Work Text:
The fact of the matter is that Gamzee's hair is out of control. Bad enough he's loathe to take proper care of it, straggly ends knotting up on each other like a family reunion, but now it's getting long enough he can throw it in an ugly little ponytail at the nape of his neck. Sure, your hair is in need of some care too, but there's a stark difference between needing care and needing outright salvation. So you head out to Duane Reade and buy some Fiskars, because you're not about to potentially break a nice pair of scissors from the beauty supply on the matting in Gamzee's hair, and then you sneak into bed and pull his still-dozy head into your lap.
"Yo, Gamzee, don't flinch," you whisper as he groans awake, eyelids fluttering. "I gotta groom you like a show pony."
"You gotta what?" He sits up so fast he almost clips your chin, though thankfully his horns stay away from you and your pretty face. "I ain't no clippity cloppity motherfucker, you ain't puttin' no saddle on me."
"You sayin' you want me to ride you bareback?" you reply with a little grin, looping your arms around his shoulders. "Yee fuckin' haw, I'm good for that."
"If I'm gonna be your pony you best believe I'm gonna be fat and spoiled and not good for nothin' more than using up all your money." Gamzee sits all the way up and pulls your legs around his waist, then starts to rise as you lock your ankles. "I need oats, motherfucker, and like, shit, I dunno, carrots? And a whole entire apple pie."
"Ponies don't eat pie, you dumb fuck," you laugh as he stands up and hoists you up a little higher. You could easily touch the ceiling from here.
"This pony does." He takes you into the kitchen, leans down so you can pop the fridge while he holds you up. "Feed me, master, or I'mma call the ASPCA on your ass."
Eventually you both get tired of playing this game of you trying to prepare food from eight feet in the air, and you slip down to the cold linoleum to properly make oatmeal for the both of you. He drowns his in syrup and brown sugar, and you pull a face that he returns when you add raisins to yours.
"So what's this grooming shit about anyway?" Gamzee asks through a sugary mouthful. "I took a goddamn full fledged bath like two days ago. I'm good."
You wrinkle your nose. "I don't even know how I can stand to touch you with how nasty you are," you say as you finish your bowl. "You need a haircut, you fucking dung beetle. Like, yesterday. A week ago, maybe even."
"Ain't nobody else ever had a problem with my hair," he says with a frown, rolling one matted lock between his fingers. "It ain't affectin' my quality of life."
"Ain't nobody else fucking you, neither," you mutter. "It's affecting the quality of my life, that shit being all over the goddamn pillows."
"So who's gonna cut my hair? You?" he laughs, before licking out his bowl with a long grey tongue. "Or are you takin' me to the fuckin' salon?"
"Nah, the vet's, remember? What with you being an unwashed beast and all." You get up to stick your bowl in the sink with the pile of dishes from last night (and yesterday afternoon, and morning, and the night before last...), too lazy to even think of tackling them. You ignore the irony. "But for real, I got some new scissors just for this particular job, and I intend to use them to wrestle that thing on your head into submission."
"I ain’t interested." Gamzee waves a dismissive hand before holding out his bowl like he expects you to take it. And you do, because otherwise it’ll probably never make it to the sink.
"I’m not interested in whether you’re fucking interested or not. Come on, dude, let’s take this party to the bathroom." In direct contradiction to your own words you head for the bedroom, where the scissors got left on the nightstand. "Get the fuck in there."
"Hell no, I wanna play Pikmin." He’s already sitting his ass down on the couch, you can hear it groaning under his weight. "I love the little purple bastards, the fatass ones with the pink flowers."
"Yeah, they’re like your weird little plant clones," you call back as you grab the scissors. "You can play Pikmin when you’re fucking cleaned up. Get in the bathroom!"
"Why? Gimme a real reason for this shit besides fuckin’ ludicrous human standards of hygiene and beauty." The beat up indigo gamecube is booting up as you walk back into the living room. "’Cause between playin’ with my little plant friends and bein’ bored outta my skull for half an hour while you snip those sharp shits around my face, I’m gonna pick plant buddies."
For a moment you just stare at him as he selects his save file. In some ways he’s right, honestly, part of it is sometimes you feel embarrassed to be seen with someone who can’t take the most basic care of himself, and you do have to be seen with him, at work at the very least. But also—
"I just wanna take care of you," you mumble, swinging your arms like a petulant child. "Jesus, I’m not trying to give you a makeover."
There’s another long moment in which it seems like he’s ignoring you, just shaking numbered circles free of giant flowers onscreen. You sigh and turn around to go put the scissors back, because you’re not some hair fascist, when you hear him say your name. The game is paused, and when you look up from the TV he’s already disappearing into the bathroom.
He settles into the tub, back facing the toilet, but not before taking his pants off because the tub always seems to have a wet line down the middle no matter what. You try to hike up your pants before you end up just taking them off, too, and you sit on the lid to swing your legs into the tub to either side of his broad shoulders. A towel goes over both those shoulders and your lap.
Gamzee was smart to bring his phone to fiddle around with, because your work is cut out for you. There are mats everywhere, especially at the back of his head, and despite your one-time experience helping your sister de-mattify a foster cat, this is ridiculously more difficult. You end up chopping away more than you expected or wanted to, and you sit back with a short, hard exhalation of frustration.
"How the fuck would you feel about a fade?" you ask, running your fingers through the longer mop of hair you’ve managed to preserve on the top of his head. "You know, kind of like mine, only without the volume on top, obviously, since... Do trolls ever grow afros?"
"Like yours?" Gamzee glances up at you, which makes you dodge back out of the trajectory of the weapons on his head. "Well, shit yeah, I always thought that shit looked sexy on you. Do me up right, Miss Strider."
"Shut the fuck up." You whack him on the side of his head to get him looking dead ahead again, and then you disengage from the tub completely to go get your electric trimmer. You know trolls have thicker skin, can withstand a lot more than you and your sadsack race of glass-boned people (in comparison, anyway), but when you get back into position you still warn him profusely about nicking his scalp if he moves even an iota, and add that it’ll ruin the fade. He holds still.
When he’s finished, it’s been an hour since you finally convinced him to let you cut his hair, and you can’t stop running your fingers over the shorn back and sides of his head. It feels different from your own, like literal peach fuzz. There’s never been anything so soft about Gamzee Makara. He pulls the dollar store hand mirror from the sink to check himself out, although you kind of ruin it when you rest your cheek on the top of his head.
"It looks good," he says, letting you stay there. "Maybe I oughta go out tonight and score some ladies, huh motherfucker?"
"Your hair is still greasy and smells like weed," is all you whisper in return, before curling your arms loosely around his shoulders. He just snorts and returns the embrace.