AvNeil OS : Shave?

Neil's pretty lucky. No, that's a lie, he's ridiculously freakin' lucky. Because he's spent considerably more of his life in good enough shape to do his job than he has nursing broken bones, stab wounds and life threatening crush injuries. It's rarely so bad that he has to stay holed up at home, wearing plaster, or avoiding the irritating as hell tear of stitches.

Neil figures he's making up for lost time. Since his left forearm is currently in plaster and his right hand is bandaged all to hell, due to getting the skin nearly ripped off two fingers. The combined efforts of a graveyard fence and his meeting a headstone at speed. He's kind of pissed because this is his first broken bone in his new life, the married one. It's not like he was trying to keep it pristine or anything but there's something irritating about it. Like he voided the warranty - and he did not just compare his body to an appliance.

More irritating, is the fact that his arm itches, and he needs a shave, badly. He stares at himself in the mirror and then glares at his reflection. Because it's the hideous wild man beard versus someone touching his face in a way that he guarantees he'll find uncomfortable-making.

Neil's been letting the beard win for three days now. It's getting ridiculous.

"Hari...Hari!" There's no sound from the room.

Footsteps drift towards the bathroom. But it's Avni and not Hari who appears in the doorway.

"Hari has gone to the market," Avni says.

"Son of a bitch," Neil tells the mirror.

"Did you need him?"

"Yeah, I need him to -" Neil gestures, in a way that's probably more irritated than helpful. Because admitting it is kind of embarrassing, even in front of his wife,who won't have any idea why it's embarrassing. "I can't freakin' shave, I have no finger coordination." He looks down at his stupid arms that are still fixing themselves and wonders if it's too early to saw off the hand part of the cast.

Avni does her 'quietly sneak her way into your personal space' thing. Which she always manages to do in the bathroom for some bizarre reason. They should have another talk about that.

"Perhaps I could assist you?"

Neil laughs, he can't help it. One quick burst that leaves Avni with an eyebrow raised.

"Seriously?"

"It's not an overly complex task," Avni says. Then she frowns down at the sink, at the tumbled mess of soap and razor that Neil barely has the coordination to pick up right now.

"Says the girl. Exactly how many times have you shaved?"

"I can accomplish this," Avni says firmly. As if she's offended by not only Neil's low opinion of her skills, but by Neil's refusal to even consider her capable of giving assistance. On anyone else that expression would be hurt and offended.

Neil makes a noise, runs his fingers over his cheek, and - damn it - this is as bearded as he's been for years and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like it at all. Also, it itches like hell. Another day and he's going to start trying to scratch parts of his face off.

"If you start slicing pieces off my face you're not going to like it."

"I won't injure you," Avni says, voice still irritated. "I have some experience with a blade."

Which sounds pretty awesome, only then she ruins it by lifting the razor and staring at it like she doesn't have the slightest idea what she's doing.

Neil sighs.

"The more faces you make the less likely I'm going to let you near my face with sharp instruments."

"I have considerably better control than you at present," Avni points out. And, ok, fine, that's true, though probably not the point. They're talking about his desire for his face to stay where it is.

"But you have no idea what you're doing," Neil says.

Avni stops looking at the razor like it's an alien artefact.

"The concept is simple enough."

"The concept is my face," Neil reminds her.

"Which is why I will be extremely careful," Avni says firmly.

Neil glances down at his hands, one stuck in plaster the other still too bandaged to be any real good.

"Take your bangles off," he says. Still not entirely sure if this is a good idea or not.

Avni very carefully slips her bangles off and then stands there holding it, like she doesn't have a clue what to do with it.

"Just throw it over the towels," Neil says. "And brace yourself."

Avni does as she's told. Though she spends a long, confused moment trying to actually mentally prepare herself.

"You're going to need to run water in the sink," Neil offers.

Avni obediently follows instructions with the single minded determination of a soldier. Slowly enough that Neil's swallowing, fidgeting restlessly, and wondering if this is the worst idea he's ever had. Because it's Avni. There's just something inherently weird about that. This is like encouraging personal space violations.

Hideous, itchy man-beard, Neil tells himself firmly.

Steam rises and starts to fog the mirror. Neil has a brief moment of panic, because now he won't be able to see what Avni's doing. But he grits his teeth and tips his head back; watches Avni prod at the soap on her fingers.

"Today, Avni," he says, too fast and probably too loud.

