Not by His Hand

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Summary: Ficlet. Post-‘Dead Things’ Spike muse of sorts.

AUTHOR: Aurora
EMAIL: girl292@hotmail.com
RATING: R
PAIRING: Buffy/Spike
SPOILERS: BtVS all the way up to 'Wrecked'
DISCLAIMER: It all belongs to Joss, ME, Fox and a lot of other suit-y types that aren't me.
DISTRIBUTION: Improv, lists, anyone who archives my fic - otherwise just ask!
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Spike leans casually against the tree, attention trained solely on the scene playing out in the warm light leaking from the living room window. Watches, with the one eye that's not swelled completely shut, as Buffy's face shifts from shock, to horror, to shame and then... pain.

Pain.

He can bloody well smell the pain. Drowning out the tang of the smoke in his lungs, filling him with need. Want. Lust. Coating his tongue with the familiar taste of it, soothing like the blood still seeping lazily from his split lip.

He watches as she cracks, tears sliding past her Slayer resolve, body trembling as she keels forward into the waiting arms of the blonde witch.

Forgets all else save for the echo of her fist slamming into his face. The terror surfacing in the rage of her words.

(I'll ((smack)) never ((crack)) be ((slap)) your ((crunch)) girl.)

Watches the girl fall to pieces on her own.

Falling to bits and pieces of broken Buffy, but... Not. By. His. Hand.

Shielded gaze stares off into the silence, letting his cigarette burn down to the butt and beyond, the fiery center scorching the flesh of his fingertips and still he doesn't flinch.

Didn't flinch then. When she split his skin and poured her pain into replace the blood spreading from his wounds to cover the rain-slicked surface of street.

Won't flinch now.

**

end


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Aurora - girl292@hotmail.com