House Keeping
Title: House Keeping: "Cut and Dry"
Author: magie_05
Word Count: ~1800
Pairing: House/Wilson VERY established
Rating/Warnings: R. MAY CAUSE A DIABETIC COMA
Summary: This is another installment in my random little series of fics that takes place after House and Wilson have decided to live together. Several weeks (months?) ago, shutterbug_12 gave me this little plotbunny, which was too fun to NOT use in the fluffy domesticy series.
Got ideas for fluffy, domestic hijinks? Suggest a prompt for this series here.
Previous installments can be found here.
THANKS FOR READING <3
Wilson rolls back his sleeves and rubs his palms together, triple-checks that he has everything he needs laid out. He’s trying not to panic. This is not the most sensitive thing he’s ever done. Just last week he was taking a sample of a growth around a little boy’s heart.
Cutting House’s hair should not be more complicated.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together and decidedly not sounding nervous, “Ready?”
“Just get on with it before I change my mind.”
Alright, he can do this. He already knows how lucky he is to have even made it to this point alive. House is slumped in a dining room chair set in middle of the bathroom floor, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, scowling at the full-length mirror in front of him so hard Wilson thinks it might shatter. Next to him, on the sink’s wide counter, combs and scissors and water bottles lay in wait. Standing behind him, Wilson can see little more than slumped shoulders and hair sticking up all over the place. “Come on, House. You know it’s getting out of control.”
There’s a low, venomous grumble. “And all the barber shops in New Jersey are closed today.”
Wilson spritzes the back of his head with cold water. “Shut up. Like you don’t remember the last time I took you to my hairdresser. That poor girl dropped out of community college.”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Besides, maybe I like my hair like this,” House snaps, reaching back and grabbing the spray bottle out of Wilson’s hand.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be able to braid it.” It’s hardly an exaggeration. Already, peppery hair is sticking up in thick tufts behind House’s ears, spiking out on the top, creeping down the back of his neck. Wilson grabs a comb and starts pulling it through long, tangled strands.
“Ow! Take it easy, Jesus!” He reaches back and rips the comb out of Wilson’s hand. “I changed my mind; I don’t trust you.”
Wilson runs his fingers through his own hair and breathes for a slow count of ten. Then he walks around to grab the comb and water bottle, smiling (or grimacing), bending down and staring House right in the eye. “Here’s the thing, House. You’re getting a haircut. One way or another.”
House gets that fishhook in his eyebrow that means he’s bemusedly skeptical. “So you’re threatening me now? Way to maintain an honest, trusting relationship.”
“Oh, this isn’t a threat.” He keeps smiling and puts his hand on House’s shoulder for effect. “Just giving you a heads-up. Something you might want to think about the next time you doze off in front of the TV.”
House narrows his eyes. “Bluffing.”
“Fine, House, I’m bluffing.” He straightens up and pulls a very fake look of contemplation. “Though I always did wonder what you’d look like as a redhead.”
That does it. “Alright, fine! This is obviously some new kink for you; just get it over with. And don’t think I’m not watching you,” he nods towards the mirror in front of him.
House resumes the posture and demeanor of a five-year-old in time-out while Wilson smiles to himself, walks back behind the chair and resumes his position. He’s probably going to have to deal with House messing with him in his sleep for a few weeks in retaliation, but it’s worth it. He wets House’s hair a little more and combs out a piece, holding it between his first two fingers.
“Hey, not so much!” House protests when the first few wisps of split ends fall down his chest.
Wilson sighs and speaks slowly, as if to a child. “The more I take off now, the longer we can wait until the next time.”
“You sound fairly confident that there will be a next time. I’m not even sure you’re going to survive this one.” He winces when he hears the crisp sound of the scissors again.
“You know,” Wilson says, running his hand over House’s hair to try and even it out, “if you’d stop complaining for thirty seconds, you actually might enjoy this.”
He’s certainly beginning to enjoy it, perhaps a little more than he should be. He can see goosebumps breaking out on the back of House’s neck as he trims off wispy hairs in a reasonably straight line. The proximity allows him to smell his own shampoo in House’s hair as he cuts, infused with the dark, leathery scent of House’s skin. Little fiberglass pieces of hair dot the white towel around House’s shoulders and tickle Wilson’s nose.
“Hmm,” House says thoughtfully, and for the first time Wilson notices himself being studied from under all the hair. “You are way too comfortable doing this. This how you worked your way through school? Doing all the other boys’ hair for Prom?”
Wilson ‘accidentally’ sprays House in the face with the water bottle. “Keep talking, you’re going to look like you stepped out of a Tears for Fears video.”
