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[patientman]

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[patientman]

Bashir looks over his body and smiles. He wants to give and take as much as he can from his partner, but it's not fair. "I know that it's cold comfort, but I'm going to suffer something terrible, too."

"I need to shower, but after that, and I'm dressed, we ought to head to the show." He stands, moving into the Doctor's personal space and pointedly crowding him. "Did you want to join me? Let me wash your hair. I can't promise to keep my hands from wandering, but..."

[justkind]

He opens his mouth to argue - this is his punishment, this is his fault - and then the words die in his throat. Bashir is very good at making that happen, it's maddening.

"Yes. Yes, all right." There's still time to make his point.

[patientman]

Bashir kisses the corner of his mouth and then pulls back just far enough to slap his cheek. Not hard enough to leave a mark, but quick enough to smart. "Go get the shower running, I'll join you in there in a minute."

Part way through that task, Bashir is going to briefly press the button on the remote. Just to see what will happen.

You know.

For science.

[justkind]

What happens is a muffled string of curses as he almost slips in the shower.

[patientman]

Bashir is a terrible person and as he steps into the bathroom, he knows he ought to be sorrier than he is. Oh well!

"May I come in?" He's stripped down and left the remote back in the living room.

[justkind]

The Doctor's, who'd just barely caught himself on the shower door, does his level best to give Bashir a dirty look. Most people would probably buy it.

"No you may not." Is he straightening up and pulling the door open? Yes.

[patientman]

"I thought as much." He laughs and steps into the shower, moving to stand behind the Doctor and nuzzle at his neck. "I suppose I could apologize."

He could. He's not going to.

"Pass me the soap?"

[justkind]

He grumbles under his breath even as he arches his neck.

"Fine, fine."

Coincidentally, he has to bend a bit to reach it.

[patientman]

Does he? Well, Bashir is just going to look. Totally looking. Not distracted in the slightest. Ahem. Once he's paying proper attention, he takes up the soap and gets to work. He's going to take his time with this - gentle, kind, and patient. His own scrub-down is less focused, and far more routine.

"Fine?"

[justkind]

As always, he relaxes swiftly beneath Bashir's fingers - or, at least, part of him does. The tension bleeds from his muscles, but remains coiled in the pit of his stomach.

He's leaning against Bashir, putty in his hands, and still says, "Passable."

[patientman]

"I'm so pleased to have met your exacting standards." Standing close, he wraps one arm around the Doctor's middle and leans in to kiss the back of his neck. That kindness is swiftly followed by a bite over the same spot.

"We should get out of the shower before the hot water runs out. I can't imagine that cold metal would be very comfortable." Another kiss, another bite.

[justkind]

"Not many do." Wry teasing that's in fact deadly serious followed by a shuddering gasp; the usual, really.

"Hmm, I'm getting mixed messages here."

[patientman]

"Oh?" Bashir strokes his hand over the Doctor's belly and then up, lightly holding him at the base of his throat where his collar would sit. "You don't say."

[justkind]

His sparkling retort is, more or less, "Ngkh."

Then he swallows hard and mutters, "That's cheating." His neck, his throat, how can he even -

[patientman]

"Is it? I'll make a note." He presses just hard enough to leave a bruise that will be mostly covered by his collar.

"Turn off the water. We need to get dressed."

[justkind]

It takes him a few seconds to actually process words, after that, but then he does as he's told. (He's half tempted to step into cold water after that just as a counter measure, but he doesn't.)

As he slides the shower door open again, "What are we wearing, exactly?"

[patientman]

"We're going to see a show, it's supposed to be unusual. Avant garde and terribly shocking." In other words, there's not going to be any sex. It's just going to be something beautiful, artistic, and a little strange. Maybe it's like a ballet? Either way, it's not likely to last beyond a couple of performances.

"We ought to dress well. It's always easier to remove a layer than add it later, hmm?" Bashir holds out a soft towel to the Doctor. He'll even dry him off, if that's wanted, but he knows he won't be able to keep to the task at hand if he does.

"And the Cannon Street Hotel for their late sitting, if that suits your worship."

[justkind]

He takes the towel, because contorting himself right now is bit of a challenge and never let it be said that he won't rise to meet those. (Well. Metaphorically.)

Being an extraordinary multi-tasker, he can concentrate on this and giving Bashir his standard "you're fucking hilarious" expression at the same time.

[patientman]

Bashir is fully aware just how hilarious he is (very) and how hilarious he's planning to be (extremely). Getting ready to go out for a show is just that - he doesn't tease any more than usual, doesn't bother with the remote, just gets dressed and fusses a little over the Doctor.

He's perfectly well behaved right up until they've settled in the cab, turned the first corner, and then he discretely presses the button on the remote. The lowest setting and not for long, either.

[justkind]

He suspects, really, that he's being lulled into a false sense of security. That doesn't mean he's entirely prepared. He'd tried to relax as much as he could in the cab, and then -

Well, he does hiss the curse this time instead of shouting it.

[patientman]

"I love the sound of your voice, my dear." The Doctor gets a quick peck of a kiss to his temple and Bashir helpfully rubs a soothing hand along his back. "But I think it might be rude to talk once we get to the performance, hmm?"

"Although, if you want to prevent surprises, you're welcome to use your own remote and turn it on when you like. You can't turn it off yourself, but..." Once can't have everything.

[justkind]

"Enforced self-control, I see what you're doing here." A bit too breathlessly ragged to be properly cranky. (And if he's honest, it's a perfectly justified tactic.)

"How long is the show exactly?"

[patientman]

"It's not Wagner. So you should be spared six hours of yodeling Valkyries." He leans in, presses a kiss to the Doctor's temple and rests a hand on his thigh. "An hour. You'll be fine, I'm sure."

[justkind]

"Well that's good, I'd hate to question your taste." A bit steadier, that time, at least until the light pressure on his thigh steals his breath again. God, he's wound tight as a bowstring.

"An hour. Right. Perfectly doable."

If he happens to be gripping the edge of the seat very hard, well, that doesn't mean anything.

[patientman]

"It is doable, but I expect you to be a wreck by the end of it. We do have two seats booked, but you're welcome to sit on my lap, should you like." He's definitely absently rubbing his thigh.

"And we've a private booth for dinner, so if you've come apart by that point, at least it won't be too public."

Buzz, buzz?