He felt the tears come pouring down his face in a stream of grief before he could process what was actually going on and stop the embarrassing flow of tears as he sat their and wept silently for the slayer. With his head in hands and gut wrenching sobs. Each tear that escaped from inside slowly made the alcohol in his body disappear when he wanted nothing more than to drink another five bottles of a strong substance and drown again in his grief as he sobered up. He wanted to forget again. He didn't want to face the truth. It hurt. His heart was shattered. And he couldn't seem to find the pieces. They were scattered somewhere in a void of nothingness that he suddenly felt.

Heaven.

A word, a place one only dreamt of. A place one would want to stay in forever. But she couldn't. No. Her destiny didn't allow it. Neither did her friends.

Fuck the mighty gods and their ancient prophecies of a chosen one. This girl wasn't born into the world to suffer and hate to live. She was born to live. But any ounce of happiness that she was given had been taken away from her. Heaven must've been…

Spike couldn't think of the right word. Was there even a right word to use to describe an eternal feeling of happiness and accomplishment and rest? The place she deserved to be in, she was torn out of.

Torn out, by her friends.

What kind of bloody friends were they?

"Spike?"

After a moments pause, Spike lifted his head and strained a smile onto his face. He gave her a small nod.

"I'm okay, Slayer", he said, wiping at his eyes.

"Okay, Mr. Cries a lot for no reason. What was that about?"

He shook his head, forgotten marshmallow bits hung from his lip. He wiped at them effortlessly.

"Just me sobering up."

"Uh huh."

Rolling her eyes, Buffy turned her attention towards the box of entertainment that stood in front of the couch, pressing a button to turn it on. A reality TV show appeared on screen and another scene of pointless conflict and yelling came on. How many real housewives could there be? She flicked through the channels absentmindedly with an uninterested expression before finally setting it on the show from earlier. As entertaining and stupid reality TV was, nothing seemed to hold her attention for more than half a second. She was disconnected from the world, but appeared mesmerized by the flickering lights on the screen.

As the lights kept flickering, the look on her face had hardened. Each flicker that went by across her face, darkening her expression, was just as terrifying as it had been before. Whatever thought was swarming inside of her head couldn't be anything light. She looked as if she was in pain. Was she thinking of it again? The painful departing, the immediate sense of life again, the scent of soil and the earth, the panicked feeling of having no oxygen, the sense of relief once having reached the surface, the sight of her tombstone, the fire on the streets, the screaming and the yelling and the sound of her name, the sight of her friends, her enemies, her… punishers.

I'm being punished. Was I not good enough for heaven? The sudden thought hit Buffy like a ton of bricks. Each block smashed onto her as the pain she felt grew. If her self-esteem couldn't drop any lower than it already had been, this would've been the moment in her life where she realized just how much she hated herself. But that moment already passed a while back. This situation just made it worse. She wasn't good enough, not even when it came to being dead! That's why her friends pulled her out. Because she just wasn't good enough. It was as simple as that, right? It was her fault that she was pulled out. Her friends were punishing her for being so stupid and… wrong. And they were right. She deserved it; the pain, the suffering, living her life knowing she could've done something to stop the mess of the century known as Buffy Summers, when she did nothing but make it worse.

Why?

Why did she do these things to herself, to everyone around her?

It's because you're not good enough.

That was why she needed to do what she needed to do to make something good out of herself, for herself. No more showing her feelings, her panicked thoughts, she was going to do this right this time. She was doing this for herself.

Spike had been staring at the screen for a while, commenting on the stupid actions by some annoying housewife who had just announced the pregnancy of her dog and decided to celebrate by partying and that, of course, led to an outburst from the husband and fight with the other dudes while the ladies shouted and the other dogs barked. He questioned the choices some people made, and animals. And as much as he hated to admit it, he enjoyed watching it. He gave a silent thank you to Buffy when she stopped flicking through the channels and landed on this gem of entertainment. It distracted him from the agonizing thoughts that had struck him earlier.

