Archive of Our Own

“Don’t… touch my face.” Simon slaps Mark’s hand away— gently, without any actual power behind it— and scowls.

A smile quirks Mark’s lips. “Simon,” he says, amused. “I literally have to.”

Simon glares at Mark, and to his credit, it is moderately intimidating at this angle now that they’re closer to the same height, under his heavy-set brows. Mark doesn’t usually see this expression like this due to the height difference. He kinda likes not being glared down at. They should do this more often.

Significantly more disgruntled, Simon repeats, “Don’t touch me.” 

Mark backs off a step, keeping his hands raised but not touching, still stood between Simon’s legs but a safer distance away. Simon’s glare holds strong. 

Mark merely raises a brow. “You do know how shaving works, right?”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Simon’s entire face is collapsed in a grimace, watching suspiciously as Mark gets closer again. He’s staring at the shaving gel on his hands like it’s a bomb. “Doesn’t mean I want you to touch me.”

Mark holds back a chuckle. “You’re giving me some mixed signals, here.” 

If Simon were really against this, he would’ve made that clear by now. Probably by punching Mark, or running away. Or both. Or just by turning down Mark’s offer in the first place. He had actually agreed without much fight, even if he looked conflicted while doing so.

“I’m being perfectly clear,” Simon protests, then rolls his eyes to the ceiling when Mark’s hand touches his jaw, like he can’t bear to look.

“I’ll be quick,” Mark promises, and tries desperately not to think about the intimacy of holding Simon’s face in his hands as he rubs on the shaving gel. 

True to his word, he is quick, and the application is mostly on Simon’s cheeks anyway. It’s maybe twenty or so seconds before Simon’s all lathered up face to neck— he had not enjoyed his throat being touched, so Mark had kinda ultra sped through that— and looking pissed about it.

“I hate this,” he growls as Mark pulls back to wipe his hands clean. He leans back, trying to put space between his discomfort and the source of it. “I’m being coddled.”

Mark gives him a bright smile. “You’ll be fine. We’re bonding.”

Simon thunks his head back against the wall. It makes a dull thump of sound that vibrates through the metal with an echo. He does it again. 

Mark watches him knock his head back a third time. “I promise you this would be harder if you were unconscious.” He grabs the straight razor, inspecting the blade and deeming it satisfactory.

“Shut up,” Simon groans. He’s staring very intently at the ceiling.

Mark spots the exact moment he registers the blade in his periphery. He goes stock-still, a full-body freeze as he assesses the danger.

Mark holds it up between them, letting Simon get a proper view. “This is a straight razor,” Mark tells him. “It’s what I’ll be using to shave you, since we’re going for a more precise shave.”

Simon’s eyes are hard and calculating, staring at the razor like it’s about to come alive and attack him. He’s straightened from his slouch, barely breathing. 

Demonstratively, Mark lightly touches the bladed end. “It’s actually not that sharp, even if it looks like a weird kind of knife. It’s meant to allow for a close shave without irritation. Therefore, without pain. If you do it right.” 

Mark holds it and waits as Simon’s brain processes, works through the thoughts and Mark’s words. Warily, he reaches up and touches the blade, just with his thumb. Presses in a bit. He looks suspicious when his thumb comes back bloodless and unharmed.

Mark smiles. “See? The tricky part is with the handling. Like any other sharp object, really.”

Simon’s nose crinkles in thought. It’s stupidly cute. It shouldn’t be, with a frown that severe and a face that grisly, but it is.

“Okay,” he eventually says, very serious. He nods, half to himself, posture relaxing only slightly. Just enough so that it doesn’t look like he’s prepping to bolt out of the room at any second.

Mark nods back. “Now, I hate to break it to you, but I have to touch your face again. A whole lot, actually,” he adds sheepishly. 

Simon’s eyes finally leave the razor to level Mark with an unimpressed grimace. He looks extremely unenthused. 

“Just trust me?” Mark asks hopefully. “I’ll be real careful.”

Simon’s eyes flick between Mark’s, and whatever he sees makes him sigh. “I’m going to hate this so fucking much.”

Mark shrugs. “Yeah, probably.” 

Simon’s expression does something very complicated just then. Like a mixture between despair, resignation, and somehow, fondness.

Mark blinks and it’s gone, so he promptly moves on. He has a job right now. 

