier studied him for a few seconds, then leaned back on the bench, until his head rested against the wall, his gaze was focused on the ceiling.

"I had a partner once," he said. "Gary. Bloomstock. He was the greatest guy I've ever known. Smart. Funny. The best partner a cop could wish for." A smile crossed his lips at the memory. "Gary was the greatest."

Hutch frowned slightly not sure what the older man was trying to say. He settled for waiting and watching the man on his road to the past.

"We were real close," Frasier continued. "Much like you and your friend. Then, one day, we got a case somehow connected to LaMarre. Big one. We got excited like rookies, you know. All ambitious again all of a sudden, and...I guess we started acting green too." He smiled again, though this time there was no humor in the gesture. "Anyway, we had this stakeout that ended in a shooting. Me, I was lucky. Gary..."

His voice trailed off, and he was silent for several seconds.

"Gary died," Hutch finally said softly.

Frasier nodded. "Yes. Gary die..." His eyes seemed to close against his will. He drew in a deep breath and let out before continuing.

Hutch felt sympathy quickly digging through the anger inside of him. After over a year, the man still couldn't bring himself to say that his partner had died. Hutch's gaze drifted off until he was now watching the floor instead of Frasier's face.

"I got tied up in the case then," Frasier said, his voice steady again. "Worked my ass off day and night. That's when I stumbled over Danny Nylon. He'd been sent to 'Mercy's' some time before. I talked to him, I wanted him to be a witness against LaMarre. But...that kid..."

Again, Frasier's voice broke, he shook his head.

"I don't know what they did to him in there, Ken. To be honest, I don't really want to know. A week after I talked to him, he was dead. Not officially, but I never got to see him again, and I was called to the chief where they told me to keep working on the LaMarre thing and don't enter 'Mercy's' ever again. They made their point pretty clear."

Hutch lifted his head to look at him. "But you continued to investigate," he said. "You ran your private party on it. But how..." As realization hit him, the frown cleared from his forehead as if it had been wiped away by an invisible hand. "Dobey."

"I knew Harold from the academy," Frasier nodded. "He trusted me when I told him about Danny Nylon. There are no files about his death, I mean, I don't even know for sure he's dead, but I'd be surprised if he was still alive. I don't think that the chief back then knew why I had to drop everything connected to the place. I think he'd been told to order me."

"Told. By whom?"

Frasier shrugged. "Like I said, this is big. See, Ken, I worked on this for over a year now, okay? And I still don't know half of it. What I do know is that they have a whole network of mental institutions and hospitals all experimenting with drugs or therapies. Mostly places no one cares about and no one ever checks on. Insane criminals, mentally bewildered...no one cares for those people. No one. If they all die because the normal society of healthy, outbalanced citizens needs-"

"Okay," Hutch said quickly, cutting off Frasier's further explanations, "so what you're saying is that my partner has been sent to another place just like 'Mercy's'. And they will send him to yet another one and so on, until no one can ever trace him. Like money that's being laundered. Right?"

Frasier nodded sadly.

"And you knew all that. You knew EVERYTHING about it."

Frasier opened his mouth to protest, but one look at the blond made him think differently. The light blue seas were boiling with rage.

"The plan," the lieutenant finally said, "was good. There has to be a leak inside my department. Someone who found out and called McCoy or whoever. Lots of people are into this, Ken. Lots of people. In a way it is OC."

"The plan," Hutch said, taking a step closer to Frasier until their noses almost touched, "was bullshit. In OC operations, there's always a leak, lieutenant. Always. So just because you are a bad cop, my partner has to go through hell and back." He made a pause to see the injury working into old eyes. "There's nothing as fatal as an incompetent cop on a private mission, Sean, nothing. Especially when the whole mission is an accepted fight against windmills. Tell me something," he added, lowering his voice, "how exactly did Gary die, hm?"

He knew he'd hit the nerve the second his words arrived at Frasier's face. The lieutenant raised his hand for a blow, but he was no match for the younger man, and Hutch caught his fist in mid-air.

"Think about retirement, lieutenant," he said coldly. "Think about it soon."

With that, he dropped Frasier's arm and turned to head for the exit.

****

It never became really dark in the room. That was the only thing he did not hate about it. There always came some ghostly slight light from somewhere beneath the door that was strong enough to cast shadows, to not leave him in total darkness.

He knew that that would have been unbearable. Shivering at the thought, he snuggled up in his blanket a little more. He was very tired, but blinked rapidly, desperately trying to stay awake. He wouldn't give in wasting the few precious night hours sleeping.

He knew he needed to sleep, needed his strength to pull through, but even more so he needed his thoughts. His memories. His mind working.

