These shells of women, he wants something from them he cannot have. He is jealous for it, feels the envy burning at him constantly, that they get to live with his precious jewel burning in their veins, in their every movement, or in their memory.
It’s living hell to watch Illyria constantly, her mockery movements and – worse – the face, the body, the moments when she’s almost Fred, but the only thing that would be worse would be knowing that she was somewhere else not with him.
And Faith, she’s a goddamn open wound to have in the world, but she’d be a shot in the heart to have dead, an even bigger failure if his Slayer – Is she still his Slayer? The definitions of himself, of everyone are lost now. Is he truly Wesley now, Illyria asked, and he didn’t know what to say. – lay dead somewhere.
These shells of women, he wants something from them he cannot have. A piece of himself, a piece of someone else, long dead.
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Rave
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Malice (Jess)
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Stephanie Loss
Wendyness (Wendy)
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