Just lately, she'd been having a lot of trouble sleeping.
At first, she'd told herself that it was just her life. The strain of keeping fifteen hormonal, resentful teenage Slayers in line, whilst also attempting to keep a watchful eye on her hormonal, resentful teenage sister had to be getting to her. Rome was doing wonders for Dawn's confidence, not to mention her social life and, ever since the belly-button piercing incident, Buffy had realised that she was starting to feel less and less like her sister's legal guardian and more and more like the bystander to a shocking road accident. Most days she just stood slack-jawed, watching as her little sister's mind, body and libido simultaneously erupted all over the apartment.
There was nothing she could do or say, no emergency service she could call and, as yet, she hadn't been able to find suitable justification for locking her in her room. Dawn was a grown up now, Dawn was a young woman; she tried the phrases again and again in her head when she was alone, trying to get used to them, but it still sounded ridiculous. Her gangly little sister, hair all mussed up and locked at the mouth to some guy who looked about the same age as Xander. Her baby sister in a black lace Wonderbra and heels you could stake a vamp with, reaching absently into her purse for a lipstick, eyes scanning the crowd as she talked. No. Dawn was a baby. Dawn had no idea. Dawn needed her constant protection and guidance. Dawn needed to listen to Buffy and wear a sweater when she was told to.
It didn't help of course that Carlo was always on her sister's side.
"You 'ave to let her leeeve, Baffy."
That was one of his favourites, usually accompanied by a gentle squeeze of her ass-cheek as he pulled her gently against him,
"Dawn is becoming a woman, to stand in her way is like...trying to stop a river from flowing. Is impossible."
Briefly, she'd considered mentioning the Hoover Dam, but then those damned eyes of his had fixed on her and she'd allowed herself to melt yet again into his silky-smooth embrace. His sleek, well-muscled arms never held her too tightly, never too gently, always with what seemed like the perfect balance of intense passion and cool reserve. The delicious paradox never failed to intrigue her.
"You're right. I know...you're right."
His lips quirked in a reproachful, slightly mischievous smile.
"Baffy, I am always right. I am 700 years old."
"Right. I keep forgetting. It's the skin tone. Sorry."
Funny how the mention of his age always seemed to put pay to any kind of argument they ever had. Sometimes, lying awake at night, gazing at his perfectly symmetrical face, brow permanently creased in sleep with a deliciously pensive frown, she wondered what the hell it was he saw in her. 700 year old Adonis with the knowledge and wisdom of generations stored in his pretty, pretty head. Maybe it was her personality. Had to be right? Because, aside from a killer right hook and really, really good taste in shoes what else did they honestly have in common? Sure, she'd been through an apocalypse or two, but when it came down to it they were a pretty mismatched pair. She said tomato, he said pomodoro, she'd heard of Mozart, he'd met Mozart. She's seen pictures of some of the women he'd dated before - as well as paintings, tapestries, some etchings - and she couldn't help but notice that they were all of a certain type. Tall, dark, legendarily voluptuous, in other words; a type that wasn't her. It was pretty obvious. Eventually he'd get bored of her and dump her for someone new, someone with big golden breasts and a sword, or possibly part-dragon. Some olive-skinned, big-breasted Achilles with a mysterious past and a fascinating knowledge of rare Eastern European...
"Achilles was a soldier, my sweet. He led the Spartans against Troy. Against Paris, no?"
"He attacked France?!"
"No amoré, Paris was Hector's brother, and..."
"Wait a minute...are you reading my mind again?"
"Si, I just...."
"Well, stop it."
Sometimes that side of things whigged her out a little, the whole Unlimited Dark Powers and Mysterious Prince of The Night bit. Not that she put the slightest bit of weight in all Giles' dumb warnings or in any of that crap in the file he mailed her as soon as he found out about the two of them. She skimmed through it of course, looked at some of the pictures, read some of 'ye olde reportes moste dire', but in the end she decided that it all came down to a gut feeling about a person. And with Carlo, ever since the first day she'd met him, her gut had been telling her yes. Oh yes.
Truthfully, most of the time, these days it was just telling her 'guhhh', along with pretty much all of the rest of her body. Carlo had a technique that had been honed and perfected by centuries of sexual experimentation, and the stamina and imagination to match. Add to that his uncanny ability to probe his partner's mind, acting on their every fantasy as it was being realised, and you had one hell of a potent combo. The man really was the living embodiment of sex, on really well-muscled, tan legs and, right now, Buffy just couldn't seem to get enough of him. A fact which then had to provoke the question; why wasn't she with him?