If the shaving gel from before was a bomb, Simon’s looking at the razor like it’s a loaded gun about to be pressed to his forehead. Or something that’s going to be stabbed through his heart. 

Which sort of makes sense, but Mark’s not really sure this thing is sturdy enough to do that to someone. At least not without significant force put behind it.

Of which Mark is not, and never will be, planning to do to Simon.

With a swallow and weird skip in his heart, Mark gently takes a hold of Simon’s jaw, fingers and thumb on either side. Immediately, the muscles lock up, Simon undoubtedly clenching his teeth tightly together. 

He’s glaring vitriol at the wall behind Mark’s shoulder. The feel of the gel is slippery and kinda unpleasant. Mark makes sure to keep his touch light.

“I’ll start from the left, okay? Work my way inwards.” Mark brings the razor closer to Simon’s cheek. Uses his other hand to tilt his head a little. “I’ll, uh, do my best. Can’t promise something professional and perfect, but it’ll get the job done.”

Simon’s jaw works like he’s chewing on his words. Mark can literally feel it beneath his fingers. His breaths are harsh and audible; not fast, not panicked, just… angry. Like he’s fighting against something deep within him. Mark gets it.

“I know,” Simon eventually says. Teeth still gritted, set off by the proximity. 

Which is understandable, considering they aren’t usually this close, at least not in a situation like this; Simon, seated on the bathroom counter of his private crew quarters (on his turf, safety in familiarity) and Mark stood between his legs about to shave him. Just the two of them.

Yeah, Mark’s trying not to think about that too hard, for his own sanity. There are currently more important things happening.

Such as…

“I won’t hurt you,” Mark reminds Simon. Not to be condescending, just to have it be said audibly. An extra assurance. “Or force you.”

“I know,” Simon repeats angrily. He sounds like he’s trying to convince his own brain, his body, of it too. Like he knows logically that Mark isn’t a threat, but a weapon is still a weapon, no matter who’s holding it.

To be fair, this is incredibly vulnerable. Baring your neck willingly after so long of survival being your biggest priority.

And, well, the last time someone took a weapon anywhere near Simon’s face, it presumably wasn’t very pleasant. Mark’s only seen glimpses of the scar on his neck, but it looks… gnarly, for lack of a better word. Painful. Mark would want to protect his head at all costs too if that happened to him.

“If it makes you feel better, you can grab my wrists,” Mark offers.

Stilted, tense all over, Simon stubbornly says, “I’m fine.” 

Mark takes his word for it; keeping him in suspense would probably just make it worse. 

When the straight razor touches Simon’s skin, his jaw tenses so tight Mark worries his teeth will crack from the force. He takes a sharp inhale through his nose, like every alarm started going off at once in his head, eyes snapping shut.

Mark holds the razor there, just letting Simon adjust. Letting his body remind itself that someone isn’t holding an actual knife to his throat. There’s no real danger here.

Mark doesn’t mind taking this slow. He’s a patient man.

Simon’s breathing slow and deep. Purposeful, steadying, a forced calm. The tension in his body just keeps ratcheting higher and higher, like he’s bracing for something. For pain. The frown on his face twists until his eyes are squeezed shut.

“Simon,” Mark eventually mutters, low and soft. There’s a hitch in the man’s breathing, skin tightening pale around his knuckles. He’s otherwise holding himself completely and utterly still.

“Look at me,” Mark requests, in the same low tone. 

Simon makes a short, growly sort of sound. His eyes snap open and meet Mark’s own, head tipped slightly back. 

Mark tries his best to radiate sincerity and trustfulness with just his eyes. Maybe beam his you’re safe with me thoughts right into Simon’s brain. 

It probably doesn’t work.

Evidently... 

“What,” Simon grits out, hackles raised.

“You can watch me,” Mark says, “while I do it. I don’t mind.”

He doesn’t say, to make sure I won’t stab you, or so that you can watch for any tells that I’m lying.

So that you have control.

He doesn’t say any of that. Just sets the offer out and lets Simon’s brain fill in the rest. Far be it for Mark to deny a guy some comfort. Especially someone like Simon who grew up learning that vulnerability meant shame meant pain.

This is a pretty big step for him, for both of them; Simon fighting against his instincts to let someone else this close. Mark intends to do it right. At least… as right as he can.

