Fic: "Chris Pike and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad (Hair) Day"
Title: Chris Pike and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad (Hair) Day
Summary: Chris needs a haircut.
Characters: (in order of appearance) Winona (later) Kirk, Chris Pike, George Kirk
Rating: PG?
Content Advisory: HERE THAR BE CRACK. It's mostly gen, though.
Word Count: 400
Notes: THIS IS ALL boosette's FAULT. I don't even know if I can explain. I . . . yeah. There is no explanation.
Also, for the purposes of this piece of crack fic, Pike is about eighteen/a first-year and Kirkparents are 21-22/fourth-years.
"Hey, Winona."
Winona looks up from her padd; it's Chris Pike. She smiles. "Hi, Chris." Supposedly he's eighteen but she wouldn't swear to it in court; he's baby-faced and awkward and gangling, but fortunately whip-smart or she wouldn't keep him around. "George should be coming downstairs soon. Do you want to come to dinner with us?"
She's fairly certain that he has some sort of adolescent crush on George, or her, or maybe both of them. He's been fairly good at pretending otherwise, though, and Winona, in turn, pretends that his eyes don't light up and that he doesn't nod a little too quickly.
"So how are classes going?" she asks.
He launches into a story about something that happened in Captain April's class, and she listens with one ear while watching for George out of the corner of her eye. She watches Chris gesture, hands still a little too big for his wrists; his voice squeaks once and he coughs, embarrassed, to return his tone to its usual baritone. When he's older, she thinks, he'll be a great speaker, but he just isn't there yet.
He runs a hand through his hair, still speaking, and Winona's attention is caught, mostly because it's sticking up rather absurdly. Of course, once she sees it, she can't un-see it, and she's dimly aware that he's probably telling an amusing story--his stories almost always are amusing--but . . . his hair. It curls somewhat when it's cropped close to his head, but apparently he hasn't had a haircut in months because it's forming a honey-blond halo around his head. And by 'halo,' she means more like 'clown wig.'
He pauses, maybe for her to laugh, maybe to breathe, maybe because someone's come in the door, but she finds herself unable to respond with anything except, "Chris, sweetie, you know you need a haircut, right?"
Chris flushes bright fire-engine red and brings both hands to his head, flattening his hair against his scalp. "I--"
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just--" There really isn't anything she can say, and she really wishes she'd maybe decided to send him an email about it, but she tries again. "I'm not--"
"Pike!" George says, behind her shoulder. "Holy shit, man, you look like a poodle. The barbershop's open on Saturdays, you know? Hey, Winnie," he says to her, kissing her on the cheek. "Dinner?"
"Just waiting on you, George," she says. "Chris is coming with, if that's cool."
"Yeah, of course," George says, and smiles.
"I'll meet you there," Chris says, sidling away. "I gotta go get a hat."
He escapes to the sound of George wheezing with laughter; Winona buries her face in her hands and groans.
Summary: Chris needs a haircut.
Characters: (in order of appearance) Winona (later) Kirk, Chris Pike, George Kirk
Rating: PG?
Content Advisory: HERE THAR BE CRACK. It's mostly gen, though.
Word Count: 400
Notes: THIS IS ALL boosette's FAULT. I don't even know if I can explain. I . . . yeah. There is no explanation.
Also, for the purposes of this piece of crack fic, Pike is about eighteen/a first-year and Kirkparents are 21-22/fourth-years.
"Hey, Winona."
Winona looks up from her padd; it's Chris Pike. She smiles. "Hi, Chris." Supposedly he's eighteen but she wouldn't swear to it in court; he's baby-faced and awkward and gangling, but fortunately whip-smart or she wouldn't keep him around. "George should be coming downstairs soon. Do you want to come to dinner with us?"
She's fairly certain that he has some sort of adolescent crush on George, or her, or maybe both of them. He's been fairly good at pretending otherwise, though, and Winona, in turn, pretends that his eyes don't light up and that he doesn't nod a little too quickly.
"So how are classes going?" she asks.
He launches into a story about something that happened in Captain April's class, and she listens with one ear while watching for George out of the corner of her eye. She watches Chris gesture, hands still a little too big for his wrists; his voice squeaks once and he coughs, embarrassed, to return his tone to its usual baritone. When he's older, she thinks, he'll be a great speaker, but he just isn't there yet.
He runs a hand through his hair, still speaking, and Winona's attention is caught, mostly because it's sticking up rather absurdly. Of course, once she sees it, she can't un-see it, and she's dimly aware that he's probably telling an amusing story--his stories almost always are amusing--but . . . his hair. It curls somewhat when it's cropped close to his head, but apparently he hasn't had a haircut in months because it's forming a honey-blond halo around his head. And by 'halo,' she means more like 'clown wig.'
He pauses, maybe for her to laugh, maybe to breathe, maybe because someone's come in the door, but she finds herself unable to respond with anything except, "Chris, sweetie, you know you need a haircut, right?"
Chris flushes bright fire-engine red and brings both hands to his head, flattening his hair against his scalp. "I--"
"I'm sorry," she says. "It's just--" There really isn't anything she can say, and she really wishes she'd maybe decided to send him an email about it, but she tries again. "I'm not--"
"Pike!" George says, behind her shoulder. "Holy shit, man, you look like a poodle. The barbershop's open on Saturdays, you know? Hey, Winnie," he says to her, kissing her on the cheek. "Dinner?"
"Just waiting on you, George," she says. "Chris is coming with, if that's cool."
"Yeah, of course," George says, and smiles.
"I'll meet you there," Chris says, sidling away. "I gotta go get a hat."
He escapes to the sound of George wheezing with laughter; Winona buries her face in her hands and groans.