Hi. I love Phantom Dennis; probably more than I should considering that most of the time the only evidence of his existence is a silly things-are-moving-without-someone-visibly-holding-them effect. Anyway, here is a story.
I'm not usually comfortable writing in first person, so this was sort of a test to see if I could. Let me know if it reads awkwardly or anything.
I live every day with the bitter knowledge that I am not Joss Whedon.
I think I've loved her ever since she freed me from that wall.
I liked her even before then of course, basically from the first time she set foot in my mother's apartment. She was cute, even when flustered and panicked. (Maybe especially when flustered and panicked. There was something incredibly attractive about her when mother scared her in the middle of the night, all disheveled hair and rumpled pajamas.)
But, looking back on those early days, I didn't love her then the way I do now. Then it was as much about defying my mother as it was about Cordelia, showing my mom that she couldn't control my feelings, couldn't hand pick the women I liked. Maybe I would have felt the same about any other girl who happened to move in, the same infantile mixture of rebellion and horniness. But, once she freed me and I saw her with my own, admittedly desiccated, eyes, I knew there could never be anyone else.
I can tell my feelings have changed because I don't fantasize about her waking up scared (and scantily dressed) anymore. Instead, I watch her sleep and I wish that she will never be frightened again, that she'll always be happy and safe.
The best time of my day is when she talks to me. I can listen to her go on about anything: how her audition went, what Angel and his crew are up to, fall fashions, how difficult it is to get demon slime out of silk, the relative merits of two near identical (as far as I can tell) brands of hair care product. Sometimes she reads her scripts out to me, practicing her lines. Every word she says shines, her voice as bright as her white, white teeth. She shares her hopes, her fears, her aspirations, her frustrations. Death has made me a very good listener.
I try to do little things for her, whatever I can do to show her I care. I switch the lights off when she goes out, so she won't run up her utility bill. I fetch her telephones, or glasses of water, or tissues when she needs them. I always remember her birthday. Whenever she wants something, it's always right at hand.
Often, I wonder if she even notices. I know it will never work. She deserves someone who can take her to the fancy industry parties she's always dreamed of attending, who can hold her and kiss her and touch her, someone with corporeal fingers for caressing her cheeks, or running through her long, soft, chestnut hair. She and I will never really be together, but that's okay, because she's beautiful and alive, and even though she deserves so much more, I will still be here for her.
That's all. Thanks for reading. Reviews would mean a lot to me.