The gears turn behind Simon’s eyes, probably weighing whether possibly watching Mark slit his throat versus shutting his eyes and hoping it doesn’t happen is better. The blade is still on his jaw, dull side down. Just resting. Mark’s other hand drops, gives Simon some breathing room. He waits.

Simon’s voice is rough when he speaks. His throat bobs. “No, it…” He takes a breath. “It’s okay. I want to do this. I can.”

Warmth blooms slow and honeyed in Mark’s chest at the words, the slight waver to them. At the absolute trust Simon is choosing to put in him after everything, all he’s been through. Choosing to be vulnerable and scared and uncomfortable to prove to himself that he is safe. Trusting Mark despite it all, despite the fact that he’s built himself around being burned too many times to count.

Mark has to swallow back the surge of feelings both protective and adoring. This is something fragile and precious and important.

He lets a brief silence settle in the wake of Simon’s words, just a few seconds before Simon closes his eyes once more– On his time, following his lead. His brows immediately twitch together, like just not having Mark in his sights is enough to set off his fight or flight. But he just breathes, slow and measured. 

Mark nods, even though Simon can’t see it. “Okay.” He shifts his grip on the razor, places his hand back on Simon’s jaw. Simon’s breath hitches. “I’ll narrate everything. It’s gonna be great. You’ll hate it.”

“Just fucking do it,” Simon snaps behind gritted teeth. He’s got the tone of someone saying just get it over with before something painful.

Mark doesn’t take it personally. Never really has. He’s well aware by now that Simon’s anger is a sort of baseline for him– A defense mechanism. 

Yet still, within the next few breaths, Simon whispers a quiet “Sorry.”

Mark acknowledges it by nudging his hip into Simon’s knee. “Okay,” he starts, “I’m gonna try not to shave off too much, at least to start. Be real careful like. Gradual.”

He tilts Simon’s face to the side and carefully begins shaving away at the messy edges of his beard right below the cheekbones, pretty similarly to how Mark shaves himself. Only a different tool and technique. It takes his brain a single second to acclimate.

He shifts his grip and uses his thumb to tighten the skin, ease the glide and minimize the chance of razor burn. “Just a bit of a uh... touch up? A carving? I don’t know. You want it just cleaned up, right? That’s the goal here.”

Mark doesn’t expect a response, nor does he get one. He simply keeps working. The angle is still a little less than ideal, but Mark’s not about to start manhandling Simon every which way. He can make it work.

Soft scratches fill the gaps between Mark’s words as he talks, and the razor scrapes across Simon’s cheek bit by bit, taking the shaving gel and facial hair with it. 

“I’ll do both cheeks first, try my luck with the goatee, then move to your neck,” Mark tells him. He has to pause to wipe the blade clean, in which Simon makes a low, stilted sound in his throat. Mark smiles a bit. Resumes the shaving. “I know, I know. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Just let the master work.”

A huff. Mark continues on. 

“Almost done, actually. With this cheek, I mean. Honestly, this is easier than I thought it’d be. Not that... shaving is hard. But, you know, shaving somebody else.”

Mark continues on with his narration, little tangential rambles and occasional warnings and directions scattered between, tilting Simon's face (“To the left now if you please, and hold it there– good”) as needed. Just filling the space with mindless noise. 

It started as a way to distract Simon, but it becomes kind of relaxing to Mark, too. Just focusing on the task at hand while letting his mouth run uninterrupted. It’s only when Mark gets to delicately cleaning up the goatee that his words briefly stumble and stutter. 

Though he had definitely already been thinking about how intimate this feels being so close, touching that near to Simon’s lips— at one point with Mark’s thumb on his chin, not to mention the verbal directions he had to give— had him almost choking on nothing. Thankfully, it passes without incident, and Simon makes no comment, physical or otherwise.

“And... you’re done! For the face.” Mark leans back to wipe the blade and survey his work so far. Not bad, if he does say so himself. Which he does. 

Looks clean. Very kissable.

Simon’s eyes remain closed, but something about him seems looser than before. Maybe it’s just because the blade isn’t touching him anymore, but Mark likes to think it’s at least partially thanks to his distraction technique.

“How ya’ feelin’?” he checks anyway.

Simon makes a short, succinct, annoyed sound. “Fine. Keep going.”

“Okay,” Mark says easily. “This part takes some more… finesse.”

Simon goes mmhm.

