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His eyes dart to the side, quick-like-- back and forth. Pendulum on high speed. He's not comfortable. Can see it in the shift of his body, reflected in the store window: the thrum-drum of his fingers on his thigh. Mal. All awkward-like, staring into the glass. Women's clothing. Right. And why did he volunteer to herd the doc, again?
It shouldn't take long at all. The doc never wants to be away from River too long, not now that they're finally together again; if something happens while she's onboard the ship and he's off making a clothing run, of all things, they’ll never hear the end of it. "Combat boots are sensible," Mal insists as they amble through the aisles, finding some familiar ground and digging in the flag for all it's worth.
"She isn't going into combat."
"She ain't goin' to a hoity-toity dinner function either," eyeing the frilly slipper-like pair of shoes Simon's been studying.
"Fine." The doctor's setting them down entirely, then, a challenging look in his eyes. "She also needs underthings. Let's work on that first."
Okay-- not like he doesn't know women's under... things... it's just... Here's Simon. And here's him. And they're talking picking out underthings for his sister, and then his head is trying to wrap around what kind of underthings Simon might be sporting under flat-boring slacks.
Wandering into dangerous territory, both in a mental sense and a geographical one. At least now Simon's looking appropriately bewildered, eyes darting between displays and price markers. "I don't suppose you have any...suggestions?" he goes, like it pains him to get the words out and, oh, does Mal ever; a few particularly ambitious ones spring to mind when the doc bends to intently study something on a lower shelf.
Shift, back: straightening. Eyes: blinkblink. Mal with his hands on his hips, stance kind of wide-- look away when Simon's head swivels. "Me? For your sister?" Quirk of a smile, aim right at pretty-boy and let it quirk just a little bit more.
"A simple 'cheap and durable' would have sufficed."
It's a big store, nothing high-end about it; Mal wouldn't object to just grabbing a handful of...whatever and just beating a quick retreat. Simon, however, seems hell-bent on staring down a rack of brassieres as intently as if he's performing a surgery. Which is fine-- don't think about how he even knows what might fit. Don't get images of dark hair-- long and short-- tangled, pale limbs, siblings. All flushed and hungry and-- oh, God.
Underthings. Fine.
But it's the memory, flashes of a guy with shifty eyes, tipped-down fedora, and set jaw that has him itchy. That has him…contemplating. That has him grasping Simon's arm a little too hard.
Simon's eyes narrowing in annoyance, Simon's lips opening around a mild, "Is something wrong?"
Is there. Supposed to be a clean, neat stop-off to make a run for whatever equipment and necessities they could find; Inara with a client, Kaylee haggling for supplies, and he'd somehow wound up being the one drafted into this particular errand. "'s a purple-belly lookin' at you a little funny." Just as mildly. And of course there isn't really, not outside his own mind, but watching Simon's reaction is worth the lie.
Easy to bring up images of past foes-- patchwork an invisible enemy, feel the doc go all stiff. Hah, stiff. Pull just a bit and Simon sways in his direction, radiating heat. Sidestep, Simon stumbling with him, waving an array of bras and panties; it's barely a box. Barely big enough to stand in.
"Where?" Simon spluttering and hissing both at once, like the nonexistent Feds are going to come swarming into a dressing room. Either to demand some identification or to demand why two men just darted into the same cubicle with a handful of women's undergarments. "I didn't s--"
"Gorrammit, shut up." Flip the lock, meeting his own glare in the three-way mirror for a second before turning it down a few inches to meet Simon's own. Looking at him, all puffed-up and indignant in that way he sometimes has, but there's a nervousness around the edges, too; that constant what-iffing of Simon's starting to show through for once.
Breathing hard, hitting back on him because there's nowhere else for it to go. Nearly chest-to-chest and Simon's handful of underthings between them, a bra strap brushing up against Mal's nose. A touch of a scowl, his hands around the the delicate bones of wrists. Simon's wrists. Somehow, still, that black hair as neat as ever. Always a neatness about him. How neat is he when he comes? Clothing to the floor. All of it. Scattered around their feet and here he is clutching those wrists and making blatant sort of eye contact.