He had what felt like long ago stopped trying to keep an inner calendar, to know how much time had passed since he'd left San Diego. It had worked for the places afterwards. There had been five, or well, rather six, if he counted the one he'd only spent one night at. He'd never stayed longer than three days maximum, and most of the time he'd been asleep.

When he'd arrived here, though, he knew right from the start that this was it. This was were they wanted him to be.

He tried to figure out what had gone wrong. Where had the mistake been made? Had it been he himself, telling the guys back at San Diego something he shouldn't?

He couldn't remember. Things got fuzzy when he tried to concentrate. He sighed. He should have known. Every night he tried to figure this out, and every night he failed. It was frustrating, because he knew that his mind couldn't go the way he wanted it to, due to the sedatives he was on.

Yet he felt absolutely sober, not like he had back in San Diego. He knew who he was and, well, not exactly where he was, but that he didn't belong there.

He belonged home. How long since he hadn't been home? he thought sadly. How long since he'd last seen Hutch?

He thought of Hutch, when he was at work on a working day and during punishments.

He was punished a lot. He knew it had nothing to do with how he did things or behaved, but served a greater purpose, only he couldn't figure that out, either. Thinking logically had become a monumental task. Most of the time he was too tired and too confused to even try. That's why he was so grateful for the few hours he was by himself in the dark.

He'd stopped a lot of things, struggling, protesting, swearing, when he finally had realized the futility of those actions. He'd only resulted in being punished harshly, and he knew he needed his strength to live through this and not lose his sanity. So he'd stopped fighting back physically and had started to completely focus on his inside. He clung to the fact that his partner would never give up looking for him.

Hutch would find him, and he would go home. He had to keep his own self for that.

That was the only mission left. He had to keep his self. And that was what he was working on in the hours that belonged to him.

****

Dobey looked after Hutch, who slowly trotted outside the office and down the hallway, sadly shaking his head. He had no idea what the younger man was supposed to do at home, all by himself. If he was really honest to himself, he was glad that the detective was going home. This way, he wouldn't have to see him any longer.

It was so hard to endure.

He could perfectly cope with worrying about his detective not sleeping or not eating or running himself sick, like he had all the weeks before, when they'd still searched for Starsky.

Hutch had been looking like he was at the verge of passing out for a long time already, but Dobey knew the blond needed to remain where the action was, where he felt useful and in charge of the search for his partner.

Somehow it had been comforting watching Hutch working day and night on this. The desperate determination both detectives showed when it came to searching for the other one always was the one thing that kept everything together. Including Dobey.

But five weeks were a long time, even for Hutch. Whenever Dobey had seen him in the office, he'd wondered if, wherever Starsky was, he could possibly look equally beat and drained.

Running on nothing but coffee, Hutch had even managed to visibly lose weight, not to mention color. It was frightening, yet Dobey knew the blond wouldn't stop, no matter what he ordered. He could very well do all the phone calls he had to make from his own house; and at the precinct, Dobey could at least watch him.

A phone call search, that's what it was. After almost a week, McCoy had found it okay to make a deal and had revealed the name of the place Starsky had been sent to.

From then on it had been following the trace, calling places, checking out cover names, threatening self righteous people in charge, waiting and more waiting.

Hutch had been glued to his desk, and after the first days Dobey had found it necessary to directly order him to go home at night to get some rest.

The tired detective had stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly as if the words had just then reached his ears. He'd been truly beat.

Hell, they all were, Dobey thought. As illogical as it seemed, he knew that this kind of searching drained Hutch even more than hitting the streets would. Though the blond always appeared to be the calmer one of the duo, less energetic than his ever over-excited partner, Dobey had long found out that outer appearances seldom reflected the truth when it came to his two detectives.

In times of true crisis, Starsky would get rather quiet, withdrawn, brooding. Contrary to that, Hutch would get frantic in his working speed, excited, a volcano ready to go off any moment.

The only 'angry Hutch-gesture' Dobey knew off was the ever so often occurring blow to a wall with his flat hand. It seemed that at times of overflowing anger or frustration Hutch could center every emotion he felt on his hand and then practically kill them with one powerful blow so that he could walk away with a clear mind again.

Funny though, whenever it came to his partner, this tactic obviously didn't work. He never used it. He didn't even try to let go off his emotions, clear his mind. It was almost as if he wanted to keep his inner turmoil close to himself. Keep his anger and deep fear close to his heart, keep himself running.

Dobey had no doubt that Hutch needed every wave of that dark roaring sea inside him to keep himself from simply collapsing. He needed to be angry and scared and desperate to see the hope somewhere in the rest.

But then, the captain thought with a smile, Ken Hutchinson was a complicated man. He might as well just be beyond anger with concern for his missing friend.