Right, then. With a roll of his shoulders, Mark bolsters himself. 

“Alright. If I do actually hurt you, please let me know. Preferably without a fist to the face. I’d take a slap, I guess. But words are definitely better.”

Simon snorts and opens his eyes just to give Mark a dry, amused look. They both know his instinct is hit first, ask questions later. “Yeah, okay.”

“Incredible. Perfect.” Mark gives a thumbs up. Simon rolls his eyes. Shuts them. “Alright, try to hold still.” 

Probably an unnecessary thing to say considering Simon’s only movement this whole time has been the rise and fall of his chest, but Mark feels like he should say it anyways.

He takes one last steadying breath. “This’ll probably be uncomfortable. It, hypothetically, shouldn’t hurt at all. And it won’t, because I’ll do it right. Trust me. But uh, yeah.”

Mark cringes at his own words but soldiers on. This’ll take a bit more care and concentration on his part. Mark uses the tops of his fingers to tilt Simon’s head further back. Simon follows the direction and the wordless stay like that, please, easily as Mark quickly computes exactly how he’ll do this. 

Once he’s sure Simon’s head’ll stay in place, he shifts his hand back to Simon’s jaw. Lower down, so he can still use his thumb. His fingertips brush against the ends of Simon’s bangs, pulled back from his face.  

“Gonna start on the left side, just like before,” Mark decides, politely ignoring the way Simon tenses at the words. “I’ll work my way up. Nice and slow.”

It’s only as Mark’s leaning back in that he realizes what exactly is on the left side of Simon’s neck and why he had just tensed up. That being, the scar. And also probably what was at least part of the reason for Simon’s reluctance to do this. 

Whether because he doesn’t want anyone seeing it or because the memory of receiving it is too visceral to let anything near his neck again, Mark isn’t sure. He doesn’t think the reason really matters. 

Mark has respected Simon’s wishes to the best of his abilities so far. He can tell when something is kept covered up coincidentally versus purposely. So he always averts his eyes and deliberately keeps any stray gazing above the neckline and on Simon’s face.

It helps that he’s gorgeous and has deep, dark eyes that seem to swallow light whilst simultaneously glowing from the inside, but that’s besides the point.

Mark can’t lie and say the glimpses he has gotten haven’t made him curious, the scattering of disconnected information from Simon painting a gruesome and frankly horrifying picture that does not help curb it at all.

So, really, Mark tries not to, but he finds his eyes immediately straying to the scar, morbid curiosity getting the better of him. Up close like this… Yeah. Mark was right before. Painful. It looks fucking painful. 

It’s uneven, deep fleshy-red like it wasn’t allowed to heal properly, taking up a noticeable portion of the left side of Simon’s neck. This is the best look Mark’s ever gotten of it. With Simon’s head tilted back and to the side like this… it’s all completely visible. 

No wonder the guy’s so protective of his neck. Geez. 

It’s a weird shape, like a very lopsided and uneven star, branched out in a few directions from the main scar where the tissue is deepest. Where it almost looks like something slashed through and then spread. It seems to be covering something up, and doing a poor job at it.

It’s… a burn. It’s a burn. 

The placement is way too purposeful to have been received from anything accidental. Mark knows burns, the kinds you get from playing with things that spark and fry; he’s an engineer. Fire, too, he’s familiar with.

This isn’t that.

Holy shit.

Mark only lets himself linger for a few seconds before he’s moving on and pointedly shoving the flare of pain in his chest deep down out of sight. Pain for Simon, for everything he went through before the warp core yanked him here. 

It’s not the first time Mark’s wished he could just… fix it. Heal some of Simon’s pain, any of it, though he logically knows it’s all in the past and he can’t do a thing about it. 

Maybe that’s why it stings so much.

Mark pretends Simon hasn’t noticed the pause, that he doesn’t know exactly why it happened judging by the rigidity of his shoulders, and resumes his task. He’s not going to ask, and Simon won’t tell him, so it doesn’t matter. A scar’s a scar. Mark exhales the rest of his thoughts away.

Once he continues, it's just as easy a glide as before, carefully shaving away the scraggly hair with short, concise movements starting a bit above the scar. The only reason they’re even doing this in the first place is because Simon really needed it, quite evidently. 

And while Simon’s perfectly capable of doing it himself, Mark had offered to help with the strongest pair of puppy dog eyes he could give and Simon had begrudgingly agreed.

