Thanks to Molo for the beta and stuff.

A Christmas PWP for Susan from her Secret Santa

December 2006

SWITCHES AND ASHES

by CC

His nose started itching two seconds after he'd plunged his hands into the soapy dishwater. Hutch first tried to ignore it, then attempted an ineffectual twist-and-rub against his bare shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Starsky stood just inside the kitchen door, his arms full of dirty laundry.

"My nose itches. Give me a hand, will ya?"

"Sorry, mine are kinda full right now."

"Well, put it down."

Starsky laughed. "Where? There's not an inch of clear counter space anywhere in here."

Groaning, Hutch tried the other shoulder. No luck there either.

"Hey, look at me." Starsky was beside him now, his back pressing against the counter. When Hutch turned to face him, Starsky leaned in and brushed the tip of his nose against Hutch's. "Does that help?"

"Oh yeah." Hutch leaned forward and repeated the gesture several more times, not entirely surprised when a different sort of itch began to surface. Smiling, he dipped his head a little lower, intending to steal a kiss, thwarted when Starsky's lips met his with enthusiasm. It figures, Hutch thought. Starsky was in one of his 'in-charge' moods. Hutch knew he was going to have to do something about that. Just as soon as this kiss was over.

And he would have, too, if Starsky hadn't just then skillfully and expertly slid his tongue over Hutch's bottom lip and into his mouth. Hutch instinctively turned and lifted his hands to grip Starsky's shoulders. I oughta take out an insurance policy on that tongue.

A week of unintentional celibacy had Hutch tightening his grip and trying to pull Starsky closer, but two weeks worth of dirty clothes remained in his way. And then Starsky was pulling back, an indignant expression twisting his face as he looked down at his shoulder. Only then did Hutch notice the soap suds and water trailing from his hands to Starsky's t-shirt.

"Oh, sorry." Hutch smiled sheepishly and looked around for his dish towel.

"Save it," Starsky said, stepping around him and continuing to the small utility room off the kitchen. "We've got work to do."

Hutch stared at the empty space his partner had just vacated and wondered how and when he'd given up control of his life. He was still standing there, hands dripping suds onto the floor, when Starsky breezed past him again, minus his t-shirt, slowing down only long enough to flick the back of his hand against Hutch's ass and growl in his ear, "Those dishes aren't going to do themselves, you know."

He was gone before Hutch's soapy hand reached the burning spot on his backside.

Grumbling to himself, Hutch plunged his hands in the water again. This certainly wasn't how he'd planned to spend their precious few hours off duty. What difference did it make if the house was clean for Christmas if they weren't going to be here anyway? With the normal holiday staff shortage, he and Starsky were pulling extra half-shifts, plus some, until the day before New Year's Eve, when they had three—count 'em, three—glorious days off. Starsky could bitch all he wanted about the sad state of their house, but Hutch already knew exactly how they'd spend the first few hours after they logged out. It didn't matter that their days off were still a week away. A good plan never hurt, and Hutch had a really, really good plan.

A flutter of anticipation stirred low in his belly. He gave his imagination free rein as he washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed, and soon he was transported a week into the future, when he wasn't scrubbing something mysterious from the bottom of a soup pot, but instead was running a soapy washcloth across the strong, broad shoulders of his lover. Starsky would lean back in Hutch's arms, and Hutch would move the cloth to Starsky's chest, gently stroking the—

Wait a minute. This is my fantasy. Hutch dropped the last stack of dishes into the water, and when he picked up the dish cloth again, he was the one getting his back scrubbed, and he was the one who turned his head to place a benevolent, imaginary kiss on Starsky's imaginary wrist as it slid over Hutch's shoulder and down his chest, leaving wet, soapy circles—

"HU-U-TCH!"

Huh? The skillet he'd been washing slipped out of his grasp, sending soapy water cascading over the side of the sink and down the front of his jeans.

"Hu-u-tch! Help me!"

