Illyria doesn't sleep. It's a stark contrast from the near-constant state of sleep Fred spent her last few hours in, and even less comforting somehow, although Wesley lays awake for all hours now as well. He can hear her wandering around when he brings her home with him and it makes him yearn for Fred, in the early days, hiding under the desk at the Hyperion. Or any Fred, really, but that one sticks in his mind. She'd have nightmares about Pylea sometimes, and wander around the hotel, trying to reacquaint herself. He'd often hear her yell and go up; walk with her. He's never yearned for anything so much. He should've held on tighter. Should've fought harder. Should've been a better lover. She shouldn't have suffered. So many regrets. He sets his book down and goes off to find Illyria.
She might've been beautiful. Wesley studies her profile from the doorway. A statue in a modern art museum. Beautiful. He holds the word against his cheek, under his tongue. Fred was beautiful. It made sense that what ripped her from him before she'd had a chance would be beautiful, too.
"Hey." He can't say her name when addressing her. It's more lyrical than Fred's, of course. Perfectly feminine. She'd have adored it. He choked on it once, but hasn't been able to since.
"I'm sorry if I woke you, Wesley."
He smiles in spite of himself. "I was awake."
"Good, I didn't want to wake you."
He swallows hard. "If you're not too busy, there's something upstairs I want to show you."
He reads until his voice is so tired it wavers, and when he is done, he looks over at the chair where Illyria ceremoniously plunked herself down a few hours earlier. She is not quite asleep, but he will admit that this is the most relaxed he's ever seen her. She's allowed her shoulders to round, and her watchful gaze has perhaps…softened a bit. Sighing, Wesley studies one of the photos by his bed—Fred, sleeping peacefully in that exact chair. He'd taken too long getting ready that night, and she'd gotten sleepy. Just fell asleep right there in the chair in her pretty dress with her hair done up. He stares at it until he can hear her ragged-but-rhythmic breathing through the photograph and as the sun comes up over Los Angeles, Wesley turns off his light.