A Cut Above



Wesley drew the razor blade slowly down his cheek. “I can only assume you’re hoping I’ll cut myself,” he said mildly, not taking his eyes off a mirror that showed only himself. “Though as you’re unable to taste blood in your present state, I fail to see why you care.”

Spike grinned. “Can’t taste, touch or smell it. But I’ve still got eyes and ears.”

“’Ears’?” Wesley said, allowing himself to be momentarily distracted and flicking a sideways glance at the figure lounging carefully against the bathroom wall, somehow managing not to slide through it.

Spike nodded. “Your skin’s all taut, right? So that the blade doesn’t drag. When it slices the skin, there’s this little pop. Like a bag of crisps being opened, yeah?”

“Delightful though it is to be compared to a salty, greasy snack, I’d still rather you went away.”

“Not until you bleed for me.”

“Gunn tells me that you watch him in the washroom too, but under slightly different circumstances.” And hadn’t that brought out Wesley’s competitive side...

Spike’s smile turned knowing. “Jealous, Wes? Wish I wanted your cock instead of your blood? Choices, choices...oh, sod it; this is me. You know I want both.”

Wesley’s hand wavered and he moved it away before turning to glare at Spike. “Neither is on the menu. Your eyes would be better employed in looking for somewhere to be that isn’t here.”

It wasn’t the best retort in the world but he was successful; Spike gave him a deeply wounded, if unconvincing, look, and stalked through the wall. Wesley sighed, raised his hand, noticed and quelled a slight tremor, and gently scraped off the last stripe of shaving foam. A voice spoke softly in his ear.

“Saw yours last night. Very nice too.”

Pain. Small, vicious and familiar, as the razor bit deep.

“You utter bastard, Spike!”

He turned and Spike stretched out a wavering finger, face screwed up with fierce concentration, and caught the first droplet as it fell. Wesley paused, open–mouthed, as Spike brought his finger to his mouth, sucking on it with an avidity that conjured up images Wesley was trying hard to forget after months of lonely nights.

“Well?” Wesley said, trying for asperity and settling for curious. “Now I’ve sliced myself open, was it worth it?”

Spike was so close that he didn’t need to move his feet to lean in and kiss Wesley and to snatch away the towel that was all he wore. He did anyway, sliding one jean-clad leg between Wesley’s, his eyes blazing blue with need.

“Fuck, yes,” Spike said.

Wesley didn’t bother to ask how Spike had miraculously become solid again. It might be temporary and really, there was no time to waste.



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