Hutch took a moment to dry his hands and dab the dish towel along his front. They might have lived together only a few months, but he'd known Starsky for ten years, and he knew from the tone of voice that Starsky was frustrated, and possibly a little pissed off, but not hurt.

"So help me, if you don't—"

"What the—" Hutch stuttered to a stop just inside the bedroom door, confused by what he saw. He hadn't taken time to consider what predicament Starsky might have gotten himself into, but even if he had, this would never have been a possibility.

For no good reason Hutch could fathom, Starsky was stretched out on the floor, toes up, and half of him was under the bed. The part that protruded presented a fine picture, though, and Hutch took a moment to appreciate the hard-won abs, the snug denim cut-offs, and the nicely muscled thighs and calves.

"I can see your feet, dummy. Are you gonna help me, or are you just gonna stand there?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"I'm stuck!" The brief—and indignant—explanation was followed by a grunt and then a hiss as Starsky apparently tried to get himself unstuck.

Hutch moved around the bed to stand at Starsky's feet. "How are you stuck? There's a good two inches clearance." He grabbed Starsky's ankles, set his own feet, and tugged hard.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Starsky's voice grew louder as his head emerged from under the bed.

Hutch looked up and immediately saw the problem. Starsky's arms were still under the bed, stretched tautly over his head.

"Geez, Hutch. Scared you pretty bad, huh?" Starsky stared pointedly at the large wet spot splashed across the front of Hutch's jeans.

"Can it." Hutch unceremoniously dropped the ankles he still held. "What's wrong with your arms?

"Told you, they're stuck."

"Stuck on what?" Hutch crouched low and tried to see under the bed.

"Well, it's not my arms, really. It's more like my hands." Starsky gave a nervous little laugh. "They're kind of stuck up inside the box springs."

"What?" Hutch sat back on his heels. "How'd that happen?"

"Well," Starsky paused, a frown working his eyebrows for a few seconds before it eased, and a sickly smile emerged. "I was cleaning under here, see? And bumped the bed with my knee and my hands got kind of folded back, and  I—"

"Wait a minute." Hutch held up a hand. His finely-tuned Starsky bullshit meter had kicked in with the second 'well.' Something was up, and Hutch thought he knew just what it was, but if he got Starsky out of this jam, he'd never hear the truth. Not directly from the perp's lips. No, Starsky didn't have a prayer of getting loose just yet. "Okay, so you were cleaning under the bed?"

"Well, yeah. You know, dust balls and…stuff. One of my socks. A nickel. That comb you thought you'd lost at—"

"Starsk."

"Huh?" Starsky raised his head up and scratched his chin against his arm.

"Was any of that stuff up in the box springs?"

"Well, no."

"Then how did your hands get up there?" Hutch gritted his teeth and fixed his face with the predatory smile he usually reserved for suspects lying through their asses.

"Will you just help me get loose and then we can chat all you want?" Starsky shifted his arms again, tugging harder than ever and grunting with the effort. "C'mon, Hutch. All you gotta do is lift the bed up a few inches to give me some room to work 'em out."

"No, I don't think so, partner." Hutch stood up, wincing at the push of air against his wet jeans. "I think you need to tell me how it happened first."

"Dammit, what does it matter?" Starsky glared up at Hutch with black-cloud eyes. "Lookit, I saw a tear in the cloth, and I thought I oughta check it out. You know, make sure nothing got up there."

"Like what?"

"Well, like a mouse…or something like that. I read this story last week about this old guy who died, and when they moved his stuff out of his house, they found hundreds of mice living inside his mattress and box springs." Starsky widened his eyes dramatically. "Hundreds of 'em," he added for emphasis.

"Starsky, you're afraid of mice. You expect me to believe that you ran your hand—wait a minute." Hutch almost smiled, he was having so much fun. "You're telling me that you put both of your hands up there to feel around for mice? The same guy who jumped on the counter when he thought he saw a mouse run across the kitchen?" He laughed out loud, remembering Starsky's embarrassment when the rodent turned out to be the shadow of a bird flying past the kitchen window.

