December 18- Hope Springs Eternal Part 3 – Diamonds and Change by M H E Priest

Click here for Part 1
Click here for Part 2

Starsky knew he was pushing his limit, but the warm salt water pool in the BCPD gym was just what he needed after too much time away from its therapeutic benefit. Almost four weeks of not playing fish while his latest wounds healed had taken a toll on him, both physically and mentally. He hadn’t realized how much he depended on swim therapy not only for keeping his right arm and shoulder flexible but for time to think and how his movement through the womb-like water had become his own brand of meditation.

He switched effortlessly from the crawl to the butterfly, actually enjoying the slight pull over the new wounds. He snickered, remembering his comment years ago about Hutch eating butterfly bones. That was a much simpler time.

The latest in their increasingly complicated lives was the last call they answered–a domestic disturbance. Every cop hated those, along with traffic stops, because both were much more dangerous to their well-being than almost any other incident.

Instead of falling into meditation mode, he ran over in his mind yet again about what they could have, should have, done differently on that call.

What if they hadn’t been less than two blocks from the address; would Starsky have signed them out?

What if only the citizen who had called it in had mentioned gunshots; would they have gone in with weapons drawn and exercised a greater level of caution?

What if they’d checked the backyard; would they have found the shooter, a young woman with a bruised and bloodied face?

What if Hutch hadn’t looked so much like the victim; would she have screamed, “Why aren’t you dead?” and aimed the pistol at Hutch?

What if he hadn’t flung himself between Hutch and the woman; would she have shot Hutch in the chest? Instead, she’d fired early, startled at Starsky’s action. The bullet was a through and through in Starsky’s side between his vest and belt. It had ricocheted off the crest of his pelvic bone, sending the slowed small-caliber missile into Hutch’s upper left thigh rather than somewhere more serious.

What if he had missed disabling her with a vicious kick to the knee; would she have pulled the trigger again and killed Hutch?

Too damn many what-if questions.

Hutch’s leg wound was minor when Starsky considered his partner’s other wound: the fathomless fear that Starsky was dead that manifested itself as catatonia interrupted only a constant hushed and slurred litany of “Please not dead,” while he stared, unblinking, at the rapidly fading Starsky. Hutch had been admitted to Memorial’s psych ward for a few days after he’d been medically stabilized. Now he was under the care of an outpatient shrink.

All because Starsky had to get back on the street after the hit. Too selfish to see that Hutch’s agreement was, at best, half-hearted. Oddly, it had been too easy to convince Hutch that getting back on the street together would mean they had beat Gunther, even if his shyster lawyers could win in court.

Christ, I hate domestic calls, he thought as he leisurely changed to a side stroke. It was then he saw Hutch, looking more beautiful than anyone had a right to, grinning like a Cheshire cat and sitting on the bench that held his towel. Giving, smart, aggravating, empathetic, caring, funny, sexy beyond comprehension Hutch. Every time he saw Hutch, his pulse raced, his breath hitched, his skin tingled, his cock twitched, and his soul quivered with unabashed joy. Today, it was all the more so because of Hutch’s almost jubilant attitude.

Must have good news!

Once he drew even with Hutch, Starsky quickly crossed over the two unoccupied lanes between them. He pushed himself up with greater ease than he expected and reached for the towel Hutch held out for him.

Something’s gotta change before we both go nutso. Time for me to step up and do what’s right for the both of us.

“Thanks.” Starsky used the towel to squeeze the water from his dripping curls. “So, buddy, what’s the word from the head-peeper?”

Hutch loved to watch Starsky swim. Before rehab after the assassination attempt, Starsky had shied away from any aquatic adventure. In Hutch’s mind, he was part dolphin, one of the most intelligent and altruistic mammals on the planet, when he was in the water. As Starsky rose out of the pool, Hutch thought him a merman, and drank in the sight of the supple, well-toned body. Wanted to touch him, hold him, pleasure him, revel and wallow in his indomitable spirit.

It had taken Hutch almost a year after that heart-to-heart talk with Terry to admit she had been right to suspect he had that sort of love for his partner. And he’d bucked it all the way until the hit, when so much had changed. Including Starsky, despite Terry’s wish that he not let that happen.

But change they both had. Even before the hit, Starsky was becoming quieter, more reflective, but without losing any of his humor, his ability to infuriate indiscriminately, his cock-eyed way of seeing things, his unqualified joy in living. And Hutch’s changes, he admitted ruefully to himself, had been both positive and negative, the latter too often expressed in his less-than-stellar behavior toward his partner and best friend at times.

