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Buffy’s apartment was in the Trastevere region of Rome, an area of narrow, old streets and close-packed houses. When Spike had brought Dru to Rome in the 1950’s, this was a shabby, run down area, where closely packed humanity presented them with rich and easy pickings. They’d spilt a lot of blood back then – he winced at the memory. But things had changed – signs of gentrification were everywhere. The houses were smartly painted and tidy, and quirky shops, pubs and clubs had sprung up in the maze of streets. Spike parked the Mini a few streets away from Buffy’s apartment, muttering curses as he disentangled his duster and uncoiled from the car clumsily. A passing group of women giggled at him and he glared at them and then at the car. Why anyone would think a bright red Mini made a perfect covert surveillance vehicle was beyond him.

“Nice car!” A female voice with an English accent caught his attention. “I do love Minis!” A pretty blonde in jeans and short leather jacket was smiling at him. “And you know what they say about men and their cars, and relative... well, you know, ” She grinned "Any guy who has the confidence to drive a Mini, I'd like to know better.” She cocked her head. “Look, I don’t make a habit of this, but you wouldn’t, I suppose, be free for a drink?”

“Some other time, love.” Tempting as the offer was… “Things to do.”

“Oh, well.” She reached into her bag and brought out a business card. “Call me.” She passed it to Spike with a smile. “Ciao!” Spike watched the swing of her hips appreciatively as she walked away. He gave a snort of laughter and looked at the Mini. “May have done you a disservice, mate,” he said with a grin.

“Carina.” A man had suddenly appeared at Spike’s side, watching the blonde girl and nodding knowingly.

“Yeah…” Spike looked at him suspiciously.

“Wolfram and ‘art.” He gave Spike an exaggerated wink.

“Riiiight…” Spike waited.

The man launched into a stream of voluble and rapid Italian accompanied by exaggerated hand gestures, none of which Spike understood. “Wha… wait… look…” He finally got the man’s attention. “Non capisco pal… parla inglese?”

“Ahh… eengleesh!” The man smiled widely, then his shoulders dropped dejectedly. “No…” he shrugged “Mi dispiace…”

“Bloody brilliant.” Spike’s Italian was sketchy to say the least, and anyway it largely consisted of insults and swear words – he prided himself on his ability to say “wanker” in the language of every country he had visited, and a few more, including regional dialects. However through a combination of broken Italian and English and hand gestures, Spike finally figured out that this was the man sent to watch Buffy and his name was Angelo. Figured. By the time that had been established they were on Buffy’s street. Angelo left Spike in a doorway and hid himself in the shadow of a building opposite Buffy’s apartment, appearing only to grin hugely at Spike and give him the thumbs up. Spike sighed in exasperation. If this was the best Wolfram and Hart had to offer they were in trouble – although given that his two predecessors had ended up as vamp fodder, maybe they were just short on volunteers.

Exactly at the appointed time, a tall, dark-haired, immaculately dressed man strolled up Buffy’s apartment and rang the bell. Even at this distance Spike recognised him – and hated him. No-one could be that good-looking, smart, suave, rich and well-liked naturally. Had to be the devil’s work. Why couldn’t Buffy see it? Surely with all those slayer powers they all kept banging on about she could see straight through him? Really, someone should put her straight, for her own good naturally, and maybe that someone should be him. Spike glared hard at The Immortal’s broad back. Well, maybe when he saw her he’d do just that. Yeah, might just. When he saw her…

And then there she was, stepping into the street, looking up at The Immortal and taking his arm, all with the shining hair and sparkling eyes and smile and the… the stupid nose…

And there he was, hiding in the shadows, all with the lump in his throat and the stupid breathless feeling in his chest and the churning feeling in his gut and the sudden inability for rational thought other than… oh, fuck. He closed his eyes and leant his head back against the wall. What, you thought you were over her? He gritted his teeth and banged his head back against the wall. Bleedin' idiot.

A low laugh drew his attention back to Buffy as she and The Immortal headed away from the apartment. She paused suddenly and glanced back in his direction, frowning, scanning the street. He ducked back into the deeper shadows. Seems the slayer senses weren’t completely out of kilter, then. When he risked another glance, they were walking off down the street arm in arm. He saw the man from Wolfram and Hart detach himself from the shadows and follow them – bloody hell, if she misses that one, she’s lost her touch, he thought with disdain. Heaving a sigh he prepared to follow them all and stepped out of the doorway.