All this thinking had turned futile that day, anyway. Whatever it had been that had kept the hope blinking through the darkness for Hutch was gone now.

Dobey sighed deeply and finally turned to re-enter his office. There, he sank down in his chair heavily, hiding his face behind his hands as if he could block out the world. The truth.

They had found the last hospital Starsky had been registered a few days ago, though they had not known that it had been the last one. That was the truth they had found out this morning.

From the 'County' in Lockville, Nevada, the trail went to 'home itself'.

Dobey had been listening, when Hutch had been speaking to the investigating officers in Nevada who'd finally been able to tell him that the man they'd arrested had broken his silence and had given them the information they'd required.

"Detective Starsky has been sent to 'home itself'. That mean anything to you?"

What little color had been left on Hutch's strained features faded from them as if he'd been drained by a machine.

"Hey? Hutchinson?" the Nevada cop had asked after a second. "Hello? You still there?"

"Yeah," his reply had been not more than a whisper. "Yeah, I'm... here."

"Uh, 'kay. Good. You okay, man?"

"Thank you for the... information. Goodbye."

Dobey had watched Hutch hang up the phone, then stare off into the emptiness, his fingers lying limply on the phone.

"Well?" the captain had asked when his impatience had finally gotten the better of him, and had stepped away from the door to his office to sit down in Starsky's chair across Hutch. "What did he say?"

Hutch had looked up at him blankly, then down on his desk again, that had been covered by notes. He'd scrambled long fingers over them, half crumbling them.

"Hutch."

"He said Starsky's 'home itself'," the blond had answered after a moment, peeking up at Dobey, who'd frowned, confused.

"What's that suppo-"

"When I talked to Frasier, he'd told me that this... thing is like OC. You know, like... wide ranged. Huge. Goes right to the top, right to..." He'd crumbled at piece of paper on his desk and thrown the untidy ball towards the waste basket, but missed. "... home itself," he then had concluded his sentence.

His superior's eyes had widened a little. "What, like-"

Hutch's quick gaze had cut him off, and a brief silence followed, before Dobey had gathered his bearings enough to give one of his typical sarcastic snorts.

"Oh come on, Hutchinson. What're you talking here, conspiracy? Right to the top," he'd repeated the detective's words mockingly. "What's that supposed to mean, anyway? FBI, CIA." He paused to drive his argument home. "The aliens? What? This is just bullshit talk, and you know it. You don't really believe that there are secret places out there where they test-"

"Do you believe that there are things happening in the world, in our country, in everyone's country, that no one has control over?" Hutch had interrupted him calmly, his brows risen slightly.

He'd looked like someone who already knew the answer to his question. And he'd been right.

Dobey had opened and closed his mouth a few times, obviously wanting to say something against Hutch's theory, but not knowing what.

"This is ridiculous!" his final decision had been. Throwing his hands in the air, he'd let out a frustrated bark. "Ridiculous! Why would a top secret, higher than heaven, uncontrolled, new scientific weapons place be interested in some little BC street cop?! It doesn't make any sense! Sorry to disappoint you, you know, but your fame stops twenty blocks in each direction from here."

Hutch had shaken his head soberly, knowing that his superior was already on his side with this. He knew Dobey well enough to take all this barking and yelling and swearing as what it was--pure, desperate resignation.

"This has nothing to do with Starsky. I doubt they know he's a cop. Otherwise they'd probably somehow send him back. They don't want any trouble or attention."

He'd leaned back in his chair tiredly, looking vacantly outside the office. "Somewhere out there, there are those places, Cap'n. Hells, small hells, where they're testing... I don't know what," a tiny almost hysterical laugh had escaped him at that point. "Maybe lifestyle drugs. Or chemical weapons. Or ways of psychological torture. Maybe they created Haldol in a place like that. Or triggers. Whatever comes to their mind."

"Hutch-"

"And they have to test all that first. Course they have to. You can't waste your time trying things out when you have to get information from prisoners real fast, can you?"

There it had been again, that laugh. It had sent thousand ice cold fingers clawing their way down Dobey's spine.

"Hu-"

"So who can they take for that? Not really a job offer a lot of people would willingly accept. Then who remains if they exclude you and me and all those normal, peaceful citizens who pay their taxes? Right," he'd lifted his hands slightly in a 'had an idea'-gesture, "the scum society has shut out already anyway. People no one will ask about. People that won't be missed. People that actually should be punished due to court's order."

All of a sudden, just like it had had started, the outburst had ended, the blond's wide blue eyes resting on Dobey's calm, worried face.

"All those people they've... used over the years..." His gentle, light voice had taken on a very dark, sober tone, one Dobey had thought he'd had never heard before. "You know something, I don't even care."

