He hisses a Gallifreyan curse under his breath as he feels the tiny sting of nicking himself yet again, and sees a little trail of blood peeking out from the shaving cream. He's shaved this face a thousand times before, but for some reason it's only now as a biological metacrisis that he ends up cutting himself so often. He could blame the razors on Pete's World easily enough – there was a reason they stopped making carbide steel blades in the prime universe, after all – but it's his hand he stares at with a look of betrayal, not the razor. He should be able to compensate for inferior tools, after all. He's still part Time Lord, he should have the ability to master the technology of his choosing, even stupidbackwardsprimitive ones like the tiny tool in his hand.
Somehow, Rose must have heard his curse from outside the en-suite. She knocks softly on the bathroom door and opens it quietly.
"Everything all right in there?"
He turns around to face her, a disheveled picture of annoyance and woe. He's wielding the offending razor the way he used to wield his sonic screwdriver, and her mouth quirks slightly.
"Here, let me …" she says with a soft smile.
She takes a few steps forward, coming to stand in front of him. He doesn't resist as she takes the razor from his hand.
He's tall, and the angle is awkward, and she's afraid she'll do an even worse job than he seems to be doing himself, so she hoists herself up to sit on the sink and spreads her knees wide so that he can stand between them.
He moves forward slowly, into the open invitation of her thighs cupped around his own, and sighs.
"We could get you an electric one," she says gently, as her fingers graze the outline of his jaw and ear, skimming the razor gently over his cheek as she finishes his work.
His nose wrinkles at the idea.
"Hardly," he scoffs, wanting to shake his head in derision but rightly afraid that a sudden movement could lead to another nick. "Can't get it as smooth and close as with a blade."
"You're definitely getting it close, Doctor," she laughs gently.
He stares down at her, the stirring in his abdomen from being in such close proximity to her warring with a residual bit of Time Lord haughtiness about the joke at his expense. She seems to sense his internal battle, and she sighs, puts down the razor, and slowly wipes the remaining shaving gel off his face with a nearby washcloth. This decides the war within him, as he closes his eyes and leans into her hand.
"I do like it smooth like this, tho," she breathes into his cheek, kissing the scabbed-over nick and sliding her lips across the outline of his jaw, back up towards his earlobe. "I like it a lot."
He moves in closer to her, pulling her thighs even tighter around his waist, so she can show him just how much.