A/N: Just a little tidbit I've had hanging around :3 I like playing with the lines of Worth's sexuality and kind of… exploring what is and isn't okay for him. I like to think he's mostly hedonist but has some pretty thoroughly regimented boundaries in order to, like, stay sane. He has a hidden anal-retentive side?
I also like to believe that Worth's signature is the ugliest thing EVER XD
Warnings: light/invisible ConWorth teasing, language, sexual mentioningssss
Sneaky
Doc Worth never cut himself while shaving, despite how much he preferred one to the other.
If just for sheer fact of how long he'd been doing it (in alleys, behind bars, in bars after fifteen shots), Worth was damn good at what he did. It all came down to his skill with various pointy objects. He could stitch up a foot-long tear on an idiot like Hanna in less than five minutes. Roughly thirty seconds to an inch, twine making whizzing noises all the while. His hands, gnarled and dirty like those of a starved sixty-year-old man, were trained instruments and concentrated extensions of his overall kick-assery.
Shaving was no different. His tendons pulled like levers, always applying the perfect amount of pressure until he finished with clean-scraping noises and a flick of his bamboo-shoot wrist. It was exacting, almost religious in its precision. He went into the shaving zone and only came out when he was baby-smooth all over. It wasn't even cognizant anymore, regardless of how rarely it happened. And contrary to popular belief, he never really mixed pleasure and practice and shaving was yet another permutation of his skills. To Worth, it would be like jacking off to a medical diagram of breasts: some poor sap may do it, but in his world, it just wasn't fucking kosher.
He only ever nicked himself when he literally couldn't feel his fingers or his neck: namely, coming off of a particularly awful hangover or pill-party to which Oxycodone or his pallie Vicodin had been invited. Worth honestly hated nicking himself. He thought of it as a wet dream: it blindsided you, you weren't awake to enjoy it and all that's left was the clean up. Worse than getting your cup spit in.
One night, cleaning up while fighting off the creaking full-body exhaustion that abusing runes left him with, the blade dug into Worth's chin. The flare of yes at the back of his neck was almost nauseating, it was so sudden and bright. He sneered at his spotty reflection; it dragged into a wince and he tore off a tissue and stuck it to the cut. Already labeling the night a loss, he slouched into the main room and fell back in his roller-chair, knowing Conrad was there but not wanting to bug him quite yet, so what was the point of looking at his faggy ass? Yeah, none.
Then Conrad's nostrils flared and he looked over with a gaze so piercing and accusatory that Worth's smile was not only instant but absolutely delighted.
No, Doc Worth never cut himself while shaving, so the fact he showed up the next night with three different cuts dribbling red on his jaw and neck was enough to stop even Hanna in his tracks.
"Obvious."
Worth looked up to find Lamont leaning on his peeling desk, package in-hand, disappointed amusement playing around his mouth. Worth snatched the clipboard out of his hand and scribbled something that looked like a lightning bolt with multiple sclerosis, sharp eyes flicking over the top to check and see if Connie was still pouting across the room, legs crossed like a chick.
"I don't do sneaky," he drawled, to which Lamont rolled his eyes and took the clipboard back.
"Shameless supersedes all of that."