Admittedly, though, Wilson is rather impressed with himself. Already House looks less like he stuck a fork in a toaster, spiky ends calmed and blended smoothly with the rest of his hair, which appears darker without the gray tips. He’ll leave the extra hair at House’s crown, trimming instead down the sides, across his forehead. Fingers running through short, crisp strands, House closing his eyes, turning his head slightly into Wilson’s touch -
He can’t help but smile a little to himself, perfectly aware of how absurdly smitten he must look. “There, see? Feels better, doesn’t it?” He moves out from in front of the mirror so House can see the change in his reflection.
“Oh, God.” House’s jaw drops and his eyes widen into saucers. “You took too much off the sides. I look like I stuck my head in a giant pencil sharpener!”
He looks like nothing of the sort. Well. Maybe it’s a little shorter than he usually keeps it, but personally Wilson thinks the close cut is rather sexy. “You don’t,” he says softly, catching House’s eye in the mirror. “I think you look nice.”
Wilson winces before the word nice is fully out of his mouth. “NICE? Nice is what you say to your grandmother when she asks you how she looks in her new mumu. I am not now, nor have I ever been interested in looking nice, in case you forgot that.”
Wilson stares up at the ceiling for a moment. “Right, House. You’d rather let it go until it’s barely manageable so you can bitch at whatever poor soul gets stuck cutting it for you.”
“Who asked you to? It’s my hair!”
Now he’s getting irritated. “House, that woman at the bank really thought you were a homeless person!”
“Hmpf. All about appearances with you, isn’t it?” He winces as a few more strands slide down his neck.
Wilson combs hair down over House’s temples to try and see if it’s level on both sides. “And exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
House scowls and fiddles with the cane resting against his stomach.
Oh.
The comb and scissors clatter against the sink, freeing Wilson’s hands to slip down over House’s shoulders, sliding against House’s chest as he bends lower, lips to House’s recently excavated ear. “Well, you caught me,” he says lowly, staring at House’s face in the mirror. “Clearly I think you’re hideous.”
He spaces out his words with kisses along House’s warm hairline, loose bristles of cut hair sticking to his lips. “Obviously the only way I could stand to look at you one more second was to cut your hair.”
Wilson runs his nose up and down behind House’s ear, laying open-mouthed kisses on the firm bone there, his hands roaming slowly around House’s chest. “It’s not like I’ve been completely attracted to you for…more years than I can count right now.” Tongue flicking barely out to skim over the tip of House’s ear, mouth landing firmly against his temple, muscles slowly relaxing under Wilson’s hands. He lowers his voice. “Not like I moved in with you so I can look at you anytime I want.”
He peeks in the mirror to catch House staring skeptically at him from the corners of his eyes, even while his body is arching almost imperceptibly into the attention. He can feel House’s chest expand like he’s about to speak, kisses the corner of his mouth to shut him up. “It’s not like I still get embarrassingly turned on by stupid little everyday things, like…watching you get ready for work this morning,” he whispers in House’s ear before kissing it lightly, “…like the way you made fun of Taub’s diagnosis in the hallway at lunch.” He waits until he can feel the muscles in House’s cheek pulling back under his lips, running his mouth along that rough jawline. “Or, you know, getting turned on by something insane. Like…cutting your hair.”
House makes a tiny, amused sound in his throat and then Wilson feels a hand sliding into his own hair, a short tug urging him around the chair. A second later, he’s bracing his hands on the wooden arms as House pulls his head forward, claiming his mouth.
Besides having to take a quick break to wipe tiny particles of hair off his lips, Wilson spends the next few moments with his back straining and his lips moving, thinking that House is an idiot. He’d never say it out loud without cloaking it in sarcasm, but there are times when Wilson thinks he’s never been more attracted to the man then now, then when he sees House every day, rumpled or sleep-mussed or scratching himself on their sofa -
“Well,” House exhales, as Wilson pulls back to drop slowly to his knees, “I was right about one thing.”
“Yeah?” Nipping lightly at his lips, hands in crisp, freshly cut hair, his mouth rubbing against the chin House really needs to shave.
“Yeah.” House kisses him harshly on the mouth and pulls back, eyes darting to the mirror and presumably staying there until Wilson's done. “This is a new kink for you.”
The floor is not comfortable and his knees are settled right in the small pile of dead, grayish hair. But Wilson tells himself there are benefits to finishing off House’s haircut with an orgasm, besides…well, the obvious. It’ll be the most immediate thing House takes away from the haircut experience, even if he’ll always carry with him that same nameless, sickening doubt. Meaning that maybe in a couple of months when they have to do this again, it won’t make Wilson want to rip his own hair out. Totally a win-win, he assures himself, as he unzips House’s jeans.
It’s a Pavlovian thing.