"I--" starts Simon.
"Yeah?" Don't think of River straddling thin hips and surging...
Two indrawn breaths, simultaneously, and their chests are brushing for a fraction of a moment. Then the doc goes sulkily leaning back against the mirror. "I hope you have a plan, Captain." Twisting his wrists a little, sending a hundred thousand thoughts regarding other circumstances in which that gesture might occur straight to various portions of Mal's anatomy.
No plans, not yet, but he could make one up. Order Simon to start stripping off in the name of salvation, make him believe it's essential that anyone coming this way in the immediate future actually believe they're trying on clothes. Can't get a word out, though, with ice-blue eyes on his face and two different sets of Tam fingerprints all over his mind.
Plan.
Push, more like. Up against him that way-- creak of wood from the frame of the mirrors; in his head: pale, pale body exposed from every angle. Wo de ma.
Lean in, tip of nose brushing that perfectly straight, sharp, doctorly-type nose of Simon's. "I'd take it as a kindness if you'd shut your gorram mouth." At a hiss. Can he feel that? Against his hip like that; fucking tan pants. Too tight. Always have been. What kind of soldier goes around in clothing that shows off their religion and then expects some kind of resp-- oh.
"And I would appreciate it vastly if you would explain exactly wha--" He's gotta stop doing that, the doc, spewing out indignations that take too long to say. Mal makes a show of rolling his eyes, like this is all in the line of duty, before ducking just a touch to swallow all that babble in the most literal way possible. Drawing his lower body back every so slightly as he does; no need to alarm straitlaced Simon too much.
Soft like that, and wet. Air sucking in between the openings of a parted-mouth kiss; Simon gasping in. Gasping in the tip of Mal's tongue; the mellow-wet taste. Yeah, that's good. Ever so. Caught. Showing his hand-- not something Mal does lightly. Had to be premeditated, though: hell, had to know where he was taking this when he decided they should be hiding from invisible Feds.
Not so invisible: his tongue stroking along Simon's. Who's all stock-still like that, no tugging of his wrists from Mal's grip anymore. Frozen up. Then. Then. A quiet little slump, a slackening on Simon’s part, and the backs of those perfect, life-saving hands go smacking into mirror. Mal's fingers trying to stretch-feel along the palms. Stretched up, arms up above his head, up against a mirror, and Mal’s hands holding them not-unwillingly in place: Simon Tam, you are bound by law... requested by my crotch.
Ankle-deep in trouble and women's underwear, but Simon's not putting up much of a fight, which speaks louder than any of the shaky-hot breaths getting released up against Mal's mouth. Move in more now, his hands firm around white wrists and whiter shirt-cuffs, free to press the two of them flush and find out whether that mouth is good at anything but complaining and spouting highfalutin words. No, he's definitely not imagining the way that slighter body strains, just slightly, against his, and the way those wrists stay placidly still--making no move to escape this time.
The tap-tap of Mal's index finger against a soft, under-worked palm; trail down to a wrist, feel the swift-quivering flutter of the pulse. Drag both hands down those arms, wrinkling dress shirt, making all the neatness not so damn neat. Tilt his body in, one hand down, thumbing over the earlobe, down over the jaw, cup-- cradle. Goddamn, soft; so silky damn soft and Mal tipping his head and hungrily claiming. No experimental mouthing. Claiming. With his tongue stroking deep and his free hand copping a feel down Simon's slightly squirming side and hip. Does he wriggle like this when a woman kisses him? No way-- no fucking way. Not when he's being... not when Mal is commanding.
"You're--this--it's insane." But it's said all soft and quiet-like, and those eyes have gone half-closed on him.
"Is it?" A wide, genial smile and Simon's neatly trimmed hair brushing against his nose before he draws back enough to get a better look.
"Your idea of being discreet leaves something to be desired." All the while, fidgeting--faint tides of movement under the hand Mal's still got splayed over that fussy brocade vest, almost able to feel the heat spilling out from under God only knows how many layers the doc's got himself wrapped in today.