"Hey, it caught me by surprise. At least I didn't pull my piece on it like someone else I know." The black clouds were back.

"What was I supposed to think with you screaming bloody murder? I thought you were being attacked. Next time, I'll just let you go under." Hutch opened the closet door to get a pair of dry blue jeans. Starsky could wait.

Only, there weren't any dry jeans. There weren't any clean pants of any kind, which was what had gotten Starsky onto this cleaning kick in the first place. Hutch had thought they'd have dinner, a quick roll in the sack and then a nap—in that exact order—during this break between shifts, but Starsky had been adamant, pointing out that they didn't even have any clean dishes to cook with or clean clothes left to change into.

And it had turned out to be a complete sham. The scheming bastard had—

"C'mon, Hutch," Starsky wheedled from behind him. "I'll make it up to you."

"Oh, yeah?" Hutch turned around. He hadn't considered that he'd get more out of this than a laugh at Starsky's expense. "What'd you have in mind?"

"Um, I…I could finish the kitchen," Starsky offered eagerly.

Hutch raised an eyebrow. "That'll do for starters. But I already did most of it. There's nothing left but a couple of pots, the counters and floors. What else you got?"

"Else! Hutch, those floors are like flypaper!"

"What else?" Hutch fixed Starsky with a pointed stare. "Or you could just tell me what you were looking for in the box springs."

Starsky struggled one last time and then gave up, his body sagging in defeat. He mumbled something Hutch couldn't hear.

"Speak up."

"I was looking for my Christmas presents! There, are you happy now?"

Hutch was anything but happy. He'd known all along what Starsky was up to, but hearing him admit it in a tone of voice that implied that somehow Hutch was at fault was just too much. The conniving weasel could lie there until his arms fell off. Or until Hutch changed into a pair of dry sweatpants, whichever came first.

"No, I'm not happy, not happy at all, buddy boy," Hutch snapped as he began undoing his belt. "You promised that if we did all this Christmas mumbo jumbo, you wouldn't nag me about your presents or sneak around trying to find them." He raised his finger in righteous indignation. "And you set up this whole charade today so that you could nose around here without interruption while I slaved away in the kitchen. Look, my fingers are still wrinkled." He held up the offended digits for inspection, then refocused his efforts on getting his belt off. The wet pants only added to his ire.

"It wasn't a charade. This place was a pig sty, and we were both choosing what to wear out of the laundry hamper. Still…."

Hutch looked up in time to see a sly smile steal across Starsky's face. "I thought it couldn't hurt to know if Santa had planted any loot. You know, since I've been a good boy and all."

"Good? You've been anything but good. No, Starsk, I think all you have to look forward to this Christmas are switches and ashes." Hutch finally got his buckle undone.

"Wh-what are you gonna do with that?" Starsky's voice was suddenly quiet and…almost apprehensive.

Glancing up, Hutch could see that Starsky's eyes were focused on him, or more precisely, on his midsection. He followed Starsky's gaze to his own hands, and the belt he was slowly drawing through the loops of his jeans. Realization hit about the same time he pulled the end of the belt from the last loop.

He thinks I'm going to spank him.

While the temptation to apply a good tanning was great, Hutch couldn't imagine actually going through with it. Not really. But when he opened his mouth to assure Starsky his hide was safe, something stopped him. Hutch didn't know whether it was the rapt fascination on Starsky's face or the almost imperceptible quickening of Starsky's breathing. Or maybe it was the faint thrum of arousal speeding through his own body. The air was filled with some sense of wildness that Hutch couldn't identify. He was almost afraid to move for fear of starting something.

Or of ending it.

"You'd better not be thinking what I think you're thinking." The voice was still obnoxious.

That was just the impetus Hutch needed. He stretched the belt taut between his hands and lifted it over his head, stretching and twisting, as if limbering up. "If I were you, bucko, I'd be trying for a better attitude."

"Yeah, well, you're not me. Not even close."