“Your neck is gonna be killing you after this,” Mark mutters. His voice suddenly feels unwelcome in the momentary silence, but he shakes off the feeling and hums. “Though... they do say beauty is pain.”

As the blade is quickly wiped clean, Mark blinks. “Moving the razor up now. Also, I meant that your neck would be killing you because of the position it’s in. With your head and all. Poor choice of words.” Mark awkwardly clears his throat. “No pain so far?”

Simon makes a vague affirmative noise. Mark exhales a little sigh of relief.

“Great! That’s great. You don’t mind if I get a bit closer, do you? Tricky angle.”

Another noise, closer to a mm-mm. Also known as the universal nonverbal no.

“Yay,” Mark says, and watches Simon’s lips twitch. “Just gonna... step in here... don’t mind me.”

Mark moves so he’s properly in between Simon's legs, bracketed by his thighs and tucked up close to his bulk. Close enough for warmth to bleed through, for it to begin to feel immensely more intimate, which Mark hadn’t thought to be possible, but here they are. 

They’re not touching anywhere else besides Mark’s hands on Simon’s jaw, but... it’s the principle of it. Simon’s slouched a bit too, which isn’t helping the whole very close thing.

“Okay,” Mark whispers. Clears his throat, his next words louder, waver forcefully removed. “This is the annoying part. So, really don’t move. I’ll be careful. You’ll feel the blade near your pulse point– Which, now that I’m saying it out loud, sounds horrible.” Mark shifts the razor up. “Then I’ll work inwards. Towards your Adam’s apple. I trust you’ve caught onto the pattern.”

Simon doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even nod. Just keeps breathing slow, in and out. Good enough for Mark. Sometimes a non-response is a response. Knowing the captain as long as he has, he’s gotten good at understanding nonverbal responses and having one-sided conversations.

Despite the flutter of nerves, Mark’s hands are sure and steady, carrying out exactly what he had described. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this on myself. The neck shaving. Kept my beard as more stubble-leaning for a long time. Just kinda hate the itchy, scratchy feeling if it gets too long.”

While Mark rambles, he works inwards, shaving away the hair under Simon’s jaw with precise swipes, keeping a careful eye on the angle of the razor. Simon’s still breathing slow and deep, almost audible drags of air through his nose. But he’s not frowning so hard, which is a good sign.

“...if you couldn’t tell. And we’re done! With this side. Not too bad, right?” Mark smiles. “The discomfort level, I mean.”

Simon hums, and Mark feels the vibrations through his fingers, a tingly, buzzing sensation that makes him shiver. He clears his throat, soft and quiet. 

“Home stretch,” he announces, wiping the blade clean. “Do you want a break? Or just sprint to the finish line?”

“No,” Simon mumbles. “Do it now.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Mark quips, and turns Simon’s face once more. He has to kinda finagle the angle of his hand too so it’s not in the way while still holding the skin, but he manages. He ends up with his thumb pressing up against Simon’s jaw. “Same thing, just the other side.”

The quiet sounds start up once more, faint little shik shiks of razor against skin and coarse hair. It’s actually pretty satisfying, watching the hair be carved so smoothly away, leaving only bare skin behind.

Mark’s other hand has slid further down from Simon’s jaw completely as he’s moved, fully trusting him to hold his own head in place. He cups the side of Simon’s neck, tilting his other wrist to carefully shave away the hair near the underside of his jaw, where the skin is sensitive. Careful, careful. Be careful. This is a blade to his throat.

“...which is ridiculous, obviously. She and I both know that the guy who built the ship is gonna know a thing or two or hundred about fixing it, regardless of where in the ship it is.” Mark’s barely paying attention to what he’s saying, focusing fully on his hands and the movement of the blade.

“She argues just to argue, sometimes, I swear. And you know me, I’ll get riled up. Argue right back.” More clean skin, more small and careful drags of the razor. “But anyways, you know what I told her? I told her, ‘Celci, I am the proud father of this ship. Not a single thing happens to my baby without me being aware of it.’ And then, and then! She has the audacity to bring up the wormhole incident! Can you believe—”

“Mark.”

“—she would dare—” Mark freezes. Registers the voice and the reason it would be speaking suddenly. If I do actually hurt you, please let me know. Oh, shit. He was deep in his rambling. 

