Spike hated to fly. He despised the endless lines and ridiculous procedures. But he found himself sliding his newly acquired passport across the counter and nodding at the balding man who was confirming his reservation.
He checked his watch, six twenty-five in the morning, late afternoon in Rome.
What would she say when she opened her door to find him on her doorstep? Would she laugh? Cry? Slam the door in disgust? Invite him inside? Punch him in the nose?
He played scenario after scenario in his mind, but none helped to ease his nerves. Now that the apocalypse had been averted, Angel didn't need his help any longer and he was out of excuses.
No reason why he couldn't go back to Europe.
No reason why he couldn't fly to Rome and see her – except for the metaphorical heart-stopping fear that gripped him every time his thoughts drifted to her.
She had a normal life now, or as normal as she would ever have. From what he'd heard and pieced together, her life seemed like it finally on track and there was no room for him.
By now Buffy had to know that he was back - she'd probably found out the same night he left Europe – impeccable timing as always. But she still hadn't come to LA; hadn't cared enough to help Angel battle the monster du jour; hadn't even dropped him an email to see how he was.
Swallowing hard Spike picked up his carry-on suitcase and got out of the uncomfortable faux leather seat. He walked down the brightly lit hallway, his footsteps the only sound on the tile floor as he walked towards the red exit sign.
He didn't belong in Rome, because Buffy wasn't his to chase after anymore. If she could move on than so could he.
A grim smile spread across his pale face as Spike pushed open the glass door that separated LAX from the busy world outside. The night air was cool and the streets were shiny – he must have just missed the rain storm.
With a weary sigh, Spike buttoned his duster with one hand and picked up his suitcase. No where to go but back to Evil Inc., he thought as he raised his arm and waited for a taxi.
At least the Poof kept his office stocked with good Scotch.
Meanwhile in Rome ....
Buffy tipped the wine bottle over her glass again, watching the burgundy liquid spill out. She set the bottle down carefully – there was only a little bit left, no sense in wasting it.
Picking up her glass, she took a long swallow staring blankly at the label on the dark green glass. It was good wine – expensive, but worth it.
Leaning her chin on her hand, Buffy watched the flame of the pillar candle burn down. She should have turned on the lights; now that the sun had set her flat was dark and shadowy.
It was strange to be alone so much – now that Dawn was away at school she was almost always by herself.
Buffy refilled her glass, not concerned that the bottle was empty. It was late, she'd go to bed soon.
If she closed her eyes and let her mind wander on nights like this, his face would come to her. She could almost see him coming out of the bedroom, his hair rumpled from sleep and his chest bare. He'd cross the flat and sit beside her on the sofa, carefully extracting the wine glass from her hand. He would move the bottle to the other side of the coffee table, concerned that she'd finished it in only two nights.
His pale hand would caress her cheek gently, his bright eyes staring intently at her flushed cheeks. "You're smashed pet," he'd whisper softly.
She would try to nod but her head would lull backwards, coming close to the edge of the sofa. Instead of letting her head smack against the carved wood, he would put his arm around her neck and pull her onto his lap. She'd curl up in his lap, her head cushioned against the smooth planes of his chest.
"Come to bed Buffy luv," he'd murmur, his arms wrapping around her tiny frame. He'd stand up in one fluid motion, carrying her across the living room and towards their bedroom.
Buffy swallowed the rest of her wine with a quick gulp, trying to ignore the tears burning the backs of her eyes. She rose unsteadily to her feet, holding onto the back of the sofa until she stopped swaying.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she shivered, wishing she could remember the feel of his hands on her body. Nothing worked; no matter how hard she tried he remained a shadowy memory. She found herself searching for his crystal blue eyes along the crowded streets of Rome and longing for his touch when she passed couples.
No one would ever replace him, she realized that – even though she'd tried. The Immortal was the first person she'd been with since Sunnydale and nothing he did was enough. He'd tried to please her but he wasn't used to having to win women over and he'd gotten bored soon after Buffy realized it wasn't going to work. She needed Spike, it was that simple.
She flopped down onto her crimson bedspread with a groan, fumbling in the darkness for the edge of her blankets. Buffy pulled a pillow against her chest, drawing her knees up towards her chest, her arms wrapped tightly around the pillow. She dropped her head onto the pillow and was asleep in a matter of minutes.
