Interlude: Shower
He entered quietly, weariness sagging every muscle. The building ticked with stillness, but he knew somewhere in its vast bowels the machination continued, the gears turned on. No rest for the wicked, as the saying went, hence he was not fooled. Taking care not to smear demon innards on the walls as he walked he tried to breath through his mouth and tried to inhale the foul stench as little as possible. The shuffle of his footsteps was the lone sound and then the loud clank as he dropped the bag of weapons on the floor, thinking belatedly he should have perhaps checked the state of the duffle bag's cleanliness as well.
No help for it now.
His body protested the taking of another step but he soothed it with promises of steam and hot water and that breath of fresh air one's pores took when first cleansed of so much filth. Finding one of the gray Fieldcrest towels he kept in his office he once again set out.
The wall unit opened in a soundless slide and a waft of steam billowed in his face. The pattering of a shower could be heard and he stepped carefully inside, sliding the wall into place behind him. He'd thought no one knew about this facility, hidden as it was between a copy room and a storage closet, one almost invisible door he stumbled on by accident.
Keen disappointment sprouted as there was but a single stall, spacious though it was. He moved to leave, resigning himself to a drive home covered in demon innards, when a shock of white blond hair caught his eye. With a jolt of recognition he forgot himself, stepped closer and froze at the sight before him. The towel left his nerveless fingers and slid to the floor.
Spike leaned against the black tiles of the many nozzled shower, rivulets and streams of water gliding down the myriad muscles of his neck, his arms, the firm stones of his torso; his corporeal, solid torso. Feet splayed wide, head thrown to the side so the cords of his neck stood out in sharp relief he looked like nothing so much as an alabaster statue among the slick black background. Except statues did not move. They did not work their own cock in even, measured strokes, curve of deltoid flexing and releasing. One clever, nimble hand moved lushly over the firm chest, brushing a nipple, worrying it with a thumb.
He gasped silently, he knew it was silent, but not even the steady rain of the shower could get past vampire hearing and lashes beaded with moister slid open slowly, languorously, the blue dark as midnight and glittering lust. For a second the steady rhythm of his hand paused but no longer. A knowing smile curved the glistening pink lips and Spike's hand caught the rhythm again, jerking up and down over the dusky skin. The wet lashes fell once more. He hadn't even realized he was clutching himself until Spike ran a finger over the swollen head and gave a low growl that was almost a purr. Tightened his fist and he tightened his as well, an unconscious mirror of the vampire's actions, and his spine ignited all the way up, making him gasp.
He suddenly wanted desperately to touch himself but his hand was inert, merely gripping the crotch of his pants viselike while the alabaster figure in the arched and moaned under the crash of the shower spray. The muscles beneath the moist, pale skin seemed to thrum with tension and the vampire suddenly looked at him, catching his gaze and holding.
He realized his hand had begun to pump through his clothes, strokes that matched Spike's, ever time, and he could not look away. With a triumphant nod Spike sped up and he matched the rhythm helplessly, rubbing the cotton of his briefs over the sensitive skin, chafing but the sting was just another level of this illicit, improbable scenario. A tremble suddenly overtook the vampire, and another and the perfect features shifted, rolled until feral amber eyes blinked at him, the lowered brow, long incisors. Spike's fist never stopped, never lost control.
He felt it come up on him without help or recourse, a full body flush and quaking so he threw his head back, frantically rubbing through his pants, collapsed to his knees, the sharp pain lost among all the other sensations. Through slitted eyes, behind the haze of orgasm he saw Spike pull roughly, hard, and growl as he shuddered, neck strained, cock red and shooting onto the tiled floor.
Breath fought raggedly from his lips and he could feel the dull throb in his knees and between his legs, but refrained from opening his eyes, not wanting to deal with the fallout of this bizarre occurrence, not knowing how.
Flicks of water on his face made him look in spite of himself and he saw a sculpted hip at eye level, avoided the cock he'd just watched come by looking up at Spike's amused expression. Only then did he realize the position of succor he must be in, but could find no wherewithal to rise. Cool fingers smoothed the drops from his cheeks and he blinked at the gesture, beyond something as mundane as embarrassment.
"Welcome back, Percy." The velvet whiskey voice remarked, English accent sounding very much like his own in this bathroom where he knelt on his knees. With a pleased smirk Spike walked away, nude and still wet, towel thrown over one shoulder. He stayed there, waiting for his legs to be able to hold him, and wondered what exactly had just happened.