His heart nearly drops into his ass, but he sees not a single drop of blood on the skin he's currently shaving, eyes frantically scanning over every inch. Hardly even any irritation.

Phew. If not that, then...

The very next thing Mark registers is the hand on his waist.

Slowly, carefully, Mark raises his head. He hadn’t realized how close he had leaned in, how intimate this really is, how it would look to an outsider. He comes face to face with Simon, head tilted halfway back down and eyes open and watching Mark’s expression. They’re as abyssal and captivating as always.

“Uh.” Mark flounders a bit. He won’t lie. “Did I... hurt you?” He lowers the razor safely off Simon’s skin, his free hand coming with it.

The warm hand at his waist tightens. Squeezes. Mark is unceremoniously tugged forward until his lower half is as close to Simon as his upper half. His thighs meet the cold metal of the sink counter Simon’s sitting on, but the feeling doesn’t even register to Mark who is, currently, going through a full mental system reboot.

“No,” Simon says, and swallows. It looks heavy, makes his freshly shaven skin bob. His voice is rough when he says, “Wanted you closer.”

Mark’s pretty sure he makes a very stupid expression just then, brows climbing up his forehead and eyes going wide. Because. What?

“Oh,” he whispers faintly. Gathers his scattered wits a tad clumsily and says, louder, “What, that wasn’t close enough for you? I can’t shave you if we’re chest to chest, you know.”

Mark feels every point of contact— all five of them, one for each finger— through his jumpsuit when Simon squeezes his waist this time. He smells like the shaving gel; there’s still a few streaks left over to be cleaned afterwards, smeared along his cheeks. He’s awfully close. Mark is having a hard time ignoring the thoughts of ‘very kissable’ currently echoing in his head.

“You really should shut up more often,” Simon says. Tilts his head like he’s appraising Mark for something, staring straight on at him. There’s a severe sort of look on his face that’s making Mark feel a bit warm.

“I get that a lot,” he manages, while a distant voice in his head is screaming what the fuck is happening?!

“Mm,” Simon says, which isn’t any kind of response at all, and then leans in and kisses Mark.

Just like that. No other words, absolutely no preamble. Straight for the goal. 

His other hand cups the back of Mark’s head, his palm spanning nearly the full width. Keeping him in place, both hands a firm anchor as if Mark could move a muscle even if he wanted to. He kind of just... loses feeling in his limbs. 

From shock? Delight? An utter clusterfuck of emotions he couldn’t even begin to untangle? Probably. All of the above, actually.

A noise definitely escapes him, something helpless and confused and most likely inhuman, muffled against Simon’s lips. He clutches to the nearest part of Simon he can reach, which ends up being the collar of his shirt. The other hand is still holding the fucking razor.

Mark is only able to squeeze his eyes shut and kiss back for a few seconds before Simon’s pulling away. A strangled, distressed sound spills from him before he can stop it. 

Simon leans back. His hand falls away from Mark’s head, though he doesn’t relinquish the hold on his waist. Just loosens the grip. 

Simon’s dark, swallowing eyes survey Mark’s expression, something satisfied in the curl of his lips. A smirk.

“That’s better,” he says. He doesn’t even sound smug about it, which is somehow more insulting than if he did. 

Mark’s mouth clicks shut. “Wha—” He realizes he, too, is still gripping Simon, and quickly lets go. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” Simon says, not sounding very sorry at all. When Mark just continues to stare incredulously at him, his smirk fades. Something unsure bleeds into his expression “That, uh... that was okay, right? I didn’t just…”

Mark’s eyes widen. “Totally okay! I’d say great, actually— Except I wouldn’t, ‘cause you pulled away before I could actually kiss back!”

“Oh,” says Simon. “I didn’t think you... would. In my defense.”

“And you still—” Mark cuts himself off. Breathes out very, very slowly. “You know what. I’m gonna finish the shave, and then we’re going to revisit this.” He stares right into the depths of Simon’s eyes. “Okay?”

Simon’s eyes skitter away and back like he’s struggling to maintain eye contact. He nods. “Yeah.”

The audacity of this man to kiss Mark and then act all sheepish about it. God, but he’s cute though.

Mark only stops himself from putting his head in his hands because one is full and the other is sticky with gel. Which is now on Simon’s shirt. And also because he has a task and he will not stop until it is completed. His lips are still tingling.

Okay, okay. Focus.

