Author's Note: Story best when read in accompaniment with Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here." Set a couple days after "The Gift" and is just a short glimpse into the world viewed from the bottom of a bottle.

The Means to an End

So, so you think you can tell

Heaven from Hell

Blue skies from pain.

Can you tell a green field

from a cold steel rail?

A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?

And did they get you to trade

your heroes for ghosts?

Hot ashes for trees? Hot air for a cool breeze?

Cold comfort for change?

And did you exchange a walk on part in the war

for a lead role in a cage?

How I wish, how I wish you were here.

We're just two lost souls

swimming in a fish bowl, year after year

Running over the same old ground.

What have we found? The same old fears.

Wish you were here. --Roger Waters

The vinyl crackled as it spun, stuck endlessly on Pink Floyd's tribute to Spike's life. A wry smile, heavily burdened with irony and resignation, touched the vampire's lips as the chorus was crooned. The soft, melancholy chords kept Spike deep into a place of tranquil grief; it was if he held his own head under the water, afraid of what he'd see if he surfaced.

His hand made a swiping motion for the bottle of scotch that should have been there, inconveniently having forgotten that its contents lay smashed on the ground and splattered onto the grey stone wall. Why was it that alcohol, good music, and a broken heart always seemed to come as a package? Maybe for the same reason that funerals came in threes.

Funeral.

That word metaphorically formed into a noose and encircled Spike's slender neck, slowly choking the metaphorical breath from his lungs. She had been his air, and without it--without her--the atmosphere seemed tainted.

*And did they get you to trade

Your heroes for ghosts?*

The words "unsung hero" never applied to anyone as much as they did to Buffy. He had seen her gravestone-- it was hard not to, being in the same cemetery as his crypt. A cynical inner voice noted that both himself and his Slayer lay dead together; decidedly less romantic than Shakespeare would have one believe.

There was a simple inscription on the stone, though, which struck him now as he considered all that she had done.

"She saved the world. A lot."

Now every time he saw a random bystander, he desperately wanted to point them to that headstone and shake them, screaming into their ears, "You don't -know- what she did for you! You can't -possibly- hope to even grasp a bleedin' modicum of her sacrifice! That's right, cry-- not for her, but for your blind ignorance. Go home and examine your petty life and pray to your God. Ask Him what you did in your pathetic existence to deserve to live in this world that she safeguarded. I sure as hell do!"

His eyes stung as fiercely as the liquor had and he squeezed them closed, only to be assaulted with the image of her broken body. After the thousands of broken bodies he had inflicted upon others, Spike felt like he should have been ready for such a sight. But seeing her peaceful visage, one brought about by knowing that she had given all she could to the world, was somehow harder than seeing the rest of her. Why was she allowed to be happy in death while he had to suffer in life?

Spike's shaking hands clenched into fists.

He wasn't even able to stay and help her friends after he saw her. Her friends had been the ones to arrange a plot, a wake, a funeral... Spike distantly recalled sitting in the same spot where she had fallen for those following days. The overhang from the rickety tower provided a suns screen, but he was too out of it to notice. No, all Spikey had been good for was to sit down and bawl like some measly human while the real humans had to pick up the mess.

Sunrise was inching nearer. In a moment of unique clarity, he realized his chance had come. He could end it soon-- End it and be with her. The nagging corner of his mind which should have piped in to add that he was -evil- and certainly not a candidate for being where She was had the decency to stay quiet for once. Surely someone up there would be able to feel what he felt and take pity on him.

At least it was hope. Recently, there had been a stunning shortage of it.

Slowly, the vampire made his way to the bottom of his crypt where he collected a few mementos of her. Some pictures, a sweater that he snatched, and a wayward stake of hers were slid into the oversized pockets on his leather duster.

Spike mechanically made his way out of the crypt and headed towards a tree. Plopping down on the eastward side, he slid his favorite picture out of his pocket.

Her hair was long and her bangs were somewhat outdated, but the by the way she smiled at him, Spike knew that this had been taken during easier days. Those days were filled with shopping, boys, and avoiding schoolwork. What had she done to deserve the extreme of sacrificing herself to save the world from an unleashed hell reign?

A single tear splattered on the picture, marring the youthful face. Another followed and soon he was reduced to sobs, cradling the picture to his cheek.

His mind was full of protests.

*This isn't supposed to happen. You don't understand!* he argued inwardly. *I was meant to protect her sister-- To save -her-. If I had done that...* His mind spun with the possibilities of "what if"s.

Beneath the temporary shade of the tree, Spike was spared from the sun's first rays. But as he looked up to accept his fate, a sudden thought struck him. It shook him and the photograph fluttered from his fingers. Heavily booted feet trotted quickly back to shelter as he retreated to a bottle, leaving only a pool of his tears and Buffy's face smiling from under them.

In that moment of decision, Spike had realized something. It was nothing extraordinary; certainly nothing that would keep oneself from suicide, but apparently it was enough.

Her smile-- The one that was so radiant and innocent-- was like the sunrise.



:= END =: