Out Of Costume

Wesley's cock ached in his trousers, and he longed to spread his legs, slip in a hand and rub until he found relief as he was certain men were doing all over the club under cover of tables, coats, lap dances.

How could they not with a display such as that which was on stage in the form of a dancer named Spike? Long-limbed perfection strutted for their shared pleasure and anguish. More anguish for himself, Wesley thought, and pleasure for Spike, who shamelessly clawed at his throat and chest and belly with black lacquered nails, striping himself in scarlet trails to the heady bass of his chosen music. Wesley felt his throat go dry as Spike opened his mouth in a wordless groan of pleasure, palm cupping and rubbing over the g-string that was barely a shred of decency now, a pale nod to civic laws that banned the baring of more.

The straining cloth, the tantalizing peeks of smooth shaven skin beneath somehow made it more obscene as the show became less about the dance, and more about the arch of a perfect spine, the thrust of Spike's hips into the air, lost utterly in his own pleasure for the pleasure of many, writhing beneath a fluttering snow of ones, fives, tens, even twenties.

And as the twenties began to fall, Spike opened his eyes, bared his teeth in a sneer that should have been bad Billy Idol instead of bone-melting, lust-inducing raw sex. With a leer, he ripped the last scrap of fabric off, tossing it into the audience to whoops and howls, revealing his cock at last: hard, glistening, and glittering brilliantly in the spotlight with an icy collection of bejeweled piercings before the lights snapped hastily off, dropping the club into utter darkness.

Wesley fell back, panting, realizing only then that he'd ceased to breathe. That glittering hardness was burned now into his retinas, all he could see in the dark.

He was still breathing hard and trying to blink away erect flesh and icy tricks of the light when the lights came back up to reveal a bare and empty stage. Wesley's companion slung an arm around his shoulders, laughing. "You really like that kinda thing, huh?"

"I. Oh." Wesley shifted uneasily away from Holden's arm, and pulled his coat into his lap more securely. He didn't like that kind of thing. Found piercings rather odd at best, repugnant at worst, and yet his mind seemed to have turned into a magpie, obsessed already with the collection of glittering metal and jewels threaded through the most perfect cock in California. "I. He's quite nice," Wesley finally managed to say.

"Nice? I take you to the best strip club in Los Angeles on Spike's night, and all you can come up with is nice?"

"Quite nice," Wesley corrected. Nice enough, in fact, that he was wishing he'd worn a sweater that could be left untucked rather than the button down that was suddenly feeling entirely too thin to keep his over heated body comfortable.

"You can do better than that."

"Very nice," Wesley conceded with a groan, letting his head sink to the table. "God, why did I let you talk me into coming here?"

"Um hard day in the library," Holden said, "then three beers and one of those head-sized margaritas with the little," he gestured vaguely.

"Umbrellas," Wesley sighed, wishing desperately that he had one now. Or perhaps a glass of scotch. Or the whole bottle, rather. The music started up again along with the hollers and whistles, and Wesley found his head pounding in time with his cock. The sudden wish to go home was so strong, he stood up, squeezing Holden's shoulder. "And I do thank you, but I think it's time for me to go home."

"Are you sure?" Holden looked up at him with wide eyes, gesturing to the strongly built cowboy just coming out on stage. "Angel's pretty good. He does rope tricks with that lasso that you would not believe."

Wesley offered the most polite smile he possibly could, felt it strain his face, and pulled his coat around him. "I'm sure." Privately, he didn't think he was cut out for looking at specimens of masculine perfection he'd never be able to touch, never be able to have. It was nice for perhaps the first half hour. After that it was, he took a deep, steadying breath, willing his heart to return to normal, it was more masochistic than he was prepared to let himself become. "I'm sure. I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"If I come in." Holden flashed Wesley a grin and waved his fan of singles and fives. "I might be coming down with something."

Wesley found himself chuckling despite the headache. "I'll be certain not to reveal that you've come down with a mysteriously contagious hangover." With a last smile, he turned and pushed through the crowd, finding them mercifully thin at the back of the club. He supposed that Angel really was quite popular if the way his audience crowded the stage was any indication. Or perhaps the rope trick was indeed as spectacular as Holden had suggested.

He didn't intend to stay long enough to find out, and took a deep, satisfying breath of air as he pushed open the door and emerged into the lamp-lit Los Angeles night. "God," he said softly to himself just to be certain his ears were still working after the din inside.

"He don't listen."

