She always curls in my lap, asking questions I can't answer. Why it hurts, why it won't ever stop, why she can go through her day with the deepest part of her numbed. Asks about God, a lot, too. What he's like, why he couldn't stop it, what color is his hair. I tell her green, and it's the first time in seventy-three days she almost smiles.

She begs me, every day, to make it stop. We've lasted seventy-three days since Buffy died, and we're all doing our best. Lives are being lived, if more quietly... but Dawn stopped. She stopped trying, and stopped living up there on that tower. I've tried everything, yelling, snuggling, even bought her a puppy to take care of. Damn thing would starve if not for me. Loves Dawn, though she cares nothing for it.

It kills me all over again, every time she starts crying, head tipped back on my shoulder, sobs pulling at her. I push the hair away from her forehead, petting, petting, kissing her cheek, her throat, mumbling that I know, that I can help, even though we both know I'm a miserable useless bastard. With her head back on my shoulder, and mine dropped forward on hers, I wonder how long it'll be till I take that next step, let my teeth drop into her buttery soft neck and finally make it end for both of us.

AN: Charas aren't mine, -gasp-... This was partly inspired by Dishwalla's "Counting Blue Cars". PLease send feedback. It's always appreciated.

Tequila