It wasn’t bad, really.  He had company, a mission, most of the creature comforts.  

He’d started reading again, remembered how much he liked it.  Not that that meant he was gonna start reading the kind of nancy-boy crap Angel always brooded over. 

He toyed with and then rejected the idea of writing.  He knew whatever he wrote would be shit—that wasn’t the problem; if he put pen to paper to write about her, he would crumble to dust just as surely as if he’d been staked.