He was ready to declare his love and accept the same from Starsky now, had been for over a year. Yet he had waited patiently for Starsky to make the first move. Why he was waiting, he still didn’t know. He was pretty sure fear was part of it, but whether it was of acceptance or rejection, both were equally frightening.

“I can go to two sessions a week,” Hutch answered, “and he cleared me for desk duty. Plus Andy thinks it’ll be only a couple more sessions before he releases me from physical therapy.”

“Terrific!” Starsky said with genuine enthusiasm. “I was gettin’ tired of staring at the empty chair across from mine. And covering for the day shift sergeants was getting boring.”

Hutch grinned at that; Starsky complained about both almost every day since he’d returned to work.

“Wanna celebrate, Blintz?”

“Sure. The Pits?”

“Absolutely, partner. Huggy’ll want to know the good news.” Starsky headed for the locker room for a shower.

Hutch held back for a few moments to watch Starsky’s backside to appreciate the form that fueled his fantasies. Starsky still swaggered, albeit with a touch more subtlety that managed to remain highly provocative. Hutch was thankful that Starsky had abandoned wearing a T-shirt for swimming for two reasons: he had overcome his self-consciousness about the scars and he now only swam in red or white Speedos. He smiled at his good fortune for the latter, then limp-jogged, thinking of Walter Brennan’s distinctive gait, to catch up with his partner.

Two weeks later

Hutch knocked shave-and-a-haircut and opened the door. He curled his lips in a smirk when he heard, “Two bits!” coming from the kitchen. He announced gleefully, “The guest of honor has arrived!”

“Oh, good,” responded Starsky. “The vino’s here!”

“I meant me, you birdbrain,” Hutch teased back on joining Starsky in the kitchen. He made a point of sniffing the air, perfumed with tomatoes, beef, oregano, rosemary, and mushrooms. “Ah! Your nonna’s lasagna.” Not for the first time, Hutch found himself wishing he’d met his partner’s Italian grandmother.

Starsky continued to put the finishing touches on a salad. “Your favorite. Won’t be ready for about another thirty minutes. How ‘bout you open the wine and I’ll get us a couple beers for appetizers?”

“Beer isn’t exactly what I’d call an appetizer. What about an antipasto tray, you know, with olives and cheese –”

“Ran outta cash at the supermarket,” Starsky interrupted. “And that one don’t take credit cards. So it’s beer. I could get ya a bowl of Cap’n Crunch and you can pour the beer in that. Breakfast and appetizer of champions.”

Hutch pulled a face and almost laughed before he realized Starsky was serious. “No, I’ll pass.”

“Good. You’ll have room for more lasagna.” Starsky pulled two bottles of Coors from the fridge, opened them with a church key, and headed for the living room.

After Hutch removed the cork, he joined Starsky in the living room. He took the bottle offered to him but almost dropped it when he saw a shirt-size gift box wrapped in blue foil and a red and white ribbon striped to look like a candy cane sitting on the coffee table. “Is that for me?”

“Of course it’s for you, dummy. If it’d been mine, the paper and ribbon would be long gone. Happy Birthday, partner.”

“But my birthday isn’t for another two weeks.”

“Won’t hold that against you. Anyways, this is kinda time-sensitive.”

They took a long pull of their beers simultaneously before Hutch placed his on the table and sat down. He picked up the decorated box and shook it.

“This sure is light. Is there anything in it?”

“Will you just open the damn thing before I lose my looks?”

“Didn’t know you had any to lose,” Hutch snarked, grinning when Starsky stuck his tongue out at him. Taking his time just to annoy his impatient friend, he slowly pulled the ribbon loose, then tossed it on the cushion between them. He carefully separated the tape from the paper, grinning to himself at Starsky’s increasing fidgeting that seemed to have taken on an edge of anxiety.

“Hutch, get on with it, willya? You’re killin’ me here!”

Hutch was right; Starsky’s voice confirmed that edge, so subtle that only Hutch, and possibly Huggy, could have heard.

Why is he so nervous? “Okay, buddy. Keep your shirt on.” Hutch sped up the unwrapping. Starsky snatched the paper from him before he could toss it. Then Hutch balanced the box on his lap. Carefully, he lifted the top off and set it on the coffee table.

His eyes opened wide when he recognized the BCPD letterhead. He scanned the typewritten words; resignation stood out as if it were flashing neon. He checked the date: September 1, 1980. He checked the name at the bottom of the page: David M. Starsky.

Not knowing how to say it, whether he should show his shock, his dismay, his anger, he said without affect, “What is this?”

“My resignation,” Starsky replied simply.

