Haircut | Rane
Word Count: 894
Summary: He should have known something was wrong, but the way Reed wrinkled his nose as he studied Shane’s hair was too darn cute. Or, in which Kurt plots revenge and Shane gets a lesson in the care and keeping of one Reed Van Kamp.
Notes: Prompted by somanyobsessions. Future fic, Reed and Shane live in New York.
“It can’t be all that different from designing clothes, right?” Reed asked, squinting at the pair of scissors as if it contained the secrets of the universe.
“I’m sure it’ll be just fine,” Shane assured. “Hair-cutting is supposed to be a great bonding experience.”
(So suggested Kurt—it was considerate of him really; he read all the relationship tips in Cosmo so Shane didn’t have to.)
Reed was still staring dubiously at the scissors.
“Well? Are you going to start?”
“Are you sure I’m even allowed to be holding these?”
“Fine! Fine. I’ll do it.” Reed took a deep breath and squared his shoulders—Shane’s mouth twitched uncontrollably at his battle-ready attitude—before stepping up behind his boyfriend and raising the scissors with a grave expression on his face.
It was at this point that Shane should have intervened. But Reed was pursing his lips in concentration, and it was so damn adorable, and he really couldn’t be held responsible for what happened afterward, because he was also wrinkling his nose—
“Are you oka—ohmygodShane!”
“Oh dear sweet Jesus in heaven, oh God, ahhhhhhh—”
“Shane—um, here, I’ll get a towel, we can mop up some of the—”
“Reed! Drop the scissors.”
“Oh. Right. Er—do I need to do anything else?”
“Call a cab so we can get to the hospital?”
“Yes. Sure. Good.”
An hour and forty-five minutes later, Shane was sitting on a sheet of irritatingly crinkly tissue in the ER, grimacing and squeezing Reed’s hand as an impassive doctor stitched up the deep gash caused by Reed dropping the scissors on his head. Reed had turned away at Shane’s insistence—he didn’t want to take any more chances after his fainting spell in the elevator.
Upon seeing the blood seeping through a hastily procured hand towel, Reed had gone very pale and slumped to the floor in a heap, not without skinning and bruising both knees, and splitting his lip. Those injuries were now being tended to by an plump, gray-haired nurse whose sole method of communication seemed to be sympathetic tutting.
(Shane was perturbed at the end of his long-running Catching Reed at the Last Second streak, but he figured his not-insignificant blood loss was ample excuse.)
The privacy curtain shuddered ominously, then screeched aside to reveal Kurt and Blaine.
“Hey, guys!” Blaine greeted them cheerfully, ruffling Reed’s hair despite his annoyed pout. “Isn’t this like the tenth ER trip this year? And it’s barely May!”
“Twelfth,” corrected Kurt from behind them, scrutinizing his nails with an affected casual air. “Blaine, dear, could you go find a nurse and ask for the insurance paperwork?”
Blaine ambled away in search of a nurse just as Reed was led away to get his knees X-rayed by his tutting nurse, and Shane’s doctor neatly tied off his stitches and left with a curt nod.
Once they were alone, Kurt turned to Shane, a fiercely maniacal expression appearing in his eyes.
“Um…hi?” Shane tried, blinking in confusion.
“Listen up,” Kurt hissed under his breath, suddenly only a few inches from his face. “I’ve had it up to here with you and your cockblocking.”
“Wait, what?” Shane yelped, jerking backward.
“You heard me, Anderson. Because of you, I have gotten no sex since February.”
“What the hell did I do?” Kurt narrowed his eyes, stepping back as he began ticking on his fingers.
“February 14th. Valentine’s Day. Blaine and I both took the afternoon off from work to prepare for a passionate evening—that is, until Reed tripped into the vase of roses you left on the counter and wound up getting thorns and porcelain picked out of his hands for three hours.”
“But that wasn’t even—”
“March 3rd. We were planning to see the opening of the Valentino exhibit at FIT, followed by a romantic dinner and marathon sex, but you let Reed cook dinner and he caused a four-alarm fire so you had to spend the night.”
“Kurt, I don’t know what you—” The brunet ignored him and raised his voice.
“March 17th. Before Reed’s accident with the metal pizza cutter, Blaine and I had scheduled the first trial of our new pair of handcuffs.”
To this, Shane could only emit choking noises. Kurt whipped around and poked him viciously in the chest, speaking shrilly.
“Need. I. Go. On.”
Shane blinked and shook his head. At this, Kurt’s shoulders relaxed visibly and he waved a hand in the air.
“Look, Shane. I want to like you. I really do. But there are three rules to dating Reed Van Kamp, and you have broken all of them. Concurrently.”
“I have?” Shane asked stupidly, still reeling from a whole host of mental images he never wanted to contemplate.
“One. No sharp objects. Two. No flames. Three. Don’t piss off the best friend.”
“I—ah, I won’t. I promise.” Kurt patted him on the shoulder with a slight smile.
“Oh, and don’t bother telling anyone about the scissors. They won’t believe you.” And with one last pat, Kurt backed away just as Blaine returned.
“Are you alright? You look a little pale.” Blaine peered down at him worriedly.
“I’m—I’m just fine, Blaine.”
Shane gulped and stared, wide-eyed, past Blaine to Kurt, who only gave him a wide grin and an enthusiastic thumbs-up as he mouthed ‘handcuffs’.