Please imagine the barbershop au.
Spock is the alternative punk who keeps a green stripe in his too-straight hair and has three piercings in his left ear and five in his right. His touch telepathy lets him sense the haircut his patrons really want, and lets him know when to shy away from the sharp implements. He keeps his music blasting even though it annoys the hell out of everyone else–especially McCoy.
McCoy, who is more of a jeans and t-shirt kind of guy, but who can do the best damn fade this side of the Mississippi. Who uses the clippers and scissors passed down to him from his father. Who has the steadiest hands in the tri-state area so people come from all around to get their hair cut at Enterprise Barbershop.
They come for another reason, too: To hear Spock and McCoy argue.
Their arguments are legendary. The barbershop website is half glowing reviews from people who have received the perfect haircut and half confused retellings of the latest argument. “They argued about scissors length today.” “Back at it again with that Socrates discussion.” “I’ve never heard someone say ‘illogical’ so many times in a row. It stopped sounding like a word.”
(Jim, the shop owner, keeps them away from the reviews. He doesn’t want them to get self-conscious and stop arguing.)
They have a “friendly” rivalry going to see who can give the best haircut. They’re pretty evenly matched, although McCoy says Spock is cheating with all that Vulcan voodoo he does. McCoy still has a slight lead, much to Spock’s chagrin.
(But secretly he’s proud. He likes to see McCoy’s smile after every successful cut.)
They cut each other’s hair, too, never letting up on the sniping even as they snip. McCoy has a dozen wigs of practice hair with identical bowl cuts at home that he’s used to hone his art and he leaves Spock with an impeccable trim every time. Spock retaliates with increasingly outlandish hairstyles that McCoy says he loves, just to spite him.
(And maybe Spock’s hands linger longer on McCoy’s skin than is strictly necessary. McCoy does the same thing to him, anyway.)
Word gets around that McCoy can do a traditional Vulcan cut and the shop starts getting a different kind of clientele. They come from lightyears away looking stoic and somber, but they leave with a certain lightness to their step. Perhaps they like the arguments McCoy always starts with them. Certainly they like the haircuts–although they would never admit such a thing.
And Spock grows slowly jealous at the sight of McCoy laughing and chatting with one Vulcan after another. That’s supposed to be him making McCoy laugh, and annoying him with claims of logic.
One day McCoy is applying aftershave to a Vulcan four times his age when he looks askance at Spock. “Your hair’s getting a little long around the ears, there. A mullet doesn’t suit you.
“Illogical,” Spock says, miffed. “My hair is hardly a ‘mullet.’“
“Just the same you’d better let me cut it tonight. To make sure.”
When the shop closes and everyone else has gone home, Spock does. He sits in the chair and McCoy flips the cover around his neck. Ties it off. He starts with clippers, moves to scissors, spritzing water that makes Spock shiver. McCoy runs his hands through Spock’s hair and grabs the heated shaving cream. His hands glide, warm, and then he takes the single blade to cut the fine hairs on the back of Spock’s neck. The aftershave startles him, but what surprises Spock more is that when McCoy spins him around he doesn’t stop at the mirror.
He just slides his hands through Spock’s hair, messing it up, then straightening it again. “Looks good,” he says with a lopsided grin.
And he doesn’t argue at all when Spock takes him by the shirt and pulls him into a kiss that seems to last forever.
(And Scotty wins the betting pool, of course.)