Bit of a grin that he can't hide, head ducked-- his hand there, thumbing the top button of that cow-brown vest. Simon's chin tucking toward his chest, trying to see-- ends up with his brow against Mal's, breathing fast. Slight push-rub motion, undone with even more buttons lying underneath. Exhale air, long and slow, his other hand sneaking down, voice dropped to a near whisper-- "Let's check the crazy meter." Stroke up an inner thigh, press his open hand between Simon's legs. Hm, yes. No complaints.
"Mal..." He imagines it's supposed to be a warning tone, only the effect is somewhat dulled by the way that voice sounds more like a breath and those fingers settle and fleetingly clench on his shoulders. "I appreciate your devotion to my well-being, but this isn't the time." As that dark head tips back against the mirror, eyes slipping shut, and black-clothed thighs go parting just a bit more. Rocking up into the unyielding presence of Mal's palm there; yeah, that's nice.
Move his head in, squeeze as he breathes it: "Bizui." That vest, curl his hand under the top of it-- "Aw, fuck it." Pull, threads going poppoppop. Press it back, press himself in, that other hand rubbing. Rubbing; slow but hard. Simon's teeth getting bared briefly, just a small sound from the back his throat-- all that pale, pale throat. Where Mal suddenly puts his lips. His teeth. Clench up that white shirt beneath in his fist, giving a small groan of his own; smell of skin and clothes and the wood of this little, tiny box keeping them in.
First feel of actual skin, barebarebare and hot to the touch under that sterile-neat whiteness rucked half-up Simon's middle. Hands on his shoulders getting braver now, arms rushing around his neckbackwaist and clamping, those fingers slender and greedy in his hair, the good doctor throwing caution to the winds and shruggingstruggling with that damn vest all the while. Simon's dropping curses, though he's breathing so hard it's a trial for him to get any words out at all, and then that's a moot point anyway when that mouth is on him, heated-silky swipes of heated-silky tongue slick and near-desperate up against Mal’s own.
Mal can't imagine sex has been high up on the doc's to-do list anytime recently. So if Mal's the one who gets to throw it in his face? The rounds are on him; ce-le-brate.
Slide his hand away from between those parting thighs, just long enough to move himself there. To hear them both gulp for air and curse. Goodgoodgood. Suspenders snapping, Mal's fingers having moved between them-- buttons and zippers and all. Not hard; parting as much clothing as they can in a brisk-like hurry. Oooh, doctor. One of those milk-white little claws clamping on Mal's ass and he can't help the bit of a yelp, especially with the breathy-urgent mauling of his neck—collarbone, when it can be reached. Spun out and drawn out and it's all red-white between them, those mirrors getting smeared fingerprints and steamed air.
The boy's got a mouth on him, yeah, noticed that right from the start. Reddened now, pursing over and over against his own, and parting again to get at his neck; he's gonna leave this shop looking like he's been confronted by one of Wash's dinosaurs. If anyone's going to have to justify finding a loophole in the don't-screw-the-crew rule, might as well be the guy who came up with it. Quality leather under his hands, real sleek and real easy to unbuckle, get the belt out of the way and, with the aid of two more just-as-helpful hands, get those pressed black trousers pulled the hell down. Ends up also getting himself halfway to his knees and an answer as to what gets worn under said trousers. Clean-looking and quality-like, same as the belt; predictably Simon.
Just a chuff of humor, enough to get Simon looking. Or trying to, under those heavy lids-- cheeks wearing a blush, mouth wetslick and hanging open because Mal is just there. And he could. He really could. Instead, he grips the band, breathes against the protrusion hidden by the material and then pulls them down, standing up as fluidly as possible in the cramped, small space. Both his hands on that face, gripping, stroking his thumb over a hot cheekbone before they're tangled up in a kiss. Break it, breathe, reach down long enough to grip Simon's erection near the head, and stroke their in the same kind of motion he'd done over that cheek, feeling himself wanting to grin, groan, cry,curse.