Author: magie_05
Word Count: ~1800
Pairing: House/Wilson VERY established
Rating/Warnings: R. MAY CAUSE A DIABETIC COMA
Summary: This is another installment in my random little series of fics that takes place after House and Wilson have decided to live together. Several weeks (months?) ago, shutterbug_12 gave me this little plotbunny, which was too fun to NOT use in the fluffy domesticy series.
Got ideas for fluffy, domestic hijinks? Suggest a prompt for this series here.
Previous installments can be found here.
THANKS FOR READING <3
Wilson rolls back his sleeves and rubs his palms together, triple-checks that he has everything he needs laid out. He’s trying not to panic. This is not the most sensitive thing he’s ever done. Just last week he was taking a sample of a growth around a little boy’s heart.
Cutting House’s hair should not be more complicated.
“Okay,” he says, clapping his hands together and decidedly not sounding nervous, “Ready?”
“Just get on with it before I change my mind.”
Alright, he can do this. He already knows how lucky he is to have even made it to this point alive. House is slumped in a dining room chair set in middle of the bathroom floor, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, scowling at the full-length mirror in front of him so hard Wilson thinks it might shatter. Next to him, on the sink’s wide counter, combs and scissors and water bottles lay in wait. Standing behind him, Wilson can see little more than slumped shoulders and hair sticking up all over the place. “Come on, House. You know it’s getting out of control.”
There’s a low, venomous grumble. “And all the barber shops in New Jersey are closed today.”
Wilson spritzes the back of his head with cold water. “Shut up. Like you don’t remember the last time I took you to my hairdresser. That poor girl dropped out of community college.”
“Oh, boo-hoo. Besides, maybe I like my hair like this,” House snaps, reaching back and grabbing the spray bottle out of Wilson’s hand.
Wilson rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that. In a couple of weeks, you’ll be able to braid it.” It’s hardly an exaggeration. Already, peppery hair is sticking up in thick tufts behind House’s ears, spiking out on the top, creeping down the back of his neck. Wilson grabs a comb and starts pulling it through long, tangled strands.
“Ow! Take it easy, Jesus!” He reaches back and rips the comb out of Wilson’s hand. “I changed my mind; I don’t trust you.”
Wilson runs his fingers through his own hair and breathes for a slow count of ten. Then he walks around to grab the comb and water bottle, smiling (or grimacing), bending down and staring House right in the eye. “Here’s the thing, House. You’re getting a haircut. One way or another.”
House gets that fishhook in his eyebrow that means he’s bemusedly skeptical. “So you’re threatening me now? Way to maintain an honest, trusting relationship.”
“Oh, this isn’t a threat.” He keeps smiling and puts his hand on House’s shoulder for effect. “Just giving you a heads-up. Something you might want to think about the next time you doze off in front of the TV.”
House narrows his eyes. “Bluffing.”
“Fine, House, I’m bluffing.” He straightens up and pulls a very fake look of contemplation. “Though I always did wonder what you’d look like as a redhead.”
That does it. “Alright, fine! This is obviously some new kink for you; just get it over with. And don’t think I’m not watching you,” he nods towards the mirror in front of him.
House resumes the posture and demeanor of a five-year-old in time-out while Wilson smiles to himself, walks back behind the chair and resumes his position. He’s probably going to have to deal with House messing with him in his sleep for a few weeks in retaliation, but it’s worth it. He wets House’s hair a little more and combs out a piece, holding it between his first two fingers.
“Hey, not so much!” House protests when the first few wisps of split ends fall down his chest.
Wilson sighs and speaks slowly, as if to a child. “The more I take off now, the longer we can wait until the next time.”
“You sound fairly confident that there will be a next time. I’m not even sure you’re going to survive this one.” He winces when he hears the crisp sound of the scissors again.
“You know,” Wilson says, running his hand over House’s hair to try and even it out, “if you’d stop complaining for thirty seconds, you actually might enjoy this.”
He’s certainly beginning to enjoy it, perhaps a little more than he should be. He can see goosebumps breaking out on the back of House’s neck as he trims off wispy hairs in a reasonably straight line. The proximity allows him to smell his own shampoo in House’s hair as he cuts, infused with the dark, leathery scent of House’s skin. Little fiberglass pieces of hair dot the white towel around House’s shoulders and tickle Wilson’s nose.
“Hmm,” House says thoughtfully, and for the first time Wilson notices himself being studied from under all the hair. “You are way too comfortable doing this. This how you worked your way through school? Doing all the other boys’ hair for Prom?”
Wilson ‘accidentally’ sprays House in the face with the water bottle. “Keep talking, you’re going to look like you stepped out of a Tears for Fears video.”
