You Scratch My Back…

891

An itchy Starsky and an irritated Hutch…

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There it was again.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Hutch sat at his kitchen table and sharply snapped his newspaper, taking a slow, deliberate sip of tea while trying to remain focused on the story he was reading and not on the constant tiny noise grating on his nerves worse than nails down a chalkboard.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The blond’s eyes angrily shifted from the words in front of him to the body languishingly perched upon his couch. Hutch couldn’t see him clearly from where he sat, just a tangle of dark curls peering out above the couch’s high back, but their slight bobbing motion in perfect rhythm with each nerve-wracking scratch gave their owner away as the definite annoying noisy offender.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

That did it.

“I can hear you, you know.”

“So?” The curls bobbed once again as shoulders shrugged.

“So cut it out!”

The wall of curls shifted to the side and quickly disappeared, replaced by piercing violet-blue eyes blinking rapidly over the couch’s edge. “What’s it to you? It’s my skin I’m scratching, not yours.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Well, your scratching is driving me crazy.”

“Short trip.” A dark eyebrow rose smugly.

“What?” Hutch picked up his mug of tea, not sure whether he intended to take a sip from it or fling it across the room.

“Nothing.” The eyes disappeared and the bobbing curls returned.

Hutch sneered, blowing at the steam billowing from the cup as he lifted it to his lips.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“Starsky, cut it out!” Hutch slammed the mug down on the table and stood, making his way across the room in three long strides.

Starsky shrunk back into the couch and sheepishly peered upward, only slightly daunted by the looming figure in front of him. “Well, it itches, Hutch. I can’t stand it,” he whined.

“You don’t say?” Hutch placed his hands on his hips. “I’m not exactly resting in comfort myself, you know.”

Starsky said nothing, slowly blinking up at the blond, then watched warily as he plopped himself down into a chair. “Well, it serves you right,” he finally retorted, certain his angry partner was a safe enough distance away. “This is all your fault.”

Hutch’s eyes snapped to his partner’s direction, more than ready for the argument he knew was about to ensue. “Well, thanks, pal, for pointing that out yet again. I hadn’t been reminded in the last five minutes or so that I’m the one solely responsible for every last bit of agony in your life. I’d almost forgotten.”

“Well, it is your fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“How do you figure it’s not? You’re the one that brought it back from Minnesota with you.”

“How was I supposed to know?

“Know what?”

“That you’d never had chickenpox.”

“You could have asked before you came around, breathing in my face, drinking off of my soda, touching my stuff…”

“Starsky, I didn’t even know I had chickenpox until the rash broke out.”

“But you knew you’d been exposed.”

“Yeah?”

“And you had to know that you’d never had it and were probably going to get it.”

“So?”

“So you should have said something, given me some kind of warning. I would have stayed the hell away from you.” A pitiful pout forced itself upon pock-marred lips. “I’m miserable, Hutch.”

“Poor baby,” Hutch mocked. “My heart really bleeds for you, Starsk.”

The twosome sat frozen, daggers shooting across the room at each other from two sets of stubborn yet weary eyes, until Starsky finally broke the contact and gingerly lifted himself from the couch with a hearty grunt. His right hand contorted itself at an odd angle around his waist and up his back, the fingers attempting furiously to scratch through the blue cotton of his sweatshirt. His left hand reached for the calamine lotion resting on the coffee table. His shin crashed into the table’s corner as he snatched up the pink bottle, forcing the blotchy detective to release an oath colorful enough to send a drunken sailor into shock.

“Careful,” Hutch couldn’t help but snicker, watching as Starsky stooped over in pain.

“Kiss my ass,” Starsky managed to squeeze out through clenched teeth as he slowly straightened, tucking the lotion under his arm and limping his way toward the bathroom with as much dignity as the situation would allow.

“No way, pally.” Hutch shook his head and grinned, satisfied he’d won this round. “Especially not while it’s covered in all those pox,” he snorted.

“Just leave me alone,” Starsky grumbled, swinging the bathroom door closed.

“Fine,” Hutch raised his voice to the back of the door. “Consider yourself left alone.”