He took this time to peek at the Slayer, sitting beside him, on a couch, alone in a living room with the TV on, the two of them looking like a normal couple. If he moved closer, he could wrap his arms around her and pull her close and kiss her. Make her feel like things would be okay. But no, she would never let him. She would lash out at him with those bony arms of hers and kick him out of the house. She'd uninvite him and the invisible barrier would appear in between them, blocking him from entering and he'd be back at square one. He would be the enemy of the Slayer again. Not the lover. Never could be the lover. He'd be the hopeless case. The desperate man staring at his too-cool-for-someone-like-him friend grabbing all the ladies and sometimes the men, while he stood by and observed and cried and felt sorry for himself because no one loved him.

Then as the days would go by, he would continue to pass the house, lurk in the shadows and stare in pity at the Slayer and watch her waste away as her so-called friends continued to ignore her problems and ask her to fix theirs. Because that's what she did. Save the world, and everyone else's world that they had in their minds. But no one bothered to take a look into her world and clean up the mess that it had become. If she would just let him in, explain to him how she felt about everything that would make things a whole lot easier. But she wouldn't do that. He knew her better than that.

The need for some alcohol itched at his skin. He took another look at the Slayer before getting up and walking into the kitchen. He swung open each cabinet, looking high and low for any bottle that was full with heavy, hard liquor. At the bottom left cabinet by the sink he finally found it. Kneeling down, he wrapped a hand around it and smiled before standing up. He and Buffy could definitely use this time to get wasted and forget about everything, even if for a moment. Spike's lip curled and he walked over to the living room couch.

"Oi, Slayer."

Her gaze drifted from the screen to the bottle grasped in his hand.

"Care for a drink?"

Spike shook the bottle, gesturing for her to take it. She did without hesitation, almost greedily. Bringing the bottle to her lips she took a big gulp and swallowed before handing it back over.

"I really needed that," she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

Spike took a long swig from the bottle as well, swaying slightly. He gave her a long, hard look before nodding in agreement. The alcohol bubbled its way to his brain again getting ready to blur his vision as the world around him swirled into a mix of unfocused shapes for the second time that night.

"Think we both did." He barely heard the words escape from his mouth.

Five bottles of cheap alcohol that the two of them didn't remember getting later, surrounded by empty bottles that drowned their sorrows, Buffy and Spike wound up on the back porch. Spike inhaled deeply from his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke in front of Buffy's face. She coughed waving it away and he laughed. It felt good. Sitting on the porch, smoking and drinking, it made him feel normal. He was happy. Because he was with the slayer and she wasn't beating the shit out of him this time. They could almost get away looking like a normal couple. Almost.

"Why are we doing this?" the question came so suddenly, catching Spike off guard. He brought the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, letting it dangle from his lips. He cleared his throat and gave her a serious look.

"What do you mean?"

Buffy rolled her eyes and spread her arms wide. She pointed towards the bottles and then the sky and the house.

"This. Interacting. Almost like we're-"

"Normal?" he finished for her.

Nodding, she closed her mouth and looked down at her lap. Her fingers were laced together. Absentmindedly she began picking at a loose string from her sweater.

"It's weird. Out of all people, the way I used to envision this moment of having a normal kind of night, hanging out with all my friends and not having to think about being the slayer, you were definitely not involved."

Spike raised his eyebrows and smirked. He took the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it off to the side; small bits of ash fell to the ground.

"What was it of?"

"What was what of?"

"Your normal kind of night" he used quotations for the word "normal". He took the dangling cigarette from his mouth and flicked it off to the side, the leftover ashes landed on the grass. They looked like fireflies set on fire. He tried to imagine the screams that would erupt from the fireflies' throats as they burned and burned while the humans watched and called it beautiful. Trapping them in jars and placing them on shelves and showing them off to their friends. It was sick. Just like society was. Just like… the miserable group of scoobies the slayer called her "friends". Once again, quotations used.

"-And then I'd go home, say hello to my mom and maybe get in some last minute studying for a test I'd have the next day. Or sneak out to a friend's house and we'd drink and dance and party. I'd be hungover the next day but it's better than waking up with cuts and bruises and-," Buffy stopped. She glanced over at Spike who was staring deeply at the ground, lost in thought. She tilted her head to one side in confusion and hesitantly tapped him on the shoulder. He jerked back in surprise and swung his head to face hers.

