✟ hollow heroes separate, as they run
There's something that humans and other living things have. A circadian rhythm. They went to sleep when it got dark and rose during the daylight hours. For the past 247 years, Angel had been doing just the opposite.
Or perhaps he's not plagued by insomnia. Maybe he's just restless.
The whole tropical island paradise thing was nice. For the first day or so. When he thought that it might not be permanent, that he'd be going home sooner or later. Or perhaps that this was some form of a test (or vacation) rigged up by the Powers, maybe as a teaser to what was to come. After all, it sure looked like paradise. The sun, chocolate - and Buffy.
In all of the moments when he'd briefly thought about heaven (something practically unattainable for him, being a demon and all) he'd never thought about how skull-drillingly boring it would be. Or maybe 'boring' was not the right word.
But a purposeless Angel was not a happy Angel. His missions - Buffy, Los Angeles - had tided him over for the past few years. Before that, he'd wandered, cold and hungry - and hit rock bottom quite a few times before coming to his senses. Do the people on this island need to be saved? More importantly, can he still help them, in his newly human form? That mock-fight with Spike had brought the truth into the light - that he was weak. He had human stamina, constitution and everything. As a warrior of the people, he was practically useless.
Angel still knows how to move silently, and his black-socked feet move without a single creak on the floorboards, into the kitchen. The clock on the wall read 4AM, and back at home it would probably be dinnertime for him.
Hence the obnoxiously grumbling stomach. He still hasn't gotten used to the sensation.