“Good!” Starsky’s muffled voice shot through the closed door.

“Yeah, good,” Hutch sighed, melting into the chair, his aching head resting against its back and his legs stretched in front of him. He stared at the ceiling and folded his hands across his middle, sighing contently at the welcomed silence of the room. Finally, after a day and a half trapped in chickenpox hell with the king of all complainers, there was no scratch, scratch, scratch, no lengthy, exaggerated moans to distract him from his thoughts, just blissful peace and quiet. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to begin to drift to sleep.

“Hutch?”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Hutch’s eyes shot open, suddenly staring up into the distressed face of his partner hovering above him. He didn’t say anything, just blinked, hoping the image was merely a sleep-deprived illusion and would quickly disappear.

“Hutch?”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

No such luck. Hutch sighed heavily, his eyes zeroing in on one particularly large pock dead center in the cleft of Starsky’s chin.

“I’m leaving you alone, remember?”

“Well, could you stop leaving me alone for a second?” Starsky hopped from one foot to the other, his fingers absently scratching at his stomach. “I need help.”

Hutch lifted his head. “Help with what?”

“I can’t reach this one spot on my back.” Starsky ambled around to the front of the chair, lifting the tail of his sweatshirt in order to display the calamine-covered pocks on his back.

“Didn’t I just tell you to stop scratching yourself? What makes you think I’m going to scratch for you?”

“I don’t want you to scratch my back.” Starsky’s other hand shot around to the back, shoving the calamine lotion in Hutch’s direction. “I need help putting this lotion on it.”

“Oh.” Hutch looked at the bottle hesitantly.

“Please?” Long, dark eyelashes blinked pleadingly over Starsky’s shoulder.

“All right,” Hutch sighed, taking the bottle from the red, blotchy hand. “Where?”

“Here.” Starsky pointed in the general area that couldn’t be reached with his own hand.

Hutch squeezed out a dollop of lotion into his hand, then gently lifted the sweatshirt higher to reveal more of the ugly pox. He had to admit Starsky’s rash was twice as bad as his had been. His own skin felt like it was on fire, he could only imagine how truly irritating this must have been for Starsk.

“Better?” he asked as he carefully dabbed lotion on the few swollen red bumps that weren’t already covered.

Starsky quivered at the touch. “Your hands are cold!”

All traces of compassion gone, Hutch snapped the cover on the bottle and roughly jerked the waistband of Starsky’s sweatshirt down. “God, all you do is complain,” he barked, giving the body in front of him a harder than intended shove.

“Hey!” Starsky stumbled forward with the unexpected push. Managing to keep his balance before he toppled into the coffee table again, he snapped his head around and shot Hutch an aggravated look. “I was just saying that your hands are cold, that’s all. And they are.”

“Well, I am sorry. Next time I’ll make certain they’re all warm and toasty before touching his Royal Highness’ delicate skin.” Hutch threw the bottle back onto the coffee table and sat back in his chair.

Starsky opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He settled for a half-growl, half-grunt and flopped himself down on the couch. He raked his hand through his hair, his eyes widening as he discovered a fresh trail of more itchy bumps running along his scalp.

“Great, now they’re even in my frigging hair.” He looked over at Hutch while his fingertips continued exploring the mass of curls. Hutch simply sat stock still, staring blankly back at him.

“Did you hear me? They’re even in my hair.” A look of pure horror suddenly overtook Starsky’s face. “They won’t cause my hair to fall out, will they?”

Hutch still said nothing. A tiny grin began to twitch at the corner of his lips.

“Will they, Hutch?” Starsky asked again.

A small chuckle escaped from Hutch and he quickly brought his hand up to his mouth to stifle another.

“What’s so funny?” Starsky’s eyes narrowed. His hand stopped its exploration but remained resting on top of his head.

“Nothing,” Hutch snickered through his fingers. Another hearty guffaw forced itself through, and he clamped his hand tighter over his lips in an attempt to stop the tiny giggle fit from turning into an all-out laughing jag.

Starsky folded his arms across his chest. “Well, something’s got you busting a gut over there. What is it?”