Pained blue seas drifted off to the office door again. "Isn't that horrible?"

Dobey had watched him for the briefest of moment before he could no longer endure it and had reached out to squeeze the still hand on the desk.

"Hutch, we'll find him. And we'll get him out of wherever he is."

"How?" Hutch had asked without tearing his eyes away from the outside world.

"We'll think of something."

"Yeah," Hutch had mumbled after an eternity, and then had stood up in an awkward, straight, completely un-Hutch-like movement, heading for the door.

"Hutchinson?"

"I'm going home," Hutch had replied, again without looking at his superior.

"Yeah, you do that," Dobey had muttered, before calling after him, "get some rest, you hear?"

But Hutch had already been way down the hallway, out of earshot.

****

One of Starsky's few plants had died.

It was the first thing Hutch noticed when he stepped into the dark apartment. He could see it even before he'd switched the light on, because the tiny, big-leaved tree stood next to the neatly filled bookshelves, right where the moonlight fell, dimly shining through the open curtains.

A bunch of crumbled, pitiful leaves surrounded the bleak tree. Hutch felt instantly reminded of the melancholic, black and white photographs Starsky had once made in New York when visiting his mother. He'd wanted to try out a new style of photography, to maybe improve his skills, though of course he'd never have admitted that.

He never talked about his hobby as art or something he was actually very skilled at. At times Hutch couldn't help but wonder if his ever self-confident partner really didn't know just how good he was.

Anyway, the pictures he'd made of a bleak, winter signed Central Park had been the most beautiful ones he'd ever made--according to Hutch.

The artist himself, though, had been disappointed, saying they were making him sad.

"That's the point, Gordo," Hutch had tried to explain the picture's effect. "They're sad in a beautiful way. Didn't you intend them to be like that?"

Starsky had shaken his head no like a child who'd found out that the new toy couldn't really talk and think. "When I was there it was fun! 'Walking in a Winter Wonderland'."

He'd smiled at his partners unnerved rolling of his eyes. "It'd been kinda Christmassy, you know. What with the snow and all. But those... They look like the trees all died of waiting or something. Like a bunch of corpses in a cold desert."

He'd looked at his photos with an almost hateful frown, not aware of his friend staring at him disbelievingly. That day, Hutch had started to think that maybe, just maybe, his partner was genius without knowing it himself.

"I mean, what's beautiful about that?! When I was a kid I had nightmares like that. Urgh. Think I'm gonna just throw them away."

But then Hutch had never heard of a genius not understanding the meaning of his own art...

"Uhm, d'you mind if I keep them?" the blond had asked quickly, taking the photos out of the artist's ungrateful hands. "I like them."

Starsky had shaken his head slightly at him with a smile. "You're weird, Hutch. You know that?"

Now, Hutch stood in the open door of Starsky's apartment, his eyes glued to the dark figure in the moonlight.

'Like it died of waiting,' he thought, and had to take in a deep breath to keep himself from breaking down right where he stood.

With a powerful push he threw the door closed and switched on the light.

'Enough of this crap, Hutchinson! That damned tree died because you didn't water it, is all. When Starsky gets home, he's gonna be pissed.'

"Yeah, right," he snorted out loud as if mocking the voice in his head. "He's gonna have a fit over that thing. Sure. Oh man, now I'm talking to myself," he sighed deeply and wiped a pale hand over his face.

He needed to shave. And sleep.

And something to help him sleep.

After having poured himself a big shot of Jack Daniel's, he settled on the couch, his pounding head finding the headrest without him even noting.

He'd avoided strolling through the place, like he'd done on other occasions like this. He hadn't looked after the other plants, either. He had tried to look at nothing but the bottle and the glass.

It was a fixed reaction, staying at Starsky's place when he was missing. And Hutch knew it was the same with his partner. It was a natural reflex, like curling up when your stomach hurt. Something you did to protect yourself from pain you couldn't do anything about. It never worked just like that, but it helped to fight back the loneliness, and neither one of the detectives would have been able to break with that habit, anyway.

Hutch needed to be there, he knew that, but he was so tired he was even afraid of losing it. He was so exhausted that slight tremors shook his body, and he wanted to forget it all for some time. Just so he could get a few hours of sleep. Just so he wouldn't lose it.

Just let me get some sleep, please, he pleaded with no one in particular, downing the liquor and savoring the warm numbness that quickly spread in his body like a merciful virus.

He slouched down a little more, his long legs lifting almost against his will so that they could rest on the coffee table, something Starsky would never left him get away with, and dozed off before he could even think of putting the glass back down on the table. It fell out of his limp fingers, fortunately onto the couch's softness instead of the ground.

