When it had become apparent (as it had in the first few moments of her entering the building) that no one was home (despite the invitation of the unlocked front doors) Willow found her way to yet another bus stop, and Cordelia's address. Her door was locked as one might expect when no one was home. There wasn't much to say about it beyond that--she was in no shape to be taking mental notes to share with the group back in Sunnydale about how Cordelia was living.

Willow knew that Wesley had been working with Cordelia and Angel lately, but she had no idea of his address, which though she knew was simple enough for her to find in LA with a surname like Wyndam-Pryce to go by, she still found that on this mission finding Wesley would more or less leave her feeling like she had found no one at all.

She walked down to a corner store near Cordelia's apartment, bought a loaf of wheat bread and a jar of peanut butter, and caught the bus back to the stop nearest The Hyperion. She was half-torn between wanting someone to have finally arrived, and contrarily hoping (on account of the bread and peanut butter, and how bizarre it would look if she were to enter with it in hand) that they hadn't.

Buying the food had more or less been a nod to Tara, whom she had called from the corner store's pay phone. Their conversation had been brief; she had arrived, no one was home--no, she would stay and see if anyone showed. And she had been asked to promise that she would not forget to eat, but the best she could summon had been that she would buy something to eat--she hadn't been able to say that she would eat it. After all, she wasn't even hungry. Hadn't been for days.

...

Years ago, Willow's biggest dream had always been to spend the summer after their high school graduation backpacking across Europe with Xander. And by the time her freshman year began she already had more than a drawer of her desk at home stocked with brochures for hostels, directions on how to get Eurail passes, charts for exchange rates, and painstakingly cut-out pictures from touring magazines of places they would visit. (Although Xander was going to come along, his interest in planning at such an early stage was minimal at best.) This was not a dream she had even abandoned when she met Buffy, rather, she had simply added Buffy's name to her passenger manifest. One day at lunch she had informed her of it.

"When we go to Europe--" (it was always when, never, "if"), "what're your top three?"

"Top three?" Buffy had asked, tearing into her BLT and expertly catching one of the tomatoes that was about to go AWOL in the vicinity of her new shantung skirt.

"You know, top three spots you would be sorry if you never go to see."

Sometimes it escaped Willow that not everyone had lists about such things, or enough research on said topic that they could easily pull three European locales out of their memory.

"Well," Buffy stalled, stuffing her mouth with another bite of BLT. "The Eiffel Tower." She nodded, pleased with herself. "I would like to see the Eiffel Tower."

"Oh, yes, that will be nice." Willow smiled. "Already on the list." She looked at Buffy, anticipating her list's number two.

Buffy chewed her lip. Took another large bite of BLT to stall for time, a studied sip of Diet Coke. "Big Ben, and Parliament. Yes." She nodded again, clearly even more pleased with herself.

"Well, okay," Willow encouraged, "those are both in London, we'll count them as one. So where else?"

Buffy looked down at her sandwich, which was quickly disappearing due to her nerve-induced noshing. She settled on the Diet Coke, but saw the happy anticipation in Willow's eyes almost turn to a tiny frown as she moved to take a swig and stall further. She grabbed for it quickly in spite of this and drank, pulling the can away from her mouth to ask, as much as to say, "Prussia?" Her voice went up on the end of the word and she smiled nervously.

"Oh, uh," Willow hemmed and hawed, finally settling on writing down Prussia on her list (she could re-copy it later). "I've heard Prussia is very beautiful," she lied. "And, uh, well-governed. The citizens are very friendly."

But Willow never did re-copy that list, and somewhere along the way she realized that her dream had been deferred, and then later, at graduation (actually, in preparing for the massacre that was to be their graduation) she noticed that she no longer held backpacking across Europe as a possible reality for herself. She wanted to go with Buffy, she wanted to stand and hear Xander say, "Look Buffy, Big Ben, Parliament," and hear Buffy laugh. She wanted to buy a loaf of French bread and eat it on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower, tearing off pieces of it in big chunks and taking turns throwing small bits in the air for Xander to catch in his mouth and impress the French girls.