"What?" he asked, his mouth still hanging open. Buffy grinned and leaned back, crossing her arms.

"Were you even listening to me?"

"Course I was!" he shot back, suddenly feeling very defensive. Buffy's grin grew wider adding a small flicker of light into her eyes. It disappeared quickly after as if she made a mistake of showing her happiness and replaced it with an angered expression. Her brows furrowed in anger and she shook her head, suddenly feeling very insecure about her feelings. Maybe she was just being too sensitive? That for once, she could talk freely to someone about her feelings and needs only to have them completely ignore her?

Pull yourself together, Jesus Christ. This is nothing serious. Look at the pointless conflict your causing. Just like reality television. You don't want any attention drawn towards yourself. Stop it. Nobody cares.

Spike's eyes narrowed as he watched Buffy's expression change suddenly. She looked troubled. It was the same expression she wore when staring at the television earlier. The same expression that haunted his everyday thoughts, the emptiness in her eyes, the shaking of her head, and the paleness of her skin as everything screamed out "help" all the while putting on this façade of "I'm totally better and not in pain." She was falling apart and the alcohol and small talk couldn't distinguish her pain. As much as Spike thought it did and Buffy wanted it to, some things were best paying close attention to and couldn't be ignored or numbed with a substance.

His mind went back to a year ago when he had found Buffy sitting alone on the back porch, her head in her hands, crying. He had stepped towards her, gun in hand with the intention of killing her. But when she looked up at him, it made him stop in his tracks. Her face held so much pain and he knew something was wrong. A tear slipped from her eye and something flickered within them. Almost as if she had finally realized what he was doing and what he was holding, almost as if she wanted him to do it. To pull the trigger and let her pain and suffering end. Something had stirred inside of him, a feeling of guilt. It was a feeling of pain and sorrow for her. It was the same look the two slayers he had killed had given him.

The Death Wish look, he called it.

And it had terrified him to see it in her eyes. A year later, today, he saw the same look. But this time it hadn't come in a flicker. It was written all over her. He saw right through that façade, every bloody day. He saw, could almost feel just how desperate she was to make this wish come true all the while pretending nothing bothered her and that she was fine.

It sickened him. Just like with the fireflies. The show she put on, all the smiles and fake laughs and attempts at living, but underneath all that shine was a broken girl, her light dying out, waiting for death to come swallow her up again. She had no way of escaping. Her friends had her trapped in a jar, and only took her out when they needed her help. It was sick and dirty and unfair and cruel and… and it hurt.

He reached out a hand towards her and let her cold, bony fingers wrap around his. He held his gaze for a minute and mentally let out a sigh of relief when she didn't jerk away.

Buffy stared at him in a moment of confusion. She looked down at their grasped hands and back up again. The expression he wore on his face showed something like compassion. It was almost as if her cared for her. And he did.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered.

"Listening to you."

Before she could say anything, his other hand rose and rested on her chest.

"I may not have been listening to your speech about being normal, but I was listening to your thoughts and feelings."

"What, are you psychic or something?"

Spike laughed and shook his head. He let his hands fall to his sides and grew serious once more.

"Let's just say, I'm no fool." And with that, he stood up, grabbing his duster and half empty bottle of Jack. He took the last remaining swig of alcohol and threw the bottle onto the porch. It smashed. He then walked away leaving a drunk, confused and miserable Buffy behind to stare at the shards of broken glass as she tried very hard to not think of the broken pieces as little remnants of herself.

She never heard the front door opening ten minutes later.

Spike had a plan. It wasn't a genius plan. But he hoped it would work. If this didn't help the slayer, then he didn't know what would. Strolling through the empty street, his thoughts kept going back to the slayer and her Death Wish. He didn't know how to approach this plan. He just knew, and he hoped, Buffy would fight for her life in the process. That was all that mattered. That she fought. That she wanted to live.