It was no use. Hutch removed his hand from his mouth. “I was just thinking,” he squeaked, more laughter erupting from his throat before he could complete the sentence.

“First time for everything,” Starsky grumbled, his face contorting into an angry pout.

“I was just thinking,” Hutch started again between uncontrollable giggles, “that if we connected the pox on your cheek…” His uproarious laughter filled the room.

“Go on.” Not amused, Starsky tightened his folded arms across his chest, his brows furrowing deeper in anticipation of the insult that was sure to come.

Hutch swiped at the tears streaming down his cheeks with the back of one hand while the other held up a “wait a minute” finger. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat, his eyes widening as he tried to compose himself enough to finish the thought. When he finally found his voice again, it was shaking with giggles.

“If we connected the pox on your cheek,” a snort followed a short giggle, “we’d have the perfect outline of Italy!” Hutch grabbed his middle and doubled over, his entire body writhing with the laughter.

“Oh, you’re a laugh riot.” Starsky shook his head and looked away, listening as the bitter laughter bellowed from between Hutch’s knees.

“It’s true!” Hutch squealed and sat back up, the giggling slowly sputtering to a stop. He wiped at his eyes again and took in a few deep breaths to regain his composure. The pained look on Starsky’s face sent small waves of guilt through him, but he just couldn’t stop envisioning Italy on the flushed cheek, a perfectly round pock marking the spot where the tip of the boot would be.

Hutch pursed his lips together and sighed. “I’m sorry, Starsk,” he said with sincerity, though he knew Starsky would never be able to tell from the residual giggles he couldn’t quite seem to control.

Starsky watched as his partner slowly regained his composure, his narrowed eyes glaring back at the semi-apologetic look Hutch was trying desperately to convey. But the sporadic chuckles and upturned lips weren’t exactly helping the cause. Starsky couldn’t see anything funny about this situation. Not one damn thing. Anger propelled him off the couch.

“God, you can be a real asshole sometimes, Hutchinson, you know that?”

All amusement rapidly drained from Hutch’s face as Starsky stomped across the room. “Asshole?” His brow rose. “Did you just call me an asshole?”

“As a matter of fact I did.”

Hutch lifted himself from his chair and followed his pacing partner into the kitchen, then back to the living room. “Yeah, I’m such an asshole…letting you stay here, feeding you, fetching you water, rubbing calamine lotion on your back. I’ve got them, too, you know, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t see anybody playing nursemaid to me.”

Starsky stopped and spun around, surprised to find Hutch right on his heels. “Because it’s your fault!” He yelled, taking a step back and jabbing his finger in Hutch’s direction.

“Here we go again.” Hutch threw up his hands in frustration. “I know it’s my fault, dammit!”

“Ah-ha!” Starsky reclaimed his position, hands planted firmly on his hips. “So you admit it.”

“Oh, for…” Hutch began, his eyes wandering angrily over Starsky’s face. The map of Italy his mind had painted a few moments ago was suddenly replaced with the number 666. There was just no way someone this annoying could not possibly be the devil’s spawn. He took his own step back, not trusting his clenched fist to remain at his side.

“Starsky, just shut up, huh? I’m in no mood for your crap.”

“You started it.”

“I did not!”

“Italy! If that wasn’t looking for a fight, I don’t know what was. ”

“Oh!” Hutch ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “You’re driving me up the wall!”

Starsky pursed his lips together and spun on his heel, storming toward the door. “All right then,” he shouted, “if I’m such a burden, I’ll just go home.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve ever had!” Hutch followed him.

“Fine then!” Starsky jerked the door open, hesitating as Hutch made his way to the closet.

Hutch reached into the closet, producing Starsky’s jacket. “Fine! Here’s your coat,” he bellowed as he slung the brown leather in Starsky’s direction.

The coat landed in a heap at Starsky’s feet. He stooped to pick it up, realizing he was only in his stockings. His head darted around the room in search of his blue tennis shoes. He discovered one lying on its side under the coffee table and stormed over to it. “Where’s my other shoe?” he asked, clumsily hopping on one foot as he forced the shoe on.