At least her dreams were forgiving – her mind indulged her deepest fantasies while her body slept. Sometimes she and Spike were in Rome, tearing through the streets like rebellious teens, or sedately walking through art museums while he whispered sweet nothings in her ear. She dreamed of them picnicking under the stars – finding a tiny space in an area park where they could spread out a blanket and she could curl up in his arms. They would make love beneath the silverly light of the moon, hidden from the rest of the world by his coat. Other times they were traveling through London, looking at sights from his human life, his face bathed in nostalgia as he relived his childhood. There were nights she dreamed of the future they would never have – of children she would never conceive, of an outdoor wedding on the beach that wouldn't happen, of the anniversaries they would never celebrate. She dreamed of him turning her so they could spend eternity together, wrapped up in each others arms.
Every night she dreamed that they were together again, that he wasn't dust beneath the ruins of Sunnydale.
A tortured sob escaped her lips and she sat up straight in bed, looking wildly around her dark bedroom. She exhaled shakily, running her hands through her short hair, pushing her sweat-soaked bangs off of her forehead. The room was cold but she was trembling – Buffy felt so lost and alone – during the day she revealed in her independence but at night the sadness came back with a vengeance.
She pushed away the pillow that was pressed against her chest and stumbled into the bathroom. Turning on the cold water, she splashed her face a few times, trying to simultaneously sober up and get a handle on her emotions. She wiped her face on the burgundy hand towels, sniffling as she padded back to her bed.
Buffy crouched next to her bed and pulled out a small box. She lifted off the lid, revealing a black cotton shirt crumbled into a ball in order to fit into the tiny container. Smiling ruefully Buffy held the shirt up to her face, breathing in the familiar scent – it was bourbon and cigarettes, that reminded her of him, and a trace of her perfume, a reminder of their last night together.
Before they'd left for battle, Buffy had confiscated the shirt he'd been wearing the night before, telling him that she wanted something to wrap her scythe in. Spike hadn't argued and she suspected that he'd understood – so she hadn't argued when she watched him tuck a scrap of black lace into the pocket of his jeans – they both needed a piece of the other.
She'd left the shirt on the bus and had completely forgotten about it until Dawn pulled it out from under the seat. When she saw the familiar material the magnitude of her loss hit home and she'd burst into tears, harsh sobs that couldn't be soothed away.
Now the scent was more imagined than actually present but Buffy clung to the shirt like a security blanket. It was all she had of Spike, of her Champion.
Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Buffy pulled back the comforter and slipped beneath the sheets. She clutched the shirt in her right hand, careful to keep her damp cheeks away from the fabric. Her eyes drifted shut slowly and Buffy drifted off into her dreams for the second time that night.
One week later...
"Do you ever plan on leaving," Angel asked, his hands on his hips, a disdainful scowl on his face.
Spike tilted his head to face the elder vampire, smiling like a drunken fool. "Nope," he said, emphasizing the 'p", dropping his head against the back of the sofa.
A half-empty bottle of whiskey hung precariously from his fingers and Angel wondered how one removed whiskey stains from white carpet.
"Spike," he growled, stepping into the shadowy office that reeked like a bar.
"Angel," the bleached vampire replied, his lips twisting in a sneer. "Sit down, have a bloody drink."
He offered the bottle to Angel who shook his head, leaning against the cherry desk and regarding Spike with a mixture of sympathy and annoyance.
"That won't help," he said with the air of a parent reprimanding a petulant child.
"Really?" Spike looked stunned.
"Working now though. 'Aven't thought 'bout her all bloody day."
Angel shook his head again – truthfully he'd like to join Spike in getting sloshed off his ass but someone had to work on putting the law firm back together.
"You have to grow up," he snapped. Angel was frustrated with everything – with Spike and his drunkenness, with Illyria whose questions grated on his last nerve, with the never-ending process of sifting through the rubble of his office, with the construction crews who couldn't get the law firm cleaned up fast enough.
Spike sat up straighter on the sofa and dropped the bottle on the coffee table. He pressed his palms against his thighs.
"You're jealous," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile.
"Shut up."
"Angel's jealous," Spike sing-songed, taking another swig from the whiskey bottle.
The elder vampire slammed the door to the office as he stormed out. Spike stared at the closed door for a moment before turning back to his alcohol. "Well you are," he sulked.