Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all the characters in it are the exclusive property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB station. In other words, I don't own them, please don'e sue, I'm not making any money off this.
Note: "Huis Clos" is used courtesy of Jean-Paul Sartre, loosely translated as "enclosed space", a play about one possible view of Hell. . . tee-hee.
Damn.
I give another glance to the causes of my suffering, the three pictures I’ve lined up on my bed like a really cheerful firing squad. Buffy. Willow. Cordelia. I suppose the feelings that I feel when I look at each of these pictures could all be described as love. . . if you were a fanatic about understatement.
Cordelia.
Despite my better judgment, I’ve become quite attached to her. She’s come so far as to prove herself, even to Giles, as other than the vapid, cruel bitch we’d all taken her for, as a bright, brutally honest, and even caring girl. My girlfriend. I love it that she’s independent, that she’s full of life (and occasionally of herself), and she’s definitely a match for my superior wit. She never lets me get away with anything without a biting comment and a passionate kiss. Yes, though I never thought it was possible from a girl, she’s also a match for me in hormones. What I feel when I look at her has evolved from a kind of annoying sibling-like affection to what can only be described as. . . unbridled lust. Oh, ick. . . that was a mental picture I could have lived without. Good thing I’m an only child.
Willow.
For the longest time, as long as I can remember, she’s just been my Will. My best friend. The only one in the world who really understood me, who I could always talk to, who would just sit and listen while I didn’t say anything. But ever since the night of Homecoming, it’s been. . . rather different. She was so beautiful. . . when she smiled at me, my whole world brightened and my heart constricted with a fierce ache as I realized how much I loved that little redhead who knows me maybe better than *I* know me. When we kissed for the first time in her bedroom, it was magic, everything I’d ever dreamed a kiss should be. Yeah, it was really sappy, but it was good, too. Really good. How could I ever have been so blind? I think maybe I saw her as that fabulous woman just a little when she started going out with Oz. . . impeccable timing as usual, Xand. But when I look at her face, it’s like everything else goes away and I can’t help but smile a little. It feels right, so right. It feels like coming home. I’m not sure if I want to let that go. . . or if I *can*.
Buffy.
The thought of her, the sight of her fills me with an indefinable rage, but for the love of God, I can’t figure out *why*. Since she came back from LA, I’ve hated the way I’ve treated her, but some sick part of me can’t stop it. When she needed me to stand by her silently just to let her know I was there, I yelled at her until I felt marginally better, and left her without listening to a thing she had to say. When she needed me to be understanding and gentle as she finally became able to talk about those painful events, I selfishly chided her for not being the same fun-loving Buffy we used to know. When I found out Angel was back, I did the verbal equivalent of smacking her around the room a bit. . . before I ripped her heart out. I tried to tell myself that she deserved it, for leaving without telling us anything, for not letting us help her when it was convenient for *us*. . . but my conscience keeps telling me something else. It keeps telling me to stop making things harder for her, she has enough to deal with, enough guilt and sadness and bad feelings to last ten lifetimes. It keeps telling me things I don’t wanna hear. . . like that I still love her. My conscious mind does not want to believe that, but it keeps nagging at me: What was that you felt when you saw Buffy kissing Angel again? Betrayal? Righteous anger?
Jealousy?
As much as I want to believe that it was purely the two former, I can’t honestly deny that the latter wasn’t there. I love her still, but not the way that I used to. She used to be perfect, so perfect. . . as far as I was concerned, she could do no wrong. Even when she turned me down for the Spring Fling I thought she was perfect. But then came the Angel loophole. . . the death of Ms. Calendar. . . Acathla. . . her running off to LA. . . bit by bit the pedestal I had put her on was crumbling. And even though I know it wasn’t fair to put her up there in the first place, and I know it’s not fair to resent her humanity, I can’t help the bitterness I feel at having to let that image go. I suppose what it comes down to is that I’ll always care about her, even though it hurts to care and it’s easier to be mad.
Sigh.
I look at the three smiling faces in front of me again. Yeah, I suppose you could say that I love all three of them, and I have no idea what I’m gonna do about it.
But I thought moping would be a good place to start.