Hutch dropped his arms to his sides, holding the belt by its buckle. "You're right, Starsk. I'm not you. To be you, I'd have to lie…and cheat," he punctuated each offense with a tap of the belt's end against Starsky's legs, "and scheme…and deceive…and manipulate…and double-cross."

Starsky shifted his legs, trying to move them away. Hutch pressed the advantage, stepping into the 'V' Starsky's squirming created.

"Have you lost your mind?" Starsky squeaked indignantly.

Hutch flicked the belt across Starsky's knees. "Who's in charge now?"

"Hutch, you can't do this. I can't believe you'd even want to do this." Starsky tried to pull his legs back, away from the belt, but stretched them out in a hurry when he saw Hutch eyeing the prime real estate left open for attack.

"I can't believe I didn't think of it before. You've had it coming for a long, long time." Hutch laughed and squatted down between Starsky's legs. "It's kind of ironic, don't you think? All I wanted to do tonight was come home and spend our measly few hours off in bed with you, but you went into Drill Sergeant Starsky mode, and now here we are." He grinned and slid his hand up the belt, gripping it tightly about a foot from the end and waving it at Starsky. "Just the three of us."

Starsky swallowed. Hard. "C'mon, Hutch. Quit fooling around and let me up. We'll go to bed just like you wanted. Just the two of us."

"Oh, so now you're interested." Hutch flipped the belt's end against the inside of Starsky's thigh. "Too little, too late, Sarge."

"I'll make it up to you. Just help me get outta here." Starsky smiled hopefully. "I promise, you won't regret it." His expression was so sincere, Hutch could almost believe him.

Almost.

Starsky shifted his legs, and Hutch looked down. Without realizing it, he'd been idly flicking the end of the belt back and forth between Starsky's thighs. The touch was so slight it didn't even register a sound, but from the expression on his face, Starsky was very aware of it.

Hutch hesitated, momentarily unsure if his imagination was playing tricks on him. But no, he'd recognize these telltale signs from a half-mile away. Starsky's skin was flushed with anticipation, and his eyes glittered darkly with desire. Hutch needed only one look at the tight crotch of Starsky's denim shorts to see that the belt was accomplishing what Hutch had been unable to earlier in the evening.

"Someone's got a leather fetish," Hutch teased, sliding the end of the belt up Starsky's leg and under the hem of his shorts.

"Cut it out."

Hutch ignored him and switched the belt to the other hand, dragging just the tip of it along Starsky's thigh. The bulge in Starsky's shorts grew more pronounced. Leaning forward, Hutch pulled the leather strap across Starsky's hips, laughing at the hiss of indrawn breath. He rubbed the belt over the softly-furred abdomen and watched in fascination as the denim waistband was pushed up, away from the skin.

His own blood stirring a little faster, Hutch followed a hunch and slowly skimmed the leather just along the fabric's edge and then up and over Starsky's belly. Sure enough, the tip of Starsky's cock appeared, poking out intently from under the worn denim.

Hutch felt a responsive swelling in his own jeans, and he shifted onto his knees, straddling Starsky's thighs. After a deep breath, he finally found the air to speak. "You like this, don't you, Leather Boy?"

Starsky raised his head and looked down his body. "Don't believe it. It lies."

Laughing, Hutch stretched forward until his face hovered just above Starsky's.

"No, unlike some people I could name, I think it's telling the complete truth." He smiled down at Starsky's worried expression. "Also unlike some people, it's been a very good boy this year."

"You're not really gonna hit me, are you?" Starsky whispered.

"No, that'd be too easy." Hutch lowered his head, but then paused and pulled back. "And you're not gonna bite, are you?"

"You'll just have to take your chances."

Hutch closed the distance between them, his tongue sliding between the parted lips even before their mouths touched. He was unable to withhold a quiet moan of satisfaction when Starsky yielded to him. Hutch rewarded him by putting everything he had into the kiss, tongue stroking, jaw working, lips nibbling. He wanted to remind Starsky of all they had been missing while work got in the way, and he didn't stop until he had his partner gasping for air.

"You make a good point," Starsky panted. "Let me up, and we'll play."