Mark resituates himself even though there’s barely anything really left to do. He was pretty much done when Simon had decided to interrupt him. Just the little bit left under his jaw and then one last pass over to clean up the small details.

Mark grumbles incoherently to himself, not really saying full words. He tilts Simon’s head back but still feels eyes on him, even when he leans in. He presses the blade to skin, careful and steady and precise despite the frenzy in his veins.

“Are you going to keep your hand on my waist this whole time?” It’s really not helping Mark stay focused.

A pointed squeeze is his response, Simon apparently deciding to be silent again. It shivers up Mark’s spine and into his nape, spreads heat to his ears. 

“Wonderful,” he snarks, slightly strained.

Mark finishes the last bit in silence only broken up by their breathing and the hum of the ship around them. It hardly takes three minutes. When he pulls back for the final time, Simon’s still staring at him. He looks like he hasn’t blinked a single time in those stretch of minutes.

Well, at least it’s not the watchful stare of someone expecting to have their throat slit, anymore. That’s… good. 

The heavy, unwavering attention hardly feels any better. 

“You have shaving gel on your chin, by the way,” Simon informs him with absolutely no change in his expression.

This. Man.

Mark tries his damndest to speak around the laugh building in his chest. He can’t help the grin, though. “That’s probably because you decided to kiss me before it was wiped off.”

Finally, Simon smiles. Crooked and amused but full. “Yeah, probably.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t end up tasting any of it,” Mark mutters, to no response. He leans further back to take in the whole of his work and nods, satisfied. Simon’s still smiling, genuine contentment on his face that makes Mark’s stomach squirm.

Wordlessly, he wets a new towel and wipes away the remains of the gel (on both his and Simon’s face) as well as any stray beard hairs, meeting Simon’s instinctual flinch with a steady gaze and gentle hands. While he’s at it, Mark washes his hands too. 

“Voila.” The towel joins the first, the straight razor tucked away and set down. Mark can’t help his smile, the accomplished sigh of a job well done leaving his chest. “My masterpiece.”

Though that wasn’t the intention, Mark realizes the double entendre in his words after they leave his mouth. He finds himself meaning it all the same.

Simon doesn’t even look that different, just… cleaner. Less scraggly. Yet somehow such a simple trim opens up his face, accentuates his already handsome features. Makes them brighter. Mark’s seen him with his hair pulled back like this a million times before.

But still…

He looks happier, even though his smile has since naturally faded. There’s a crease to his eyes.

Yeah. Wow.

Just an unfairly gorgeous man. Mark takes it all in and fights the incredible urge to kiss Simon again.

Instead, he backs away until the hand at his waist falls, and stretches his hands and torso out as Simon slides off the counter to turn and assess his reflection. He tilts his face side to side, a faint frown slipping into place. Mark’s pretty sure that’s just his resting face, though. The contemplative one.

He meets Mark’s eyes in the mirror, hand feeling the clean-shaven skin on his neck. “I like it,” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Thank you.”

Mark puts his hands on his hips and beams. “Anytime, handsome.”

Simon immediately grimaces like the nickname just caused him psychic damage, and finally, that laugh in Mark’s chest leaves him bright and carefree.

He steps forward, turns Simon around by his shoulder, and kisses the expression right off his face. It’s shocking how natural it feels, how easily the affection comes after Simon broke that initial barrier.

It’s a sweet, sweet revenge with the way Simon freezes up this time. Even with the gel wiped off, he smells fresh and masculine and nice. Mark pats his shoulder as he pulls away and moves to clean up the supplies. Simon stands and silently watches him.

Without turning around, Mark says, “You should give your face a splash or two to rinse off any residue. And.” Mark sets a bottle on the counter. “Aftershave. For your neck.” With one last smile to Simon’s wide-eyed reflection, Mark leaves. Before he’s tempted to do anything else.

He waits until he’s halfway down the hallway to his own quarters to let the splitting grin stretch his face. In his head, there’s a cacophony of thoughts. In the forefront is: One of these towels into waste, one into laundry. 

Every single other one is some form of incoherent screaming.

Revisit. Revisit. Right, yeah. Yes. Revisit with Simon. Actually talk about it.

Even the vague dread of a looming Conversation doesn’t tamp down the pure incredulous joy filling the gaps between Mark’s ribs.

This was his best idea fucking ever.