“How am I supposed to know where your other shoe is?” Hutch began scanning the room, wanting nothing more than to get his whining partner out of his hair as soon as possible.

Starsky got on his knees on the couch cushions and leaned over the back in search of the missing shoe. He spotted it lying at the end of the couch and stretched across, grabbing it, then flopping on his back and sticking his leg in the air while attempting to cram it onto his foot. The sneaker wouldn’t cooperate, and Starsky sat up, stomping his foot as far into the blue canvas as it would go.

“Ever considered untying it, dummy?” Hutch asked, leaning against the closet door jam as he watched the spectacle with mild amusement. Had this been a competition he would have given his partner’s performance a perfect 5.0.

Starsky didn’t answer, his attention focused on the stubborn shoe as he attempted to use one finger as a shoehorn while a different finger silently conveyed his thoughts to Hutch about his suggestion. After a third unsuccessful try to conquer the shoe, he gave up and stood upright, grabbing his jacket and the calamine lotion in one fell swoop, then made his way back to the door, the crushed heel of his shoe making a flopping noise against his foot as he awkwardly hobbled across the floor.

“I’m really leaving, you know.” Starsky reached for the door,

“So long.” Hutch merely grinned and waggled his fingers goodbye.

Starsky’s hand rested on the knob. “I’m sorry I bothered you. Next time you bring a deadly disease home and give it to me, I’ll be sure not to inconvenience you.”

“Deadly disease?” Hutch rolled his eyes, refusing to take the guilt trip. “It’s chickenpox, Starsky, not the bubonic plague. God, every five-year-old in the world gets chickenpox and lives to tell about it … with a hell of a lot less complaining, I might add.”

“Oh, yeah, smart guy? Well, you never got ’em when you were five. I never got ’em when I was five.” Starsky’s brow rose almost as if he’d made a real point. “And everything I’ve read says they’re twice as bad in adults as they are in kids.”

“Well, then your case shouldn’t be too bad, should it?”

“Stick it in your ear.”

“Weren’t you leaving?”

Starsky’s grip tightened on the doorknob, but he made no attempt to go through it. “Oh, I’m leaving all right. I’ll be damned glad to get away from you and your constant nagging, I can tell ya that.”

“Nagging, huh?” Hutch slammed the closet door and stepped toward Starsky. “Well, I hope you scratch yourself so much, your face ends up looking like a golf ball.”

“Yeah? Well, I hope…” Starsky drummed his fingers on the knob, trying to conjure up a sufficient retort.

“You hope what?” Hutch smiled smugly.

“I hope that you’re happy. That’s what I hope.” Starsky’s eyes shifted to the floor.

“I will be happy… once you’re gone.”

“Well, consider me gone.” Starsky looked back up at Hutch, still making no effort to actually leave.

The hesitance was not lost on Hutch. “You keep saying that. But I don’t see you going anywhere,” he said, jutting his chin toward the hallway, calling his partner’s bluff.

Starsky stared at Hutch a moment longer, his eyes blinking as he planned his next move. Hutch set his jaw and returned the stare, pure stubbornness not allowing him to say a word. Starsky, suffering from his own bout of stubborn, finally stepped through the doorframe, shot Hutch one final menacing look and pulled the door shut with a vibrating slam. Hutch grimaced at the loud bang, surprised Starsky had actually left. He stood contemplating the green wood for a brief moment before rolling his eyes and opening the door. He stepped out into the hallway just in time to see Starsky start down the first step.

“Starsky! Wait!” He called out, bounding toward the retreating form.

Starsky stopped on the third step, trying to hide a tiny smile. He purposely changed his expression as he turned to face Hutch. “What?” he barked and headed back up the steps.

“Starsk…” Hutch began, his hand reaching out to his partner as he moved toward him, meeting him halfway in the narrow hallway. Starsky, certain he was about to be invited back in, could barely contain a relieved sigh. Hutch’s eyes focused down as he inched toward Starsky, then drifted up to meet the other man’s when he was only an arm-length away.