Starsky’s matter-of-factness drew out Hutch’s ire. “What, you’re resigning without even discussing it with your partner? I thought we were in this together, Starsky. Guess I was wrong.”

Starsky shook his head. “Hutch, don’t be mad. It’s not what you think.”

“Then what the hell is it?” Hutch felt his stomach burn with acid.

“There’s another page. Look at it, willya?”

He did, and found an identical letter but with his name at the bottom. “So you’re making career decisions for me without consulting me?” He snorted in derision. “How dare you,” he stated in that soft but threatening tone he used with bad guys who had the temerity to resist.

“Let me explain.”

“I should think so. Spit it out, Starsky, before I blow my top and walk outta here.”

Starsky sighed. “I wanted to surprise you, Hutch. I been thinking a lot since we got shot, and –”

Hutch cut him off with a, “That was your first mistake–thinking. Too dangerous for you.”

Starsky gave him a look that requested patience and understanding.

Hutch ran his fingers along his moustache while he reminded himself this was Starsky, who thought to a different drummer. “Okay, I’m surprised,” he said gently, apology for his earlier attitude in his tone. “Go on.”

Starsky responded with a hesitant smile. “Well, as I said, I’ve been thinking, and it seemed like the right time for a change. I didn’t want to say anything until I had some sort of plan. I thought it’d be kinda fun to present my idea to you like this and we could begin talking about it.”

“Do you really want to resign?”

“Yeah, Hutch. Time to move on.”

“But you’re a cop, down to your core. It’s who you are and you’re damn good at it. You worked so hard to get back on the streets.”

“That’s one of the things I’ve been thinking about. Sure, I’m a cop. That’s all I ever wanted to be. But then I realized that’s not who I really am. I’m, uh, you, I mean I’m us.” Starsky huffed his frustration. “I can’t explain this very good.”

Hutch softened further, finally hearing from Starsky’s mouth what he, Hutch, had felt from the first day they met. “I understand what you’re saying, Starsk. I feel the same way.” He was rewarded with a brightening of Starsky’s features. “But I don’t understand why you want to quit. We both wanted to hit the streets again as partners. And now, after nearly six months back, you’ve changed your mind?”

“Yeah, I have.” He paused. Hutch waited, carefully watching the effort showing on Starsky’s face to pull his thoughts together. “Coming back meant that we won, Hutch. We beat Gunther. Truthfully, though, I think maybe you really didn’t want that.”

“How can you think that, Starsk? I was just as eager as you to get back on the streets.”

“Well, when we were talkin’ about it, you didn’t seem very… enthused.”

“Starsky, I had just come off three sixteen-hour days and too little sleep when we had that conversation. The only thing I could’ve possibly showed any enthusiasm for was sleep. I agreed because I wanted to keep kicking bad guys’ butts with you at my side, more than anything.”

Starsky was silent for a long moment before saying, “Oh. So you didn’t say yes because I nee–uh, wanted it?”

Hutch smiled. “Starsky, we both needed it. We made the right decision and I don’t regret it.” He paused on observing the confusion on Starsky’s face. “Trust me, babe?”

Starsky looked away, but he failed to keep Hutch from seeing his embarrassment. “Stupid question,” he said in full grump. “Of course I trust you!”

“Then why all… this?” Hutch asked as he held up the two letters. “If you’re wanting a change –”

With an emphatic wave of his hand, Starsky silenced Hutch. “I thought I’d lost you, Hutch!”

“What? You thought my wound was fatal?” Then it hit him; he understood what his partner had really thought he’d lost.

“Not that!” Starsky moved closer to the cushion’s edge and turned his body to more directly face Hutch. “It was… your mind, Hutch. I thought you’d never come out of that comatonia -”

“Catatonia,” Hutch corrected without thinking, though Starsky’s word made more sense, in a way, than the official term.

Starsky scowled his exasperation. “Whatever. The point I’m tryin’ to make is that I thought you’d be a, a, talkin’ vegetable with a three-word vocabulary, and I couldn’t take that and I don’t want that for you. And it was my fault! I shoulda known that if I got shot again, you might not be able to, uh, handle it. And you didn’t.”

“Honestly, Starsk, I was surprised as anyone that I decompensated. I thought I could manage anything thrown at us, after all those sessions with the department shrink. Guess Angela and I were both wrong.”

“And that’s why we gotta make some changes, babe. Yeah, sure, you’re cleared to full status, but it’s still sort of a crapshoot, right? So, I–we–gotta do what’s right for the both of us.” Starsky projected a sincerity and a certainty that added even more power to his statement.

Hutch’s throat tensed as Starsky’s words brought to mind what Terry had said to him at the park so long ago. Terry, are you doing this? Are you speaking through Starsky? In the next second, he dismissed that absurd idea.

