Word Game

1.5K

Starsky and Hutch and a scrabble board.

 

First published in the zine, “Don’t Give Up On Us Baby,” edited by Lucy.

---

Starsky glanced at the bedside clock as he pulled on an old, comfortable sweat shirt over clean jeans. He had taken longer in the shower than he had intended, he realized when he saw that it was almost 7:00 p.m. Hutch would be here any minute.

Entering the kitchen, Starsky first checked that the pizza he had brought home with him was not drying out as it sat warming in the oven, then opened the refrigerator to test whether the beer had cooled off enough to drink. Barely passable, he decided, moving a few bottles up to the freezer for a little quick cooling, making a mental note to remember to remove them before they froze.

Kitchen chores seen to, he moved into the living room, picking up the Monopoly game from the shelf as he went by. He laid the box on the coffee table and looked around the room, trying to decide whether to rearrange the furniture so that they could play stretched out on the carpet, or to just drop a few pillows on the floor and set up the game on the coffee table. He finally opted to wait until Hutch arrived to see if his partner had any preference. If his back was bothering him, Hutch might prefer not to be sprawled out on the floor without some support.

There was certainly something bothering Hutch. There had, in fact, been something eating away at the big blond Blintz for weeks now. Starsky had tried everything he could think of – teasing, cajoling, joking, even a few bad tempered demands – to try to get Hutch to open up to him, but had backed off when all he seemed to accomplish was ensuring that Hutch wanted to spend as little time with him as possible. This would be the first time in what seemed a very long time to Starsky that they had spent any off duty time alone together. He had been acutely aware of the fact, but had been forced to accept refusal after refusal of his offers or risk frost bite from Hutch’s glacial stare alone.

It wasn’t as if Hutch was really in one of his funks either. The kind where everyone and their brother got snarled at as the infamous temper flared at the most innocently intended remark. No, Hutch just seemed…sad and withdrawn, and it pained Starsky that he could seem to find no way to reach his partner, draw him out and help him solve whatever was wrong. He could even accept that Hutch had other things to do if only the big blond was happy. If appearances could be relied on, however, Hutch was patently unhappy and, to Starsky, that was never an acceptable state of affairs.

Starsky had been genuinely surprised when Hutch had accepted his invitation to come over tonight to watch a little television, play a little Monopoly, drink maybe more than a little beer and share some dinner. Because of this, he wanted things to be nice for Hutch, even going so far as to pick up one of those healthy pizza combinations which excluded all his own favorites. Starsky hoped that if Hutch was comfortable enough, he would want to resume their lapsed social interaction. In the meantime, Starsky intended to enjoy Hutch’s company as much as possible tonight just in case it turned out to be another long stretch before it happened again.

With Hutch’s preferences in mind, Starsky was bent over with his head stuck in the refrigerator again, checking to see if he had anything that might be suitable to make a salad, when Hutch arrived. He heard the front door open and close and straightened up long enough to holler a greeting then resumed his search.

“Wanna beer?” he asked as he heard Hutch enter the kitchen behind him.

“Or three,” Hutch replied.

Deciding there was nothing salvageable in the crisper after all, Starsky straightened again and pulled a couple of beers from the freezer before turning to face Hutch. He grinned in surprised delight when he found Hutch smiling at him benignly, one large hand already held out expectantly for the beer. A knot of tension that had been residing in Starsky’s belly relaxed. It appeared that Hutch just might have solved whatever problem it was himself, for he seemed the old Hutch again, relaxed and open. Grabbing an opener off the counter, Starsky popped the caps off the bottles and handed one to Hutch.

“Traffic bad?” he asked.

“Isn’t it always?” Hutch countered, accepting the beer with another smile.

Starsky let that subject drop. “Hungry? I got one of them super duper health food pizzas you’ve been talking about. Was gonna cook somethin’ but we got out late…”

“That’s okay, Starsk. Pizza’s fine,” Hutch said. “Smells good.”

“I didn’t set up the game yet. Thought I’d wait and see what your back is up to.” Starsky let the question hang unasked.

“Back’s fine. Why don’t we just be comfortable.”

