A/N: So...this chapter took forever, mostly because I researched it meticulously b/c I have never been to Rome. Then...I shortened it because if I got too detailed, this chapter would have been 10,000 words long. Anyway, the next chapter should be up soon because it's mostly already written. Enjoy!

Dawn opened the door of her apartment after meticulously applying her makeup and choosing her outfit. Connor smiled tightly and held something behind his back.

"Hey," she greeted.

"Hey, have you ever seen Roman Holiday?" he asked in reply.

"Um, no," she answered, leaning against the door.

"Really? 1953 film? Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck?"

"No," she laughed.

"Great! This won't seem nearly as clichéd as it actually is," he said, revealing a pink motorcycle helmet he had hidden behind his back. "C'mon."

She took the helmet as he gently grasped her hand and lead her to the sidewalk. She giggled when she saw a shiny green Vespa. She snapped on the helmet he handed her and climbed on the scooter behind him. He only drove for a minute before he stopped at an ornate, white, and gold-gilded building on the edge of Dawn's neighborhood. She cocked her head as he took off his own helmet.

"We could have walked here," she told him, shaking out her hair as she placed the helmet on the seat of the scooter.

"Well, sure, but have you been here before?" he asked, effortlessly slipping his hand into hers.

"Um, no," she answered hesitantly.

"It's the Villa Borghese, which was originally the residence of Cardinal Scipione Borghese," he said as he led her through the green, manicured lawn. "It's how the neighborhood and the park got their name."

"I know, but you have to make reservations and pay for the tickets and I was raised with the idea that any plan made would undoubtedly go horribly wrong."

"Well, luckily for you, we don't need reservations or tickets. My dad knows a guy."

"Which dad?"

"The adoptive one," Connor replied. "He handles the off-shore accounts for one of the board members of the museum. My real dad has more enemies in Rome than people that owe him favors."

"What does your real dad do? Is he a hit man?" she asked as an intelligent-looking man led them upstairs. "And why is this tour starting on the fourth floor?"

"This is a top-to-bottom operation," he kidded. "And my father is a private investigator."

"Really? Like Magnum?"

Connor burst into a sudden laugh before silencing himself just as quickly. "Not really like Magnum. Besides, he's in L.A., not Hawaii."

"I'm impressed you know where Magnum lived."

"Yeah, well, I'm in college."

She shook her head as they entered the room with mural-covered walls. Dawn's eyes immediately lighted upon two side-by-side portraits on the far wall. She dropped Connor's hand to examine the paintings more closely.

"Bernini's self-portraits as a young and mature man," Dawn said. "He painted them only fifteen years apart, so the only real difference is in the eyes. There's a lot of Bernini in this room, actually, but that makes sense because Gianlorenzo Bernini is still one of Rome's favorite sons."

She looked back at Connor to find him staring at her with raised eyebrows. "I know stuff, too," she smirked.

"Apparently," he smirked back.

Dawn grinned as she took his hand and they traversed the nest three floors trying to outdo one another with their respective knowledge of Raphael, Bassano, and Rubens. She stood in awe of the domed ceiling of the ground floor when they arrived in the central room.

"You're missing Carraviagio," Connor teased.

"You know what I don't understand?" she asked, completely ignoring him. "How does a man who supposedly serves God afford this gorgeous house and afford to be the patron of an artist like Carravagio?"

Connor smirked and said, "He was a cardinal, not a Franciscan monk. His family purchased his place in the world. It's not that way anymore, of course. It's more like a real job, which is why cardinals are so freaking old nowadays."

"And you know so much because…?"

"I know stuff too. What do you say we move on?"

"Okay," she relented easily.

Dawn stared at the mosaic on the wall of the Basillica de Santa Maria Maggiore. "This is why Rome is the Eternal City," she breathed. "Some of these mosaics have been here since the fifth century. That's practically forever."

"That's not why Rome is the Eternal City."

She turned to find him staring at her with hard, yet open eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"If it was just a matter of time, Athens would be the Eternal City. It's still standing as well," he explained, walking past her to stare at another mosaic. "Rome is the Eternal City because what happens here effects eternity."

Dawn moved to stand next to him and looked at the mosaic of Mary cradling her bleeding son. She eyed Connor curiously and said, "I didn't know you were so religious."

"I'm not," he assured her, smirking, "but my name is Connor Francis Reilly. I have to have some Catholic street cred."

"Are you sure your parents weren't just making sure you knew you were Irish?" she teased.