Admittedly, though, Wilson is rather impressed with himself. Already House looks less like he stuck a fork in a toaster, spiky ends calmed and blended smoothly with the rest of his hair, which appears darker without the gray tips. He’ll leave the extra hair at House’s crown, trimming instead down the sides, across his forehead. Fingers running through short, crisp strands, House closing his eyes, turning his head slightly into Wilson’s touch -
He can’t help but smile a little to himself, perfectly aware of how absurdly smitten he must look. “There, see? Feels better, doesn’t it?” He moves out from in front of the mirror so House can see the change in his reflection.
“Oh, God.” House’s jaw drops and his eyes widen into saucers. “You took too much off the sides. I look like I stuck my head in a giant pencil sharpener!”
He looks like nothing of the sort. Well. Maybe it’s a little shorter than he usually keeps it, but personally Wilson thinks the close cut is rather sexy. “You don’t,” he says softly, catching House’s eye in the mirror. “I think you look nice.”
Wilson winces before the word nice is fully out of his mouth. “NICE? Nice is what you say to your grandmother when she asks you how she looks in her new mumu. I am not now, nor have I ever been interested in looking nice, in case you forgot that.”
Wilson stares up at the ceiling for a moment. “Right, House. You’d rather let it go until it’s barely manageable so you can bitch at whatever poor soul gets stuck cutting it for you.”
“Who asked you to? It’s my hair!”
Now he’s getting irritated. “House, that woman at the bank really thought you were a homeless person!”
“Hmpf. All about appearances with you, isn’t it?” He winces as a few more strands slide down his neck.
Wilson combs hair down over House’s temples to try and see if it’s level on both sides. “And exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
House scowls and fiddles with the cane resting against his stomach.
Oh.
The comb and scissors clatter against the sink, freeing Wilson’s hands to slip down over House’s shoulders, sliding against House’s chest as he bends lower, lips to House’s recently excavated ear. “Well, you caught me,” he says lowly, staring at House’s face in the mirror. “Clearly I think you’re hideous.”
He spaces out his words with kisses along House’s warm hairline, loose bristles of cut hair sticking to his lips. “Obviously the only way I could stand to look at you one more second was to cut your hair.”
Wilson runs his nose up and down behind House’s ear, laying open-mouthed kisses on the firm bone there, his hands roaming slowly around House’s chest. “It’s not like I’ve been completely attracted to you for…more years than I can count right now.” Tongue flicking barely out to skim over the tip of House’s ear, mouth landing firmly against his temple, muscles slowly relaxing under Wilson’s hands. He lowers his voice. “Not like I moved in with you so I can look at you anytime I want.”
He peeks in the mirror to catch House staring skeptically at him from the corners of his eyes, even while his body is arching almost imperceptibly into the attention. He can feel House’s chest expand like he’s about to speak, kisses the corner of his mouth to shut him up. “It’s not like I still get embarrassingly turned on by stupid little everyday things, like…watching you get ready for work this morning,” he whispers in House’s ear before kissing it lightly, “…like the way you made fun of Taub’s diagnosis in the hallway at lunch.” He waits until he can feel the muscles in House’s cheek pulling back under his lips, running his mouth along that rough jawline. “Or, you know, getting turned on by something insane. Like…cutting your hair.”
House makes a tiny, amused sound in his throat and then Wilson feels a hand sliding into his own hair, a short tug urging him around the chair. A second later, he’s bracing his hands on the wooden arms as House pulls his head forward, claiming his mouth.
Besides having to take a quick break to wipe tiny particles of hair off his lips, Wilson spends the next few moments with his back straining and his lips moving, thinking that House is an idiot. He’d never say it out loud without cloaking it in sarcasm, but there are times when Wilson thinks he’s never been more attracted to the man then now, then when he sees House every day, rumpled or sleep-mussed or scratching himself on their sofa -
“Well,” House exhales, as Wilson pulls back to drop slowly to his knees, “I was right about one thing.”
“Yeah?” Nipping lightly at his lips, hands in crisp, freshly cut hair, his mouth rubbing against the chin House really needs to shave.
“Yeah.” House kisses him harshly on the mouth and pulls back, eyes darting to the mirror and presumably staying there until Wilson's done. “This is a new kink for you.”
The floor is not comfortable and his knees are settled right in the small pile of dead, grayish hair. But Wilson tells himself there are benefits to finishing off House’s haircut with an orgasm, besides…well, the obvious. It’ll be the most immediate thing House takes away from the haircut experience, even if he’ll always carry with him that same nameless, sickening doubt. Meaning that maybe in a couple of months when they have to do this again, it won’t make Wilson want to rip his own hair out. Totally a win-win, he assures himself, as he unzips House’s jeans.
It’s a Pavlovian thing.