Trying not to dwell on how long it had been since Hutch had seemed comfortable with him no matter what they were doing, Starsky gladly accepted the suggestion. He pulled the pizza box from the oven and they moved into the living room. Laying the box on the coffee table, he then shoved that piece of furniture out of the way, clearing the center of the floor in front of the television.

“You wanna play while we eat or eat first?” he asked, tossing some pillows onto the floor and following them down.

“Eat,” Hutch decreed sinking down beside him.

“A man after my own heart,” Starsky declared, retrieving the pizza box from the table and placing it between them, flipping the top open so they could both help themselves.

They ate their way through the large pizza while flipping through the channels on the television. Finding nothing of particular interest, Starsky finally left it tuned to the station scheduled to start a movie at 8:00 p.m. and turned the sound down. When the last crust had been consumed, he pushed the box aside and reached for the Monopoly game.

“Uh, Starsk, would you mind if we don’t play Monopoly tonight.”

Starsky let his hand fall away. “Nah. Can do whatever you want. I’m easy.” He saw a shadow pass over the blond’s handsome face, but it was gone far too quickly for him to interpret.

“How about Scrabble?” Hutch asked. “I brought over my game.”

“Scrabble? You must be kidding, Hutch,” Starsky protested. “It ain’t bad enough you whip my butt at Monopoly, now you want me to play Scrabble with you? That ain’t fair, Hutch. You know I can’t spell. You’ll murder me!”

In the blink of an eye, Hutch reverted to the near stranger Starsky had been presented with for the past weeks, and Starsky immediately did a mental reversal, reminding himself that he truly did not care what they did as long as they did it together.

“Ah, what the hell,” he muttered. “Might as well give it a shot. But ya gotta give me a handicap.”

The reserve disappearing from Hutch’s face left room for suspicion to take up residence. “What kind of handicap?” he asked cautiously.

“Well.” Starsky paused, trying to remember the rules of the game. He suspected the only handicap that might actually help him win would be to insist that Hutch play blindfolded. For once, however, he really cared very little whether he won, although it would be nice if he could avoid being completely slaughtered.

“If you can’t…”

“I got it,” Starsky interrupted. “You know the bonus? That one for using all your letters? You can’t do that. Okay?”

“That’s all?” Hutch asked and when Starsky nodded agreement, the smile Starsky had been missing for weeks spread over the angel face.

Right then and there Starsky decided that it would be worth getting his butt kicked at Scrabble a hundred times over if it would make Hutch smile at him like this again.

Hutch retrieved the game he had brought with him from the coffee table and set it up on the carpet between them while Starsky dragged a few more pillows off the couch and shared them between them, pleased when Hutch stretched out his long body and seemed to relax. They both chose their first seven tiles and then drew a single tile each to determine which of them would begin the game. Starsky pulled an E while Hutch turned over a C.

“Figures,” Starsky mumbled, concentrating on his letters as he shifted them, looking for a combination.

“What are you complaining about? It’s double points,” Hutch reminded, his attention on his own tiles.

“Oh yeah, forgot about that.” Starsky brightened visibly as his constant shuffling of the letters brought him a word. He picked up the five tiles and laid them out on the board.

“Twenty-two,” he announced with satisfaction.

“Not bad, Starsk,” Hutch complimented, immediately placing his own tiles on the board. “Eleven.”

“Oh shit. How’d you do that so fast? I’m in trouble,” Starsky grumbled. “You’re gonna have to wait for me now.” He selected replacement tiles for the ones he had used and began shuffling them.

“That’s okay,” Hutch answered, picking a half dozen new tiles for himself from the box.

Once again the shifting of letters worked, presenting Starsky with a combination he knew to be the correct spelling of a word and which would allow him to use six of his tiles. He switched his attention to the board, saw a place he could match up to and shifted the tiles from their bench to the board. “Nineteen,” he announced so that Hutch could add the score.

As he had before, Hutch was ready immediately with his own word, laying out the tiles before reporting his score. “Eight.”

“Maybe you oughta slow down, Hutch,” Starsky teased gently. “You’re faster, but I’m doin’ better.”

“Game is young,” Hutch reminded, offering another of the smiles that he had been denying Starsky for far too long.

