Soft and Pink and Very Sad
He doesn’t understand why or how it came to be this way, but his world is very different now.
All he knows it that it started with what he has come to call ‘The Very Bad Night’. Oh, every night before then that she hadn’t come home had been a bad night, but this? This was the worst night yet. There were people in her room on this night and they were crying. The young one – the one he knows hasn’t always been here even if sometimes the pictures in his fuzzy pink head try to tell him differently – clutched him and got him wet and he was quite severely annoyed because she didn’t have his permission to do that. Only his Buffy is allowed to get him all salty and damp. But the young one has never cared about the rules and she squeezed him too tightly and made noise. He didn’t understand any of it; he never understands the others. He only ever understands the sounds Buffy makes, but she wasn’t there to make them.
She didn’t come home that night and she doesn’t come home the next night or the night after.
His soft pink heart hurts and he wishes she were here to make it better.
He waits for her, telling himself every day that she’ll be back for him. After all, if she had intended to be gone for long, she would have taken him with her – or sent for him. Once, he remembers distinctly, the older one put him in a box and sent him to her and he knew it was because Buffy had made it so. She always wants him with her.
But she doesn’t come home. And she doesn’t send for him.
No one ever bothered to tell him that a little pig’s heart is able to break, but he thinks his might, even if it is soft and made of fluff.
He isn’t allowed on his own bed anymore, either. No, now he is forced to live in the young one’s room. It’s not as nice as his room and he’s indignant and full of rage. He tries to tell her to put him back where he belongs. Buffy will be home soon and she’ll be very angry. But the young one doesn’t listen and she insists on holding him the way only Buffy is allowed to hold him and making noises at him that are irksome and pointless and sound nothing like Buffy.
Time passes and Buffy still doesn’t come home.
He can’t stand to hurt anymore.
He retreats into himself and after a while all he can feel is plush and softness. He even forgets his name. He’s not Mr. Gordo anymore. He’s just an oddly-shaped mass of fabric and stuffing.
It’s better this way.
In a world without Buffy, he would rather be nothing.