Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. So nah nah na boo boo...
Distribution: Just let me know where I'm showing off. :)
Rating: Rish, maybe light NC17.
A/N + Spoilers: Through season six, both a positive and a negative view on the Spuffyness of that season and where it
could have gone.
Summary: Spike has reached his limit when he finds Buffy crying on the porch again.
He's seen this scene, almost exactly, before. The black clothing and the tears, he's seen it so many times he wonders
why they would bring her back. It couldn't be a close friendship; she didn't know they were all falling apart and they had
never noticed her tears. Or her bruises. Or her scars.
Tears, bruises and scars that he gave her. His fault. All of her pain his fault.
She sniffled and lifted her head, met his eyes. The softness he fell in love with wasn't there, just the hardness he'd
caused. "No more," he muttered allowed, stalking closer to her.
She trembled, just barely, and he watched the bruise by her eye tremble with her. He reached out a hand and pulled it
back before it made contact. "That's my fist," Spike told her. She already knew, of course, he knew that. She was there when
he'd hit her. She was always there when he hurt her. "I can't do this anymore."
"Spike," her head tilted, lips slightly parted in either shock, or want, or something in between. He was never sure how
to read her face. He was never sure about her.
"You want to get hurt," he grabbed her arms and hauled her to him, pressing their chests together, squeezing her forearms.
"You want to get beat then let's fight. No more of this. I won't bloody do this anymore."
"Spike..." it was a whine now, or maybe a beg. "Please..."
"You don't enjoy this, pet, and I know it," he growled, pressing his face into her hair. "You don't like me, or what
I do to you, and you don't want to."
"That's not..." she didn't finish. She didn't say anything else, because she knew there was nothing else to say.
It is true. She didn't like when he cut her, or beat her, she didn't like when he forced himself inside of her, even though
she begged him for it. She didn't want to like it. She wanted to feel real, and she'd learned that real is pain.
"I love you, blondie," he whispered, pressing his lips against hers. "Love is real, too. I don't have to hurt you anymore.
I can't hurt you anymore."
She pushed him away and ran inside.
The next night she was outside the door to his crypt, ear pressed against the door, and when he opened it, she fell into
his arms. Nothing had changed.