Caught once again by that smile, Starsky sat staring at his friend until the smile faded and Hutch began to look uncomfortable. Again he reached into the box for new pieces and groaned aloud as he saw his choices. Six consonants, three of which were the X, the Q, and the Z. He was definitely in trouble here. No amount of shuffling was going to help this mess, but he did it anyway, finally resigning himself to the pitiful three letter combination that was his only choice. He picked up the U and T and slid them into place under the B that was already on the board.

He looked up at Hutch, expecting to find a delighted gloating, startled when he found himself the subject of Hutch’s intent regard.

“That’s the best I can do. Honest,” he protested, assuming Hutch suspected him of trying to crowd the board.

A slight flush crept over Hutch’s high cheek bones as Starsky watched him mark the score then turn his attention to the tiles.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t got a word ready,” Starsky challenged as Hutch seemed to take a page from Starsky’s book and began shuffling his tiles.

While he waited, Starsky bum-walked over to the television and edged the volume up a bit as the movie scheduled for 8:00 p.m. started. It appeared to be one of those made-for-TV disaster things that were becoming so popular. He left it on for background noise. By the time he returned, Hutch was laying out his tiles.

Starsky watched the word stretch downward from his last play. “Buttocks?” he asked incredulously. “Who comes up with a word like that?”

“Someone who wants to make 29 points,” Hutch said. “The K is on a triple letter.”

“So much for my lead,” Starsky grumbled, reaching into the box to replace his two measly letters and praying for vowels. He got only one.

For a second time, Starsky had to be content with a three letter word, but at least this one would let him get rid of a P and would land on a double word.

“Ten,” he confirmed unhappily as he placed his P and E squares above the N already played. “You want another beer?”

“Sure,” Hutch accepted, eyes intent upon his letters.

Starsky sprang to his feet and sauntered toward the kitchen. Almost there, he felt that odd little tingle in the back of his neck that usually meant he was being watched. He looked back over his shoulder, but Hutch seemed intent upon the game. Rubbing the tingle out with one hand, Starsky continued to the kitchen. Remembering the bottles in the freezer, he retrieved them, popped the caps and returned to sprawl back on the carpet.

Hutch was busy writing down his score and Starsky checked the board for his play as he handed over the second beer. For a second time, Hutch had added to his previous play and now the word stretched well down the board. “Penetrate? Must be nice to have all those vowels,” he bitched, mentally adding up the double word score. “Twenty-two? Shit.”

Play continued for a couple of rounds with Starsky managing scores of fourteen and twenty while, suddenly, it seemed to be Hutch having to accept smaller scores as he set out eager for seven and hard for eight. Very aware of those three difficult-to-use squares still on his bench, however, Starsky refrained from doing any crowing as he took a small lead.

He was glad he had resisted the temptation when all he could come up with for the next play was horn which netted him only seven points.

Hutch did not even wait to write down Starsky’s score before picking up a single tile and sliding it onto the end of Starsky’s last play. “Twenty-two.”

About to complain bitterly that no one should be able to get twenty-two points for one lousy Y, Starsky found himself caught momentarily speechless as their eyes met and he saw something…hungry?…looking out of Hutch’s baby blue gaze.

“You challenging?” Hutch asked softly, his gaze slipping away as he wrote down the scores.

“‘Course not,” Starsky muttered, trying to decide what he had seen or if he had really seen anything at all. “I know horny is a word. Besides, I ain’t got a dictionary.”

After three more turns that took all his concentration, Starsky had managed to edge back into a very slim lead of only twelve points. Then the lead expanded a little as he managed to find a place for his J, making the word jaws for a double word score of twenty-two.

Starsky had replaced his used tiles and had spent a few minutes studying them when he realized that Hutch had not played. Watching his partner, he saw the blunt fingers reach out twice, each time hesitating and then withdrawing. Finally, on the third try, Hutch began to move the tiles from the bench to the board.

Suspicions aroused, Starsky watched the word form and, because he had been expecting Hutch to try to slip an illegal word past him, it took him a moment to realize what word the letters formed. Phallus was a word. He knew that, although he might not have spelled it that way himself.

“All right. I know it’s a word,” he conceded as he met Hutch’s expectant gaze, wondering if that was really disappointment he had glimpsed on the handsome face before the blond head bent.

