He wears the black latex gloves at crime scenes. They let him touch without leaving traces of himself behind, invisible touches, insubstantial, ghost-like. They're a barrier, thin, but effective, between blood and the assorted bodily fluids a corpse sheds, and the less tangible gloss of evil that makes his skin crawl.
When he spanks Danny still wearing them, hard, fast flurries of slaps against all that pale, waiting skin, he leaves marks. No fingerprints, though. He's safe.
His hands feel hot afterwards. Stinging. Heavy.
Maybe one day he'll use his bare hand and stop pretending it's not him doing it.
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