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It was a tactical decision in dim, smoky lighting on a stairway at an underground bar. Simon was highly aware that to the other patrons, he might appear to be a prostitute. This was deeply troubling.
"Wash won't have the engines hot until he sees us," Mal murmured. "We want to move fast—"
Simon's eye caught motion at the bottom of the stairs. "Quiet." They stilled.
It was only a shadow.
His hand had tightened in Malcolm's hair, so he softened it.
They were two faceless patrons kissing against a filthy wall—or, to be more precise, Malcolm was kissing him against a filthy wall—but while Simon was sticking to the original plan of staying by the entrance and blending in until their tail passed them by, the captain had taken some liberties.
Simon broke the kiss. "Were you drinking?"
Mal blinked. "We're in a bar."
Simon smothered his irritation. "Hide your face and keep quiet," he whispered.
"That's the idea."
Simon glanced down the stairs, then shut him up.
It was more like putting their chins together than anything else, but it was convincing enough from the outside. People brushed by without looking twice.
He didn't care for the smell of this place or the clash where the cool outdoor air pulled against the stuffy indoors, nor did he enjoy the sting of some spirit in Malcolm's breath. But, he supposed, some people enjoyed Malcolm at this distance. Maybe they liked his rough, shaven face, or how he stood square and self-assured toward the wall to box Simon in, or his dry hands and shirt sleeves that kept brushing Simon's neck. He wasn't gentle. He squeezed and brought blood to the surface.
Simon didn't know what he should feel about it, but he decided that he wasn't troubled.