They were getting down to a smaller choice of tiles and the board was filling up. Now Starsky was sweating those foul consonants as the end of the game approached with no signs of being able to use them. He took another turn, gaining eight points and again drew replacement tiles. If only Hutch would put down an S, he could get rid of at least one of his problems.

As if his partner had read his mind, the first letter Hutch put down on his next turn was an S, slowly forming the word semen as the tiles were laid out. “Seven points.”

Starsky hardly heard him as he snatched up an E and that damned X off his bench and thrust them onto the board. “Triple word. Thirty points.” He grinned happily into Hutch’s smiling eyes. “Thanks, buddy. Thought I was gonna be stuck with that X for sure.”

Starsky did not know what the hell he had said but suddenly the delighted smile left Hutch’s lips and the blue eyes went frosty before Hutch’s face was concealed when he turned his attention to the score card. By the time Starsky had finished his next move, however, the darkness seemed to have lifted from Hutch once again and they completed the final half dozen plays each, ending up with their scores pretty well neck and neck.

It was Hutch’s turn and Starsky watched as he ran his finger over his four remaining tiles over and over, not shifting them or changing the order as if searching for a word, only stroking them, very nearly caressing the small squares of polished wood.

Starsky knew he was about to lose. His own last two tiles were the damned Q and Z that he never had found a place for. No matter how small a score Hutch made with his letters, once Starsky took the twenty points off his total, he was done for.

“Come on, Hutch. Might as well get it over with,” he prompted rather pleased, in fact, that he had managed to hold his own as well as he had.

“You’re right, buddy,” Hutch said with one of the most forced smiles Starsky had ever seen. Almost violently, he dumped his letters face down into the box. “There’s no place for these letters on this board. I gotta go.”

And before Starsky could even think about stopping him, Hutch was across the room and out the door, slamming it behind him.

Stunned by the hasty departure, Starsky sat staring at his front door for a few minutes. Shaking his head, he finally began tidying the evening’s debris, piling empty bottles and crumpled napkins into the pizza box and carrying it all into the kitchen to dispose of.

When he returned to the living room, he noticed the closing credits for the movie they had been ignoring beginning to roll on the television and realized it was only 10:00 p.m. He knew there was nothing else on that he wanted to see and it was far too early for bed. Dropping down onto the carpet, he reached for the tiles he had been unable to play.

He could hardly believe that he had actually won the game. With the twenty points he would have had to forfeit from his score, his partner should have beaten him easily. It was Starsky who had had all the impossible letters left, surely the four Hutch had should have fitted onto the board somewhere?

Curiosity aroused, Starsky reached into the box and flipped over Hutch’s discarded tiles. O L E V. Starsky’s gaze flipped back and forth between the letters and the board as anger began to simmer. There were easily a half dozen places that those tiles could have been used, giving Hutch an easy victory. Hutch had let himself be beaten! Why? Although not manically competitive, Hutch had certainly never done anything like this before. There had been an occasional time when Hutch had been condescending about his better education and background, but usually he went to great pains never to do anything that would point up the cultural differences between them. Why would he go out of his way to offer such a slap in the face over a stupid word game?

When Hutch had first arrived, Starsky had thought his friend had resolved whatever it was that had been bothering him and that tonight would see the return of their usual closeness. Hutch had seemed relaxed and content, at least until they had begun the Scrabble game. Even then, things had seemed fine at the beginning, but by the end of the game, Starsky realized now, Hutch had worn that sad and yet watchful expression that had been so prevalent on the handsome face for too long now. Starsky, unfortunately, had been so absorbed in the effort to simply play the game, he had lost track of Hutch’s mood.

Starsky had been absently shuffling those four letters as he tried to recall the exact time when Hutch had withdrawn. Looking down into the box now, his eyes widened as he saw the word he had formed. Studying the board again, he saw at least two places where the word could go. There was no way Hutch could have missed both of them, and yet he had said there was no place to put them.

