Sleep is cold and vacant. He doesn't dream. The only proof Xander has that he has slept at all is the patches of unconsciousness that blotch his memory.
During one moment of stark lucidity, he imagines days and nights blurring and rushing by as he dozes fitfully or stares at the ceiling. So he is oddly disappointed when he finally checks his watch and discovers that he has only been in the bedroom for a meagre twenty-one hours and some odd minutes.
His legs are wobbly when he finally gets up, and he has to wait a moment before staggering across the room. He tries the two doors that don't lead back out into the hallway, finding first a closet then a bathroom. For several seconds all he can do is lean against the doorframe and gaze at the dull whiteness of the facilities. The stark contrast between the tiles and the closed-curtain darkness of the bedroom hurts his vision.
Eventually he manages to strip off and clamber into the shower, the tepid water ridding him of the clinging clamminess of the past couple of days. Mindful of his healing wound, he ducks his head under the shower, rinsing the grime from his hair and face until he begins to reclaim a sense of comfort and clarity.
It's tempered when he has to pull on his battle clothes again, but now he feels sufficiently awake that he can step out into the hallway. Following the distant sound of voices leads Xander to a staircase, down which he travels until it opens up to reveal a wide marble space that he vaguely recognises from the night before.
Several pairs of eyes swivel to watch him, but he doesn't register the faces. He feels spotlighted under the stares, on a stage, and he can't see out into the audience, but there are footsteps and someone next to him and Willow's voice whispers "Xander" as he's wrapped up tight in her arms. He drops his head, chin on her shoulder as she mumbles an "I'm so sorry" against his ear, squeezing then letting go. He wonders absent-mindedly how she knows, and feels faintly embarrassed at the thought that maybe they weren't exactly discreet in Buffy's kitchen. Or maybe Anya had just announced it herself in that unabashed way that was uniquely hers, because what was so wrong with being with someone you loved anyway?
When she pulls away it's like the house lights come back on and he can see the crowd. Buffy stands across the shiny coral-coloured space that he realises is actually the lobby of Angel's hotel. She offers him a weak but relieved smile, and after a moment's uncertainty is striding across to embrace him herself. He closes his good eye as he leans down against her, and so does not see the owner of the second pair of arms that wind around from beside him, but his name spoken again tells him it's Dawn, clutching desperately just as she did after his return from the hospital.
They pull away and he takes a moment to watch their tired faces, breathing deeply to steady himself. He catches a spicy cooking-tang in the air as he does, and his stomach doesn't so much growl as roar, angrily reminding him of how long it's been since he last ate.
Noting his distraction, Dawn takes hold of his hand and he looks down to see her brow is furrowed. She speaks his name again, this time as a question.
"Is there food?" he asks, startled by the rasp, the thickness in his own voice from so many hours of silence. "There's food, right?"
Dawn breathes a suggestion of a laugh and, still holding his hand, leads him across the lobby. They pass Giles, who smiles kindly, and someone who turns out to be Wesley when Xander sees past the stubble and mussed-up hair. Kennedy and some of the other girls are sprawled on dusty-looking red seats, and they nod acknowledgement when he sees them. Beside what must have been the hotel's reception desk, Andrew and a tiny young woman in glasses are fishing boxes full of steaming Chinese take-out from bags with some unfamiliar restaurant logo on them. There's a big green guy behind them, and Xander wants to point out the… well, the green-ness, but realises just in time that no one else seems to notice, so he files it away as something to be dealt with later, when his brain has recaptured the power evidently seized by his stomach.
At the edge of the desk Andrew looks up from his task and begins a wide smile. Xander halts, waits, because right now he's entirely happy to get a hug from Andrew too, even with everyone watching. But Andrew hesitates half way through, catching himself and dropping his gaze back to the box in his hands. Which doesn't make sense, and Xander feels… Oh crap, he's disappointed. He's actually disappointed that Andrew isn't rushing over to hug him like the girls did, and what does that say about his sanity? He reaches out a hand to steady himself on the desk, wondering if his wobbly limbs will take him back up to his room so he can hide under the covers.
A drizzle of words falls into his awareness, and he realises with a guilty start that the woman with the glasses is asking him what he wants to eat. The mingling smells of a dozen different dishes tug at his stomach, making it groan loudly, and he shrugs and announces "anything." Five seconds later he's handed a box of noodles with a fork sticking out the top, for which he is immensely grateful because there's no way his brain or his fingers can deal with chopsticks right now.
He drifts away to one of the faded red seats and sets to work devouring the noodles. The dull chatter of the rest of the crowd steams right past him. He watches Andrew studiously ignoring him, handing out boxes and chopsticks to the waiting hordes and in a painful echo of his role in Buffy's kitchen, waits until everyone else has been dealt with before helping himself to the last box. He follows Dawn to a couch across the lobby and talks with her about something that Xander can't hear. Xander eats his noodles and wonders why no one is sitting next to him.