Hutch forced a deep breath through his tight throat. “If resignation is right for you, partner, it’s right for me. For both of us.” And by all the gods, I mean it. Keeping my promise, Terry. At least in one way.

A wide smile graced Hutch’s face, all the way up to his eyes, when he saw the relief and elation in Starsky’s sparkling eyes.

And to his mild astonishment, Hutch felt relief as well–relief from the fear he’d been carrying around in his subconscious not just for the past fourteen months, but for years. The fear that Starsky would leave him somehow, some way. Relief that they’d be off the mean, soul-sucking streets, no longer having to keep burnout and disillusionment at bay or putting themselves in constant danger or being targets for every criminal they worked to take down. Resignation was just what the proverbial doctor ordered.

“So, any idea what we’d do after we quit?”

Starsky beamed at Hutch’s question. He threw the ribbon over the back of the sofa and scooted over until their legs met. “It’s a two-part plan. I got a number of ideas for the first part.” He paused, unsure of where to start.

“Okay. What are they?”

Hutch listened with full attention as an animated Starsky laid out their options: paramedics (“The fire chief guaranteed us assignment to the same firehouse and shift”); investigators for the DA’s office (“They want us so bad they’re holding two positions for us”); medical or nursing education (“You’d make a top-notch nurse, buddy; I’m livin’ proof of that”) for Hutch, physical therapy training for Starsky (“We could work at the same hospital”); law school for Hutch, paralegal certification for Starsky (“I’d work for some law firm, then when you start your practice, I’d be your investigator, too”). He finished with, “I got other ideas, but that’s enough to get started.”

Starsky even had ideas for financing their education and living expenses, which included scholarships, Starsky’s bar mitzvah savings bonds and GI benefits, part-time work, and them moving in together. The latter appealed to Hutch immensely, regardless of what they decided to do for employment.

“So, whatcha think, Hutch?” Starsky sounded hopeful yet anxious.

Hutch held his tongue for a moment, too overwhelmed at everything Starsky had done in the last couple weeks without his knowledge to get them started on their new lives, only to watch Starsky grow more anxious. He cleared his throat and replied, “I really like the first two options. But would you really want to be a paramedic?”

“Sure. I know what they do, and I ain’t bothered by blood, unless it’s yours. And it’d be cool to drive an ambulance. They’re red and white,” he said cheekily through his smile. “Plus, we’d still be helping people together, ya know?”

Hutch had to admit Starsky’s plan was well-thought out, reflecting their strengths and desires not only to help people but to do it as partners.

Out of the blue, an unfamiliar emotion, or maybe it was a sensation, swept through Hutch. “Okay, Starsk, I’m in.”

“Really? No foolin’? You’re not signing up to all this just ‘cause I asked?”

Hutch sighed gently. “No foolin’,” he echoed. “I’m ready to move on. I wasn’t six months ago, but I am now. We are now. Perfect call, partner. This is a great gift.” It was then he put a name on what he felt: rebirth. And it was more thrilling and scary than he ever could have imagined.

For once, Starsky was speechless, but he revealed his absolute pleasure, hope, and love with his eyes.

Hutch, ensuring his own hope–that Starsky was about to cop to wanting him in that way–showed in his eyes, rubbed Starsky’s thigh as he said, “Okay, partner, what’s the second part of the plan?”

In the next instant, he sensed the most vulnerability he’d ever experienced radiating like the sun from his best friend. Oh, God… he’s petrified!

Starsky swallowed the wad of terror that had suddenly appeared in his throat, and he tensed beneath Hutch’s warm hand. Before he could overcome his fear, the oven timer buzzed loudly. Saved by the bell, he thought at the brief reprieve he’d won.

“Uh, dinner’s ready,” he managed to squeak out. “Let’s eat.” He had to force himself to keep from bolting out the front door. Instead, he chided himself with a silent Chickenshit and sauntered stiffly to the kitchen.

After applying padded gloves to shaking hands, Starsky pulled the lasagna pan from the oven and set it on the trivet on the table, surprised he hadn’t dropped the dish. Next, hands now merely quivering, he poured the homemade vinaigrette on the salad and began tossing it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hutch’s hand grab the wine bottle.

“I’ll pour.”

Hutch had said that too patiently, too… understanding. Shit! He knows! And he’s already softening me up for the letdown. “‘Kay.”

Salad ready, Starsky placed the bowl next to the pan. “Help yourself to the salad,” he said as he cut the lasagna in uneven squares. He placed the first square on Hutch’s plate. “Eat up,” then he promptly downed all the wine in his glass, poured himself some more, and shoveled two squares onto his plate.

