This is just to fulfill a shameless shaving!kink thanks to Brass Tacks (s4e12) and Neal's one liner of "You never had a traditional shave? …Oh, warm towel, hot lather, single-edged blade stropped to surgical perfection." With just a sprinkle of trust issues because I'm me and Peter is Peter and Neal is, well, Neal.

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Double Edged Swords

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The mirror remains fogged up, the air still wet and moist with condensation.

Peter has only stepped out of the shower when he hears the doorknob turning. And when the door opens, Peter barely has his towel wrapped around his waist before Neal is stepping into the bathroom with an armful of—Peter can't quite tell, not when Neal's lips are twisting in that way of his that is distracting in both the good and the worst possible ways. (And of course, it can be both, Peter has had more than one encounter with that grin to know better.)

"Hi Peter."

Neal greets him with a signature Caffrey grin, and it is one of his I've got a great idea and you're going to hate it kind of grin, his hips already nudging the door to close behind him.

There is, perhaps, half a second between Neal carefully setting everything down to Neal perching up to sit on top of the bathroom counter, giving no time for Peter to categorize any and all intention Neal may have. And it's like Neal catches him trying because his smile only widens. Just enough so to make Peter take a step back with narrowed eyes. But Neal is nothing but the best when it comes to Peter Burke. So when he extends a leg to hook around Peter's waist, pulling him forward, he has him settling right between his spread thighs.

His wet stomach meets his groin, and Neal's smile turns wicked.

000

"What're you planning?"

Neal has a hand on his face, cupping a cheek with his artist fingers, searching for something Peter isn't sure he has to offer. He is staring at him, and there's no hesitance.

"Do you trust me?"

And for one long second, Peter contemplates that word that has always nestled between them (like it has every right to ruin or fix, it all depends on the case of the week, everything they have) before settling for a scowl, "you're kidding me."

"Peter."

Neal's insistence is all in the eyes, shinning too bright, too earnest for it to be anything but another attempt to pull another one over his handler. But Peter's never been stupid, not around Neal at the very least. No, they have never even been anything but smart.

Peter decides on another gamble with a yes that is not quite a yes, an admittance that is filled to the brim with defiance.

"Fine."

Neal's eyes are innocent, overtly so.

"That's not a yes or a no."

The scowl twists a little bit deeper. "…Yes, sure, I trust you."

"Good then," and because Neal has a flair for the dramatics, he pulls out a silver switchblade that gleams brighter than the glint in his eyes, flipping it open to reveal a single edged blade just as cutting as the smile he is daunting, "because I'm about to give you the best shave you've ever had."

000

"Don't make me regret it."

Peter makes it a statement as Neal begins mixing the shaving cream into a thick lather. It smells clean, not like lavender or fancy oils, but probably just as organic (and unnecessarily expensive).

"When do I ever, Peter?"

Peter opens his mouth, intent written with the lines of his face, Neal interjects before Peter can start. "Actually, don't answer that."

And then he lifts the brush from his mix, eyes a dare all on their own, like he is asking without ever saying a word.

000

Peter believes in disposable razors at worst and his trusty electric razor at best. Peter never imagines shaving to be an art, but of course, Neal being Neal, he makes it one. Neal's hand moves like he is van Gogh, painting the sky from The Starry Night. He makes swirls with his brush, and smoothes everything out with a few broad strokes.

"Trust me, Peter."

His breath is warm and his hand is steady when he brings the straight razor up between them. Peter is close enough for Neal to inhale, lather and all. But he only smiles, something crooked and inexpressive, something that is nothing like the million dollar con artist smile he can pull up in his sleep.

This takes work.

Peter takes work. (And now that he has him, so close, Neal knows there's nothing easier than to mess it all up.)

"I do."

When Neal has the blade sitting flush to his skin, Peter's reply is just as soft. But that's not dread settling in his stomach at the tentative way that Neal handles him, like he is something he needs to be careful with. His heart beats extra loud, and that's exactly what Peter is afraid of.

He trusts Neal, and he can't get himself to regret it.

000

Like everything else Neal knows, this takes skills and technique. And of course, he is a master at this too. He applies the gentlest pressure his angle gives him and shaves with the grain.

He doesn't press down and allows the cool silver handle of the blade to rest at the centre of his palm in a loose, light grip, the weight of the single edge blade just enough to cut into the light scruff. Neal guides the edge in clean deliberate strokes down the face beneath his blade and hands.

Peter doesn't see himself in the mirror, blocked by Neal in his perch on the countertop. He only hears the scrape of the blade over his skin, then the swishing of it in the small basin of water sitting by Neal's hip before muted silence when Neal wipes the blade clean of any water droplets on a towel.

Neal as a con is devastatingly pretty, unreal even.

Neal, with Peter pulled flushed between his legs, is human.

He repeats the motion, drag, rinse, wipe, and repeat. Concentration is a good look on Neal Caffrey, and Peter Burke would kiss him if he doesn't have a blade to his face.

"Tilt back, Peter." Neal prompts as he runs a hand over one side of Peter's face, over the smooth skin with a distracted smile. He doesn't ask for trust, not for a second time. Because when Peter tilts his head back and bares the column of his neck to him, Neal knows he has it in spades.

000

Neal passes his blade over Peter's face two more times before he is pressing a cool towel to the skin. Peter closes his eyes and leans closer in with an inaudible sigh that has Neal smiling.

"Good?"

"Mmm… yes."

Peter drapes his arms around Neal's waist and pulls him forward, just another inch, so their erections are lined up perfectly between their close pressed bodies. Neal's eyes flutter close with a soft laughter, his lips parting around a softer groan as he nods.

"Mmm, that is good."

Neal drops the towel to the bathroom floor to put both hands on Peter's face, feeling the clean-shaven skin beneath his fingertips before dragging Peter in for a filthy kiss. All nipping teeth and biting lips and moans muffled by the slick slide of their tongues.

He has his breath catching in his throat, one hand dropping to the line of his jaw when he pulls back.

"Let's make it better—"

"Wait," Peter halts, his hands already on the button of Neal's pants, when Neal turns to rummage at everything that he has splayed around him, "aftershave."

With Neal's explanation, Peter nearly rolls his eyes hard enough to hurt himself when Neal finds it with a soft 'aha!' on his lips. But he doesn't resist when Neal pats aftershave over his face, the faint scent soothing as Peter makes quick work of Neal's fly.

They can make it about trust and faith, love and lies, and sometimes, it is all of those things. But most of the time, it is a lot simpler than they both intend it to be. Sometimes, they are just competitive, tallying up wins with bites and kisses, instead of their usual stolen paintings and prison sentences. Because it is impossible to lose with this, and that has always been the most important thing between them.

And for men who have always had a competitive streak in them, Neal's deft hands also has the towel wrapped around Peter's waist falling to the ground in quick succession.

XXX Kuro