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Putting on formalwear was a pain under any circumstance. Trying to work the buttons requires dexterity which was in short supply from the bad sprain that Soap was attempting to grin and bear his way through. Doc Adler had given him a splint that was complicating things as well. The cuffs on his shirt were not designed for extra material underneath them. Forget tying the tie or doing much besides running a comb through his hair - not that he really had a way to upscale his hawk to match the black tie requirements.
Oh, and having to pull everything together while in the back of a remodeled caravan that was actively driving really put the icing on the cake. The bathroom technically had a full vanity and mirror that was only serving to drive home the fact that Soap looked… well he looked just about as put together as he had at his school formal.
“You done getting dolled up yet?” This came with a pair of heavy handed knocks on the door. At least Ghost’s snarking was no different than any other mission. Of course the LT wasn’t one of the few on the team with the task of infiltrating the black tie event. Lucky bastard.
Soap pushed open the bathroom door and tugged his jacket from its spot hanging on the shower rail. “As good as it’s going to get, I suppose,” Soap grumbled. His wrist twinged painfully as he folded the jacket over his arm. The sprain had to be on his right side, even.
The caravan jostled over another rough patch of road. Ghost put a hand on Soap’s chest, keeping him upright but not letting him depart the caravan bathroom. “What?” Soap snapped.
“Trying to get turned away at the door with this?” Ghost had moved his hand to grasp Soap by the chin. The normally trimmed stubble there had grown out in the days since the sprain. Soap would have stepped back, but his feet were already practically against the vanity behind him. He settled for twitching his head. It didn’t break Ghost’s grip and only made Soap feel all the more pinned.
Soap scoffed and swatted him with his good hand. “Leave it. Not in the state for a shave,” he said, gesturing with his braced hand. “It’s fine.”
“You’re a mess, Johnny.”
That was that. Ghost had made up his mind. Soap ended up deposited on the edge of the caravan tub while Ghost rummaged through the vanity cabinet for supplies. Part of him was annoyed, naturally. The majority was resolved to just shut up and let things go on. It was easier that way.
Some unfair gods above or below allowed Ghost to find both a fresh can of shaving cream and razor from the caravan’s varied supplies. After a moment’s evaluation, Ghost tossed the plastic, disposable razor into the bin. Soap rolled his eyes. Then he saw the straight-edge come out.
"Yer aff yer heid,” he spat. He wasn’t just going to wait out Ghost’s sudden grooming requirements if they involved four inches of steel at his throat.
Ghost didn’t bat an eye. He slung a towel over one shoulder and tossed the can of shaving cream into Soap’s lap. “Assume you know what to do with that.” The urge to knock it right back into Ghost’s skull was like no temptation Soap had felt before.
He had a funny feeling that Gaz was having a much better time getting ready at the safe house on the ground. His section of the taskforce wasn’t hustling back from the damned airport after hitting horrible headwinds.
Arguing got him nowhere, though not for lack of trying. Soap slapped on whatever could pass as the most minimal amount of foam onto his face and slammed the can onto the vanity counter. It made a half-hearted thunk on the laminate and particle board surface.
“Here,” Ghost ordered. Whatever space there was surely couldn’t accommodate both men effectively. Soap stood from the tub’s edge to sit instead - using the term incredibly loosely as he instantly struggled with the mirror jabbing into his back and head - on the vanity itself.
At some point the door had gotten closed, and this was a mercy to Soap as he realized that the best way for Ghost to maneuver that damn razorblade was for the LT to situate himself between Soap’s knees. One hand returned to Soap’s chin to guide him where he needed.
“LT.” Soap wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t try one more time to wrangle sense into this situation. It helped that he wasn’t - couldn’t easily be - making eye contact with Simon from this angle.
“The more you talk, the greater chance you get cut,” Simon replied, his voice low yet none-the-less full of conviction as always.
So Johnny held his breath and counted the ever-increasing beats of his heart in his chest as Simon made the first deliberate motions with the straightedge down the side of his face. Choosing only to breathe when the blade was pulled away seemed safest, albeit this was an obvious pattern which Simon was sure to pick up on and potentially resume ribbing Johnny about.
He was ready to snap and growl and otherwise malign the man in front of him the moment that he accidentally nicked him. The longer that Johnny waited, the more apparent it became that Simon was - just like so many other things - unnaturally skilled with his hands at this task.
There wasn’t anything else to focus on. When the caravan rumbled onto the motorway, Simon paused and braced Johnny’s knee. Johnny tried to grip Simon’s shoulder as well, fumbling at first since his first instinct was to use his bad hand. Instead he ended up tightening his legs around Simon.
Johnny cleared his throat before moving to settle once more against the vanity mirror. He lifted his gaze away from the amused expression glinting in Simon’s eyes. Some small mercy allowed Johnny to get away without further mockery. It didn’t allow him to escape Simon’s calloused fingers which now gently - arguably even tenderly - maneuvered his chin to a better angle.
Despite his earlier efforts, Johnny was once again looking down at the man in front of him. He didn’t know how to turn away again, nor would he likely be allowed to. “Is clean shaven the better look on me, then?” Johnny asked. There had been too many silent minutes between them.
It maybe should have been odd to ask one’s lieutenant if he had opinions of one’s physical appearance, but he had been the one offering opinions originally. Simon took it in stride, tiny creases springing to life to tell Johnny that behind the face mask that covered his mouth Simon was grinning. He took pride in being able to decipher those small tells.
“Mmm,” Simon hummed in the affirmative. He paused to wipe the blade off on the towel that at some point had been moved from the towel bar to lay on Johnny’s leg. The next strokes of the blade were short and strategic as Simon cleaned up the last edges and missed spots. His free hand had remained on Johnny’s cheek or chin, directing him one way or another wordlessly. Johnny felt a sense of loss when he did finally let the hand drop to fully clean off the straight razor.
“Do I pass muster now?” he pressed, pulling a roguish grin. It was easier to feel more confident when Simon wasn’t actively holding a blade to him.
The straight razor disappeared in some unknown pocket. Simon lifted one shoulder. That wouldn’t do, not for Johnny’s ego nor for this degree of nonsense he’d suffered through. Johnny tipped his head and preened once more. “Hmm?”
Simon’s rolling eyes were much easier to read than his grin from earlier. He did however provide - to his future detriment, undoubtedly - some encouragement by twisting his hand around Johnny’s still loose tie and pulling him away from the vanity mirror. There wasn’t much space left to cross between the two, but Johnny maligned the remaining inches regardless.
The delicate tightrope of physical contact yet maddening covering over Simon’s lips and nose had both men keyed up. Johnny once again held his breath and waited for a response.
“Fix yer tie,” Simon huffed, letting go and stepping back in one motion.
Later - much later than Johnny had preferred - Johnny got his retribution when he was able to scold Simon. “Easy there,” Johnny breathed heavily as buttons popped off his shirt from the other man’s rough, desperate motions. “Spent good time an’ effort gettin’ dolled up for ya tonight, after all.”