Sitting silently at her own window, she stared out at the million golden lights of Rome and tried to understand. It was nearly 2am and, traditionally, their time. The hour at which she would normally be spooned up against him, after a whole day and entire night spent in his company. But, for some inexplicable reason, and for almost a week now, her sleep beside him had become less than peaceful. 1am, a sudden cold shiver and she was awake. Eyes pinned open to nothing and head soundlessly whirring its pointless, meaningless night-messages, sleep entirely gone from her, never to return. Nothing but white noise and an impossible need to get up and go, release the sudden unbearable dynamic tension that was present in every muscle of her body.
The more she thought about it, the more she decided that she understood the real cause. It was because she was happy. That had to be it. For so long, happiness had been something fragile, something to melt away through her fingers, and now here it was, solid and real. Home and family, love and a life, all the things she'd ever wanted and not a shadow of apocalyptical doom anywhere to be seen. She loved her new world, her apartment, everything about this vivid, majestic city and that happiness, that was something that was hard to get used to, hard to rely on. But she was learning, she was coming to rely on it, to accept that it was hers now, that it wasn't going anywhere soon. That she was safe now.
That was why when she'd found out about Spike, it hadn't seemed like such a big deal.
Almost two weeks ago now, a Friday night, and she'd been out with Carlo, some club where he always seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him. They'd been dancing for hours and she'd been drinking a lot; she felt safe enough now to let herself go a little, allow her guard to drop for a few hours. The room was whirling and so was she, caught up in the rhythm and full of the need to burn off the energy inside her. Carlo had been distracted for a moment, talking to some guy beside them in Versace with killer shoes, and suddenly she'd felt it. Felt all of her senses shift and attempt to focus. It was a strange feeling after so long, a million silverfish racing up her spine, but she'd known in a second what it meant. Who it meant. Who's presence it was she was feeling.
It was a confused sensation though, melting and warping even as she tried to pinpoint its source, and as it receded she felt her legs buckle. As she fell, she felt familiar strong arms catch and sustain her.
"You maybe need to sit down? Baffy? You rest, yes?"
For some reason he was pressing against her a little more forcefully than usual, his hold on her less than perfectly balanced, half supporting and half lifting her as she fought to regain her balance, refocus. There was a commotion going on behind them, sounds of fighting, but as she struggled to turn Carlo's face was in front of her, his eyes hugely luminous and beautiful, stroking her damp hair back from her face.
"I take you to my house now. I know what makes you feel better."
"Ok. Yes."
His cool hand resting beneath her shoulder blade and the cool night air outside brought her mind back from wherever it had been. Such a lovely night. Dipping his head to her, Carlo pressed cool lips to her eyelids, ran a finger along her brow. Her spine felt liquid, like warm gold, but even as she melted into him, something jarred, a nagging feeling that there was something she had forgotten. Something important and, confused, she moved back, touched a hand to her head.
"Sorry, I...actually no. I have to...Dawn has dance class in the morning and I said I'd drive her."
The look on his face drifted somewhere between surprise and concern for a moment, before becoming pleasantly blank again.
"Ok, you are tired. I take you home now."
A move towards her and again she stepped back, unsure why. Carlo's eyes drew her, dark and gently searching and, unable to stop herself, she smiled, shook her head to his unspoken question.
"It's ok, I...I need to...walk a while. You know?"
His lips quirked in a knowing smile and he dropped his head,
"I do. "
Wordlessly his reached to touch her arm with a finger, and without thinking she grasped it, tenderly kissed the palm of his hand.
"I'm ...sorry."
"Please, don't be."
With a dark sinuous movement, the car drew up beside them and without another word he opened the door and stepped down into the interior. In the darkness his skin glowed faintly golden, his pale fingers spread long and delicate on the leather seat beside him.
"Call me tomorrow."
His gaze was ink-dark and bewitching, dark brows drawn together in amusement at her and then the door closed and he was gone, the car sliding away from the kerb like a sleek black fish.
