Listless; lifeless, or may as well be. Dawn felt and especially as of late, as if she had lost all of her will. The will to live, drive to go on, the motivation to move forward and climb to the top, or overcome the hurtles life threw her way. Whichever overused, cliche and nauseating metaphor you would prefer, she was simply over all of it. This realization, or epiphany as it were, took some time to slip from the shadows of her muddled and distracted mind to step into the spotlight and scream, "Hey! This is the reality. This is your reality." And the reality was that Buffy was dead.

Dead and buried, just like their mother, and it was because of Dawn that she would never see another sunrise (ironic? Slightly). Her perspective had shifted violently, so much so that she had needed to escape from the Summer's home, where each room had contained some memory or other of a family that had inevitably dwindled down to all but one. She had fled then without much thought to it, and had stopped in front of a Church only blocks away, momentarily surprised by the pull she felt as her gaze lingered. There hadn't been anything extraordinary about the building, really. Dull brown bricks, a few stained glass windows and a large decorated cross that outlined the entryway. The unease and the guilt and all of the pain that had slowly doubled and then tripled since her sister's death seemed to quiet as she stared up at the cross. Although she had never found herself to be truly religious, the sight brought her a sense of peace she had forgotten she had once known, for a very long time.

Admittedly, breaking in to the Church hadn't exactly been the most saintly thing to do and Willow certainly hadn't been pleased, but Dawn had reasoned that if there was a God, (there had to be something, right?) he would understand her reasons behind picking up that heavy, jagged rock spied resting along the outline of an empty parking lot with the rest of the gravel. That He would knowingly accept with kind eyes and forgive, as she weighed it between her palms before hurling it with all of her might, at one of the side windows. Surely he would want his children to be safe, and how could he refuse them in an institution that had been constructed to do his bidding, by the very souls he had been so quick to abandon?

Cynical? Maybe. But in the grand scheme of things, everything which had been given to her had also been taken away. Or as she would describe it, everything had been ripped violently and suddenly without warning from her, but as the Bible would quote, such was His right. At that thought, an onslaught of tears threatened to spill from the corners of her eyes, and Dawn pulled herself out of the well of memories she had slowly begun to drown in. A habit she had developed over the long months since D-Day, and while painful, it was also a way to escape the present - her reality. Coasting on auto-pilot wasn't all that hard to do, especially when everyone was preoccupied. They didn't seem to notice. Well, he noticed, and the pressure of his crystalline stare as she came back to herself never failed to set her on edge.

While his posture would suggest that of relaxation, with his arm along the back of the sofa, muscles loose and leg extended, Dawn could feel the tense energy that rippled in almost visible waves around him as he cocked his head and continued his silent observation of her. Swallowing thickly, she forced her own muscles to relax as well, and she sank further back into the cushions alongside him. She could feel the weight of his forearm behind the nape of her neck, and very deliberately, very carefully, continued to keep her gaze locked on the television across the room. She couldn't remember what program had been on when they'd started, and her mind struggled to think of something to say as her brain shifted gears between that of reminisce to here and now.

Thankfully, Spike saved her the trouble by breaking the silence with his own words. A question, appointed to her, and although relatively simple in presentation, she realized by the tone of voice and carefully constructed mask of nonchalance the true depth behind it. It caused her chest to tighten, and her breathing faltered while she tried to compose herself.

"Are you alright, Dawn?"

"I'm fine."

Even to her. it sounded rehearsed; automatic, empty. Willow might accept the lie, Tara definitely. Giles, the rest of them, they would all latch on to her response and cling to it, forcing it to be the truth, the reality as opposed to the other possibility. Nobody wanted to see her drowning in sorrow, nobody wanted to know or feel her pain, because they were all dealing with their own, too. Dawn figured if they could pretend like nothing happened, that they weren't suffering because of this, then she could don the mask as well. So far it had worked. Or at least it had until now. Hesitantly, she tore her gaze from the television and locked eyes with Spike, who's eyes had remained on her, unwavering, and she realized that she didn't know how long he had been watching her. Dawn forced herself to keep her gaze steady; his a deep blue in the dim light, as opposed to the usual reflective, almost steel gray they truly were. The illusion gave him a softer look than he was usually able to pull off, and as the seconds passed, goosebumps raced up along her arms to her shoulders. The shiver was in response to not only his unabashed stare, but the gentle brush of his cold fingertips along the nape of her neck. Brow furrowed as disbelief claimed dominance over his angular features, he spoke in a voice that was gentle, but the growl behind it let her know he knew better than to take her word for it.

