A moment passes with no sound except the rustle of newsprint and the soft scrape of blade through stubble.
Then White says: "You old enough to shave yet?"
His tone is light, and Freddy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. His cover is only two years younger than him. "I'm older than I look."
"Yeah, you are." White winks at him in the mirror and dips the razor into the sink. "Your old man teach you to shave?"
Freddy sets down the newspaper and does something halfway between shaking his head and pulling a face. "Nah. He died when I was a kid."
He and his cover have that much in common, but he's decided that Tommy Wright was a little less bothered by it. Except for the whole life of crime thing. He waits for the usual line: how'd it happen, how old were you, he must have been young. People always ask.
But White just says: "That's rough."
Matter-of-fact, but like he means it.
"Anyway," Freddy says, "it's not like it's hard to figure out which end of the Bic goes on your face."
White chuckles. The warm sound of it makes Freddy unwind a little. "You ever use one of these?"
Freddy's eyes linger on the glint of steel. He shakes his head, watching as White takes care of his chin and upper lip in six precise strokes.
The razor dips into the sink again.
"C'mere," White says.
The hell of it is, Freddy's legs are ready to obey before his brain puts on the brakes. "Why?"
White looks over his shoulder at him. There's that put-on hard-ass look again. "Because I'm asking you to come here."
He knows all about entering a confined space with a perp who's got a weapon, but the rules aren't the rules undercover. Do what you have to do. He gets to his feet and slouches lazily to the bathroom. It's not as small as the one in Freddy's apartment, but it's not big enough to comfortably fit two men. They're crowded together in front of the vanity, nearly touching. He breathes in the smell of an unfamiliar brand of shaving cream. His gaze flicks first to the razor and then to White's chest. Fuck, he's built for an older guy.
The razor turns, catching the light. The handle's held out to Freddy.
"How about you give it a try?"
Freddy doesn't catch on until White tilts his chin up a little, offering. This time, there's no doubt. It's a test. True or false. Pass or fail. Except Freddy isn't sure what the question is.
He takes the razor. It's heavier than he expected. The handle's solid wood, and the blade isn't any dinky box-cutter. He can feel the lingering heat from White's grip.
"How do you know I'm not going to cut your throat or something?"
White just laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're not that fast, buddy boy."
Maybe, maybe not. Freddy's seen a guy stab another guy to death with a ballpoint pen.
"Besides," White say, "you're gonna be watching my back with a piece. You think I don't got a read on you?"
Freddy's stomach does a pancake flip. "I meant, like, by accident."
White's smile is still hanging around, and he shrugs like it's no big thing. "You'll be careful."
Re: Orange/White, shaving kink - FILL: "Cut My Throat" 3/10
Then White says: "You old enough to shave yet?"
His tone is light, and Freddy rolls his eyes good-naturedly. His cover is only two years younger than him. "I'm older than I look."
"Yeah, you are." White winks at him in the mirror and dips the razor into the sink. "Your old man teach you to shave?"
Freddy sets down the newspaper and does something halfway between shaking his head and pulling a face. "Nah. He died when I was a kid."
He and his cover have that much in common, but he's decided that Tommy Wright was a little less bothered by it. Except for the whole life of crime thing. He waits for the usual line: how'd it happen, how old were you, he must have been young. People always ask.
But White just says: "That's rough."
Matter-of-fact, but like he means it.
"Anyway," Freddy says, "it's not like it's hard to figure out which end of the Bic goes on your face."
White chuckles. The warm sound of it makes Freddy unwind a little. "You ever use one of these?"
Freddy's eyes linger on the glint of steel. He shakes his head, watching as White takes care of his chin and upper lip in six precise strokes.
The razor dips into the sink again.
"C'mere," White says.
The hell of it is, Freddy's legs are ready to obey before his brain puts on the brakes. "Why?"
White looks over his shoulder at him. There's that put-on hard-ass look again. "Because I'm asking you to come here."
He knows all about entering a confined space with a perp who's got a weapon, but the rules aren't the rules undercover. Do what you have to do. He gets to his feet and slouches lazily to the bathroom. It's not as small as the one in Freddy's apartment, but it's not big enough to comfortably fit two men. They're crowded together in front of the vanity, nearly touching. He breathes in the smell of an unfamiliar brand of shaving cream. His gaze flicks first to the razor and then to White's chest. Fuck, he's built for an older guy.
The razor turns, catching the light. The handle's held out to Freddy.
"How about you give it a try?"
Freddy doesn't catch on until White tilts his chin up a little, offering. This time, there's no doubt. It's a test. True or false. Pass or fail. Except Freddy isn't sure what the question is.
He takes the razor. It's heavier than he expected. The handle's solid wood, and the blade isn't any dinky box-cutter. He can feel the lingering heat from White's grip.
"How do you know I'm not going to cut your throat or something?"
White just laughs. The corners of his eyes crinkle. "You're not that fast, buddy boy."
Maybe, maybe not. Freddy's seen a guy stab another guy to death with a ballpoint pen.
"Besides," White say, "you're gonna be watching my back with a piece. You think I don't got a read on you?"
Freddy's stomach does a pancake flip. "I meant, like, by accident."
White's smile is still hanging around, and he shrugs like it's no big thing. "You'll be careful."