moonlettuce | Flashfic-athon!

Here's my flashfic-athon :) It's for

eliade, and the pairing is Spike/Xander, with a bit of Angel/Spike implied. And I managed to keep it at exactly 1,000 words, even though there was a bit of panic when I realised that I'd put 'everytime' as one word instead of two.

All the entries are going to be linked from

marguerite_26's LJ, so if you want to check them out that's the place to start. But, for now, here's mine. Hope you enjoy :)

Stray Cat Is Crying
By Claire

"Hurt me."

You thought you'd misheard when he first said it. Turned to him, questions in your eyes, so sure you'd heard the words wrong. But he'd just looked at you and spoke them again.

"Hurt me."

You'd refused at first, horrified at the thought of it and the memories of too many nights with your father pounding in your mind. So you'd said no, ready to forget it until his next words stopped you in your tracks.

"Fine, I'll find someone else who will."

But when he'd turned away your hand had reached out, fingers latching onto his arm and not letting go. You know he could have easily broken away, human strength no match for vampire, but he let you hold on, fingers digging into him, bruises forming on too pale skin.

"Let me go or give me what I need."

Those were the words that scared you more than anything. Because you knew there were people out there who would think nothing of fulfilling Spike's request. People who would think nothing of the condition they would leave him in at the end of it. So you gave him what he asked for. Invited him in and spent the rest of evening with nothing but the sound of flesh connecting with flesh breaking the silence, with the feel of skin splitting under your fingers.

When you were finished, when more of Spike's skin was bruised and cut than not, you lifted him like he was nothing more than fine china and carried him into your spare room. Laid him down on the bed and carefully washed away the blood, gently cleaned the wounds you'd left on his body.

He'd been gone when you woke the following morning, nothing showing he'd ever been there except for the damning stained bedclothes.

And when he'd shown up a week later, the same request falling from his lips, you'd said nothing and just let him in. Said nothing as you re-marked his body, carving yourself into his skin and leaving bruises bearing your signature. Said nothing as you carried him into the room you now think of as his, and completed the ritual with care and water. Said nothing as you'd left him on the bed, knowing he would be gone again in the morning. Said nothing as you stood in the shower and watched the pink tinged water wash away your sins.

You asked him once. Asked him why it was you he had come to, why it was you he had trusted with this.

"Because you're the only one who loves me enough to do it."

With those words ringing in your ears you cursed the name of Angel. Cursed the being that taught this beautiful creature before you that punishment doesn't matter unless it makes you bleed and love always has a price that is written in pain. You've carried on cursing Angel ever since then. Curse him every time Spike turns up, every time you invite him in. And then you curse yourself. Because the words Spike spoke are closer to the truth than you want to admit.

But this is what Spike wants, what Spike needs. You're only doing this for Spike. You don't wait for the knock at the door, eyes fixed on the clock fearing that this is the day he doesn't show. Don't find your mouth dry when the knock finally does come. Don't watch Spike intently as he steps inside and strips before handing himself over to you.

And you certainly aren't watching the blood sliding down his body and having to hold yourself back from following it with your fingers. You aren't. You won't. You can't.

"Xander."

You almost miss your name when he speaks it, soft and careful. It's the first time he's ever said anything during this but those hated two words. And you think this is it, that he's finally had enough, finally realised that the soul is more punishment than you could ever give him. But you're wrong, because when he looks at you, blue eyes hazy, the only words out of his mouth are

"Thank you."

You close your eyes and turn away. He's kneeling on the floor, beaten and bleeding, and he's thanking you. You can feel the bile rise in your throat and you swallow hard to try to stop yourself from vomiting. You can't look at him, are too ashamed to meet his eyes, are praying that he'll leave before you lose everything you've eaten in the past 24 hours. And it's when your eyes are closed that you feel the first feather light touch. Look down to see him kneeling next to you, moving forward to softly kiss your hand, to gently lap at the wet streaks of his own blood that still decorate your skin.

You want to tell him to stop but the words stick in your throat. You drop to your knees, fingers reaching out towards his cheek but stopping just short, a breath between his skin and yours that may as well be miles. You want to hold him but you know he won't accept it. Want to tell him that he doesn't need this, that he doesn't need *you*, but you can't make yourself say it. Because there's a part of you that's terrified beyond anything. You know the day is going to come when he stops turning up at your door. So until that day comes you'll give him what he wants. Give him the bruises and blood and pain. Because this is your punishment as well. Feeling without ever knowing, having without ever holding. And you accept it. You accept it because you know it's the only way you'll ever have him. Because he's never going to be yours, no matter how much you wish it were different. So you'll take him and cut him and hit him and hurt him. Because at least you're touching him. And in the end, that's all that really matters.