The People in Question
The sun was just beginning to light the streets of Rome. The old stone buildings and older ruins looked warm and inviting, postcard versions of themselves. From his location high above, protected by Wolfram and Hart’s necrotempered glass, Spike watched the late night revelers make their way home. From here he couldn’t see the smeared makeup and messy hair and look of shame on the women, nor smell the heavy scent of booze and vomit on the men. From this distance, they looked carefree, animated - happy.
The sun practically blinded her as she tripped through another uneven cobblestone street. Slayer reflexes kept her upright, but she blushed anyway, knowing anyone watching would assume she was another stumbling drunk. She’d stopped drinking hours before, when she felt vampires at the bar and eyes on her back while she danced, but the combination of high heels and old Roman streets always seemed to conspire against her. Like the apocalypse of the broken ankles. She snickered to herself, even as another bit of uneven stone hidden by the remaining shadows threatened to send her sprawling.
He was sore, and his clothes were practically tatters from the bomb. Despite the protective glass, he could feel the rising sun urging him to find a dark corner, telling him he needed sleep. Slave to his instincts he was, just as he’d always been Love’s Bitch. Not Angel’s bitch any longer though, despite this romantic jaunt to Rome. He snorted at his own joke. Still, between the long trip, the long night and the world blowing up around him, the world was screaming for him to go to sleep. There was a leather couch off against one wall; surely he had time for a rest before Ilona and Angel came back…
She slid her key into the lock and slipped into the quiet apartment. Judging by the coats hanging at the front door, Dawn and Andrew had come home and gone to bed already. Judging by the clock on the wall, Dawn would be getting up in a few minutes to get ready for school. Dawn didn’t like the Immortal, wasn’t fond of the hours Buffy was keeping and wasted no opportunity to tell her so. Thus far they’d avoided more than brief sniping, but they were due to have it out. But Buffy wasn’t up for that this morning, so she tiptoed to her room, carefully opening and closing the door to keep it as silent as possible and quickly shed her clothing, falling into bed just as she heard Dawn’s alarm. She smiled in victory when she heard Dawn hesitate at her door, then stomp away. That battle averted, she fell asleep…
His arms are tight around her, hands rising to cradle her head and fingers tangling in her hair. They stand chest to chest, heart to heart and her heat to his coolness. Her hands rest lightly at his waist, stroking gently.
There aren’t any words. There doesn’t seem to be any needed. He may have been a poet, but she was a valley girl, and valley girls don’t need poetry. And the things they do the language is vaguely horrifying to a poet. It’s no wonder they argued so much.
But that was before.
Now they just cling together, grateful for these rare moments they share when they are both sleeping. Grateful for their dreams.
She woke mid-afternoon, the formerly blinding sun sending a warm red glow across her bed. The apartment was still quiet, but the quiet of people preparing a meal, reading a book, not the silence of lonely beds. She could still feel the smile on her face. She always woke smiling when she dreamed of Spike.
He shouldn’t have slept so long, but he couldn’t bear to leave those pleasant dreams too soon. His body feels rested and strong in a way it hasn’t in quite some time, and his mind is calm and soothed. He always feels this way when he dreams of Buffy.
But there is work to be done.
And I should patrol tonight.
And he grabs his new old coat and follows Angel into the night.
But first she should have that discussion with her sister.