"My parents didn't give me my name," he told her. "My real father did. He just liked the name Connor. It's a nice, strong Irish name…like Jameson. And he's from Galway, so he actually is Irish."

She giggled slightly and said, "So was Francis his favorite saint?"

Connor's face immediately fell. "No, my father is kind of afraid of churches," he replied, glancing at the giant, gilded crucifix behind the altar. "Let's get out of here."

Dawn followed him out of the church and down the stone steps toward their parked scooter. "Connor, I'm sorry," she told him gravely once she'd caught up with him. "I didn't mean to pry. I was just curious, and—"

"It's okay," he told her, taking her wildly motioning hands into his. "It's just that my middle name has a couple of painful stories behind it, and…I can't really bring myself to talk about it."

"I understand," Dawn replied, kissing him on the cheek. "What's our next stop?"

Connor squared his shoulders and reclaimed his joviality. "I can't reveal all my secrets. C'mon."

As he steered through the crowded Roman streets, he remembered the night Angel told him about his middle name. The story revolved around Cordelia; an infinitely painful subject for both of them. The only reason Angel shared the story at all was an ungodly amount of Irish whisky which he consumed over yet another woman: Buffy. For his part, Connor decided to avoid contact with the Slayer or anyone like her for the remainder of his life.

There was an unexpected line at the Bocca della Verita and every guy there was pretending to lose a hand after telling a bold-faced lie.

"Why do they keep doing that?" Dawn asked.

"You'd understand if you'd seen Roman Holiday," he grumbled in reply.

Dawn watched as another young man pretended to lose his hand and his girlfriend giggled before they walked away hand-in-hand. She smirked and said, "Were you going to do that?"

"No," he answered quickly. "Well, maybe."

Dawn did a terrible job of hiding a laugh and said, "Why don't we just rent the movie sometime?"

"Deal," Connor said, pulling her out of the line. It was probably a safer idea anyway. If the mouth really did detect lying, Connor would be totally screwed.

They wove through the insane traffic until they were at the foot of the Spanish Steps. Dawn's eyes brightened when they stopped at the narrow door of Caffé Greco.

"Oh my God! I've always wanted to come here, but I just never got around to it," she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck.

"Um, you're welcome," he laughed as she pulled him inside.

They ordered espresso and pastries and took a seat in a mint green room beneath a raised, glass ceiling.

"This place is so full of history," she continued excitedly. "It opened in 1760 and it's been the intellectual home of writers, diplomats, and musicians ever since. There was some sort of massacre in the 1790s, but that's pretty much the only time they got close to shutting down."

He smiled to keep from cringing. He knew exactly who was responsible for that massacre, and since Dawn apparently adored the place, it was probably a bad idea to tell her his parents were the murderers of dozens of Greco patrons. And it would also sound completely insane.

"There's the portrait of Lord Byron," Dawn said, pointing to a painting on the opposite wall. "He is by far my favorite poet."

"So you like the Romantics?"

"Who?"

Connor smiled and said, "Byron was one of the Romantics along with Shelley, Longfellow, and Keats."

"Oh," Dawn replied, nodding slowly. "I guess I'll learn about that next year."

"Probably," he assured her. "As far as the Romantics go, I like Keats."

"Why?"

"Because he was just as talented as Byron or Shelley, but, unlike the two of them, he was actually a decent guy. I'd like to think I could be like that."

She smiled at him sweetly and said, "He's not your absolute favorite, though, is he?"

"I like Yeats," Connor confirmed, nodding.

"I have no idea who that is."

"It's spelled like Keats except with a Y."

"Oh. I've totally been saying his name wrong my whole life," Dawn replied sheepishly. "He wrote 'The Second Coming,' right?"

"Yeah, it's the poem he's most famous for, it's not what drew me to him," Connor continued, staring into his coffee. "I love Easter, 1916. It's a poem he wrote about the Easter Rising…which was the rebellion that sparked the beginning of the end of British rule in most of Ireland. There are these repeated lines in the poem: 'All changed, changed utterly: a terrible beauty is born.' It always kind of reminded me of myself."

Dawn's eyebrows knitted together to form an expression akin to worry. "You think you're something terrible?"

"Hm," Connor said, drawing invisible circles on the table. "I guess I shared too much."

"If your intention was to tell me absolutely nothing about your feelings; then, yeah, you shared too much," she replied hotly. "Connor, just because your father gave you away doesn't mean you're terrible, or unworthy. It just means your birth father was a selfish bastard."

Connor's eyes shot up and met hers with a certain fire in them. "Dawn, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Then tell me."