Avni touches him, gently at first, like she thinks Neil might flinch away like some sort of spooked gazelle - and seriously, seriously, that's the best comparison his brain could come up with? He breathes out, across Avni's fingers, lets her draw him closer to the sink.

Avni's carefully efficient, sliding fingers across Neil's cheeks and jaw, then down his throat. She spreads soap in some strangely precise and mathematical way that only she's aware of. Neil ends up swallowing under the sweep of her hand, not resisting, not pulling away. Avni takes the opportunity to get in close, really damn close. Neil kind of knew this was going to be weird. But Avni is so much more...Avni, up close. He doesn't even pretend that he's not finding this quietly fascinating. He's watching with a sort of intensity Neil has never applied to anything in his life. He clears his throat and stares at the light fixture.

Avni's hands are cold. Neil can feel her fingers through the slickness of the soap and on the bare edge of his neck.

"Avni -"

"Hush," Avni says firmly.

Neil shuts his mouth, breathes out.

The first slow pull of razor is a test, gentle, an exploration of Neil's face. Of its tension and resilience. Neil can't help it, he tenses. It's not that he doesn't trust Avni. He does, he really does. But the razor's sharp as hell and he's seen too many of Avni's quietly bewildered faces.

The razor reaches his jaw and stops - Neil holds his breath - until it carefully curves round it and lifts away.

Avni pauses.

"Wash it off in the sink," Neil tells her.

Avni looks at him, briefly, and then stares at the soapy, stubble-spattered blade she's holding. She lowers it and drags it through the water in two quick slides.

Neil can just see the white drifting apart in the water.

Avni lifts the razor again, starts where she left off. The expression of concentration on her face would be freakin' hilarious if it wasn't Neil's skin on the line. She shifts a few steps, drifts all the way into Neil's personal space until they're touching, all focus and commitment. Like this is important, or like it's a rare experience - hell, maybe everything Avni does is, by default, a rare experience. Neil tips his head to the side and Avni's fingers accept the new angle, offer careful pressure, a drag of blade down skin. The long slow rasp of it has never sounded so loud.

She holds Neil still while she washes the razor again, fingers barely caught on his face, but Neil can feel every one of them.

Avni's thumb drifts and lays against the curve of his jaw, pressing where the skin is damp and soft and new. Avni's the one that moves Neil's face then, careful but firm, like she's unravelled the strange simplicity of it. The draw of the blade is now slow, confident, pulling over the planes and edges of his face.

Avni's close enough that Neil can feel every slow, flaring breath. A shiver of strange cold across his skin where Avni has carved the soap away.

Neil lifts his head and carefully pulls his lip under his teeth; lets Avni shave his upper lip, feels the cold sharp edge of the blade slide there, slow and precise. Neil holds his breath, moves wherever Avni encourages him to, pulse thudding in his throat, skin too warm. It's almost completely quiet and he can hear the tiny noises Avni is making. The shift of her shoes, the rasping of her saree against Neil's arms and chest. The slow and completely human sound of her breathing. Neil tips his head back when Avni urges him to with a thumb. All the way, until she has the vulnerable skin of his throat stretched out before him. Neil stays still under the slow, careful drag of metal. He listens to the thud of his own pulse and feels the slow tightening of his skin. It feels strange and unreal, and intimate in a way he has no references for.

Before Neil's ready for it Avni sets the razor down with a quiet click. She lifts the damp edge of the towel and smoothes away what Neil can only assume are the white lines and loose hair that still cover his face.

There's no moisture in his throat at all. Avni's fingertips linger on his cheeks, like they don't want to let him go. Like they're fascinated by what they've accomplished.

Neil's face is burning under them, bare and sensitive.

It takes him a second to realise he isn't stepping back either. He's just letting Avni hold him, close enough that he can feel her breathing through his own chest. Her eyes are focused on his own, in a way there's just no way to ever get used to. But Neil thinks maybe he'd like to try.

Avni's name ends up caught somewhere in his throat.

The fingers on his face very slowly slide down; brush on the smooth line of his jaw before releasing him completely.

"Thank you," Avni says. Her voice is quiet and firm, serious and strangely formal in that Avni way she has. Like Neil's given her a gift of some sort. Let her have something she wasn't expecting.

Neil's not sure what he's supposed to say to that.

Hell, he's not sure he can speak at all.