Watching it recede into the night, she frowned in sudden confusion. What the hell was she thinking of? Ditching her dream date on a Friday night? Before midnight even? For all she knew he was calling someone else right now. Some other girl, some gorgeous big-breasted Amazon, with amazing shoes, and a bizarre liking for crazy Italian operas about crying clowns that go on for hours an hours....
"Pagliacci my sweet."
"Whatever!!"
It wasn't fair and now, as well as being confused and upset, she was mad as well. Although that part had only lasted as long as it had taken her to walk the twenty blocks to her apartment building. The part had ended as soon as she had opened the door and stepped inside.
Because now she knew she hadn't been imagining things. Now she knew that she really was going crazy. Because Spike was everywhere. On the stairs leading up to her floor she felt it again, hairs prickling on her neck, muscles in her stomach jumping, and then in waves, thick and fast, around her door. She could sense his fear, nervousness, every thing about his mood as he'd stood in this exact spot, finger hovering over the doorbell. Inside, the emotions were different, multi-layered, mixed with confusion, sadness and, strongest of all, frustration. And over the top of it all, layers of Angel, equally confused, equally miserable.
Standing, palms outstretched at her sides, she felt the nerves in her stomach clench, unclench as she struggled to understand what was going on.
Spike was alive, and Angel knew it.
She tried the first part again, turned it around and around.
Spike was alive. Spike was alive. Spike was alive and here, in Rome. Spike was in Rome and still alive. Not dead. Well, still dead, but alive, and here. In Rome. Looking for her.
And Angel knew it.
This time, the second part got a rise. Angel knew it and who else? And hot on the heels of the question, came the answer.
"Andrew."
Like a deer caught in the headlight, hand frozen on the door handle, her ex- evil nemesis took one look at her face and instantly bolted for the bathroom. Cutting him off at the pass, Buffy caught one of his wrists, before roughly pulling him round to face her. Instantly, Andrew dropped to his knees, covering his face with his other hand.
"Hetoldmenottotellyoudon'thurtme!!"
"Who did?"
"He did!"
Risking a glance at her, Andrew flinched when he saw her expression.
"I'm sorry, he just...he never asked me to do anything before and it was like he was trusting me for the first time and I said I wouldn't tell you and I couldn't even though I really really wanted to because...you know...just to see your face when you knew he was still alive, but then you got together with...you know...and then it seemed like maybe I shouldn't tell you because then I'd be like "Sleeping With The Enemy", although in that she was the one – Julia Roberts – who was dead and then Patrick Bergin found out and he was all like "Aahhh I'm going to kill you for real this time!!!" and she was so happy with Kevin Anderson even though he had really, really bad hair...."
"Andrew!!!"
Staring at him in exasperated disbelief, Buffy released her grip on his wrist and let him slide to the ground. His face was a weird mixture of embarrassment and discomfort now, but she was pretty certain he was telling the truth, about Spike's request. About his not wanting her to know. Flicking her a weak, apologetic grin, Andrew raised his eyebrows,
"So surprise! Guess what!! Spike's alive."
The smile wavered around the corners of his mouth and then disappeared. He rubbed his wrist.
"Owww. That...really hurt you know."
So Spike was alive, and Andrew had been right. After the initial surprise and her anger had gone, she realised that. It didn't really mean anything had changed. She was still happy with Carlo and she had moved on with her life. She was happy now, and the fact that the man she had fallen in love with a year ago now turned out to be alive rather than a big pile of ashes, that didn't actually figure into the big Buffy picture at all any more, did it? She told herself that, and she hadn't done a thing. Hadn't tried to call him, hadn't written and, despite wondering what he had wanted, what had brought him the thousands and thousands of miles across the world to her city, her home, she hadn't done a single thing.
And things with Carlo were as good as ever. He said he loved her, adored her, and sometimes she felt she might even love him back. Things with the Slayers were fine, great even. Work took up most of her day and her relationship took up nearly all of her nights. Dawn was always on her mind, always late home from school, always out on dates with guys who looked way too old for her and, all in all, she found that she didn't even have time to consider what might have happened, what could still happen, what her life would be like if Spike were a part of it again. What he looked like now. How his face looked. How his face had looked like when Andrew had told him who she was seeing now. She hadn't a spare moment in the day to think about it. About him. About anything other than how good she had it now. How lucky she was.
But lately, at night, she'd been having a lot of trouble sleeping.