Attention focused, detective trained mind finally engaged, it only took a few moments for Starsky to notice something else about the board which he had missed while concentrating on the play itself. A lot of the words spelled out there were very sexually suggestive. He had played the game often enough in the past to know that a prevalent theme never randomly occurred, although he had heard it was possible to make it happen if the player was determined. He checked the words again. Except for his inclusion of the word sex for his one really big play of the night, all of the suggestive words had been played by Hutch, often building on Starsky’s smaller words.

And Starsky suddenly remembered when Hutch’s mood had changed. It was right after Starsky had made that big play which had moved him ahead in the score. When he had first put the tiles on the board, he had been watching for Hutch’s reaction because he had expected the blond to be miffed. He had been pleasantly surprised by the bright smile and sparkling eyes with which Hutch greeted the play. It was immediately after Starsky’s comment about the X that Hutch had cooled.

The clues finally came together and formed one whole amazing picture in Starsky’s mind. Hutch had been trying to tell him something and he had been too dense to see.

“Oh my God, how could I be so fucking stupid?” he berated himself.

It took only a few seconds more to decide he had to do something about this – now – and only a little longer than that to decide what. Scooping up Hutch’s four rejected tiles, Starsky hurriedly dumped the rest of the pieces in the box and grabbed it up. Snagging his jacket on the way out the door, he slid those four tiles into his pocket and ran for his car.

By the time Starsky pulled the Torino up in front of Venice Place and shut down the big engine, he had had time for second, third and fourth thoughts to creep in. None of those thoughts had the slightest effect on his determination.

He made it up to Hutch’s door and knocked before the voice of reason that usually lived in his head had a chance to start on him and by then it was too late. He forced an engaging smile to his lips as the door opened.

“Starsky. What are you doing here?” Hutch asked, not moving aside so that Starsky could enter.

Starsky held up the Scrabble box. “You forgot your game,” he explained as if it was the most natural thing in the world to take a thirty minute drive at this time of night to return one item when he had an apartment half full of Hutch’s possessions.

“Uh, thanks,” Hutch stuttered, reaching for the game.

Starsky shouldered past him without relinquishing the box. Hurriedly, he shoved the coffee table out of the way and dropped to his knees, setting up the game as quickly as he could.

“What are you doing, Starsk?”

“Siddown, Hutch. I’ve decided to let you get even,” Starsky announced. He glanced over his shoulder to where his befuddled partner still stood with one hand on the open door.

“Close the door, Hutch. And come on,” he urged.

Hutch pushed the door closed and stalked over to stand towering over Starsky. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not about to…”

“Siddown, Hutch,” Starsky ordered in a voice usually reserved for the most unco-operative of suspects.

Hutch’s face suddenly closed up, all expression blanking out, but he obeyed, dropping to the carpet as if someone had suddenly removed all the bones from his legs.

“I’m goin’ first,” Starsky insisted. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out the four tiles he had pocketed. Head bent, he carefully laid them out one by one – L O V E. He looked up into Hutch’s eyes only after all four letters had been precisely aligned.

“Starsk?”

Starsky had seen Hutch face damned near certain death with less fear in his eyes than was lurking there now as he faced the man who was supposed to be his best friend.

“Ya said there wasn’t no place on that other board for this word,” Starsky said, trying to make his face and his eyes and his voice reveal what he had never ever hoped he would be able to reveal. “Maybe it didn’t, but I think it’s the only way to start this one. Your move buddy.”

Slowly, Hutch’s head lowered, gaze dropping down to the box of tiles. After a few moments he reached in and extracted two tiles, an I and a U. Hesitating a moment longer while Starsky waited in an agony of suspense, he placed one letter at either end of Starsky’s word.

“Challenge?” Hutch asked so softly Starsky had to strain to hear.

Gently, Starsky reached out and cupped the strong chin, tilting it upwards. He leaned toward Hutch until his mouth hovered just a hair’s breadth away from lips that trembled.

“No challenge, babe. I love you, too,” Starsky murmured, then crossed that tiny space between them, pressing their lips together in a first gentle kiss.

Starsky eased away from the mouth that had seemed to blossom under his, offering him whatever he wanted to take, but he wanted to hear it.

“All those other words, Hutch. Did ya mean them, too?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Hutch breathed the word, the shadows of doubt still lingering in eyes that had become soft and dream-filled.