"Don't lie to me."

Her shiver this time was involuntarily all-consuming, as his fingers slid over the sensitive skin of her neck once more before lacing through the hair that fell on either side. He leaned forward suddenly, with the eery, silent gracefulness he sometimes possessed while thinking unconsciously and pressed his lips, which were cool and dry, to her forehead.

"Don't lie to me," he repeated against her brow, and the tears Dawn had thought she had escaped earlier managed to break free from the dam that had until now been nothing but a tenuous resolve. Slender shoulders beginning to shake, and to her horror she could do nothing to mask the small sob that tore through the silence she had managed to keep until then. Once the tears came, they were unstoppable in their wrath, and the overwhelming pain that seized her chest seemed to originate from her heart and pour outwards into each vein, artery, capillary. Spike's reaction was not one of surprise; he did not falter nor hesitate to pull her to him on the couch, wrapping her in his arms and pressing her to him. Leather, soap and cigarettes engulfed her senses as she gasped for air, lungs burning from the deprivation as she struggled to stifle her breakdown.

"It hurts," she managed to exclaim, her voice raw, unsteady with emotion and muffled by his shoulder. "It hurts so much, it won't go away. Make it stop," she pleaded, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the memories she had managed to suppress so far successfully until then. Like Buffy's smile, the sparkle in her green eyes, the way she would laugh. Their senseless familial bickering that only sisters could do so well. The strength or warmth of her hug as she would pull her to her fiercely and say in those rare moments of intensity, "I love you." And then there was the sight of a cold, dead and crumpled Buffy laying far below the make-shift platform that had reached Gloria's doorway. The supernatural doorway which Dawn had been intended to open, and Buffy had ensured remained forever closed. There had been no sparkle in those green eyes then, only a dull and faded absenteeism, and the very essence of Buffy was just gone. Forever.

Panic began to rise, and as hysteria started to take over and the full force of it all truly began to settle for the first time, Dawn tore herself from Spike's arms and blindly stumbled forward, arms extending, feeling her way to the kitchen. Shamelessly she continued to sob, and without bothering to turn on the lights, she yanked open each drawer, trembling fingers passing over the useless nick-knacks and utensils until she came upon what she was so desperate for. Picking up one of the sharper kitchen knives, she anxiously yanked back her sleeve and with unsteady ragged gulps of air, pressed the blissfully sharp blade to translucently pale skin and closing her eyes, drove home.

Spike's swear was audible, and he approached the counter with inhuman speed before relieving Dawn of the knife. She hadn't had a chance to make any other marks, but the initial cut had been deep enough, hurt just enough, to pull her back from the oblivion she had been steadily ascending to. Things came back in to focus for her, and she was able to steady her breathing. She felt light headed however, and reached for the edge of the counter to keep herself steady. The knife clamored to the linoleum and Spike's arm slid around Dawn's slight waist, and with a violent jerk he spun her towards him. She reeled, the room losing focus a moment before he pinned her back against the counter.

His fingers felt like ice as they wrapped around her injured forearm and he yanked her bloody wrist up between them for her to see. It hadn't been intended to end her life. Admittedly, Dawn had used the knife once or twice in previous years as a trusted and reliable fail safe when she couldn't bring herself down from the debilitating panic attacks that sometimes, without warning, overcame her.

Spike's pupils contracted viciously, and Dawn could clearly see the longing in his eyes as he fixated on the dark, crimson blood that pooled from the jagged cut in her skin in rivulets along her forearm to her elbow.

"Why?" he rasped, his own voice unsteady, and underneath his barely-there composure, Dawn caught a glimpse of himself that he was very good at keeping in check. All rational thought left her then, and she realized the pain in his own eyes, too. Who did Spike have, she wondered? Who could he talk to, where did he go, when Willow and Tara came home with the Buffy bot? He often smelled of liquor although the scent was subtle, and not abrasive enough to cause her to wonder much more beyond recognition. To her it had always been just a part of the combination of smells that made up Spike's scent. Suddenly though, she knew he was just as alone as she was. He hurt just as much as she did; and she wanted him to forget. She wanted to forget.