After peppering a line of kisses along Starsky's jaw line, Hutch smiled. "I don't think so."

"What?" Starsky's eyebrows jammed together, and he stared up at Hutch in angry confusion.

"You've been bad." Hutch noticed a smudge of dirt on Starsky's cheekbone and gently thumbed it away. "It's switches and ashes for you. He," he nodded down at Starsky's crotch, "has been good, so he gets to play. You can just lie there and be quiet."

Hutch cut off the indignant protest with another kiss, then began slowly working his way downward, his tongue sliding wetly along Starsky's collarbone. When he reached Starsky's chest, he let the saliva pool in his mouth before noisily sucking in a dark nipple intentionally making the wet slurpy sounds Starsky loved so much. If the idiot's hands hadn't been stuck in the box springs, they would've been tangled in Hutch's hair by now, holding his head in place. Hutch missed that.

Moving on to trail kisses along Starsky's ribcage, Hutch was surprised to hear Starsky call his name. He looked up into his partner's flushed face.

"I think you're gonna need an interpreter."

"Huh?"

"He needs a little breathing room."

"Who? Oh." Hutch pushed himself up and sat back on his heels. He needed a little breathing room himself. Looking down, though, he could see Starsky was in worse shape, with his cock pressed hard against his shorts and a steady drip of precum pooling beneath the exposed crown. Hutch made quick and careful work of getting the fabric out of the way.

"He says 'thank you'."

"He's welcome. Now, where was I?" Hutch looked down at the trail of passion marks he'd left in his wake.

"If you lost your place, you could just start over," Starsky offered helpfully.

Hutch smiled and started to stretch forward, then stopped and sat up again when he realized he hadn't taken care of his own pressing need. He sighed in relief when he had his jeans unfastened and pushed down his hips, just far enough to give himself some room. Even that scant contact felt good, and for one brief moment, he thought about just jerking himself off and leaving Starsky to fend for himself, but then he remembered how much fun he'd been having. Not to mention that if Starsky didn't get a fairly spectacular orgasm out of this whole deal, Hutch would be on the couch for a month.

"Not to rain on your parade or anything, but we have to go to work eventually."

Hutch glanced at the clock. Less than an hour, but plenty of time. He smiled down at Starsky. "You don't get it, do you? I'm in charge, not you. Now, be quiet."

"Make me." Starsky's voice held a note of challenge, but it was ruined by the wide grin on his face.

"All right, that does it." Hutch reached for the belt.

"No. Stop. Please, Hutch, please," Starsky taunted in a deadpan tone that made Hutch laugh out loud.

"You're gonna regret that, Starsk." Hutch skimmed the leather strap across Starsky's abdomen and along his hips, then into the dark, coarse pubic hair, laughing again when Starsky dragged in a big gulp of air.

Pulling the belt toward him, Hutch palmed the end of it and rubbed it over the tense thighs, using the weight of his hand to slowly work his way between Starsky's legs. He didn't stop until the belt rested flat on the floor. Without taking his eyes off Starsky's face, he slowly slid the tab of the belt along the hardwood until the tip of it brushed against Starsky's balls, then lifted it so that the leather would slide up and over the tight sac. He rubbed it back and forth a few times, his hand trembling a little when he saw Starsky's rigid cock bounce against his stomach, which was sucked in hard.

Hutch felt his own cock throb in sympathy. Maybe they didn't have as much time as he'd thought. He slid the belt back and forth a few more times, then brushed it lightly up the length of Starsky's erection.

"Mudafufastafa," Starsky yelled.

"Same here," Hutch mumbled and leaned forward to take one of Starsky's nipples into his mouth. When he had it nice and wet, he released it and flicked the taut nub with the very tip of the belt. Starsky shouted something as sensible as his previous comment, which Hutch decided to interpret as, 'Please continue'. And so he did, moving from one nipple to the other, again and again, until Starsky's back was arched so high, Hutch was afraid it would be permanently altered.