'"I'm sorry i-if you're mad at me, Hutch, but... I-I don't want to..."'

Gasping slightly, Hutch snapped his eyes open, looking around frantically for a brief moment, before realizing where he was. Sighing in a mixture of frustration and relief, he wiped his face and sat up, looking at the empty glass for a long moment.

Finally, he put it on the table and curled up fully on the couch, letting his eyes fall shut again without forcing it.

This time he didn't only hear Starsky's voice but worked himself in a horrible nightmare where everything was black and white but Starsky's blood.

He could see himself covered in redness, knowing exactly what it was, and his partner, running away from him.

"Starsk!"

He woke up not from his own yelling--knowing himself he had no doubt he'd been crying out in his sleep for quite some time without it rousing him--but from falling off the couch with a low thud and landing painfully on his sore back.

Panting, he lay where he'd landed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the birds' early concert outside.

After a while he slowly lifted one hand to brush damp locks of hair from his forehead and rub his eyes.

It was only then he noticed the moisture in the corners of his eyes and on his cheeks.

Letting out a shaky breath, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. Opening his eyes, he found himself looking directly at the dead tree.

"Like it died from waiting or somethin'", he could hear Starsky's voice in his ears as it repeated his own thoughts from the night before.

'Oh, save the smart remarks, partner, will you?! You don't even know how to spell metaphor!'

Yet, he suddenly noticed his left hand holding the phone while the other one was dialing quickly.

A gruff voice answered after the tenth ring, sleepy beyond fury, but on the road to that. "This has better be impor-"

"Cap'n," Hutch interrupted his superior, "I'm driving to this place in Nevada today. Just wanted to let you know."

"Wha... Hu... Gee, d'you have any idea what tim-"

"I'll call you from there."

With that, Hutch hung up. He contemplated about having a quick shower first, but decided against it and rushed outside instead. He didn't want to run the risk of catching a sober, rational thought. It might destroy all his newly built hopes.

The rest hadn't really done him any good, but he was too tired and too nightmare-shaken to note it.

Outside Starsky's apartment, on his way to his car, he stopped suddenly, peeked over his shoulder at the neatly parked Torino in front of the building and turned on his heels.

He'd make this the official "No one messes with my partner!"-search from now on. The hell with phone calls and sitting around twiddling his thumbs, getting paranoid, seeing signs in dead trees. He had a place to start, a road to get there and the only sign he needed.

Besides, the tomato would get him to Nevada faster than his own car, anyway. Rational conclusion, this one. Pure logic.

He sped off with a roaring that informed the whole neighborhood about his re-found determination.

****

The arrest order for the 'County's' deputy head, Dr. Victor Clayton, had been cancelled the minute the man had called his lawyers, due to it being based on no provable charge. Signing a transfer for one of the patients was no crime.

Yet Clayton seemed strangely co-operative when Hutch called him and asked for a meeting.

When he entered the large, light-filled office a few hours later, he knew why. He could have sworn he'd never seen such a self-confident face than Victor Clayton's.

"Detective Hutchinson, I assume." The friendly smile was accompanied by an enthusiastic handshake. "Please, have a seat."

Nodding his own, less warm greetings, Hutch sat down on a comfortable chair across from the doctor.

"Well, what can I do for you, detective? Would like some cof..."

Clayton's voice trailed off, when Hutch without a word produced his badge from his pocket and put it on the desk, turned upside down.

"I'm not here as a detective, Mr. Clayton. I don't represent either BCPD nor the law nor anyone but myself."

"Uhm," Clayton frowned, "I don't think I understand."

Hutch leaned back, his blue eyes focused on Clayton. They didn't look cold, and he did not intend them to. It was obvious he was doing something he seldom had the chance to in his job. He was playing with his cards open.

"I know you've been asked by the officers here where a particular patient has been sent to."

Clayton opened his mouth to give his usual statement that the detective should talk to his lawyers, but Hutch continued, ignoring him.

"I'm sure you've been telling them the truth. The truth you know at least. And I'm sure that you have been told that this patient is a missing police officer who has been abducted while on an undercover assignment."

He didn't wait for Clayton's nod. "What I'm also pretty sure of is that before you'd been told that fact, you had no idea about that. Am I right?"

Clayton's eyes narrowed slightly, their greenish brown expression sparkling a little in the light like dirty gold. He remained silent, but alert.

Hutch let his mask go off even more, his gaze wandered to a corner of the wooden floor, then back. "As I said, I'm not here as a detective. That man who's missing, is my partner. My friend, you know. All I want is to get him back. If this means playing by the rules of your... organization," he shrugged, "then I'll do that. If it means to not search for him and find him, but let you just let him go, I'll accept that too."