"Make it stop," she pleaded, her voice although still unsteady, quieter, more controlled. She gave a soft tug of her arm, which he did not relinquish, and his gaze slipped from the blood to meet hers in mild confusion. The scent of it was heavy in the air, and if Dawn could smell it she could only begin to fathom what it was doing to Spike. "I don't want to hurt anymore," Dawn tried again.

Flexing her fingers, his gaze was pulled back to the blood drying along the inside of her arm. A blush spread out along her cheeks, but Dawn did not allow herself the privilege of embarrassment or hesitation because of it. She spoke quickly, although she knew Spike would have no trouble distinguishing her words. "I don't want to hurt anymore, I don't want to feel like this. Even if it's just for a little while. I want to feel something else," she paused, before adding, "And I want you to feel something else, too. I don't want to be alone, Spike." Her voice faltered, and she found she didn't have the strength to finish her sentence. I don't want you to feel alone.

His grip loosened on her forearm, and Spike's hands came up to cup her face between his palms. "You're not alone," he whispered fiercely, pressing his forehead to hers. He closed his eyes, and Dawn could easily see the struggle he was having inside of himself. The ache in her own chest threatened to swell again at thought of his suffering, and she tilted her head nervously upwards, and the tip of her nose brushed his lips. If he had the need to breathe, she would be able to feel it there, along her cheek.

"Please," she whispered, unable nor willing to hide the desperation in her voice. She had lost her will; she had forgotten all of the good things, the reasons for wanting to continue with this life. At first, struggling to move forward, to move on, because of Buffy's sacrifice was sufficient a reason as any. The resolve behind that ideology had quickly faded with each passing day however, and Dawn had even started to consider Buffy the lucky one, to have escaped the hell of the living, the hell that had become and would stay forever, her everyday.

His mouth was cool as he pulled her face to his, and the kiss was as desperate as she felt. Her knees trembled and she grabbed on to the front of his shirt when they threatened to give out. Spike must have sensed her weakness, for his hands slid down to her waist, and without any real effort at all, he pulled her up on to the counter top. Clean plates which had been set aside by the sink to dry clambered to the floor, and chunks of porcelain scattered around his feet as he stepped in between her semi-parted knees and closed the distance between them. He broke away from the kiss when she took in a jagged, shaky breath. Mouths only inches apart, and his hands splayed firmly on her thighs, he locked gazes with her and she realized he was waiting for a sign of hesitation or remorse. Perhaps for her to tell him, No, that's not what I meant. Truth be told, Dawn hadn't known what she had meant when she had pleaded with him only moments before. She didn't want to think about it. Sliding her hands slowly up his chest, she wrapped them around his neck. His head turned instinctively towards the arm that was lacerated, and he closed his eyes as if to compose himself. Squeezing her thighs, almost helplessly, he said her name.

"I want it," she whispered, and although her words were soft her declaration was firm. His eyes snapped open and he frowned unconsciously as he visibly tried to gauge her expression, decipher what, exactly, she was saying.

"Bite me."

Lips trembling, she made herself meet his gaze and at her words, again his pupils contracted. Blue eyes of the lightest kind were now all but pupil, and near resembling the blackest of nights. He blanched, but before he could pull away from her she tightened the circled of her arms around his neck (like that would really keep him there if he truly wanted to break free) and tilted her head to one side, her hair falling away to expose a pale expanse of neck; her jugular, in open invitation.

He grew impossibly still then, and she waited. Sliding her fingers up into his hair, which was a soft mess of peroxide waves, she encouraged him to lower his head. His hands slid up to grip her hips, his hold surprisingly firm, and he shuddered as he took a deep breathe, inhaling her scent and becoming intoxicated by the heady beat of her heart.

"Please do it Spike," she re-iterated, his hesitation driving her near mad. She closed her eyes and willed him to give in, and waited for only a few tense seconds until his resolve crumbled. One hand sliding up to the small of her back, Spike pressed her firmly to him while the other slid up to weave his fingers through her hair. He was not rough as he pulled her head further to the side, but it was not gentle, either. She knew he had lost the fight, and he growled her name helplessly against her throat before she felt his fangs and the tear of flesh. Lights danced along her vision, and a sudden warmth flooded her accompanied by a euphoria so unexpected that she she moaned, and yielding to him completely.