“That’s my calamine lotion,” Hutch grunted, the outstretched hand reaching down and yanking the bottle out of Starsky’s grip. Starsky’s expression went completely blank as he watched Hutch turn sharply and shuffle back toward the doorway. The blond head popped around the door’s edge, offering a satisfied smirk before gently pulling it closed, leaving an open-mouthed Starsky standing stunned in the hallway.

The thrill of victory was sweet, but short-lived. Hutch leaned against the closed door and sucked in a long breath, relishing the still of the apartment while mentally kicking himself at the same time. Fact was, he had brought the disease home to Starsky, so it was technically his fault his partner was so blasted miserable. But so was he, dammit. And why did Starsky always find it necessary to make him so mad? Besides, he was only looking out for his well-being. All that scratching causes long-term damage. Any idiot knows that. Still, he should have known what he was getting himself into when he caved in to Starsky and told him he could stay with him while they both recuperated. Starsky was not the best of patients, even when dealing with a simple case of the sniffles, so why didn’t he realize recovery from this miserable disease together would most likely send them both right straight over the edge?

Hutch sighed heavily and pushed himself away from the door. Oh, well. What was done was done. He’d take care of it all later. Right now he was hungry and tired and looking forward to some much desired solitude. In a while, he knew, he’d swallow his pride, get Starsky on the phone and lure him back over with the promise of heated up lasagna and an all-night John Wayne fest on the tube. Nothing says “I’m sorry” better than tomato-sauce-slathered noodles and 12 hours of The Duke… not to David Starsky anyway.

Hutch tossed the confiscated bottle of calamine lotion back onto the coffee table and, shielding his eyes from the late afternoon sun, strolled over to the window to draw the shade. He reached up to pull the shade down and a familiar red flash caught his eye. A puzzled look formed on his face as he leaned forward to see if the object was what he thought it was. Sure enough, sitting in the exact same spot it had been left a day and a half ago, right behind his beat-up jalopy, was the empty Torino. Hutch watched for a moment, fully expecting at any second for Starsky to come bounding out the door, hop in the car and squeal away in a huff, but it never happened.

Hutch shook his head as he pulled the shade down and made his way across the apartment to see what was going on. He quietly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, scanning the area for any sign of his partner.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

The sound led Hutch to the stairwell where he found Starsky sitting alone, elbows planted firmly on his knees, his chin resting in his right palm while his left hand reached across his middle, furiously scratching at his side. The half-on, half-off sneaker tapped slowly on the wooden step as a pathetic sigh emanated from the forlorn-looking body.

“Starsk, what are you doing?”

Hutch’s voice behind him made Starsky jump. His scratching fingers yanked quickly from his side like a child’s hand caught in the cookie jar and he peered warily over his shoulder at the blond. “Nothing,” he mumbled and turned back around, his eyes returning to his sneaker. “Just go back inside.”

Hutch made his way down the staircase and nudged Starsky to move over, lowering himself down onto the step. He looped one arm over the railing and leaned against the shoulder next to him. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I said nothing. Go back inside,” Starsky repeated, making no eye contact and shrugging away.

Hutch continued to lean in, gently pinning Starsky against the wall. “I’m not going back inside, so you might as well tell me what’s wrong.”

Starsky leaned his head against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “You kicked me out. Where else am I supposed to go?”

Hutch’s brow furrowed. “Well, how about home, for starters?”

There was a moment of silence before Starsky sucked in a long breath. “I’m sick, Hutch. Too sick to drive,” he finally admitted.

“You’re sick? Sick how?” Hutch’s tone turned soothing.

“Just sick.” Starsky shrugged. “I’m achy and weak and…”

“Sick.” Hutch finished the sentence.

Starsky offered a tiny nod against the wall, closing his eyes as Hutch’s palm suddenly covered his forehead.

“You’re warm.”

“That’s because I’m sick.”

Hutch removed his hand from his partner’s face and smiled. “So, what, were you just going to spend the night on my steps?”

Starsky shrugged. “Mrs. Hannigan would have let me in.”

“Mrs. Hannigan next door?”

“Yes. She loves me. She’d take care of me.”

