“How’s the bug?” Kurt asks, shoving the last of their soiled towels into a trash bag and tying it at the top. He never thought he’d see the day they’d use all twenty-one of their bath towels in one sitting, but apparently there is a first time for everything. Unfortunately, the towels have to sit in their polyethylene cocoons for a full twenty-four hours, so he’ll need to buy a couple more in the morning to tide them over.

“Better than the ones that were in her hair.” Blaine sighs, the long evening spent gathered in the bathroom with Tracy perched on a stool in front of Kurt’s vanity while Kurt meticulously combed nit after nit out of their daughter’s voluminous, natural hair weighing on his shoulders.

“Is she asleep yet?’

“Out like a light. How are you holding up?”

Kurt raises a hand to brush his drooping bangs from his forehead, but when he catches sight of the white nitrile glove covered in nits, he stops with a jolt. “I don’t think I’ve been this tired since … well, I can’t remember being this tired. What time is it?”

Blaine fishes his phone from his pocket. Blinking his eyes to gain some focus, he looks at the screen. “2:17 in the morning!” he groans. “God! Didn’t we get started at nine or something?”

“Eight,” Kurt corrects. He sets the trash bag aside, spraying it entirely with Lysol for good measure before he opens another one for Tracy’s clothes.

“How did you know how to do that, by the way?” Blaine asks, snapping on a pair of gloves so he can dive in and help his husband.

“I’m from Ohio.”

Blaine makes a sound that falls somewhere between a scoff and a yawn. “So am I, and I had no idea what to do.”

“Yeah, but you’re from the wealthy part of Ohio, a.k.a the sterile sector.” Kurt shoves a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants into the fresh trash bag. “I’m from the part where lice are so prevalent, we have an actual lice season. Classrooms are segregated not by intelligence level, but by your history of contracting lice in the winter, so the school district can keep the repeat offenders isolated and stay ahead of a massive infestation – no pun intended.”

Blaine chuckles as he gathers up the contents of their two bathroom trashes and combines them into one larger bag. “Have you ever had lice?”

“Only once,” Kurt admits. He removes his gloves, completely covered in Pantene conditioner and dying lice up to his wrists, tosses them into Blaine’s trash bag, and snaps on a fresh pair. “Some bonehead in one of the remedial fifth grade classes threw his crusty hat in the coat closet with everyone’s clean stuff as a prank, and it landed square on my jacket. My head was infested so badly, my dad almost had to shave my hair to get rid of them all.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

“How did you avoid it?”

“There was a lady down the block from us who ran a beauty parlor out of her kitchen and she knew how to handle lice. She taught us her technique.”

Blaine stops what he’s doing and gazes up at the ceiling, trying to picture an eleven-year-old Kurt with no hair, but he can’t. He can no more imagine a young Kurt Hummel hairless than he can his husband bereft of his signature wavy locks, which is saying something since, technically, he has seen Kurt bald (sort of), having been privy to photographs of Kurt sporting a semi bald cap for his role as Riff in McKinley’s ill-fated production of Rocky Horror.

The thought of it is so disturbing; Blaine must have blocked it out.

“I don’t think the world is ready for a bald Kurt Hummel,” he decides, breaking out a roll of paper towels and a bottle of 409 to wipe down the sink and toilet.

“That’s what I’ve always believed.”

On the counter by the sink, Blaine stumbles across the hair trimmer Kurt had set out at the ready on the off chance this particular infestation was beyond his ability to control. It didn’t come to that, of course, but there they sat just in case they were needed. Even though they weren’t touched, they’d need to be cleaned before they were put away, so Blaine starts wiping down the blades when a thought bubbles at the back of his brain.

“Although, it may be about time we got around to shaving something else.”

“Like …?” Kurt assumes Blaine is referring to Tracy’s poor Tortoiseshell, who sat obediently by his friend’s side the entire time Tracy was treated. Not that Brian was in any danger. Lice are species specific. Human lice won’t infect a cat.

“Like … other areas of your body that may be getting a little unruly, to put it politely.”

Kurt gasps. He subconsciously moves his hands to cover his privates, but remembers – lice. After handling only a few items of Tracy’s clothes, his gloves are already covered in goop and trapped insects, some of the buggers a little more lively than Kurt is comfortable with. He really should avoid getting them on his own clothes if he wants to remain pest-free. So he stands in front of his husband, unable to cross his arms or put his hands on his hips, feeling exposed. “So maybe I’m overdue for a waxing. Have you honestly been paying that much attention?”

“I’m always paying attention,” Blaine says, bouncing his eyebrows. “It’s my job.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, to quote a near and dear John Mayer song, your body’s a wonderland. My wonderland. And I consider myself the caretaker. That includes keeping you happy, healthy, satisfied, man-scaped …”

“I don’t know if that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” Kurt says, eyeing his husband as he approaches, trimmer in hand, “or the most revolting.”

“Which one’s going to get us into bed quicker?”

“Unfortunately, neither. We still have a ton of cleaning to do, and we can’t turn in till it’s done.”

“Well, I recommend we move this party to the guest bathroom so we can get to it then.”

“How are we going to clean this bathroom if we move to a different bathroom, one that doesn’t even need to be cleaned?”

“I figure we can start with the two of us, then move back to this bathroom after we’re done.”

“But we’ll have to take another shower after that!”

“And that’s a bad thing why?”

“Because I’m exhausted,” Kurt argues, backing up against the bathroom wall with no intention of fighting off his husband’s advances. He can’t help it. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he’s also extremely horny – which is a bit on the off-putting side since he’s just spent the last several hours picking bugs out of his daughter’s hair.

But that’s what being in love with an incredible and sexy man will do. It makes everything else in the world seem irrelevant.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Blaine promises. “I’ll take care of everything. I’ll bathe you, I’ll wash your hair, I’ll trim you up, make you all smooth and presentable …”

“Presentable to who?” Kurt chirps a nervous laugh at his husband’s domineering tone. It’s not one Kurt often hears.

It’s different.

It’s unexpected.

It’s hot.

“To me … and only me …” Blaine moves in closer, eyes locked on Kurt’s lips. Kurt leans back, ready to pull his mouth away at the last minute and leave Blaine to lay kisses across his neck. But Blaine knows that ploy, so he starts at the juncture of Kurt’s neck and shoulder instead, traveling steadily up, up, up, in search of his husband’s mouth. Kurt tilts his head. His bangs fall into his face again, and a stray hair tickles his nose. He reaches between them and pushes his hair off his forehead.

A millimeter away from his husband’s lips, both men stop cold.

“Did I … just do what I think I did?” Kurt asks, his jaw hanging so low it almost scrapes the toe of his slippers.

“I’m afraid so,” Blaine says, hazel eyes sympathetic, his face etched with lines of concern.

“Dammit!”

“What should we do?” Blaine asks, hoping against hope that the answer might simply be don’t worry about it. Continue on with their plans. Anything louse related will wash off in the shower while they’re making love.

“Grab that comb,” Kurt commands. “You’re going to learn how to de-louse.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to shave it all off?” Blaine jokes, shaking the hair trimmer where Kurt can see. Kurt grabs it out of Blaine’s hand and slams it down on the counter.

“If you ever want to get head again,” Kurt says, unbuttoning his shirt, “you’ll de-louse mine. Now get to work!”