"Clean"

by The Spike

October 2000

Disclaimers: If they belonged to me, I would make them canon

Spoilers: None

Summary: Wesley, heat, cold and the possibility of Angel

Ratings Note: NC-17

Feedback: oh oh *yes* oh god *yes* *YES* at spike21@home.com.

Dedication: For Te. For Debba. Thank you again and again.

He washes his hands first. Always has, but now there's a purpose to it. Now

it's something more than just keeping himself clean in body, if not mind. If

not body either. Not. He will confess this later. Not to a priest.

Washes his hands. His body is clean. He likes to be clean. Bathed, shaved,

talced and dried. Velvet smooth. Likes the smell of his own clean skin. The

smell of clean wool, linen, silk.

Watches himself in the mirror, hot water falling off to cool then cold. Icy.

Holding his hands under until they ache with it. Looking at his face, his eyes

are so... distant. He's looking miles away. Not paying attention again. The

sound of a door slamming, downstairs and far away makes him jump.

He's been with Angel all evening. He can still smell Angel's faint aftershave.

Something masculine and crisp. Dizzying underburn of alcohol.

He thinks sometimes of taking something, some piece of clothing. He

surreptitiously fingers scarves, discarded shirts -- torn rags in the garbage.

Runs fingers across the cuff of Angel's coat. How good it would be to have

something here to hold to his nose and breathe and breathe.

He thinks of it too often in Angel's or Cordelia's company.

He would never, though. *Never*. Oh, but the thought. He is so hard and hot

inside his slacks. Awkward wedge of tightening flesh against the heating silk

of the lining. His own leathers might do. But no, they wouldn't. Still

watching. His cheeks have pinked. So hot. He'd feel like fire now.

Scorching. What an odd smile.

His hands are numb, the fingers white and pinched looking. He lets the water

run. The sound helps cover... Dries his hands. Heat already pounding inside

them but when he touches them to his own cheeks... so cold.

Cold line fingerdrawn down the curved bracket around that smile. Down. Cold

fingers cup his jaw, hard. Harder. Hard enough to bruise.

Wishing he were strong enough to do more than shake with the effort of it.

Pulling his own chin free to hold it proud.

Losing the smile as his fingers trace down the tendon to the jugular. Other

hand rising. Carotid. Hands crossed at his throat and thumbs entwined. He'd

like to close his eyes here. Just feel the pulse, inside and out.

But it's more real this way. No reflection in the mirror. No weight of

presence at his back.

If Angel is there, if Angel simply watches, if Angel is nowhere nearby... He's

left his door unlocked, window ajar. Cold air on his neck, his throat. Cold

burning through the heavy cotton-silk blend shirt to peak his nipples, make them

ache. Just a scratch, light as a kiss.

He shudders, too many nerves awake now. Can feel himself leaking clean,

scentless precome into the silk.

Still holding his throat, he lets his free hand travel his chest. Pinch and

scratch and tug. Making his knees buckle. Making him whimper. Catching the

whimpers with his hand before they leave his throat.

Meeting his own eyes again. Glittering eyes. Muted gleam of sweat. One lock

of hair gone rogue. Rogue demon hunter. He blushes hard there. Body wanting

to curl in on itself, curl away. He grits his teeth. Pinches his nipple hard

instead. Hard enough to make things bright inside. Make his cock jump,

helplessly bound.

Has to force his eyes up, over his shoulder. Left shoulder. Just a little up

and to the left. Breathing so hard now he can hear it over the water. Swallows

against his hand. Squeezes a little more and says it: "Angel." High and a

little choked. He *needs* to touch his cock. Needs so bad he's humping the

edge of the sink now.

Free hand to his fly and he tears the button open, yanks the zipper down. Hard

enough to feel it. Wishes it hurt more. Whisper of silk on silk, yanking

ungentle at the heavy elastic and his cock is out. His own heat rises. Clean

scent but so thick.

Free hand, that hand of which he's relinquished ownership, cups him gently. The

hand has warmed some but it's still cool against this heated bar of flesh.

Tug and slip over the places precome has and has not glazed. His eyelids

flutter closed and he forces them open again as he closes his fist and pulls,

forward, back. On, off. On, off.

Everything, all his strength his will his anger spiraling down into his dick and

he doesn't want to keep his head clear anymore. Lets his eyes fall shut this

time.

Nothing but his hand, the stroke and pull of flesh on slippery flesh, the rasp

of his own harsh breathing. Spreading his legs a little more, trapped inside the

bonds of silk and wool and leather.

Nothing but the sound, the feeling, the rising heady musk of his own harsh need

and the faint, sustained note of Angel's cologne and oh he *wants* he *wants*...

so much more than this. More than his own hand, so good, so skilled with his

own cock that he's on the edge now. Sharp, distant-sounding cries like the bark

of a gull.

Desperate tremor under his palm and he yanks his head sideways with his hand,

leaving flesh taut and exposed. Hand on his cock a blur and his knees give

again.

Slap and crackle of flesh and it's all heat now, all heat and he could come just

like this, just himself, just Wesley alone in the dark bathroom with the water

on, but it's not... it needs to be this. This *gift*.

And opens his eyes to see his own face hot and red, hair wild, eyes wilder,

choking out the words. "Angel... everything... ohh... Angel... *love*" And

comes and comes, ribbons and ropes of pure creamy pearl.

Heartbeat slamming his chest and if he died like this... if he died like

this... Brings his hand to his mouth and, still so hungry, sucks himself

clean.

And turns the water off.

[end]