Hutch rolled his eyes. “It’s BINGO night, pal. She won’t be home until 11:30. And she usually brings old Mr. Standish home with her.”

Starsky lifted his head from the wall, eyes wide. “Mrs. Hannigan brings a man home?”

“Mm-hmm.” Hutch nodded.

“The same Mrs. Hannigan who makes us chocolate chip cookies and calls me her little bobaloo?”

“The very same.”

“Oh, boy.” Starsky shook his head and leaned back against the wall. “Nothing’s sacred.”

“Nope.” Hutch agreed, placing his hand on Starsky’s back. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“No.” Starsky tightened his arms around his middle, not budging. “I don’t want to bother you or nothing.”

“So you’re just going to sit out here all night then?”

“If I have to, yes.” Starsky nodded.

“OK. Have it your way.” Hutch shrugged and stood. “I’m going to go have leftover lasagna.” He patted Starsky on the back and started up the steps.

Starsky turned, watching Hutch’s retreating form. “Edith’s lasagna?”

Hutch smiled, not turning around. “Yep. I’ll bring some out to you if there’s any left.” He continued down the hallway, listening to Starsky’s grunt and the flop of the wayward sneaker as he stood and made his way up the steps and down the hallway. Hutch slowed his pace a little as he got closer to the door, giving his partner time to catch up.

“Hey, didn’t Rosie have chickenpox last year?” Starsky asked, brushing past Hutch and shrugging out of his jacket as he went through the doorway.

Hutch stopped just outside the door, watching as the blue tennis shoes were casually kicked under the coffee table and the brown jacket thrown into the chair. “Yeah, I think she did,” he finally answered, marveling at the easy forgiveness of the relationship. It wasn’t 10 minutes ago they were on the verge of shooting each other.

“I wonder why we didn’t get them then?” Starsky turned and faced Hutch, his hand snaking toward his back to begin a vigorous round of scratching. Hutch’s raised finger stopped him cold, however, and he slowly brought the hand back around to his front, tucking it under his arm and offering a sheepish grin.

Hutch shook his head and closed the door. “I don’t know, Starsk.” He gathered up the shoes and jacket and tossed them all in the closet. “Look, why don’t you go lie down for a bit?” He jutted his chin toward the bedroom. “I’ll let you know when dinner’s ready.”

“On your bed?” Starsky asked, turning toward the bedroom.

“Yeah, I can take the couch tonight.” Hutch smiled warmly, his had lightly stroking Starsky’s back as he passed by him.

Starsky stayed in step with Hutch and wiggled under the touch. “Ooooh, yeah. A little lower…”

“Starsky!” Hutch jerked his hand back quickly in disgust. “Don’t make me sorry I let you back in here.”

“All right. All right.” Starsky raised his palms in defeat. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

Hutch shook his head, making his way to the refrigerator to retrieve the lasagna.

“Think I will take a nap,” Starsky yawned, wiggling under the cotton material of his sweatshirt as he headed toward the bedroom. “Man, this itching is driving me banan…”

“Starsk.” Hutch calmly interrupted the complaint, his knuckles whitening against the refrigerator handle and his eyes snapping shut in an attempt to contain his irritation.

“Sorry.” Starsky raised a finger to his own lips. “I’ll be quiet. Won’t hear another peep from me.”

“Good.” Hutch nodded, his head disappearing inside the refrigerator.

“Man, I don’t know how you do it, Hutch. I mean, I haven’t heard you complain once. These things have got to be driving you crazy, too.”

Hutch emerged from inside the fridge, pan full of lasagna in his hand. “It’s called self-control, Starsk,” he smirked. “I have amazing self-control and an iron will.”

“Guess you must,” Starsky didn’t argue, shrugging and turning back toward the bedroom. “Let me know when it’s ready.”

