Four drabbles on losing lovers, from each of the Core Four. Point of reference: Renee is a Slayer in the Season 8 comic who becomes romantically involved with Xander, just in time for him to watch her get killed in battle. Please review!
Disclaimer: I don't own anything used or mentioned in this piece of unofficial fanfiction.
Willow's bed is far too big these days. Her pillow has never seemed wider, too broad for just her head, and the space where Oz's head fits perfectly next to her own mocks her. She gets a hollow feeling when she thinks about him, when she crawls into her cold, lonely bed, like somebody scooped out her heart and lungs and guts and left her empty. When Oz was around to hug her to sleep or to kiss her awake on early mornings, she hadn't been able to imagine feeling so gutted. Now, she can't imagine feeling anything but hollow.
Giles wishes he missed Olivia more. She's gone; for good, he suspects. He wishes the monsters had driven her away, that she'd lost all taste for the life he led, but fears it wasn't that at all.
His house is full of ghosts, and they're all shouting so loudly he had scarcely heard Olivia at all. It's Jenny's voice that's clearest, and she's telling him it's time to forget, that the only thing holding her here is him. But he can't let go, even though she's never been further, and Olivia won't come back to a man still holding on.
Buffy doesn't cry over Spike until he's been dead three days. She wears a brave face, a tired, faded smile, telling a bus full of girls that they're all heroes, and the world is a better place than it was yesterday.
She doesn't have very many fond memories of Spike, but the ones she does have are bright enough to keep her up at night. Falling asleep in his arms in a stranger's bed (you're the one, Buffy) and fighting by his side (I love you). She remembers him and she thinks, for all his faults, she loved him anyways.
Renee is dead and Xander is so tired of this mournful refrain. He's done with burials and funerals and fallen heroes. He wants to run away, to hunt and slay and kill until every vampire is dead, until he trails dust everywhere he goes. He thinks it would be better than this, than mourning and feeling so empty. Nothing he does makes him feel better, not dusting her killer, not crying until he can't. Nothing eases the terrible ice-cold burning in his heart and lungs and chest, makes the nightmares stop, does anything. She's gone, he's here, and everything hurts.
A/N: Please review!