Disclaimer: Characters belong to Joss, ME and co. Used without permission yadda yadda...
Distribution: Take it if you want it, but ask first?
Authors Notes: Set after the Gift from Willow's PoV...it's pretty sad really. It combines a lot of the feelings I had after my grandfather recently passed away, and my thoughts from the funeral...only I projected them onto Willow. I think it's pretty fitting really. it follows the emotional rollercoaster that is grief, the questioning, the sadness, the elation and the submergence of memories that are both touching but hollow. I'd love some feedback please, and I'd like to take the opportunity to thank those individuals who reviewed my last short piece. It was much appreciated. You guys know who you are.

I run a finger idly over the surface of her desktop, index trailing through a thin silt of dust that has lain undisturbed in what feels like eons; in reality maybe a few days. My sweaty fingers paw nervously against the soft pink plastic of her hairbrush, it’s coldness pressing back against the familiarity of my hands as I pick out a loose strand of blonde hair that has been caught in the teeth of the comb. Maybe I shouldn’t touch this I think idly to myself, shouldn’t touch these dead belongings. It doesn’t feel right that I am the one to disturb the belongings in this tomb; this empty tomb.

I retract slowly, guilty that my fingerprints are imbedded in the dead cells adorning the bookshelf and I look around me. The bed is unmade and there’s a pile of dirty clothing on the floor, a white top flung onto the desk chair, it’s arms draped lazily over the soft gauze of the seat. It looks as though she might return at any second now I think to myself. But she’s never coming back I choke out in my mind, words strangled softly in my throat and coming out as a mere whisper or a croak, I’m not sure which, but the silence of the room swallows it without a sound. I reach a hand over the back of the chair and run the material of the shirt, soft cotton rubbing back against the tender skin of my fingers and I drop down to a crouch, lifting the shirt to my nose. I can smell her still, so how could she be gone? I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alone in my life.

The make-up on her dresser top sits discarded the same as last time she used it. If I look carefully at the lipstick top, I can see the faint pattern of her lips gently indented into it. There’s a blusher brush and some pearls by the side of the mirror, and in the slat between the pane and the wooden frame she’d pushed a few pictures of us into the gap. All the way up there’s pictures of us at some point in the past two years, one of me and her at the park on a sunny day, one of her and X at the bowling alley (I think I must have taken this picture) a few goofy ones from a photo booth with her pulling faces and me grinning like a Cheshire cat or some descript animal on speed. Fun times I think, and despite the sadness of the current circumstances I feel a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth. She was always a joker.

The more I think about it, the less I understand. Where came the second that she wasn’t alive. When did she die? How can she be dead I think. How? I never really understood the concept of death, and what the priest said at the funeral helped a little when he talked about being united with her in heaven, but all the time he talked I was waiting for her to walk through the church doors, grinning lopsidedly as she laughed at us for all being so stupid and thinking she could of lost. As if she’d say to me. But then I realised that she wouldn’t say that to me at all, because as he was talking about seeing her in heaven, I was seeing her for real. Her little body was laid out in her coffin a foot from where I was standing, the casket lid shut tight on her, and even now I tremble a little when I think about how scary it must be in there for her all alone. She’s so brave though I think, I know I’d be too scared to be in there by myself, but there she is doing it. She was always braver than me. Stronger too.

Her scent is deep within my lungs, and not for the first time I worry about the time that I wont be able to smell her anymore, that all the little things that were her have gone, and I’m just left with this sucking vacuum that’s living inside of my chest where my heart was. I don’t even know if it’s still beating anymore, it just feels so dead. So sore and painful. And my nose and ears are sore too, so thick with physical grief that when I breath it feels like I am touching tender flesh to searing hot irons and my ear drums bang with awareness when I swallow. She’ll never swallow again. Ever.

And I can see her sitting on the edge of the bed watching me, I can see the sun streaming through the window and glancing off her beautiful blonde hair as she tucks it behind her ear and her green eye study me intently. I can see the soft contours of her face, the dip of her brow and the slant of her nose. I can see the tears she’s cried all those times I held her, when she was happy or when she was sad and I was sad because she was. I can hear the echo of laughter from all those movies we watched huddled up in bed, the three of us watching trashy Bollywood reruns and tossing popcorn back like we were carefree. Because when I think about it, we were. I can see her smiling at me as she reaches out a delicate hand and fiddles with a strand of my hair, folding it between her fingers in a multitude of tight French plaits, and I can hear her giggle and sigh as she watches Xander undo them.

I’m lying on her bed, immersed in her heavy scent as I run the sheet fabric between my hand. My head’s resting on her pillow and I stare at her alarm clock which blinks back at me. There’s another photo of us three, this time with Dawn pulled into an embrace by her older sister as we all laugh. That was taken last year some time, after a visit to the movies I think. We stopped for ice cream afterwards, and Dawnie got all-hyper off the caffeine in the coffee flavoured treat. I’m smiling again. I always smile when I think of her, of how beautiful she was and how strong. And I remember all the hurt I caused her when I wasn’t the best friend I could have been. I feel a little guilty for a second, but it’s only fleeting. She forgave me a long time ago for all the ill feeling that ever passed between us, and she knew that I loved her from the very depths of my soul. She was my best friend.

My heart feels full to the brim now, but not only with the sorrow and aching of grief, but with the fullness of love and compassion. Buffy gave me everything she had, and I can feel it filling the voids in my soul, giving me the strength to get through the day. She gave up a lot for us, she gave up love and happiness just so she could save a world in which she couldn’t live. But she gave me the world to live in, and I’m doing a pretty shaky job of it, but I’m getting there. It’s strange how you can just feel yourself going through the motions as you try to readjust to existing without her there, but I am doing it, just as I am getting up from where I lie and sitting on the window sill looking out the window.

My thoughts are on Angel right now. On how she described to me the first time she kissed him at the window, how she placed her hands on his face as he kissed her softly. They are on the dozens of other stolen kisses they shared here, the moments of silent reverie after they decided they needed space from the intensity that was their love, and how they always found their way back to each other. I can feel the ghost of the passion that once was, that was lost for all that time after he left, and how it continued to haunt her and her relationship with Riley.

Her second love I find myself musing. And he was. Second that is. Always second. Poor Riley, he was a nice guy really…well, before the whole vamp-whore sucking thing, but even then, he still loved her. I think maybe she is to him what Angel was to her… what she was to him. Was. Strange notion. I shake my head to clear that thought that sends shivers down my spine and rumbles the bile that’s readily rising up the back of my throat. I guess it doesn’t matter now anyway, because they are both gone. Angel’s gone, Riley’s gone, and now. And now Buffy’s gone too. Only Buffy’s forever.

I thought once upon a time that love was forever, but I doubted it recently. And then I saw the pain in his eyes when I told him what had happened on that night, and I saw the love that was still there. And I know, no matter what happens to me on this earth, when it's my turn to pass over to the otherworld, I know that someone will love me in the same way Angel loves Buffy. He didn't need to cry, he didn't scream or shout or even say anything. He just died inside, and I know how that feels. But I could still see the love there hanging in the tears that refused to fall.

I turn to look back into the room before I turn and leave the room. It's emptiness rings out in silent pain and with a swell in my chest I am forced to once more shut the door. It clicks on the latch, sealing it from the rest of the world until maybe one day I can open it again. When maybe one day, the pain wont be so fresh or so raw. Or maybe it'll stay shut forever, for I can't really imagine a time when I will ever stop hurting like this.

I guess only time is the healer that I am looking for and maybe time will soothe my sores.

Maybe?

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