"Ohgod," gets uttered towards no one in particular, and Simon's got his face screwed up like something hurts, but he's hot and hard and pushing into Mal's fist all the same. "W-whatever happened to the Feds we were hiding from?" One eyebrow wry and high on that clear forehead, fingers flying to finish undoing that white dress shirt, get it and the vest tossed towards one of the hooks on the opposite wall.
Simon doesn't seem bothered in the least when it misses and Mal smirks. Pale shoulder blades flattening against the mirror, Simon with his fingers hooked around the perilously low waist of Mal's trousers and his face practically buried in the crook of his neck, doing an all-over shudder every time Mal moves his hand. Simon's head lifting long enough to give some choice words, then, sounding hoarse and thready and vaguely mortified, "Little...a little harder, if..." and wo de ma if that isn't something straight out of a million different late-night ponderings.
"Harder... harder, doc, I can do..." Almost in one breath, squeeze-twist on the downstroke, feel smooth bared skin shiver against him on the upstroke and Simon is whimpering now.
And, Lord, if that isn't pretty. Pretty little sounds from pretty little Simon and Mal's conducting it all with the tight little motions of his wrist. That heave-surge of heat in his stomach, sweat down the side of his neck, feeling the throb of teeth marks and suction, head going back to release a groan as quietly as possible. And all right. Yeah, okay. Release him, just for a second, his own back to the other side of the damn horse stall they’re in and do a bit of manhandling. Just like this-- he wants him just. like. this. Simon's mouth parted around a gasp-- a loud one. Hope no one is poking around in the back of the store-- hopehopehope. Simon with his cheek is against the mirror, warmed by their body heat, fogged by the release of air.
Openmouthed and steaming up the right-hand panel of the three-way mirror, up close and personal with his own face and stripped-to-the-ankles reflection, Simon's working the best look Mal's ever seen on him to date. Shuck his own pants down till they're caught at his knees; good enough. Get his front lined up all nice and flush with Simon's back, get a good, long look at the front of him in the mirror. Words burred and rough-like, but still just loud enough to be heard. "You want that? Want me in you?"
Simon's fingertips white against the mirror, braced and smearing and trying to find purchase on the frictionless surface.
"Want I should just fuck you right here and now?" It's something of a rhetorical question, given the location and lack of a few vital components; maybe if they'd thought to pick up some bath oil instead of gorram underpants... And thinking of Simon's half-crazed, half-grown sister while he's got her brother naked and writhing against him in a public dressing room, that...hell, that’s just not natural. Wrap his own rough grip around Simon's front to close over the length of him, jutting obscenely and ohruttinghell, wet, flushed dark in contrast to the paleness of his stomach and thighs. Grip and stroke just once, feeling Simon near convulse and shove himself back.
"W-we shouldn't-- I-I mean, it--"
And that, right there, he can work with. Shove back, releasing a sort of strangled sound into soft, dark hairs at an even softer, white nape. Press his face there, the glide of his cock between the cleft-- it'll have to do. Not complaining, it's just if he'd-- if they-- fuckfuckfuck.
"Bizui, bizui, ni ta ma de, I know." Doesn't have to be a doctor to know there's no getting around it, but the frustration of finally getting here and not having-- focus. Focus. With Simon near rutting up against a mirror, bracing himself and pantmoaning softly when Mal jerks him, shuddering fitfully when Mal's hips rock forward and the friction gets his entire form squeeze-releasing in desire.
Accommodating, Simon goes spreading his legs as much as he can with those pants still ringed at his ankles and Mal goes grinding right up against him, lets his cock slip and rub up between his cheeks, lets his mind take over from there till he's practically cross-eyed imagining being able to hold that ass the fuck open and guide himself inside so slowly the both of them are hurting for it. The doc's smaller than he is, yeah, but definitely not some weak skinny thing; he's got muscle on him, and every one of them seems to be coming into play under all that pretty, unblemished skin. Nicely combed hair falling over his eyes in damp locks, face ducked as if he can't bear to look at himself. Not having that; no way, no how. Get his other hand up to frame a flaming cheek; push gently, there and elsewhere.