Out of the corners of his eyes, Hutch could see Clayton glancing at the back of the badge on the desk.

"I think there has been a mistake," he continued after a brief pause. "Police officers aren't supposed to cross your... Crazy Scientists Labor Union, right?"

Again, there was no answer.

"Right." Stretching out his legs a little bit more, Hutch leaned back in his chair. Watching Clayton's reactions to his words was making him more confident by the second. Thousands and thousands of interrogations had trained his speech abilities a lot, and at times this rarely used skill came in pretty handy, he thought with an inner grin.

"Because police officers are always going to be missed. Looked for. And if only by a partner. So my guess is--and you're welcome to correct me at any point you like--the particular department needed the shall we say 'problem' out of the way. Therefore they used the regular supply way without you other stations knowing. Any corrections so far?"

He waited a split second. Clayton didn't even blink. He seemed fascinated by the detective's tale. The wheels inside his head were almost making noises.

"Didn't think so," Hutch smirked. "Well, what is the regular supply way? I think it's how you get patients from legal hospitals like this," he added sarcastically, "to the illegal, secret, higher than heaven, uncontrolled places like, let's call it 'home itself'. Corrections?"

Clayton actually shook his head, confusing Hutch so much he almost lost the thread.

"Uhm, okay. See, detectives, we're pretty good at stuff like this."

Clayton didn't laugh. But for the first time since the blond's entrance, he spoke out clearly. "D'you honestly believe someone will listen to that paranoid shit, detective?"

"No," Hutch replied casually. "`Course not." He gave a quiet laugh as if he'd only now come to think of that possibility. "It's ridiculous. Even if there was an organization like I just described--what would a little Bay City street cop possibly mean to it, huh? Nothin'", he answered his own question in a high-pitched voice only to cast a completely calm, non-emotional gaze directly at Clayton the next second. "But what would a leak in its own rows mean to it?"

Clayton closed his mouth slowly.

"You don't know where the patient originally came from," Hutch continued. "That's part of the tactic. But I do. I know."

"And in return?"

Hutch remained silent for a second, his eyes locked with the doctor's. Then he slowly leaned forward in his chair. "I want Starsky back. I want you to get your ass moving and find him. I know you don't know where he is. But you have contacts. I want you to use them. You can tell your boss that there'll be no investigations. Detective Starsky will not press charges against anyone, I'll personally see to that. I just want him back. And fast."

Clayton studied the blond man's face for a moment, then grinned, settling back in his large chair. His words didn't hold the former confidence, though. "And why would I wanna do that, detective? What will happen if I won't?"

"Nothing," Hutch said quietly. "I have nothing that may destroy or damage the organization." He smiled thinly. "I don't need anything. It's already inside. Just imagine for a moment what an inner leak like that could possibly mean. In the long shot."

Clayton's eyes narrowed like they had before, but he didn't get it. The smell of dread obviously reached him, though. Hutch felt strangely satisfied at watching the man shrinking back in his chair while seeing an apocalyptic scenario inside his head.

"They used the org to solve their own problems. I wonder what they'd do to save their asses?" He held up his open hands and froze in a shrug, his eyes mockingly wide with curiosity.

A low gulp echoed through the suddenly deathly still room, then Clayton asked in a raw voice: "What's your partner's name again? And--what does he look like?"

Hutch grinned humorlessly.

He gave the doctor Starsky's name and description, then stood up and reached for his badge, but stopped with his hands hovering over it.

"Dr. Clayton, one more thing. These secret places... What do they do there? I mean, what..." He didn't finish the sentence, but peeked up at the other man pleadingly.

Dr. Clayton cleared his throat. "The patients are categorized. Based on their physical and psychological test results."

"A-and what-"

"D'you know anything about methods of brain-washing, Detective Hutchinson?" Clayton cut Hutch off, grabbing the badge and throwing it to Hutch with one swift move.

The blond caught the item reflexively. He stashed it back inside his pocket with his shocked gaze fixed on Clayton, who didn't look up.

Without another word, he headed for the door.

"Detective," Clayton's voice hold him back before he could open it. He didn't turn around. "It might take a while. Our system's complicated."

"If you don't find him fast," Hutch replied through gritted teeth, "your system will be history. Good day, doctor."

He left the door wide open when he left.

****

"What does that mean, you can't tell me?!" Dobey barked, even more enraged by the fact that Hutch seemed too tired to flinch. "What the hell is going on here, Hutch? What did you do in Lockville?! I called the precinct there, but they didn't know you were coming!"

"I didn't call then," Hutch said, taking advantage of his superior's need to re-fill his lungs. "I didn't drive there as an officer of the law, Cap'n. I can't tell you anything about it, becau-"

"You ARE an officer of the law, damn it!" Dobey cut him off.

