Spike's skin is slippery and pale beneath Angel's hands, muscles twitching and flexing under the surface. The tiled wall is cold and scrapes Spike's palms but it is the only thing that will keep him standing. His feet slip but strong arms circle his waist, holding him close. The water pounds down on them from the faucet like liquid fire, enough to make any human sick. The back of Spike's neck tastes salty and wet, the real prize just beneath the surface. Angel drags a bar of soap over Spike's stomach and along his chest, making the skin slick and clean.