Wesley whirled around to find the blond dancer, Spike, smirking at him from his pose against the wall, lit cigarette glowing between his lips. "I. That is, it's only a figure of speech. Which, I suppose, you of course know, being," Wesley swallowed, realizing he was babbling, and gestured helplessly, trailing off with a last lame: "English-speaking and all."

"Not just English speaking."

Wesley laughed softly, the sudden ridiculousness of knowing what he was about to say giving him courage. "You expect me to believe that accent is real?"

"No," Spike said, reaching into his leather duster and drawing out a pair of spectacles, putting them on and looking Wesley up and down through them, his entire demeanor shifting, becoming softer, more welcoming. "But this one is," he said, and the sweetly smooth accent went straight to Wesley's heart, making it trip and ache for home even more than it had in the club.

"Why the other?"

Spike shrugged, pushing away from the wall and reaching up with one hand, mussing the gel in his hair until it stood out in messy spikes and waves. "It's all about the costume in there, isn't it? When you're naked, the costume's got to be more than what you wear."

"Are your piercings-" Wesley stopped himself before he could finish the question, blushing desperately and wishing he hadn't had anything to drink at all. Then, he might not be having this mad, and incredibly rude conversation with a near stranger who he'd been watching thrust and gyrate on the stage not ten minutes before.

Unfortunately, Spike seemed to hear the rest of the question regardless. "They're real." From the corner of his eye, Wesley saw the wickedly pointed tongue dart across Spike's lower teeth. "Like 'em?"

"I- I don't know. I've never-" Wesley cleared his throat. "They're certainly eye-catching."

Spike chuckled. "But a bugger in the practical sense. Only keep the jeweled heads on for dancing, switch 'em out with smooth metal as soon as I've come off stage. Want to see?"

Wesley realized with a start that Spike was reaching for his belt, unfastening it, and had his hands on the zipper before Wesley caught his wrists. "No! That's quite- that's fine. I believe you."

"You sure about that?"

Wesley took a deep breath. "Utterly," he said, though it lacked conviction. "We're in a public place," he finished somewhat lamely.

Spike glanced up at the cool blue neon of the strip club's sign. Guys Guys Guys! it said in true strip club fashion. "Public don't bother me anymore."

"I am perhaps somewhat more old fashioned," Wesley murmured, though the blush that had settled around his ears and cheeks was growing rather pleasant.

"Hey. What's your name?"

Wesley looked up when Spike spoke, the accent once more sliding back into gentler, higher class tones. "Wesley," he replied, too startled not to answer the question.

"You like coffee, Wesley? American type coffee?" He added, when Wesley opened his mouth to say that he preferred tea.

"Just coffee?"

"Maybe the kind of coffee you come up to my place for," Spike said slowly, letting his eyes travel down the length of Wesley's body.

Wesley took an instinctive step back, but Spike looked so- he looked irrationally shy behind the spectacles, waves of hair obscuring his forehead. "I'm sorry. I- I don't do that."

Spike's lips curved in a smile, and he flicked at a chip of nail polish on his thumb. "Me neither. Thought I'd make an exception."

"I don't even know your real name," Wesley protested, feeling as if he'd stepped, at some point, into a poorly devised fantasy and would hear bad porn music at any moment.

The look in Spike's blue eyes when he lifted them once more quite took Wesley's breath away. Spike reached into his coat again, pulling out a small white calling card, startlingly old fashioned for the punk look he'd sported on stage. Spike folded Wesley's fingers over the card with cool hands, holding Wesley's left in both of his own. "Will you think about making an exception with me some time? What you saw in there, he's not the real me. That's me," he said, gesturing to the card Wesley held.

Wesley felt his heart do a not unpleasant double trip in his chest, and he looked down at the card, reading the name, though the rest of its writing blurred behind fogging glasses. "William." He licked his lips, feeling awkward and too small for his skin, at a loss for the words.

"Just think about it, yeah?"

"Why?"

Spike half smiled. "Cause you don't look like the sort of bloke who comes to places like this." He tilted his head, and smiled the rest of the way. "And I like that in a man." Spike- William darted in, pressing cool tobacco-scented lips to Wesley's in a fleeting kiss, then whirled, stalking across the parking lot in a swirl of leather, hands jammed down into his duster pockets against the cold.

With shaking hands, he lifted the card to read the rest: William Bonney. Bad poetry for any occasion. Good poetry costs extra. Then a phone number.

Wesley stared after him, the card growing damp in his palm because he already knew he'd call that number, and this sort of thing simply didn't happen to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.