"Okay, then I drove there as an officer of the law on a personal, completely illegal mission. The embodiment of a private party. And I won't get you into this, so you can stop this interrogation right now!"

He hadn't known he'd been yelling until he stopped for air and saw the echo of his words reflected on Dobey's expression. The concern and the trust he was met with was almost too much for him to take.

"Cap'n-"

"Did you reach anything?" Dobey asked softly, sitting down behind his desk.

Hutch bowed his head, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. "Yes," he answered and also sat down. "I did. But... We still have to wait. Actually it's all down to waiting from now on."

"Sounds like a risky plan," the captain said, watching the younger man's worn-out form. "Giving everything out of hand."

Hutch didn't reply.

"So what're you going to do?"

"Wait," Hutch shot back. It sounded determined, like an active activity. Dobey thought it was the same tone of voice his detective would have used to answer 'fight'.

"Okay," he nodded hesitantly after a moment's thought, "but not here. I'm putting you on sick leave You can't work like this, Hutch. You look like crap. Go home and get some rest. At least try," he added before Hutch even had had the chance to protest, but to his surprise, the blond simply shrugged and said, "okay."

He was half-way through the room, when Dobey found his speech again. "'Okay'?! What d'you mean, 'okay'?! You're not fighting me on this?!"

Hutch shrugged again, then pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "So what--back to work then?"

"No! I want you to get some sleep and food."

"`Kay, so I'll go home. See y-"

"Hutch."

"Well, d'you want me on sick leave or not?!" Hutch yelled, turning from where his hand had rested on the doorknob. He swayed slightly, but quickly regained his balance.

Dobey was up like a shot, anyway. "Sit down, Hutch, before you pass out, okay?"

Grumbling, the blond sat down again, running a hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Cap'n. I'm just beat."

"You can say that again. You've been running on nothing but caffeine for over five weeks. This has to stop."

"Bu-"

"I miss him too, Hutch, okay? I want him back too... If you ever tell him I said that, you're fired, got that?" he paused, and Hutch smiled at the clumsy attempt at humor.

"But I don't want to lose another detective while waiting for the first one. You keep this up, you'll run yourself sick."

"I know," Hutch muttered. "But then all I can do now is to wait, anyw-"

"No," Dobey cut him off sharply, "don't go home and wait. I know you, that's exactly the way to drive yourself crazy over this."

"So wha-"

"Go home and REST."

Hutch opened his mouth as if to say something, then thought differently and nodded with a silent smile.

Returning the nod, Dobey motioned him to go with a gruff gesture. "Good. Now get outta here, will you? I get exhausted just looking at you."

****

Hutch had been at Starsky's apartment long enough to savor a long, hot shower and settle on the couch, when Huggy knocked at the door.

"'Ey Hutch, you here, man?"

"Where else?" Hutch muttered to himself as he opened the door to let his friend in. "Hey Hug. Let me guess--Dobey called you?"

Huggy nodded with a grin and held up a big brown paper bag. "Also ordered me to make you ea-"

"Not hungry."

"Or forcefully spoon-feed you in case you refuse."

"Oh. Now that I've come to think about it, I'm actually starving," Hutch commented dryly.

Huggy nodded sharply. "Thought so."

He strolled inside Starsky's kitchen and started to unpack the bag, Hutch leaning against the door-frame, watching him, disinterested. He had a vacant look in his eyes that started to unnerve his friend.

"D'you notice you ran a scratch in the tomato's stripe?" he asked casually. "Curly's gonna have your hide when he sees i-"

"Hug," Hutch interrupted him, "I don't want to talk about Starsk like he's going to come back and then it'll be like nothing happened, okay?"

Huggy froze. He looked at Hutch with a deep frown, but remained silent.

"I-I mean," Hutch stammered, avoiding the stare, "we don't... we don't know what they may... We don't even know what he's been given in San Diego, yet. A-and he was... shocked there." A humorless, nervous laugh escaped him. "Th-that alone might... I don't know."

"Hutch," Huggy asked calmly when the blond's voice trailed off into uneasy silence, "what're you not telling?"

After a moment, the detective lifted his head slowly, casting his friend a serious glance. "Dobey mustn't know this."

Huggy didn't move.

"I talked to the guy in Lockville yesterday. I... let's say I offered him a deal. He accepted." At Huggy's questioning frown, he explained, "he's trying to find Starsky. It may take a while, but... He's going to find him."

"You... Have you lost your-"

Ignoring his friend's shocked reaction, Hutch spoke over his words, "I asked him what... You know, what they're testing on the patients in... those places. A-and... Oh God." He drew in a deep, bracing breath. "They're testing out methods of brain-washing there, Hug."