Starsky padded into the tiny bedroom alcove and sat on the bed. He stared at himself in the mirror over Hutch’s dresser, carefully examining the red blotches covering his face. “I’ll be damned. It does look like Italy,” he grunted to himself and flopped back on the bed, contorting his body into several positions before finally finding a comfortable one, flat on his back, arms and legs spread far apart to avoid any kind of contact with his own body. He lay that way for a few minutes, finally grimacing in discomfort as he realized that the itchiness was not the only thing keeping him awake. A full bladder was now contributing to the misery. He tried to ignore it, closing his eyes and nestling further into the pillow, but no dice. He slapped the bed with the palm of his hand in frustration before gingerly sitting upright and forcing himself onto his feet and toward the bathroom.

The smell of the warming lasagna made Starsky pause in the kitchen for a moment to inhale its spicy aroma.

“Ahhhhh,” a satisfied groan came from the other side of the kitchen.

A perplexed look on his face, Starsky quietly stepped back to get a view of what was causing the enraptured sound.

“Oh, God. Oh, yeah.”

Starsky’s eyes widened as he found the source. There, leaning heavily against the support beam between the kitchen and living room, was Hutch, his blond head thrown back in ecstasy and bobbing up and down as his back undulated against the solid wood in an attempt to relieve the maddening itch coursing over his skin.

“Oooooh. Yes!” Hutch whispered his pleasure, eyes remaining screwed shut, unaware of Starsky’s presence.

Feeling like a voyeur as his own itchy bumps began to cry out for the same type of gratifying attention, Starsky watched until Hutch’s frame wearily slumped against the beam with a final satiated groan. Starsky cleared his throat, stifling a chuckle, and stepped back into the kitchen.

“Need a cigarette?”

“What?!” Startled, Hutch’s eyes flew open and he shot away from the beam almost as if it had bit him.

Starsky folded his arms across his chest and took a few steps toward Hutch. “Self-control, huh?”

“I…” Hutch began to back away.

“Iron will, huh?” Starsky continued to step closer.

“Now, look, Starsky…”

“Oh, I looked.” Starsky continued to follow the backward-moving Hutch around the apartment. “I looked all right. And I saw a side of you I don’t think I ever want to see again.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“It’s not?” Starsky’s eyebrow rose.

“No.” Hutch shook his head vigorously. The twosome had managed to make a complete revolution around the apartment and were back in the kitchen where they started.

“You weren’t taking advantage of this poor, innocent beam’s virtue,” Starsky’s hand soothingly petted the wood, “and scratching yourself into oblivion?”

“No.” Hutch’s head continued to shake.

“Then what the hell was that, Hutch, hmm? Or do I want to know?”

“I…” Hutch’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for an explanation.

“You what?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Hutch reclaimed a little dignity and threw his shoulders back. “What the hell were you doing watching me anyway?”

“I was just going to the bathroom, pal. Little did I know I was going to stumble across Scratch Fest 1976.”

“Well, it itches, dammit.” Hutch’s hand wound around his middle, his fingers digging into his sides.

“Really.” Starsky smirked at his partner’s weakened fortitude.

“I’m miserable, Starsk.” Hutch whined, his back once again finding the beam, a tiny groan forcing itself from his lips as he began to helplessly scratch.

“Oh, I can’t watch that again. I’m going to have nightmares for a week as it is.” Disgusted, Starsky shielded his eyes from the view of Hutch and headed toward the bathroom. He stopped in the bathroom doorway.

“And what about all those pock marks, huh? You’re suddenly not worried about those?”

Hutch stopped his gyrating, hanging his head in shame as he sagged against the beam. “You’re right, Starsk. I just… once I started, I couldn’t stop.”

“Huh. Maybe you’re human after all.” Starsky shrugged and smiled, beginning to close the bathroom door.

“Starsk?”

The door stopped mid-swing and Starsky’s head popped around it. “Yeah?”

“When you’re done, you think you could…” Hutch’s eyes shifted longingly to the calamine lotion on the coffee table.

“Oh, boy.” Starsky rolled his eyes and sighed. “No problem, Captain Self-Control, I’ll help ya. Just knock off the scratching until then, huh?”

Hutch nodded his gratitude and Starsky shook his head, chuckling as he swung the bathroom door closed. A muffled noise echoing from the kitchen stopped him in his tracks.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

End