There was a sudden crash from behind him. Spike span around and found himself looking into a pair of startled blue eyes. The tall, slim young woman with sleek, dark, shoulder-length hair stood, pale-faced with shock, her hands pressed to her mouth. At her feet, a brown paper carrier bag leaked wine on to the street. For a while Spike simply stared at her open-mouthed, unsure which of them was the more shocked. On the whole, he had to conclude, probably she was. But it was a long time before he finally found the presence of mind to break the silence.

“Hello, nibblet,” he said eventually.

Dawn blinked at him and then looked down at the leaking bag. “I dropped my wine,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, sorry about that.” Spike picked up the same tone, waiting for her reaction. “Was it a good one?”

“Oh, you know… not a bad little Montepulciano.” She nudged the soggy bag with her foot. “I was planning on making pasta…”

“Nice.”

“It was for Andrew, but if Buffy’s out I can sneak a glass” She looked up with a quick smile, not quite meeting his eyes, then returned to staring at the bag.

“Nothing wrong with a little Montepulciano. Especially with pasta.” Spike kept his voice level.

“Yeah...” She took a deep breath and then looked up at him, forced a grin. “Hello, Spike. You’re looking well… for someone who gave his life to save the world and all.”

“You too… I mean… looking well…”

“You think? Because I only had my hair cut last week and I’m still not sure it’s really me. Just it gets kind of hot over here and I got tired of it in my face all the time. You don’t think it’s too short?”

“No. It’s a very nice do. Charming.”

Dawn’s eyes were fixed on his face and the beginnings of tears glinted on her lashes. She sniffed. “You… you want some…?”

“Hair?”

A half smile. “Pasta.” The smile began to tremble. “They told me you were gone…”

“I was,” he said softly.

She looked at him for a moment longer and then she threw her arms around him, hugging him fiercely. “I knew something was going on! I knew it! Andrew… all the secret phone calls to Giles and the smug, I-know-something-you-don’t-know smiles…” She looked up at him with a tearful grin “… I am so gonna kick Andrew’s ass over this…” She buried her head against his shoulder again “… but I didn’t think… not for one moment…”

Spike held her, a mixture of surprise and relief and happiness surging through him with the sudden realisation of just how much he’d feared her rejection. “Hey.” He fought down the lump in his throat. “Don’t be too hard on Andrew, pet. Didn’t want him telling anyone.”

“Oh, but you should have…” Dawn looked up at him. “Buffy! Buffy doesn’t know!” she began to rummage in her handbag. “She’s with Morty.”

“Morty!” Spike snorted with laughter.

“Well, what are you supposed to call him? Buffy always calls him ‘him’ and everyone else either calls him The Immortal or Sir. Has he even got a name?”

“He’s got a lot of names. Just none that bear repeating.”

“Scassacazzo...” Dawn scowled.

“Well, that’s one of them…”

She gave a squeak of triumph and held up her mobile phone. “I’ll call her...”

“No!” Spike grabbed her hand. “No.” Dawn looked at him with a puzzled frown. “I don’t want Buffy to know.”

“Spike…!”

“Look, Dawn, it’s…” Spike sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated.”

Dawn raised her eyes. “When isn’t it?” She frowned in thought then looked at Spike. “Right. Come on in. You convince me, I won’t call her. But it had better be good.”

“When exactly did you get this bossy?” Spike shook his head.

“I live with Buffy. I learn by example.” Dawn smiled as Spike hesitated. “Look, she won’t be back. She’ll be out all night… Oh, sorry.” This as Spike winced. “Please.” Her voice was soft and beseeching. “Spike… I… there’s things…” She paused and looked down at the ground. “Don’t go.”

He looked down the street in the direction the Immortal and Buffy had taken. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on the stupid guy from Wolfram and Hart. Buffy was with The Immortal, and given who he was, she’d be safe. But what about Angelo? He sighed. Stuff it. He could take his chance. “OK.” He smiled at Dawn. “But only if you do the pasta.”

Dawn took his arm, smiling her relief through the threat of tears. “Great! I make a mean pasta.” She led him across the street toward the apartment. “And with any luck Andrew will be home, and you can watch me strangle him.”

“Always enjoy a bit of cabaret,” Spike grinned.





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