Willow came to a halt outside one of the Hyperion's rooms, in a hallway that seemed better-lit than its brother and sister hallways, its door looking sturdier than the others in the building to which she could compare it. It wasn't locked, though, so she pushed it open.
This was where Angel lived--or was that the right term, since he technically wasn't, didn't...
Once across the threshold she found it impossible to imagine the rest of the hotel around her at all, everything that was broken-down and cobwebby was shamed by the excellent level to which this set of rooms had been refurbished. She tried to imagine for a moment Angel stripping off old wallpaper and pasting up new, laying out a roll of carpet, handling issues such as wiring not up to code or truculent issues of plumbing. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed her mind to imagine Angel doing the most industrial of chores; welding, for example, but when she thought of him pushing back the helmet she had to smile as Jennifer Beals' face was behind the shield, and not that of the vampire's. Well, so her imagination could only stretch so far. That her face could still stretch into a smile surprised her more.
Someone would have done all these tasks for him if he had not done them himself. Someone like Xander, perhaps. How she wished Xander were here! And at the same time could not bear the thought of having dragged him into this. The rooms were comfortable, and she like the purple walls and the painted white wooden doors. Willow made her way over to the bed, neatly-made as though Angel were expecting a visitor. Nothing in the rooms was out of place to suggest either a hurried exit or a forced departure on his part.
Nothing like Buffy's room, nothing like--but she wasn't going to think of that right now. Instead she thought of Xander. Xander welding-- next to Jennifer Beals, maybe. Good, beautiful Xander, who actually had a profession, something useful he had become. A bona fide accomplishment, a pass to Normal Life Land.
It was not something Willow thought she could have admitted when Buffy was alive, but in truth she was not sure she had planned for the future as practically as had Xander. Despite attending college, and loving every moment in classes, discussions, or paper writing, she had yet to create any sort of "real world" application for herself. Surely she was suited for many things, but she had deliberately stream-lined her life to take her B.A. in Buffy Assistance. How marketable those skills were solo, sans slayer (despite the fact the Watchers were indubitably searching for the next one), was yet to be seen.
She lay down on Angel's bed, not wanting to think about her life choices anymore, but unable to conjure anything better suited to thought. And so she passed the night.
...
Most of the night, anyway. Sometime just before dawn she woke, startled, like her ears had popped from the rapid sort of ascent or descent on a plane flight. The hotel remained on its foundation where it had for the last 50 years or so, though, and she finally talked herself out of her momentary wigging episode. It was just another thing to add to the list of strange sensations experienced when sleeping away from home. She rose, and tried to straighten the Willow-like shape in the covers of Angel's bed--unsuccessfully. She'd have to confess to him that she'd taken the liberty of making it hers, if only for a few hours. For a moment she got mad. Angry that no one was here, that she had been left, doddering about like Diogenes, looking for someone who couldn't be found. And she stomped downstairs to the lobby determined at least to kick a chair if nothing (or no one) else presented itself in due course.
...to be continued...
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Disclaimer: Willow and the others, Buffy, Angel, Giles, Spike, etc. are not mine, and I reap no monetary rewards by putting them to work here, only the twisted, dirty pleasure that comes from messing in their minds.
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My other fic can be (to an extent) found here, or (in full) at my own site, The OutBack Fiction Shack. Thanks...("xing:" Call me!) Neftzer.