Title: Closet

Season, Episode: (don't remember... anyone know?)

Rating: T

Note: No Copyright Infridgment inteded. I do not own the boys, just play around with them occassionally.

**Snippet**


"Now, I want you to tell me everything that comes into your mind when I say the word…" I take a deep breath and say, "Closet."

"Closet?" Starsky asks, wrinkling his nose.

"Closet," I confirm, nodding slightly. I wait, watching Starsky take deep breaths, eager to hear what his wonderfuly strange brain will make his mouth spew out. I already know, having had this conversation with myself many times, what I would say if given the word closet. Denial, fright, and Starsky – just to name a few things.

"Closet…" A pause. "Month balls…" A long pause followed by the twitching of his nose. "Stuffy… dark… an overcoat…" Starsky begins to smile, his eyes crinkling at the sides as his eyes rummage inside his closed eyelids seeing whatever it was he was remembering. "It's my eight birthday, I'm hiding from my father… Uh, heavy foot steps... I'm trapped, he's getting loser." Starsky opens his eyes.

"What?" I murmur out with curiosity. "What?"

"I just thought of something terrible," he says, his hands twisting together in his lap. He looks down, then at me and down again.

"Starsky, that's terrific," I tell him softly. "That's wonderful, talk about it! Spit it out!"

"You know," Starsky says not quite looking at me. "I don't think it's somethin' you wanna hear."

"Look," I say, "the whole point of this exercise is to cleanse yourself, get things thing out and talk about them. It's the only way it works." And maybe then you'll see what I see, I add in my mind.

"Sure you won't hold it against me?" he asks still looking at his hands and avoiding my gaze. He sounds like a small child asking his mother for ice cream money because he lost him.

"Absolutely not," I assure him with a pat on the back. "It won't leave this room."

"You remember when I was holding your new Buddy Holly album in my left hand and the pizza in my right hand?"

"Right."

"Or was it the pizza in my left hand and the album in my left?" He pauses and I begin to realize that not only has he not found out the truth but he has ruined my signed only-six-in-existence Buddy Holly album. "One of them is in the oven…"

"Doesn't smell like the pizza, does it?"