Pale grey eyes haunted him. They swam through his mind, refusing to fade despite best efforts.
The knot in his chest was adamant, and refused to be soothed by such petty things as cigarettes and alcohol. A cloud of smoke hung low in his crypt, and Spike couldn't be bothered to get up and yank open the door to to air it out. Not that it mattered. His dead lungs would have been blackened years and years prior by his filthy habit. Since Buffy's death, not even the Platelet had been by to brighten his doorstep. Not that he blamed her. The Scooby Gang had been on high alert and working extra hard to keep the belief that Buffy was still alive a reality. Between constant evening slaying sessions with the Buffy-Bot (a group effort, since Willow hadn't yet worked out all the kinks) Dawn was kept inside after dark, where it would be safe. He reasoned he shouldn't be too bothered by this; he had, after all, been given the responsibility of watching over the Bit when they went out. His crypt had never been much to look at before anyway, and he damn well didn't care that it was in shambles now. Who was there to impress? The answer was simple: no one. Not anymore.
It had been a year since Buffys passing. On the outside, they had managed to keep it together quite well. The Buffy-Bot made appearances during the day, and wandered about the cemetery at night with the Scooby Gang in tow. Dawn still attended school, as if nothing had happened, and Willow and Tara had moved in to the Summer's home to look after her. Spike had been thrown in to the equation when after an eventful evening of slaying, the witches had returned to an empty house. They had wandered the neighborhood well in to the morning, to find Dawn asleep in the church four blocks away. She had claimed it offered solace, but they had drawn the line and her freedom was taken away. Willow firmly believed it was for her own good, and the only thing that had seemed to assuage Dawn's reluctance to being "constantly babysat" was the fact that Spike would be the one to do it.
Fake smiles and pleasantries could only go so far, however, and Spike knew on the inside they were all falling apart. How could they not? He was right along with them. Dawn had withdrawn in to herself. He wasn't sure if the others believed her re-assurances when she said, "I'm fine," or, "Don't worry about me," but he could see the smile never reached her eyes, and when they were alone together, there was often silence. The quiet was not uncomfortable, but it disturbed Spike nonetheless. He couldn't recall a day before Buffy's passing when she hadn't excitedly chatted his ear off about this or that. Now they would sit on the couch in the living room and watch television; old cartoon reruns, although he was sure she wasn't aware of what was playing. The colors from the screen would reflect onto her pale, expressionless face, and the emptiness in her eyes was inescapable. She may have been there, beside him, but she was not with him. Where she went, he didn't know, but her expression was enough to keep him from speculating. It hurt to see such a bright and beautiful girl shut down like that. Turn off, completely.
And while she was off somewhere, at school no doubt, living her own personal hell, Spike lay sprawled on his couch right bloody smashed. The sun was far from setting. He had crumbled when Buffy had died. He was lost without her. The only thing he had to look forward to now were his nights with the Bit, but when he was alone, he was surrounded by nothing but his thoughts. They always seemed to go back to her, and he always found a bottle to quiet the mess inside his head. He could have done better. He should have tried harder. He could have killed Gloria when he'd had a chance. Now, Buffy was six feet under and the rest of them were well on their way. He'd experienced loss before. With Vampires, it was simply something you learned to cope with. Demons never really associated with mortals for anything more than sadistic fun or pleasure; in the end, always temporary. It was better that way. He had missed Dru when she had left but Buffy he had loved without a soul, and more so with. He had gone through hell and back to prove this to her, and all he had to show for it now was this crippling pain and and a crypt full of empty liquor bottles. He laughed without humor then, and finished the last of his drink. I should stop, he reasoned, lighting yet another cigarette. The smoke plumed from his mouth and nostrils, and he watched it rise to join the rest of the murky fog just above his head. The grey eyes came back again but he closed his own and welcomed the image. Her fair skin, large and empty stare, expressionless mouth that at one time, curled into a delighted smile upon seeing him. He could remember the sound of Dawn's voice as she babbled, gesturing with her hands to make the story more interesting. Was she a ghost now? Much like her sister it seemed, just an empty shell of the girl she used to be. Spike's gut twisted in regret and in a brief moment of anguish, threw the empty bottle had had been holding across the room. The bottle smashed against the concrete, and shards skittered everywhere, scattering at his feet. He stared at the mess he'd made, his gaze moving over each piece of glass slowly, deliberately.
Much like the bottle, as easily as Spike had done it, their lives had been tossed in the air by the fates and shattered to pieces. If this was how he were feeling on the inside, he knew without a doubt that behind her calm demeanor and the poker face she had learned to wear, Dawn was nowhere near okay. The already tenuous fragments of her life had been dismantled, the flimsy thread that held all the pieces together finally yanked loose. A heavy ache settled in his chest then, and leaning forward, he bowed his head and cradled it in his hands. Damn, he thought with a grimace. Feeling was one thing, but hurting down to the very core of your soul was another. It couldn't go on like this. Something needed to be done.