"What
is it that Leo said about your hands?"
The
light from a nearby street lamp dimly shone through the window landing on the
two detectives as they stood near each other in Starsky's compact kitchen. The
smell of smoke hung around them, a reminder of the small explosion they had
witnessed firsthand earlier in the day and had just been lucky enough to live
through.
Hairdressers.
Not again, Starsky had thought. But
it was turning out to be kind of fun, until the explosion, that is, and until
some guy had mentioned something about his partner's hands.
Avoiding the question by trying to avoid the man, Hutch moved away from Starsky to stand, beer in hand, next to the refrigerator, in the far corner of the kitchen. His eyes scanned the room, looking around like he was trying to find a place to hide from a stalking Starsky.
Hutch
had brushed off the cigar seller's knowledge when Buddy Owens, the hotel
security guy, had quoted Leo as saying, "Mr. Marlene is no hairdresser,
his hands are too tough." Sigh. Didn't
Starsky know it.
"What
is it that Leo said about your hands?" Starsky asked again, coming right
up to his partner and tilting his head back to maintain eye contact. They stood
like that for a minute. The light was less intense in this corner of the
kitchen, but there was just enough to reveal a fidgety Hutch, unable to come up
with even the innocent truth to the question.
This is fun, thought Starsky,
deliberately trying to make Hutch uncomfortable. Let's see how far I can play him.
Suddenly,
Starsky reached out with his left hand and grabbed Hutch's left wrist. He
pulled Hutch's arm up and away from his side. Then Starsky turned his own body
around so that he was now standing with his back to Hutch's front, effectively
trapping his partner against the counter. He nestled into his place by leaning
back and resting his body against his partner's, his head relaxing on Hutch's
shoulder. Next, Starsky released the left wrist and grabbed Hutch's right hand,
taking the beer can away and setting it down on the stove. Now Hutch's hands
were free. Now he could do a little exploring of Hutch's hands on his own.
"Hmmmm..."
Starsky started, petting the hand. "The right one is kind of rough."
"Starsky,
I was checking out the cigars..." Hutch started a half-hearted protest.
"Hush!
I'm researchin' here."
Starsky
laid his hands, palms down, on the back of Hutch's hands and interlaced their
fingers together, squeezing ever so gently.
He then curled their arms around him, enfolding himself a gentle hug,
his eyes drifting shut as he reveled in their closeness. The movement caused
his body to lean forward slightly, which pressed his backside lightly, but
deliberately, into Hutch's groin area. Hutch let go a small moan and Starsky
smiled.
Becoming
business like, Starsky opened his eyes and quickly hooked the thumb of the
right hand into one of the belt loops of his trousers. Hoping Hutch would keep
his thumb there, he released it, then he started scrutinizing the left hand,
leaning once again, back against Hutch.
He
had always noticed the size of Hutch's hands. They were so big. But despite
their size, he knew the hands were gentle and graceful as they were when he was
playing his guitar or taking care of his plants. Or when they were making love.
They had been gentle too, but strong, after the explosion, when Hutch had
grasped him by the arms and helped him to his feet as the smoke swirled around
them. They could also be deadly, as they were when he was wielding his powerful
gun, or curling the fingers around to make a solid fist.
The
fingers were long, thick and tapered and the palms broad and flat. It really
started in Hutch’s forearms, which were solid and muscular, and barley covered
with the lightest amount of small blond hairs.
Starsky
inspected Hutch's lower arm, turning it right and left, loving the interplay of
muscles as they moved underneath the smooth, tanned skin. He held the arm up,
then lowered it, moved his eyes in for a closer view, and then leaned away for
a different perspective. Hutch's wrists were thick too. He circled the left
wrist with his thumb and pointer... no... he had to use his middle finger in
order to completely enclose his fingers around it. Big boned was his Hutch. All
that solid, northern European blood running through his veins.
Hutch
kept his nails in pretty good shape he noticed as he straightened out the hand
and matched it with his own, right palm to left palm. They were cut flush with
the tips of his fingers and were actually almost a shiny white. Now they were
clean, but that was probably from having his hands in shampoo and water during
the day. The middle finger had a small band-aid covering the tip. A reminder of
just how klutzy those big hands could be at times. Hutch had cut himself
yesterday, chopping vegetables, as he made them dinner. He could feel some
unusual small rough spots on the pads of Hutch’s fingers. The result of
pressing guitar strings Starsky surmised.
Both
of them had hands that reflected the kind of work they did. Considering how
they usually ran around their beat, getting themselves in all kinds of tough
situations, Starsky found himself glad that Hutch could have his beautiful
hands clean and in good shape, if only for a little while.
"You
know, for a righty, you use your left hand a lot," said Starsky, turning
the hand over and feeling the calluses there as he traced the palm with the
tips of his fingers. "Pointing at things," he chuckled, "me
usually, grabbing stuff...me too... sometimes." Starsky brought the palm
up to his lips and whispered, "I've even seen ya switch your gun into this
hand a time or two - to protect me," and planted a light kiss right in the
middle. Hutch sighed, and then squirmed against the weight pressing up against
him.
"Nice
watch." Starsky said.
Hutch
shook his head, his wondering thoughts, instigated by the kiss, rudely
interrupted by the inane comment. "You bought it for me, dummy." He
straightened up his slouching body and took a soul cleansing deep breath.
Starsky
ignored him and proceeded to hook Hutch's left thumb into another belt loop
like he had done with the right. Next he freed the right hand and brought up
near his face to administer a kiss on its palm as well. All's fair in love...
"Your
right hand..." he started, looking over the new acquisition before him.
The first thing to jump out at him was the presence of a ring. It was silver
with a roundish stone centerpiece that never seemed to be able to stay in the
correct place on his finger. Hutch had bought the ring in Mexico where they had
gone on one of their rare three-day off long weekends. Starsky twisted it
around to center it and noted, "I think this hand is actually slightly
bigger than your left."
"That's
not too unusual, Starsk." Hutch's voice was only marginally strained.
"Noooo..."
He looked more closely. "Your poor right hand though.” He kissed the palm
again feeling it needed some extra TLC.
“You need to keep better care of this one, Hutch. You've got scars here,
on the palm and fingers from... well, you know what from." From an explosion a couple of years ago that
occurred while he was opening the trunk of one of his LTD's. Some of the skin
was a different pigment, marring its perfectness. "And here." There was
a small, round scar where a nail had driven into the flesh as he was trying to
climb over a fence in pursuit of a purse-snatcher.
Starsky
honored the scared skin with kisses meant to sooth away any pain these
souvenirs still caused.
Turning
the hand over to scan the backside again, his eyes caught something new.
"Ah, Hutch, do you know you have a wart growing here on your pinky?"
"I
do not," came the stern reply as the hand was pulled roughly backwards,
trying to escape the inspection.
"Oh,
no you don't," said Starsky, keeping a firm grip. "I'm not done here.
Don't be embarrassed. I've had a wart or two." Starsky held the hand up so
Hutch could get a better look. "Right here. That is a wart." As Hutch
leaned forward to look, Starsky turned his head just enough so he could whisper
his next words in his partner's ear. "If I kiss it, will you turn into a
frog or a prince?"
Hutch
jerked backwards, away from the suggestive voice that ruffled his hair and
tickled his ear. "You're g-getting your stories mixed up, buddy. The girl
kisses the frog who turns into a prince but if you kiss frogs, well that was
how you were supposed to get warts."
"Are
you tellin' me that you're kissing frogs now?"
"Only
if…I'll get it removed on my next doctor's visit," Hutch said, refusing to
be baited.
"Well,
please do." Starsky laid his cheek against Hutch’s palm, rubbing lightly
against it. "I can't have you with... what is it that Leo said about your
hands?"
"He
s-said..." Hutch cleared his throat. "He said that they were too
rough." His voice was fading right along with his resolve not to let
Starsky get to him.
"No,
that wasn't it. It was tough. He said they were too tough, babe." Starsky
ran his left hand briskly over the palm of Hutch's right hand, creating heat
between the flesh. "My tough, tough Hutch," he breathed. "He was
really right about that. See here?" He pointed to thick pads of skin just
beneath the fingers and on the thumb. "Calluses. You got calluses here.
And on the left hand. I can't have these things scratching my delicate
skin," he teased.
"Yeah?
Well maybe I should call up a real manicurist and get an appointment to do
something about that." There was a slight defensive tone behind his words.
"And
I personally know of a cute one with curly dark hair who also makes house
calls, for manicures… and other things that I know you'll love."
"You
know, I meant that when I called you a naughty, naughty boy, Starsk."
"I
know."
Reaching
down, he brought up Hutch’s left hand again, "Keep 'em there,
Blintz."
But
Hutch was tired of having his hands scrutinized. Instead, he wrapped his arms
tightly around Starsky and held him in an almost bear hug, nuzzling his right
ear. Starsky sighed as he relinquished his control and settled back to enjoy
the contact and the feel of Hutch’s hands on him.
Oh,
to be touched by these hands! Hutch could convey so much emotion through them.
So much love, so much caring. They were healing hands. Hands that held him and
took care of him when he was sick or in pain. They were hands that expressed
love when they held him, just like they were doing now. God, how he loved Hutch
and his hands. Warts and all.
"Ah,
Hutch, I love ya even if you're not perfect."
Hutch
poked him in the ribs.
"Hey!"
came the squirmy protest.
But
Hutch didn't let go. "Do you really want me to start in on YOU now?"
"Nah,
I have better things in mind," Starsky wiggled, "and from what I can
feel back there, so do you."
"Let's
shower, babe. We got a big day tomorrow with the diamond sale and god knows
what else with the wacky clientele. Not to mention The Baron." Hutch blew lightly in Starsky's ear, loving the
reaction he got. "You go ahead, Mr. Marlene will be there soon, after he
finishes his beer."
Starsky
turned around and extracted himself from Hutch's embrace. "But TyTy will
want him now," he purred.
Grabbing
both of those wonderful, gentle, tough and beautiful hands, Starsky pulled them
towards the bathroom, Hutch walking forwards, Starsky walking backwards. As
they made their way around the furniture, the illumination from the street lamp
brightened for a moment as the light angled through the kitchen window, and
landed on their hands, now clasped tightly together. Their night was just
getting started.