The Hairy v. the Fairy..., Monday 9/5 morning...ish

[Logan]

With only the sheet from his bed wrapped around his waist, Logan stopped still in front of the bathroom mirror and took a closer look at his reflection. He scratched his bare chest idly with one hand and grimaced widely around the cigar gritted in his teeth.

It was time for another shave.

He took a heavy drag on the cigar and rolled his neck from shoulder to shoulder, cracking the joints audibly as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs.

He hated when he had to shave.

With a low sigh that was half a growl, he took the cigar from his teeth, extinguished the last of it in his palm, and flicked it vaguely in the direction of the small bin under the sink. He really hated it when he had to shave.

Wiping a hand over his face and jaw he resigned himself to the fact that it was now or never, and although he would probably prefer the option of never, it was clear that his reflection – and probably others – would soon be begging him to do otherwise. He couldn’t take that kind of whining. He switched on the tap. Splashed water over the seven-day growth. Reached for the shaving gel. Warren’s shaving gel of course – a new can, lined up neatly with all the other fairy-boy products on the side of the sink.

Ignoring the ‘take a hazelnut-sized blob of gel’ instructions on the label, he flicked the lid off the gel onto the bench, shook the can and applied a … generous amount of the foamy substance to his waxy beard. It stank. Apparently of TEA-Palmitate, Oleth-20, Isopentane, Sorbitol, Paraffinum Liquidum, Isobutane, Gossypium, Tocopheryl Acetate, Glycine Soja … and the thousand or so other chemicals whose names he couldn’t be bothered reading from the back of the can. As far as he could tell, there was not even the faintest whiff of the ‘Fresh Arctic Scent’ promised by the fancy label on the front. And he should know. Still, it wasn’t him who had forked out an undoubtedly ridiculous amount of money for the stinky chemical concoction, the fumes were hardly going to kill him, and shaving with the stinky chemical concoction was bound to be better (and by better he meant quicker) than shaving without it, so he didn’t care. He set the can back on the edge of the sink and (having forgotten to purchase a new razor after last week) prepared to break out a claw.

God, he hated shaving.

And then he saw it.

A new razor. Brand-new, by the looks of it – still sitting neatly in its cradle, lined up neatly on the bench. It had some weird button on the front, and it looked a darn sight fancier than anything he’d ever bought to shave stubble with before, but hell – it would beat breaking out a claw. He raised an eyebrow and reached out a hand…

…He was almost done. There were footsteps at the end of the hall. Flicking the mess of hair and gel from the once-smooth blades towards the sink for what felt like the hundredth time, Logan turned his head to the side and tilted up his chin. Just that one little small patch there… maybe about three or four more strokes… The scent he was picking up from down the hall told him who was coming (and that they were probably coming here), but there was nothing he could do about that, and although he guessed that certain person would not be happy to find him – or the room - in the state they were currently in, it was too late to back out of anything now. He was almost done. He lifted the razor up under his chin and prepared for the final strokes, turning the top half of his body toward the door just in time to catch the newcomer’s expression when he arrived…

[Angel]

"What. The. Fuck, Logan?!"

That was it. There was no way in hell that Warren was going to share a bathroom with the guy for any longer. It was bad enough that the drains were always clogged with hair (he hated, hated, having to fish out clumps of Logan's body hair before he showered just so that he wouldn't end up ankle-deep in water and floating soap scum and hair and ew), it was bad enough that his products seemed to be half empty the day after he replaced them, but to find out that Logan was using his razor?

You could get all sorts of shit from that sort of thing. A man's razor was like, an inviolable sanctuary. Or something. Whatever. Logan should not have been using it. And ew, hair and gel and gross all over the mirror again! He was going to have to call up a cleaner (because heaven forbid Warren should ever actually do any cleaning himself; the thought never even crossed his mind actually). He hated calling up a cleaner.

"Did you spend all your living allowance on cigars and beer again? Seriously, if you can't afford a razor I'll buy you one, but stop. Touching. My. Shit." For a little while, Warren had tried keeping his stuff in a toiletries bag, but the product had seemed to disappear just as quickly anyway. He'd also tried having two sets of everything so that Logan could use one, and he could use the other. But no matter what, there always seemed to be the unmistakable prints of a hairy little man on his things.

He made a mental note to buy a new razor when he was on his way home. And to call an interior architect about putting an ensuite in. Also, a locksmith. "Seriously, man, why do you always do this to me?" He'd only come up to brush his teeth, having showered down in the sub-basement. He was supposed to be leaving, not finding the Wolverine making a mess of his brand new razor.

Ugh.