*****
During one moment of stark lucidity, he imagines days and nights blurring and rushing by as he dozes fitfully or stares at the ceiling. So he is oddly disappointed when he finally checks his watch and discovers that he has only been in the bedroom for a meagre twenty-one hours and some odd minutes.
His legs are wobbly when he finally gets up, and he has to wait a moment before staggering across the room. He tries the two doors that don't lead back out into the hallway, finding first a closet then a bathroom. For several seconds all he can do is lean against the doorframe and gaze at the dull whiteness of the facilities. The stark contrast between the tiles and the closed-curtain darkness of the bedroom hurts his vision.
Eventually he manages to strip off and clamber into the shower, the tepid water ridding him of the clinging clamminess of the past couple of days. Mindful of his healing wound, he ducks his head under the shower, rinsing the grime from his hair and face until he begins to reclaim a sense of comfort and clarity.
It's tempered when he has to pull on his battle clothes again, but now he feels sufficiently awake that he can step out into the hallway. Following the distant sound of voices leads Xander to a staircase, down which he travels until it opens up to reveal a wide marble space that he vaguely recognises from the night before.
Several pairs of eyes swivel to watch him, but he doesn't register the faces. He feels spotlighted under the stares, on a stage, and he can't see out into the audience, but there are footsteps and someone next to him and Willow's voice whispers "Xander" as he's wrapped up tight in her arms. He drops his head, chin on her shoulder as she mumbles an "I'm so sorry" against his ear, squeezing then letting go. He wonders absent-mindedly how she knows, and feels faintly embarrassed at the thought that maybe they weren't exactly discreet in Buffy's kitchen. Or maybe Anya had just announced it herself in that unabashed way that was uniquely hers, because what was so wrong with being with someone you loved anyway?
When she pulls away it's like the house lights come back on and he can see the crowd. Buffy stands across the shiny coral-coloured space that he realises is actually the lobby of Angel's hotel. She offers him a weak but relieved smile, and after a moment's uncertainty is striding across to embrace him herself. He closes his good eye as he leans down against her, and so does not see the owner of the second pair of arms that wind around from beside him, but his name spoken again tells him it's Dawn, clutching desperately just as she did after his return from the hospital.
They pull away and he takes a moment to watch their tired faces, breathing deeply to steady himself. He catches a spicy cooking-tang in the air as he does, and his stomach doesn't so much growl as roar, angrily reminding him of how long it's been since he last ate.
Noting his distraction, Dawn takes hold of his hand and he looks down to see her brow is furrowed. She speaks his name again, this time as a question.
"Is there food?" he asks, startled by the rasp, the thickness in his own voice from so many hours of silence. "There's food, right?"
Dawn breathes a suggestion of a laugh and, still holding his hand, leads him across the lobby. They pass Giles, who smiles kindly, and someone who turns out to be Wesley when Xander sees past the stubble and mussed-up hair. Kennedy and some of the other girls are sprawled on dusty-looking red seats, and they nod acknowledgement when he sees them. Beside what must have been the hotel's reception desk, Andrew and a tiny young woman in glasses are fishing boxes full of steaming Chinese take-out from bags with some unfamiliar restaurant logo on them. There's a big green guy behind them, and Xander wants to point out the… well, the green-ness, but realises just in time that no one else seems to notice, so he files it away as something to be dealt with later, when his brain has recaptured the power evidently seized by his stomach.
At the edge of the desk Andrew looks up from his task and begins a wide smile. Xander halts, waits, because right now he's entirely happy to get a hug from Andrew too, even with everyone watching. But Andrew hesitates half way through, catching himself and dropping his gaze back to the box in his hands. Which doesn't make sense, and Xander feels… Oh crap, he's disappointed. He's actually disappointed that Andrew isn't rushing over to hug him like the girls did, and what does that say about his sanity? He reaches out a hand to steady himself on the desk, wondering if his wobbly limbs will take him back up to his room so he can hide under the covers.
A drizzle of words falls into his awareness, and he realises with a guilty start that the woman with the glasses is asking him what he wants to eat. The mingling smells of a dozen different dishes tug at his stomach, making it groan loudly, and he shrugs and announces "anything." Five seconds later he's handed a box of noodles with a fork sticking out the top, for which he is immensely grateful because there's no way his brain or his fingers can deal with chopsticks right now.
He drifts away to one of the faded red seats and sets to work devouring the noodles. The dull chatter of the rest of the crowd steams right past him. He watches Andrew studiously ignoring him, handing out boxes and chopsticks to the waiting hordes and in a painful echo of his role in Buffy's kitchen, waits until everyone else has been dealt with before helping himself to the last box. He follows Dawn to a couch across the lobby and talks with her about something that Xander can't hear. Xander eats his noodles and wonders why no one is sitting next to him.
*****