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"Bitty?" The unmistakable call of a distressed Chowder reverberates through the Haus. "Bitty! I need your help!"
Bitty tosses his oven mitt onto the table and charges upstairs, ready to save his favorite frog child from his latest mishap, whatever it might be. He finds Chowder in one of the bathrooms, standing shirtless in front of the mirror, twisting this way and that to try to look over his own shoulder.
"Bitty," he asks anxiously, "do I need to shave my back?"
Bitty blinks. "My sweet baby goalie. You barely need to shave your face. What makes you think you would need to shave your back?"
"I overheard these girls in the dining hall talking about how they hate it when men have hairy backs, and I started worrying that I've been grossing Farmer out the whole time we've been dating, and then I needed something to read while I was in here and -- " Chowder grabs what looks like a magazine from the stack on the back of the toilet and waves it at Bitty in a meaningful way. " -- and look, they wouldn't sell this if someone wasn't buying it."
Bitty grabs it from his hands and looks at the page in question. It isn't a magazine. It's a catalog -- the Sharper Image catalog, which shows up every few months addressed to someone who moved out of the Haus long before any of the current residents arrived. He's never bothered to look at it before. Chowder has folded it open to a page on which the most prominent item is something called the ManGroomer. As far as Bitty can tell by a cursory glance, it's a long-handled electric clipper. It promises to "put an end to caveman back hair." And it costs $70.
Bitty isn't proud of the snort of laughter that escapes him, but it's already out before he can stop it. "Oh my lord," he says, "I've never seen anything like that."
Chowder looks relieved. He pulls his hoodie back over his head and takes back the catalog. "I bet I know someone who would use it," he says. He heads for the stairs, hollering as he goes, "Hey, Nursey! Remember when you were telling me about 'manscaping'? I've got something here you need to see." Bitty heads back to the kitchen, shaking his head. He loves his frogs, and he's certainly lectured them about the importance of good grooming, but that is not what he meant.
_X_
Later that week, half the Haus is in the living room watching the latest episode of "Agents of SHIELD" and competing to see who can do the most crunches during each commercial break. It started as a way to get through the ads when the DVR broke right before winter break, but it became so popular that it's continued even after Dex worked his mechanical magic. It doesn't hurt that Shitty and Jack often do a group Skype with Bitty so they can watch along and cheer.
"...46...47...48!" Holster gasps triumphantly as a car commercial gives way to Phil Coulson's face. He flops down on his back, red-faced, and raises one hand for Ransom to deliver a high five. "Fuck, there has to be a better way to get a core workout."
"There is!" Chowder holds up a rolled sheaf of papers that uncurl into the Sharper Image catalog. He riffles through the pages and holds them open to a page showing what looks like a bicycle seat on a weight machine. "Look," he says. "It's called a 'Rodeo Core Exerciser' and it says here that it's like horseback riding!"
"That doesn't look like any horse I've ever seen, bro," Holster says from the floor.
"But the catalog says it burns as many calories as 100 sit-ups!"
Ransom snatches the catalog away and begins to read dramatically. "Enjoy a delightful ride while whipping your core muscles into shape," he manages before he starts to laugh.
Shitty's tinny guffaw emanates from Bitty's laptop screen. "A delightful ride!"
"Whipping your core muscles into shape!" Lardo chimes in.
"Stop," Bitty giggles.
"Dude, that's just what it says," Ransom collects himself enough to say. He points at the words on the page. "Right there in print."
"You make it sound like a sex machine," Chowder says. He's turning a shade of red he usually only achieves after three beers.
Bitty turns his laptop around to see what's making those faint choking noises. It's Jack, who's dropped his head down on his folded arms, his shoulders shaking. Shitty, who's obviously watching him on his own screen, is wide-eyed with disbelieving delight. "Congratulations, Chow," he crows. "You broke Jack."
"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to!" Chowder exclaims. Jack lifts one hand and flaps it at the camera in absolution as his shoulders shake even harder. Bitty is laughing so hard he nearly falls off his perch on the arm of the couch. These boys. Seriously.
_X_
With spring midterms looming, Bitty's never stellar time management skills are taxed to the utmost. Between practicing for the playoffs, trying to keep up with his classes, trying to keep up with his vlog, and doing a bit too much stress baking, he isn't getting as much sleep as he probably should. He's sitting at his desk in an attempt not to doze off over his notes, but the temptation to rest his cheek on his Media Studies textbook for just a few minutes' nap is overpowering him. He's actually grateful when he hears a tap on his window and spots Lardo crouched on the other side of the glass.
He slides the window open to let her clamber over the windowsill and onto his bed. "Bits," she says as she climbs past him, "we have to do something about Chowder."
"What has that innocent lamb done this time?"
"That's just it. He's so innocent. I thought California schools were all progressive and shit."
"I don't understand."
"Remember how I wrenched my shoulder in sculpture studio last week?"
Bitty nods. Lardo had come back from her studio time thin-lipped and snappish with pain, immediately downing four ibuprofen and emptying the ice drawer in the fridge to make a cold pack. She'd gone straight out again to see the team doctor, who'd pronounced it nothing more than a pulled muscle and told her to be careful about how much she carries, but no one on the team has been able to miss the way she's been flinching and rubbing at her neck absent-mindedly whenever she moves the wrong way.
"When I got up this morning, I found this taped to my bedroom door." She pulls a folded square of glossy paper out of the pocket of her hoodie and hands it over. Bitty unfolds it to find a now dog-eared page torn out of the Sharper Image catalog. There's a sticky note attached with an arrow over Chowder's careful handwriting reading, "Would something like this help you feel better?"
The arrow is pointing at a bright pink object in an organic shape vaguely reminiscent of a miniature bowling pin with a curve in it. Next to it is a little icon of two hands with the word "massage." It's waterproof. It charges via USB. It costs $175. According to the catalog, it's "the ultimate cordless massager."
"Oh gracious," Bitty chokes. He doesn't think of women in that way, but he knows what he's looking at, and he knows what it's used for, and —
"I don't think he knows what it's really used for," Lardo says. They look at each other silently, having an entire conversation with facial expressions that are amused on Lardo's part and appalled on Bitty's.
"You want me to explain vibrators to him?" Bitty finally says.
"Well, you keep calling him your baby goalie, so I thought maybe you'd want to have the father-son talk."
Bitty does drop his head down onto his textbook at that. "I have never, I will never, he needs to hear this from someone who, you know, has actual experience with — well, you know."
"We could ask his girlfriend to explain — "
" — NO!"
"Fine, we'll both do it." Before he can protest further, Lardo strolls to his bedroom door, swings it open, and calls down the stairs, "Hey, Chow, you wanna come up here for a minute?"
Chowder comes bounding into the room like the human version of a black lab. "Hey, Bitty!" he exclaims. "Hey, Lardo! How's your shoulder? Did you see what I found for you? I know it's expensive but maybe we could take up a collection or find something similar for less or — "
"Actually, that's what we wanted to talk to you about," Bitty says carefully. He pats his bed. "Come over here and sit down for a bit."
Chowder spends the next 48 hours looking even more wide-eyed and astonished than usual. And the next time a Sharper Image catalog shows up in the mail, he drops it straight into the recycling bin.