I’ve been sketching her now for the better part of two hours. Her soft breathing and my pencil on the pad are the only sounds in her room. She left the French doors to her bedroom unlocked. I don’t know if it was hope that made her do it, or that she knew I’d want to be near her.
Near her is all I want to be anymore. I look at her sleeping there, in the bed of her childhood, and I’m consumed with my love for her. The sketches are good, very good. That’s one of the traits I’m glad I share with Angelus. I’m more like him than I care to admit to anyone, even Willow. Especially Willow.
I’ve always been selfish.
When I was human all I cared about were my own wants. As Angelus,
I gave in to every sick twisted desire that had ever even briefly crossed
my mind. They all believe that I’m not Angelus, but that’s not true.
It’s like trying to say that you’re right arm is part of your body, but
your left arm isn’t. Even if the
left arm is withered
and crippled, it’s still yours. He’s in me, maybe not dictating
my every thought and move, but he’s there.
It would be easy to blame everything on Angelus. But I can’t. Angelus was not in control when I committed the most heinous crime of my life, the most selfish act of my life. I did the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, and only chance turned it for good. I took Willow’s innocent act of trust and need and almost damned both of us by turning it to suit my desires.
She’s smiling in her sleep. I wonder if she’s dreaming about me. All of my hours, sleeping and waking, are spent on her. She loves me. Willow loves me with a pure and unburdened heart and I know she’d forgive me if I confessed to her, but I can’t do that, yet.
Loving Willow is ecstasy. Loving Buffy was torture. I was at the end of my rope, sick with my love for her and unable to do anything about it. And not just the physical act, either. Angelus is a part of me, and it won’t be denied. Part of my being, my very fibre cried out at the wrongness of a vampire’s love for a Slayer. And the part that is Angelus will always despise her for what she is and what she made me feel for her. The only thing Angelus felt for Willow was an alternating indifference or desire. And that is why I did what I did.
I’ve been alive for over two hundred and forty years now, a vampire for most of it. I’d heard the legends and I knew what might happen. I can tell myself I didn’t know it to be fact, but I *wanted * it to be fact.
So I did it. I didn’t
love her then, but I knew that Willow was immeasurably loveable.
I took a chance. I knew when I tasted the blood of her innocence that the
obsession might happen. I longed for it, for something to fill my
thoughts, even briefly, besides Buffy. I knew exactly what I was
doing, what the consequences might be in the
long run for both
Willow and myself, and I still did it. I tried to tell myself that
I wouldn’t complete the circle by biting her, but I couldn’t help myself.
I probably would have anyway. Like I said, I’m selfish.
It makes me ill to think what could have happened. What if I’d fallen in love with her before my soul was bound? What if she’d never come to love me? It was wrong. *I * was wrong. Thank God, or whoever, that sometimes, wrong things can turn out to be so right.
I sometimes think she knows that I was fully aware of what I was doing. She’s an intelligent girl, after all. I know Giles at least suspects. I just don’t know if I can ever tell her the truth, even knowing that she’d forgive me, just because she’s Willow.
Dawn will be arriving soon. I think I’ll leave the first sketch on her pillow before I go. A reminder to her of how much I love and desire her.
I’m glad I did it,
even knowing all the hardship and heartache that will be sure to come.
Willow is going to give up a lot because of her love for me. I’d
like to think that she might let me turn her some day, since her soul can
be bound, but I doubt it. It just doesn’t seem like something Willow
would ever allow. Well, we’ll grow old
together then, even
though only one of us will age. And I’ll hold her hand when she breathes
her last sweet breath. Even then, there will be joy still to come.
The morning after she breathes her last will be the first morning I’ll
have seen the sunrise in centuries.
End