"You get your head up and you watch what I'm doing to you." Low enough not to be heard by anyone other than its intended recipient, firm enough not to go unheeded. Which it doesn’t. Yeah, that's better. Of all the times for the doc to start following his orders, he couldn't have picked a better one.
The heat of him, the solidity-- all right there in that nice bundle, right up against him. God, and he wants-- he wants; Mal's face pressing into that nape, moving over to bite down lightly; feel Simon buck from it. Bucking right back up against him, nice like that. China-doll pale with the same kind of red paint for the tinge on the cheeks; downright sinful. Dig his fingers in a hip, push-shove, feel their combined sweat facilitate the process. Wants to look to down and see himself pressing in, inch at a time before he's thrusting, before he's fucking the good doc senseless and there're no survivors in the end, it's all just crash and burn. They'll solve that. Later. He'll have him. Just like this. Slip his greedy hand up Simon's writhing side, arm going up in front of the shoulder so he can grasp the back of the hand, press it to the mirror, splayed and open. Just like the rest of him. Mal's other arm contracting with muscle, wrist twisting as he jerkjerkjerks, eyes squeezed shut and breath heave-hissing through teeth. Blink his eyes open-- don't miss this. Not a gorram second of it-- not a second.
And Simon...twisting his head back long enough to niplapgasp all along Mal's mouth, meet his eyes dead-on. "'m loud," bluntly, raggedly, no time to be shameful about it, and he's twisting right back to where he was, leaving those words to be processed however Mal sees fit.
The one hand Simon's got hooked back over Mal's thigh suddenly leaves its post, darts up to where straight white teeth are bared and biting down, Simon smothering himself with the heel of his hand, jerking violently between the mirror and Mal, who can see every last clench and flush and spasm before the doc's coming apart. Coming, on himself and his reflection, Mal frotting up between those considerately spread thighs with his jaw slack as any backwoods idiot's, can't even find a swear word to choke out in honor of the occasion. Too fucking close himself, and the thought, even though he knew from the start this was the aim, of watching his own come streak there, drip down the backs of those legs, more messily than anything in Simon's presence has a right to be...fuck. Maybe let that lead right into an excuse to lend the doc a hand with cleaning up when they get back to the boat.
He's not far behind-- not far at all; slingshot, right into space. All black with pinpricks of light going off behind his eyelids, like the passing of so many stars. Seeing stars. Literally. It'll make him laugh as soon as he can catch his breath. Currently, he's got his head straining back and his arms around the doctor, solid and muscled—more than he was before he joined the hearty little crew of Serenity. Filled out. Got rough around the edges. Only in a figurative sense. Oh, no-- nothing but smooth. Smooth, smooth skin-- smooth flesh that he's spilling against, messy and sticky and white against the small of Simon's back where he's pressed up, no room to spare even for the barest breath of air.
"The Feds," Simon sniffs, but there's a crooked smile pulling at his mouth when he meets Mal's eyes in the mirror. Seemingly content to let Mal do most of the work as far as keeping him upright goes. Not that he minds. Good an excuse as any to keep a good strong hold on the doc, especially when he goes clumsily turning in Mal's arms to slip him a kiss that's slow and wet and just straight-up good.
Innocent raise of his eyebrows, all it takes to convey that it was, indeed, a big fat lie. Still, Simon's bare, if slippery-sticky, ass is pressed to the mirror, Mal's bare, tanned arms around a pale middle. And Simon does grimace a little--at the former, Mal guesses--but there's no immediate danger of having a lecture handed to him, it seems, not just yet. "Gotta take opportunities when you can," he says importantly, and Simon does look ready to lecture him at that point. "Figured something like this would do you good."
"Always keeping the morale of your crew in mind." Dry and amused. "How thoughtful. I wasn't aware this was standard procedure."
There's a beat. A pause as Mal's thumb makes a thorough sweep of the jaw line from ear to chin. Very seriously: "It's not."