Had Buffy known it was better not to make such plans? Had she assumed that Willow would go to Europe, with Xander--without her? Had she thought that? Had she thought about it at all? Surely Willow had mentioned it enough times, tried to drag her into planning the trip, a trip Buffy could never really in good conscience go on. Maybe they could fly as far as Las Vegas or Phoenix, even, before they would get a call--somehow--that she was needed in Sunnydale, another big evil to squash. And if they got no call they'd only worry, knowing what life at home was like, and what a Hellmouth less a Slayer could cause.

Slaying was like farming, except it was more about the killing.

And you couldn't take vacations.

...

After a day and night alone in The Hyperion, Willow had started to think (not in a fearful way, but in more of a fascinated, intrigued, mesmerized-way) that no one would ever return to the hotel and she would be found, some time later, still circling its upper floors, their intricacies of hallways now obscured by shredding wallpaper, old carpet torn in spots like wounds gouged into the floor. And here she would have become lost, the mad woman in the attic with a conscience to unburden, a weight to share, a story to tell, but no one to listen. After enough time, she had to suppose, she would forget the story herself. And then--but she realized that this whole line of thought was less a fascination with the macabre than the simple effect of unintentional fasting. She was light-headed. Returning to her bread and peanut butter in the lobby, she made herself a functional (if somewhat bland) version of a sandwich, and washed it down with water from the cooler. She picked through some of the papers on the desk, and near the filing cabinet, telling herself she was engaged in detective work, rather than just being a nosy Parker.

She heard the front doors swing open and at once she knew: this is what she should have been doing all along. Was there any faster way to get walked in on than to begin snooping? Several men and a leggy woman in business suits had entered. They were carrying leather porfolios. To her eye they did not look out of place in the lobby, but something told her inveterately they nonetheless were. Willow held her position behind the front desk, quiet, yet attentive, expecting them to walk over and greet her--perhaps they were also looking for Angel.

They spoke for a few moments among themselves (she could not make out what they were saying, though they seemed to be appraising the architecture of the foyer's high ceiling).

She cleared her throat in a bid for attention, and they turned toward her, as a unit.

The leggy woman spoke, "What are you doing back there?"

Willow answered her as she always instinctively answered people who asked her questions (though she often regretted it after the fact--that she was so easy to manipulate). "I'm waiting for Angel to get back."

"Oh, you know Angel?" The woman's voice was conversational.

It seemed important (though Willow was not sure why) to answer as obliquely as possible. "I...just got into town, and..." She held up a battered business card she still had in her hands from her look-over of the desk.

"Are you in the need of some help?" The woman eyed the last few bites of Willow's peanut butter on wheat sandwich (and her rumpled clothes, as well).

"I might be," Willow answered.

A card (much more professional, and on nicer-quality card-stock than Angel's) was handed to her by one of the gentlemen.

"We like to help the helpless as well," the woman offered. "If Angel doesn't show--just give us a call--collect if you like." She smiled. "We'll accept the charges."

And they left as group, a shuffle of dark-toned and spit-shone wingtips--and her high, high, spike heels, like nothing a girl in a business suit had any business wearing.

Willow looked down at the opposing cards, one in each hand. The first, a bad sketch of a moth or a butterfly, a worm squished in a puddle--or a first grader's rendering of an angel. The other, an invitation from Lilah Morgan, working for the law firm of Wolfram and Hart. So they helped people too, that was nice. Willow laid both cards back down on the desk, and wished she had thought to ask the Wolfram and Hart people if they had any idea where Angel was or when he would be back. They had not seemed surprised at all that he wasn't here.

...to be continued...

...

DISCLAIMERS: SEE end of CHAPTERS I and II.

Thanks for the feedback! Hope you're all still liking it...Neftzer. The OutBack Fiction Shack.