Huggy's eyes grew as wide as saucers. "Wha-"

"Brain-washing. D'you know what that means?" All the pain, the shock, the exhaustion, everything he'd fought for the past weeks suddenly caught up on Hutch, and he slid down to the ground on the door-frame, his forehead falling onto his knees.

"Hutch, man-"

"Can you imagine what that means for someone like Starsk? They've got to break your will for that." He sniffed though his eyes were dry. "Starsky couldn't follow a direct order if his life depende..." He bit the last part of the word off sharply when the meaning of the sentence hit him.

He looked up at Huggy in despair. "Think about what you'd have to do to break a man like Starsky. He's so... stubborn and..." Yet another nervous laugh broke free. "What d'you think they'll do to a smart ass like him, huh? What?"

When no response reached his ears, he tiredly placed his chin on top of his knees, mumbling in a tiny, scared voice, "What if they succeed?"

Huggy stared down at the wide-eyed, shivering figure that was his friend. He thought he'd never seen Hutch looking so... lost.

A wave of sudden protectiveness rushed through him, and he crouched down beside the broken man.

"Hey Blondie, how `bout we have that snack later, and you go get some sleep first, hm?"

Hutch shrugged, but let Huggy help him to his feet and into the bed-room.

His friend's concern deepened when he felt the warmth radiating from Hutch's pale skin.

"You just sleep now, Hutch, you hear?" he ordered gently as he covered the trembling detective with a thick blanket. When the light blue eyes had fluttered shut, he turned to leave the room.

"I'm scared, Hug," Hutch's voice broke through the dark stillness.

'Me too, man. Me too.'

"Sleep, Hutch."

He closed the door and returned to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, rubbing his eyes, tired, as if digesting the information Hutch had sustained him with had worn him out.

"What if they succeed?"

He shook his head as if to clear it and pushed himself up to start cooking.

'No way. No one succeeds at that, Blondie. You'll see. It'd be easier to outrun a jag. You'll see.'

He couldn't help wonder who he was trying to kid.

****

The rain was thin today. Long, slender threads, that melted softly in one another, covering the world with a fine blanket of wetness.

He was disappointed. You didn't even get wet standing outside. Only uncomfortably damp with your hair not plastered to your head, but only limply hanging in your eyes.

You didn't get cold, no shivering, nothing. A mild breeze slightly moved the rain threads like a cloth. A very brief tremor would run through you every now and then, but it was nothing compared to the bone-chilling, teeth-clattering cold real rain would leave.

He raised his head and squinted his eyes a little against the tiny drops. He missed the violent, hard drops they'd had a few days ago. He missed the sensation of their splashes on his skin. If you'd look up at a rain like that, it'd be like thousands of little fists slapped your face.

A sudden thought occurred to him, and he glanced at the entry of his building with a frown. Was this his punishment for today? He hadn't manage to stand completely still during inspection--he'd flinched at a cold touch--and he had talked to himself again at work. (He couldn't help it. Box folding always made him talk to himself, it was like a reflex.) So he had to be punished, he knew that. But was this it? Had they thinned the rain?

Ever since he'd been let out of the darkness again, he had given up on trying to make a difference. Life had turned simple. If he tried his best to obey, he wasn't punished. You had to try, and if you failed, you had to apologize.

Not obeying was a thought he'd lost a long time ago. It didn't occur to him now, either.

He was amazed. How had they found out how much he liked large-dropped rain? But then, of course, they knew everything.

He looked up at the sky again, at the endless threads of moisture. "Two Eight Zero is sorry," he said clearly and felt a little better. He'd just try harder the next day.

****

Days passed, forming themselves to weeks.

Hutch was sick. In fevered dreams he'd cry out for his still missing friend who would never come and calm his fears. In the few coherent hours he experienced, he'd ask Huggy if Clayton had called yet. Each time his voice would be high with hopes as if he had had a vision of that happening in one of his dreams.

Huggy would always shake his head as softly as he could as if that could also soften the answer. He'd decided to stay with his friend through his sickness, not wanting Hutch to be alone, especially not in a hospital. It felt strange, seeing the usually strong, rational detective so helpless, desperate, and somehow Huggy couldn't shake the feeling that it wasn't something he should witness. As if he'd been forced in a form too big for him. He wasn't supposed to take care of Hutch.

He doubted he was any good at it. It was getting him down, tearing at his heart. He could feel his strength fading, as if he'd caught a powerful illness. Hutch's illness.

Dobey would call every day, and Huggy thought he could hear the symptoms of it in the captain's voice too.

None of them was safe.

TBC....