He gripped his cup with both hands and then quickly let go before it shattered. He then forced himself to meet her eyes, and began, "People think that wanting to always be with someone is the best way to love, but I think the better expression of love is letting someone go for their own good. You see, my mother died so I could be born; born in an alley in the pouring rain. There were people with weapons trained on my father and he wrapped me in his coat because he didn't have a blanket. The only reason he got out of that particular mess was because he was cradling a newborn. But after a while, he knew he had to give having a son and being a father. And he did it because…living a life with him made—would have made me a raving lunatic. My father was selfless enough to let me go so I could have a better life."

Dawn sheepishly bit her lip and stared at the floor. "Sounds like my sister's first serious boyfriend. They were in love, but he thought their relationship would ultimately be unhealthy for her, so they broke up and he left town."

"Yeah, that sounds like a solution my father would come up with," Connor replied, rolling his eyes slightly. "You know what's funny? I don't think I ever really appreciated the sacrifice he made until I said it just now. I mean, I hated him—really, really, really hated him—for a long time. But he always forgave me, and all he ever wanted was for me to be safe and happy. Thinking about it now, I should probably buy him a 'world's greatest dad' mug."

Dawn chuckled lightly and all tension between them melted as she took his hand under the table. He smiled and gently squeezed her hand in return. They kept the conversation lighter as they wandered around the Via Condotti and the Spanish Steps and then had a late lunch at the market at the Campo de Fiori. As the sun touched the tallest Roman roofs, they arrived at the Sistine Chapel.

"Okay, I've actually been here before," she told him as they walked inside.

"Did you look as the ceiling?"

"Of course."

"We're not gonna look at the ceiling."

The chapel was fairly crowded, but most people were looking upward and the pair easily pushed past them. Connor stood behind her and gently tilted her head so that she was looking at the upper part of the wall rather than the famous ceiling.

"You see, everyone's so focused on Michelangelo, they miss out on Boticelli. Of the surviving frescoes, Boticelli painted the most."

"So you like Boticelli?" she asked dubiously.

Connor shook his head. "I'm not big on the visual arts, but when I was in Paris, my real father told me I should check out Boticelli's angels at the Louvre. Apparently, my birth mother really loved them. She had a thing about Angels," he muttered almost as an afterthought.

"Was she like super-religious, or something?"

"Hell, no!" he laughed a little more loudly than necessary.

An older woman glared at him and his cheeks immediately reddened. He sheepishly led Dawn toward the west wall. "Forgot we're still technically in a church," he whispered. "My real mother was…well, a slut. And that's the nicest way I can put it."

"Oh. I don't know what to say to that."

"It's okay," he assured her. "I didn't know her, and—like most of my father's relationships—it was complicated."

Dawn looked up at the west wall and a shadow fell across her face. "I hate the idea of a last judgment," she murmured. "There have been enough apocalypses."

Connor cocked an eyebrow. "You think there have already been multiple apocalypses?"

"Of course, and they've been averted by…one force, or another," she explained hesitantly, suddenly realizing she sounded like a crazy person.

"I'd agree with that," Connor replied.

"Really?" Dawn said, a little too surprised.

"Yeah," he said, nodding emphatically, "but that doesn't mean that a last judgment isn't coming, and that it's not important what side we come down on."

Dawn's forehead scrunched up in confusion. "Okay, that's depressing. Let's get out of here."

"Sure," Connor said, following her through the crowd.

When they arrived at the scooter, he handed her her helmet and said, "One more stop."

They headed out of town, and Dawn enjoyed the passing countryside. "Are we going to Ostia Antica?"

"How'd you know?"

"I figured it would appeal to the history major in you," she replied pertly.

He didn't reply, but she was sure she could see him grinning. The sun was touching the horizon when they arrived at the entrance to the ancient port town.

"You know what I think is most interesting about this place?" Dawn asked. "It used to be on the coast, but now it's three miles off, even though the ocean is actually expanding."

Connor chuckled and said, "I guess sediment collects quicker than the polar ice caps are melting."

"Why do you think communal bathrooms went out of use?" she asked as they viewed the crumbling latrine.

"Because they're extremely disturbing," Connor offered.

"I concur," Dawn said as a cold breeze blew through the ruins. "Geez, it's freezing all the sudden."

"Here, you can have my jacket," he said, shrugging it off and wrapping it around her shoulders. He was secretly glad he decided not to strap on his sword that morning.

"Aw, thank you."

Suddenly another gust of chilled wind hit them and black clouds filled the gold and sapphire sky.