Simon's bending his head into the touch for a second, eyes still dark and pleased, but traces of that same old stodginess steadily creeping back. Mal tries very hard not to snort as he bends down to gather up his pants, pulls a face, and then fumbles around with his vest until he can find a handkerchief. "Then what is it?" Simon raising a brow at him in the mirror as he swipes the cloth over it enough to erase the worst of the damage.
"Charity?" Trying to sound almost hopeful, even as he's slanting his shoulders one by one to draw up the straps of his suspenders.
Pants back in place, Simon doesn't even look up from haphazardly piling the discarded undergarments on the tiny shelf and gathering scattered buttons into his cupped hand. "Don't misinterpret this, but I never took you for a charitable sort."
Mal, buttoning his own shirt, leans in just to smell the thick ebony-black locks of Simon's hair, mumbling, "Shh, don't tell anyone." Of course, when he mentioned “charity,” he was kind of referring to himself... Far be it for him to correct Simon.
That gets him an actual grin, albeit a brief one, before Simon's fussing at himself in the mirror again and deliberately unlocking the door. Face flushing like he anticipates every patron, employee, and Fed in the vicinity to be crowded outside.
Mal wouldn't care if they were. Just swagger out, grin, wink, hitch up his pants a bit, and move along. Thanks so much, another showing yet to be announced in another venue. So much for a peaceful, discreet stop planetside.
Stoop down, doesn't matter this puts his face eye-level with the good doctor's now, unfortunately, pants-clad ass as he scoops a handful of panties in one hand, bras in the other, shaking them out a bit. "These'll do rightly, I suspect. After all, she's got no one she's fancied to show them off to, so it oughtn't matter none."
"Not the ones from the floor," hissed out of the corner of his mouth, that's all the doc sees fit to give Mal for his troubles. No one seems to pay them any special attention, and the store is near deserted as it is, but Simon seems to be doing his damnedest to raise a blindingly bright beacon of "post-coital" over their heads. Striding around like a madman, eyes a little too wide, grabbing some new undergarments as they work their way back to the trip's original purpose, snatching clothes almost at random.
"All right, but what's she need a girdle for?" A nod at an article of clothing heedlessly gathered. Could he be more obvious? It's almost flattering, really.
With an almost ceremonial air, Simon puts it back. Some of the skirts and blouses he has in his arms aren't exactly Mal's idea of sartorial ingenuity, but they're inexpensive enough and River's not liable to pitch a fit over brand names.
He doesn't even bother trying not to grin when Simon snags a pair of combat boots. "Lowering your standards now?"
"Being sensible in a senseless situation." Drops of the poetic in some podunk women's-wear store. Huh. "And I'd say that much is clear." Simon smiles brightly and he could hit the smug, uppity, handkerchief-carrying thing. He really could.
Still, Mal takes the Jayne way out, snaps his suspenders and mutters, "Didn't hear complaints three minutes ago."
Which makes Simon turn the color of the fluffy pink dress he's holding. Funny, Mal doesn't remember him being the type to blush easily. Wonders what else he doesn't know. "That wasn't a complaint." Backhanded compliment, more like, but Simon's social skills at their best seem to rival his own.
"Huh. Most surely sounded like one from where I'm standing. Suspect I should be a bit closer?" Mal knows he’s got that look in his eye, that one that tells you that he knows something that you don't know and he's just waiting to pop the bad news on you, waiting to take the upper hand in a fell swoop and then smirk-smile afterwards. "S'pose the rich, respectable fugitive felt like bending over proper-like for the lowlife, backwater brigand?"
"Suppose indeed," Simon answers under his breath, striding with his armload of sundries over to the nearest counter. "Yes, ah, I believe we're ready."
"Not rich," he adds, and Mal definitely doesn't miss the fact that it's the only point Simon bothers to correct him on.
"Ex-rich." Out of the corner of his mouth. Mal right there, staring over Simon's shoulder, grinning the biggest shit-eating grin he can manage. "Yep. We're ready."
Let Simon snip at him. He doesn't mind much at all because whatever it was... it wasn't a no.