Conversation at the table consisted of Hutch complimenting the cook and talking about the pros and cons of working for the DA and of being paramedics. Not really hearing a word, Starsky merely grunted at what seemed to be the appropriate times, having decided to avoid anything meaningful or threatening to his peace of mind by keeping his mouth full and his wine glass empty.

Dinner was finally finished when Hutch pushed back from the table and said, “That was your best batch ever. Your grandma would be proud.”

Starsky swallowed the partially chewed bite, following it with the last of the wine. “Thanks, buddy. Uh, want dessert? I got a cinnamon raisin babka from Ezra’s Bakery and that Brazilian coffee you like.”

Hutch laid a hand on his belly. “No room. Later? After you tell me what the second part of your grand scheme is?”

Starsky gulped; he could no longer put this off. He’d put this off for too many years already. Hutch needed to know, especially if it could impact his decision about resigning. He decided it would be better to broach the subject where they were, so the table could serve as a buffer. Besides, Starsky was unsure his jellied legs could support him all the way to the sofa.

Starsky sat on his hands to hide his nervousness. He could stand up to perps wielding guns or knives or 2-by-4s, to guys whose fists were bigger than his head, but he was a scaredy cat when facing the most important person in the world to him with his wish for them to take a giant step into new territory. Suck it up, Davey. Ask him. Just be ready to handle the consequences.

“You know that idea I had about us movin’ in together?”

Hutch nodded, said nothing.

“I was thinking we’d find us a two-bedroom place. You know, so we’d have a guest room.” Now where the hell did that come from? Can’t you just say what you practiced for the last three days?

Hutch seemed unfazed, but Starsk knew what a talented undercover cop and practical joker Hutch was. Why won’t he say somethin’?

“So we’d have twin beds? What about when we have, uh, friends over?”

That little hope diamond that had taken up virtual residence in his gut years ago began to turn to ash. Please, Hutch, please be pulling my leg. “I was, thinking, well, hoping we’d share a bed.”

Hutch paused, his face again telling Starsky virtually nothing about what he was feeling.

At least he hasn’t lunged over the table to strangle me. Keep talking. Say what you practiced, dummy.

“Ya see, Hutch, babe, I love you so much, in that way, along with all the other ways, and I want it all with you, and you with me, if you want.” He waited, still unable to read Hutch despite the blush that pinked his cheeks.

Without any warning, Hutch leapt to his feet and turned his back to Starsky. Hutch’s body trembled from head to toe, but, to Starsky’s amazement, he didn’t make tracks.

Disappointment and sorrow saturated Starsky’s being. The obvious rejection chained him to the chair and stole his tongue and courage. That symbolic diamond vanished, leaving him empty and hopeless.

Hutch turned back to face Starsky so quickly that Starsky jerked in surprise and fear. He calmed somewhat when he saw Hutch’s exquisite eyes shine with a brilliance he rarely, maybe never, had seen.

Is he gonna cry?

Two long strides brought Hutch to Starsky. Without a word, Hutch, trembling slightly less, gripped Starsky’s upper arms and lifted him from his chair. Starsky semi-hung there like a terrified rag doll.

“I do, Starsk,” Hutch croaked out, voice full of the conviction of unconditional, absolute love, “oh, dear God, I do.”

Starsky grinned so widely that his cheeks and jaw ached. “I wasn’t sure. I mean, you said you’d never fall in love again.” He placed his hands tentatively on Hutch’s hips.

“I haven’t.”

Starsky shot him a puzzled look.

Hutch snickered. “Starsk, I fell in love with you long before Gillian came along. I suppressed it until Terry put it in my head that maybe I did love you in that way. I fought it until Gunther nearly won. But we made sure he didn’t.”

Then Starsky realized his hope diamond hadn’t vanished after all. Instead, it had split in two and now were Hutch’s glistening eyes. Starsky had never been more happy and excited and frightened in his life. My priceless blue diamonds.

Starsky gently shook off Hutch’s hands, which wound up on Starsky’s waist, and immediately took that beloved face between his hands. “I love you, Hutch, and I’ll be here for you always.” He smoothly tugged Hutch’s head toward his until their foreheads touched. He inhaled the breath that was his life, his Hutch.

Hutch sighed with unmistakable serenity. “I love you, Starsk. Always have, always will.” He paused. “Uh, do you think Terry would be disappointed with me? After all, I didn’t keep you from changing.”

Starsky felt his throat constrict and his eyes sting. “I think she’d understand, especially since the most important thing about me hasn’t changed. That finally came out in the open.”