Buffy's funeral was a couple of days ago. As per her wish, Buffy was cremated and her ashes scattered to the seven winds, ensuring that she could never return. She wanted to ensure that three times was her charm, although he knew she felt it was already two times too many. He only hoped she's in the same place she was the last time she died, it's the least she deserved after everything she went through.
From what he heard it was a bright, sunny morning, right up to the moment the service started, then it started raining until the last person left the church. He didn't go, couldn't go, not again.
Apart from going to get groceries, he hasn't left the house since he came back that night. Giles had come over a couple of times to see how he was doing, doing his 'stiff upper lip' routine. He could see right through that mask as easily as he can see through glass, to reveal the grieving father behind. He said nothing, allowing the man to grieve in his own way, just as he grieved in his. They talked about anything and everything, all except the two things they needed to talk about. Neither wanted to start and even if they did, they didn't know how. They both knew they couldn't put it off forever, but it was just too raw to touch at the moment.
Willow came to se him as well, as much to receive comfort, as it was to offer it. They cried on each other's shoulders for hours, grieving not only for Buffy, but for all the people they have lost over the years; so many, too many, but they know it could easily be so many more.
Dawn has kept away; nothing has been said but he knows that she holds him at least partially responsible for what happened. She's not the only one, he does as well. He failed her and it cost her life. Willow said she was keeping a close eye on her, as was Giles, so he knew she was going to be okay. It just hurts that he can't help her, especially as he was normally her first port of call.
He hasn't even touched the surface of his grief yet, not only because he can't but because he won't allow himself to truly grieve until it's over. To give in to his grief now would only leave him vulnerable, that's why she did it. He won't make killing him that easy for her; she'll have to work for it.
Sitting alone at the dining table of his house, he would like nothing more than to have the, sometimes annoying, sounds that had filled his home only a fortnight ago. The sound of his wife singing along to the radio, even when she didn't know the words. The sound of her chatting animatedly on the phone to her friends and family. Instead the only noise to be heard is his breathing. Years ago he told someone that he liked the quiet, now he can't stand it. He knows that he could simply banish the silence by turning on the TV or radio, but he doesn't, feeling like he deserves the pain he's feeling.
In front of him are several large photo albums, detailing the last five years of his life and in his opinion the best five years of his life. Every birthday, every Christmas, every anniversary immortalised in 5" X 9" print.
One photo album stands out from the rest, bound in white leather with gold writing adorning the front. Whenever he would see that album he would smile as it represented the happiest day of his life. The day they became husband and wife.
Even without the album he can remember every second, every detail of that day. It was to him simply perfect; the sun had shone a little brighter that day, the birds had sung a song just for them and there hadn't been cloud in the sky.
Everyone important to him had turned up and expressed how happy they were for him, for the both of them. For one day, all mistakes had been forgiven and all problems had been forgotten, allowing them to enjoy the day without incident.
He opens the album to one particular photo from memory, taken moments after the ceremony had ended. He looks at himself in the photo and cannot remember a time where he had looked so happy, so at peace.
While he tries not to, his gaze wanders from his younger self to that of his bride. Her eyes, shining with happiness and filled with her love for him. Her smile, beaming brighter than the brightest star and warmer than an open fire on a winter evening. Her dress, as pure as driven snow and flowing like a river in springtime. It is a picture of his love, his wife, and his life. Even now five years on, the first thing that enters his mind whenever he sees that photo is that she looks like an angel. He called her his morning star, she never liked pet names before but she told him she loved that one, it felt right is what she said.
He inspects it like a detective looking at a piece of evidence. He scrutinizes every millimetre as if looking for something that he didn't know was there before. That there was some deep dark secret hidden within.
He picks up the album and throws it across the room, the album making a dent in the far wall as it impacts against it. As it lands the album closes, once again revealing the gold embossed cover; Commemorating The Marriage Between Alexander Lavelle Harris And Faith Lehane.