"Dammit! Let's get the hell out of here!" Connor yelled as thunder clapped across the sky.

They only just made it to the scooter when the rain poured down in heavy sheets. The hid under an awning until an old woman invited them into her tall, narrow house. Her husband built a fire and she made them large mugs of hazlenut-flavored hot chocolate.

The rain continued in its severity until after the dinner Mrs. Orsini—as they learned was the old woman's name—prepared for them. At that point, they felt obliged to take the spare room with its small single bed she politely offered them.

Dawn and Connor then stood awkwardly alone in the dark room.

"I guess I'll take the floor," Connor said finally.

"You don't have to do that," she told him. "We can share the bed."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," she answered in a high-pitched squeak.

"Yeah, you sound real sure," he replied dubiously.

"Okay, fine, it's weird," she admitted, turning to look at him, "but I am not making you sleep on the floor."

"You're not making me; I'm offering."

"Oh, please," she groaned. "We're sleeping in the bed."

As she dropped her purse and slipped off her shoes, Connor walked over to the window and stared out onto the small terrace. He felt his heart tightening and his fingernails digging into the palms of his hand.

"What's wrong?" Dawn asked, sitting down on the bed.

"I don't like rain," he replied simply.

"Well, especially not when you're trapped by it."

"It's not that. It's just that, when it rains like this, it usually means something terrible and earth shattering is about to happen," he said, continuing to stare at the torrential rain.

"Hey, come here," Dawn said gently, motioning for him to join her on the bed. "The world isn't always coming to an end just because it's raining. Trust me, I know."

"Yeah, sure," Connor said, laughing slightly as he sat down next to her.

"You were born in the rain, and I think that's pretty amazing," she told him, brushing a few stray hairs from his forehead.

"You're pretty amazing too," he smiled back.

"Thank you for a great day."

"You're welcome," he replied, squeezing her hand.

"Let's get some sleep."

In L.A…

It was twilight in downtown L.A. and Topher was still bent over a pile of books while he periodically looked over his shoulder every few seconds since Illyria was staring down at him unblinkingly. Gunn poured over files from a short stack of cardboard boxes. Kate's ear had been glued to the phone for hours.

The former detective sighed deeply and said, "Fine. Just tell him to call as soon as possible."

Gunn looked up as she slammed down the phone. "No luck?"

"It's very hard to get a hold of someone in the middle of the ocean," Kate replied.

"Hopefully he'll get the message before he makes it to Italy," Gunn said. "I been looking through these files, and I think there is a connection between En'Shon and the Gorvan'Chak. About a hundred years ago, when En'Shon was less old, Wolfram and Hart dropped him as a client because they found out he was funneling money to the Gorvan'Chak through a dummy corporation."

"Excuse me," Topher said, his head snapping up from the sparkling map in front of him on the floor. "Did you just say the law firm of Lucifer, Diavolus, and Hades dropped a powerful sorcerer because he was sending money to the 'children' of a dead ancient demon?"

"Gorvan was more powerful and deadly than you could even imagine," Illyria said, staring at the wall before sharply turning her eyes toward Gunn.

"Okay, she is saying that," Topher said, aiming a thumb in her direction. "And she killed him!"

"I guess Gorvan just didn't fit into the Senior Partner's master plan, or he didn't at the time," Gunn concluded, turning away from Illyria's cold stare. "They might have changed their minds since we destroyed most of their power in this plane of existence."

"And I'm out to do more destruction," Steph said as she opened the weapons cabinet and slid a sword into the sheath strapped to her back. "Although, it's been really quiet, so destruction doesn't really seem like a huge possibility."

"Need some backup?" Kate asked.

"No, thank you. I can handle it myself," Steph replied firmly as she slid three stakes into the specially made loops on her belt before cocking an eyebrow at her brother. "What are you doing?"

"Well," Topher began, looking up at her, "I got Illyria to identify Lispoli as the place where she defeated Gorvan, and I am going to attempt to locate Faith so we can give Angel a more precise location…if he ever calls back."

"Have fun with that," she replied snidely.

Steph pulled her leather jacket on over her sheath and set out into the street. About three feet from the gate she bumped into a short, redheaded, young man with a knapsack and a guitar case.

"Oh, sorry," she said.

"It's okay," he replied with bright eyes before he smelled the air and his face became immediately grave.

"Is something wrong?" Steph asked him.

He made no answer other than to pull her down to the sidewalk as a deafening roar of an explosion filled her ears and stone shrapnel fell all around them.