Normally, he'd be caught up in the sensations of Starsky's hands or mouth on whatever part of his body had caught his lover's attention, but this time his focus was entirely on Starsky. He wasn't surprised when his partner's arms began pulling hard against their confinement. Starsky was a generous lover, and the desire to reciprocate must be driving him crazy. Not enough to make him quit scheming at Christmas, or any other time, but Hutch had to admit that he wouldn't change that about Starsky anyway.

But Starsky didn't need to know that.

As he licked, kissed, and sucked his way down Starsky's well-formed abdomen, Hutch found his own arousal growing more urgent, responding to Starsky's excitement. Each tremor of the hot flesh beneath his lips was like an electric current running through his own body, fueling the intensity of his actions. By the time his chin brushed Starsky's hipbone, reducing his lover to incoherent mumbling, Hutch was breathing just as hard as Starsky. The salty-sweet taste on his tongue and the musky scent filling the air around him had Hutch on the verge of coming right along with Starsky.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon…."

Through the haze of his desire, Hutch could hear Starsky's barely whispered chanting. He smiled and skimmed his lips over Starsky's hip and down to his groin, to the juncture of hip and thigh. When he spread Starsky's legs and nipped the soft, sensitive skin of his inner thighs, the chanting grew louder. Hutch moved faster, bathing Starsky's tightly drawn sac and rolling it with his tongue, eliciting an almost piteous moan. He slid his hand across Starsky's stomach, through the fluid pooled there, then moved his hand to the base of Starsky's full cock. There, he stopped and waited. When, after a few seconds passed, Starsky lifted his head, Hutch grinned and tightened his grip.

"Who's in charge?"

"You are, you bastard," Starsky growled and collapsed back onto the floor.

"Damn right." Hutch laughed and leaned forward, snaking out his tongue to circle Starsky's dusky crown. He slid his free hand down to his own cock, moaning his satisfaction at the touch. One stroke, then two, and on the third, he took Starsky fully into his mouth, sucking him all the way to the back of his throat. Starsky's startled shout was the only warning he had before he had to start swallowing, and then he was lost in the fire of his own completion, Starsky's hoarse shouts echoing in his ears.

A warm hand was stroking the hair from his forehead. Hutch raised his head from the thigh he was using as a pillow. "When did that happen?"

"Somewhere around the time you put your tongue in my navel." Starsky smiled tiredly. "Other one's still stuck, though."

Hutch pushed himself up to his knees and shifted the box spring off the floor just enough for Starsky to extract his other hand. Sinking to the floor again with his back resting against the bed, Hutch realized his jeans had taken another bath. He kicked them all the way off.

"I hope pants were part of the laundry you did."

"They're on the dryer. Mine too."

"I'll go get them."

Starsky rubbed his arms. "Thanks."

Hutch didn't move. He couldn't. Starsky politely didn't mention it.

"I'm surprised you didn't slug me." Hutch motioned to the hand Starsky had worked free. "You know, when you could."

Starsky shrugged, then winced. "Are you kidding? You mighta stopped." He held out his arm for help sitting up. "I gotta tell ya, Hutch, if that's your idea of punishment, you can count on me bein' bad next year. Really bad."

"God, I hope so, Starsk."

"Pants."

"Yeah, pants." Hutch groaned and got to his feet.

*  *  *

Several weeks later, Hutch had just finished repairing the wobbly shower rod in the bathroom when the lights suddenly went out. The cuffs were on him before he knew what was happening, but almost immediately, he knew who was responsible. Instinctively, he  tugged hard on the metal bar, regretting his use of molly bolts to refasten it to the wall. Absent an earthquake, he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting loose.

Strong arms encircled him, and Hutch smelled the leather an instant before he felt it pulled around his chest. Just enough light filtered through the door to show him that Starsky had found the belt he'd used on him—despite the fact that Hutch had hidden it way back in the top of the closet—and had chosen it for the rematch.

"Who's in charge now?" Starsky's voice was low and husky and close against his ear.

Hutch gripped the shower bar as if his life depended on it.

And tried not to smile.

THE END

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