Chapter 5: Beautiful
Disclaimer: I don't own any words or characters, though I think this is a unique arrangement of them. Then again, who knows?
A/N: Thanks for continuing to read my buckshot. Reviews are always welcome, as are gifts of cash and puppies.
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Beautiful.
How I ever missed this is beyond me. I'm pretty sure it's beyond everyone I know. They all knew it before I did. They knew if I just looked at her in the right light, I'd love her. And what I'd like to know is how I blocked out the light for so long.
How did I miss the chance to dub her smile the sweetest one in the world? That smile was aimed right in my direction—thousands of times, and I never… Oz saw it. Why didn't I?
How did I miss it when she gave her heart to me? Sometime between five and fifteen, she put her heart in my care, even though she knew how irresponsible I am, how I should never be trusted with anything important. She trusted me with the most fragile and valuable thing she had, and I broke it. And then, as if that weren't enough, I hid it on a high shelf behind a dusty ceramic pineapple where I hoped nobody'd notice the cracks, and I walked away, whistling a non-song off key in that "nuthin' to see here, folks" way I have of avoiding blame.
Sometimes I really hate being me.
How could I have failed to be the first guy to kiss her? Sure, there was the tonsillectomy thing—though that was her kissing me—and New Year's Eve when we were ten, but her first real kiss…it should've been me. I should've kissed her that night before junior year, vampire be damned. I should've told myself, "Xander, you're a fool if you don't kiss this girl. She's beautiful, smart, ice-cream-flavored, your best friend…" Best friend. Ah, now it's coming back to me. See, that's strikingly similar to what I did tell myself that night. And why I stopped.
It's surprising how stupid a guy that age can be, thinking he's being a man. Only slightly less surprising than how stupid I've continued to be over the last couple years, knowing I'm far from grown up.
It shouldn't have taken a coma. I should've told her I loved her long before that.
And when I finally did say it, I should've meant it differently. I should have meant it in a "please wake up with selective amnesia, wherein you completely forget about how you're dating Oz and I'm dating Cordelia, and I somehow neglect to fill you in and we live happily ever after" kind of way. But I didn't. I meant it in a more selfish-desperationy "God, don't take her away from me" kind of way. As long as she woke up, I didn't care if she spent the rest of our lives flinging rotten fruit in the general vicinity of my head. As long as she woke up, she could call out for anyone she wanted: Buffy, Ed McMahon, Snuffaluppagus. Or Oz. Either way. I just wanted her back.
How did I not love her sooner? I should have loved the sparkle in her eyes—the sparkle I never noticed was for me. I should have loved every giggle I got out of her, every smile. I should have loved her for those dreams I wasn't supposed to know she had about me, and for the dreams I had about her that I dismissed as hormonally-driven anomalies.
It should never have been a fluke when I kissed her. It seemed the path of least blame at the time, but to think of it with that term now…it's an ugly word. A dirty, inaccurate word. How could kissing Willow be a mistake?
And when did I get this sappy?
I think it was when he left her. But not the way Anya implied. It was the way I felt when she was hurting. The way I felt incredulous that Oz, the one who noticed her light, could stand to step away from it—even for a moment, much less forever. It was the way I wanted to kill him…and then, guiltily, wanted to thank him.
She's beautiful. Asleep on my hideous couch, on my undeserving shoulder, under a blanket I found for her after spilling my coke on her lap. Under a blanket that's starting to slip—
BZZZZ
"Huh?" she says, jerking awake as the dryer buzzes.
"Your clothes are dry," I fumble out, averting my eyes, though I so don't want to. "Which is, uh, good, because you're kinda losin' the blankie there…"
Willow blushes and laughs and grabs the blanket tighter around her. She is somehow embarrassed and indignant and flirty all at once. Again—how in the world did I not love her sooner?
"Well, don't just sit there," she scolds. "Fetch me my wardrobe."
"I'm allowed to touch your unmentionables?" I tease.
Willow quirks her eyebrow at me. "Let me get dressed for now, and then we can discuss what you're allowed to touch."
Egad.
I think I know why I waited so long: because she's Willow, and she's worth it.
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To be continued...