((WARNING: Mentions of torture and abusive relationships. Also, mention of what could be considered slash. Buffy/Spike, Dru/Spike, possible Angelus/Spike. Exactly 200 words this time. If I blindsided some people by following such a comparatively light drabble with one as dark as this, I apologize; Spike is a much darker person than Dawn. Didn't intend to write another, but the premise was stuck in my head, so neh.
Takes place after Dead Things.))
Spike knows that his ribs are broken; he can feel the wrongness of the usually smooth curve when he runs a damaged hand down his chest.
They are already beginning to heal crookedly. He smiles.
Spike has learned to interpret actions, not words. The pain, it lets him know she loves him, because doesn't love always come with pain? He learned this lesson a century ago, possessive golden-eyes and Irish brogue, Irish whiskey poured into the slashes down his back. "My boy, my William…" Never said it, not right with the Lore, but what were words? Showed it, with fists and whip and pain. They hurt you because they care… Raven hair and nursery rhymes, with razor-sharp fingernails in his shoulder, borrowed blood on the floor. She couldn't say anything properly, his poor princess, speaking in stars and songs, but he knew- when she hissed and clawed, ripped him open with words and teeth. "Something… effulgent…"
His fingers, arms, legs- need them, set the bones right, but leave the ribs. Her mark is on him now- Buffy, Buffy, Buffy- says she doesn't love him, then why does she claim him so?
You always hurt the ones you love, right?
…Right…?
/AN/
((Thank you, to those people who reviewed. You made my day, really. Again, comments and crits are both loved, because I'm kind of a fledgling in the fanfiction world- I need all the help you can give me. If you don't like the writing, give me some criticism to make sure I'll produce better fics in the future!))
