Rating: PG
Distribution: You want it? ::shrug:: Just let me know where it’s at.
Feedback: If you’d like to.
Author’s note: This is from Willow’s POV, and to be honest, it’s a little bitter and depressing, because that’s how I’m feeling. I think it would be set early in season one, before the gang really gets to know Angel, and before he and Buffy are an item. Also, this isn’t betaed; I just pounded it out and sent it.
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There are times when I would give anything to be someone other than me. Tonight, in fact, was one of those times. Angel stopped by. No notice, he just dropped in. I really don’t know why; he must have thought Buffy would be here. I played the polite hostess, inviting him in, asking if I could get him anything (Yeah, Will, like you keep cases of his preferred beverage on hand, just in case). I’m sure he stayed out of propriety’s sake, and then just long enough to be polite. I can’t even remember what the conversation we had consisted of; I’m sure it was nothing intelligent on my part.
The man just makes me so nervous. Every time he comes around, I turn into this babbling idiot. It’s like some kind of moronic little demon takes over (I wonder if I could blame the hellmouth for that one?). I can never think of anything to say (mainly because my mind seems to get stuck on things like how beautiful his mouth is, or the hint of muscle visible beneath his shirt), so I just let my mouth run. God only knows what’s going to come out.
And why is it that I always look like hell when he comes around? I’m either doing something messy, like cleaning, or it’s one of those days when I just didn’t feel like bothering to put on makeup, or fix my hair decently. Today, was one of the latter. I had on grungy old jean shorts, a tank top, and no makeup. My hair was doing a weird flippy thing, which I hadn’t bothered to correct, because I wasn’t planning on being seen by anyone other than my family. Maybe it wouldn’t have bothered me so much, but I can’t help thinking he’s comparing me to Buffy. Little Miss “I’ve been trudging through sewers and slaying big, slimy demons, yet I still look like a beauty queen.” Wow, that was a little bitter, wasn’t it?! But I REALLY want to know how she manages that!
Anyway, after he left, I spent about an hour moving restlessly around the house, mentally kicking myself over the whole incident. I hate how nervous he makes me. I hate how I react to him. Yes, he’s older (understatement of the century there, Willow), but I’m not exactly all that young. Yet I always wind up acting like some kind of starry eyed little girl when he’s in the room.
And I know that’s how he sees me. Just a little girl. A friend of Buffy’s, whose company he tolerates. Occasionally helpful, sure, but usually dismissed without a second thought. After all, guys like that don’t take notice of girls like me. I’ve said that before, and I’m gonna keep on saying it right up until someone proves my theory wrong. I hope like hell that happens, but I’m not going to hold my breath until it does.
Still, I wish I could change the way he sees me. Show him sometime that I’m not just a little girl, that I’m worth that second, and even third, thought. I want to show him that I’m a real person, someone worth getting to know. Someone he could really be friends with or maybe even be more than friends with (and we’re back to my sad fixation with that incredible mouth of his!).
But I may as well wish for the moon--I think I’d have a better chance of getting it.
The End