“Thank God,” Starsky rejoiced and brought their mouths together again, his hands moving down to part the edges of the robe Hutch wore, gliding over the smooth chest and belly.

Hutch moaned into the kiss and Starsky echoed the needy sound as his fingers brushed the edge of crisp public curls and he realized that Hutch was naked beneath the robe. His fingers closed over the long cock as it rose to greet his touch.

Tearing his mouth away, Hutch cried out, head going back, the strong hands latching onto Starsky’s shoulders for support, making the worn leather creak.

“Easy, babe,” Starsky soothed, releasing his prize and nuzzling into the long neck, loving the smooth flesh with gentle kisses until the frantic panting eased.

“You…You’re over dressed,” Hutch stuttered, his fingers pushing ineffectually at Starsky’s jacket.

Face still buried in the inviting curve of Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky wriggled co-operatively until the jacket slipped free and the trembling hands moved down to the edge of his shirt.

“Yes,” he encouraged as Hutch’s hands slipped beneath the hem and quested upward, carding through the thick hair on his torso until the shirt rucked up under his arms. Relinquishing his warm haven, he leaned back to let the superfluous material be drawn up over his head and discarded.

Then it was Starsky’s turn to cry out wordlessly as strong fingers cupped the bulge beneath his jeans, easing the cruel grip of the denim prison and yet increasing it at one and the same time as his sex filled. Tearing one hand away from its delightful exploration of Hutch’s broad, firm ass, he fumbled with the button at his own waist, finally getting it open and yanking at the strained zipper.

Free at last, Starsky grabbed Hutch’s wrist and pushed the willing hand inside the gaping material, hissing in approval as the strong fingers closed around his thick cock. He reached for Hutch’s cock, mirroring the strong grip and echoing the rhythm of long strokes and sweet squeezes.

“Gonna come,” Hutch warned a moment later.

“Not yet,” Starsky panted, releasing the weeping cock again and pushing Hutch’s hand away from his own. Frantically, he pushed at his tight jeans, getting them down as far as his thighs before giving up on the stubborn material. He grabbed at Hutch’s hips and pulled the long body against him, discovering that it was Hutch’s long legs that gave him his height advantage. Positioned as they were now, face to face on their knees, their bodies fit together perfectly, chest to chest, belly to belly and hot, throbbing cock to cock. Their mouths met and their bodies writhed, four hands gripping frantically at sweat-slick shoulders and backs.

Feeling his climax coming on like a runaway train, Starsky gripped the silky hair, dragging Hutch’s mouth to his and groaning into the demanding lips as he let the feelings overpower him, feeling his sudden stillness echoed in the body he held and the hard pulse beat as hot semen spurted between them.

With a sigh, Hutch folded onto his back and Starsky followed him down, coming to rest between the long thighs that sprawled for him, resting until something vaguely resembling normalcy returned to his racing heart and laboring lungs.

“Ssssory,” he managed to pant. Feeling the body beneath his suddenly tense, he raised up enough to place a reassuring kiss on Hutch’s swollen lips.

“Sorry I was so damned dense,” he clarified when he had the breath for an entire sentence.

“Doesn’t matter now,” Hutch murmured softly.

“Is this what’s been bugging you all this time? Why you’ve been pulling away from me?” Starsky asked gently.

Hutch tried to turn his face away, but Starsky would not allow it.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Hutch admitted. “Or even if I should. But I couldn’t seem to stop feeling this way…”

“Thank God,” Starsky reiterated his earlier fervent prayer.

“I guess the whole Scrabble thing was pretty childish. A dumb idea,” Hutch admitted.

“Nah, it was brilliant. Too bad I didn’t catch on faster. We coulda been doin’ it for the second time already if I had,” Starsky complained, wriggling just a bit in the heated stickiness of their combined seed. Two warm hands found their way to the cheeks of his ass and squeezed.

“Think we could move this into the bedroom?” Hutch asked hopefully. “I’m lying on the Scrabble board.”

Starsky pressed down playfully. “You know what this means, dontcha, Hutch? Ya got I-LOVE-U imprinted on your ass.”

Looping his arms around Starsky’s neck, Hutch smiled tenderly. “No, Starsk. It’s imprinted on my heart.”