Trust

It doesn't happen all the time, but occasionally, when Roque needs to come down from whatever adrenaline induced high they've just barely escaped from, he hands Jensen one of his knives.  The knife is always sharp as fuck, perfect for scraping away the remnants of the facial hair that grows under Roque's chin and across his cheeks.

It's trust, pure and simple that lets him bare his throat like that.  Knowing first hand exactly how much pressure it would take for the blade to slice through his skin.  Jensen's tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth, his face screwed up in concentration as he carefully slides the blade across lather and bristle.

It's a private ritual.  One neither of them share with anyone else.  Jensen doesn't offer and Roque doesn't ask, but they both know when to meet up, like a private dance no one else is privy to.  There's something sensual about a naked blade in the hands of one of the most dangerous men Roque knows.  Something erotic and hell, sexy, about that blade dragging along his skin.  The quiet rasp of it the only sound in the room aside from their quiet breaths.