Chapter Text
2004
The midday sun was high overhead when Dawn walked through the piazza. She'd written to Buffy during her lunch break, all about school and cute Italian boys and how the other Buffy refused to get cable. Under her thumb, she felt her twining initials, embossed on the envelope flap: DMS. The stationary was new, a creamy ivory set that the other Buffy had bought for her when she'd first come to Rome.
When she came to the post box, she held the letter over its opening for a moment, and then let it go in one quick motion. Dawn went by this box every day during the week; she'd have a letter for Xander, Willow, her sister (addressed to Willow), or, sometimes, Janice. She had a laptop back at the apartment, but writing these missives by hand was more interesting. The patience required to hold the words in her head as her pen traced them on the paper was strangely invigorating.
Summer was coming round again; the light and heat beat down on her shoulders through the thin cotton of her top. Slowly, she'd begun to savor her independence, even if it came without family or America's Next Top Model. Or air conditioning. A light breeze brushed against her arms, and Dawn lifted up her hair to cool the back of her neck.
As she fumbled inside her bag for something to pin her hair up, a scooter came tearing around the square. It stopped suddenly at the corner closest to her with a terrible screech. Dawn looked up, startled, to find the rider waving energetically at her. "Ciao!" he squealed before he gazed around him, enraptured. "Ah... Italia. It is so... how do you say.. bellissima?"
"Hey," she said, and felt the corner of her mouth tug into a half-smile. "Roman Holiday much?"
Riding on the scooter behind Andrew, she felt more like Gregory Peck than Audrey Hepburn. But that was all right. Her life had been restful and hellmouth-free for almost a year. It was good to have a reminder of where she should be.
Dawn wrapped her arms around his waist more tightly, and closed her eyes. She thought of the feeling of the letter spread wide beneath her hand as she wrote, and the sudden lightness of her hand when she dropped it through the slot.
As it turned out, Andrew had already been to the apartment. Dawn nearly tripped over his suitcase and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles backpack, which he'd set just inside the door. "Andrew! Geez!" she yelped, bracing herself against the wall.
"Sorry," he mumbled, but he didn't sound very contrite.
Dawn rolled her eyes and picked up the backpack. It was surprisingly hefty for its small size. "Laptop?"
"I also brought my Playstation. And some DVDs... I have Sex in the City! We could watch that." Andrew grinned widely. "We could have biscotti! And espresso. Do you have an expresso machine?"
"How long are you going to be here?" she asked as she led him into the guest bedroom, which doubled as their largely-unused weapons room. The largest battle axe hung over the futon threateningly, which Andrew seemed not to notice.
"Oh, a few days, maybe a week," he said, suddenly shifty-eyed. "Big job for Buffy, you know. I mean—"
"Hush!" Dawn scolded him. "I live with Buffy, remember?" She jerked her head toward the other Buffy's bedroom door. "Nice for me that she blackmailed you into spring cleaning again, huh." She stared at him meaningfully until his eyes widened and he nodded.
She leaned against the doorway and watched him while he unpacked, which clearly made him nervous. Something was up, something more than her real sister knew about. Andrew was not known for his subtlety when it came to evil plans. Dawn shrugged. She'd figure it out eventually.
The door rasped against the carpet out in the entry way, and the other Buffy's voice carried across the apartment. "—course we'd come to the opening, I know how much you love early Cubism."
"Braque and I were quite close friends," came a low, gruff reply. "However, that's the same weekend as the rising of Apollo, and I'd truly rather—"
The other Buffy and the Immortal came into view then. She looked very much like the real Buffy, which was a stroke of luck (Willow had advised against using magic for a long-term disguise). Although everyone had tactfully refrained from mentioning that to her counterpart, the other Buffy was even a natural blonde. Right now, she was gazing adoringly at the Immortal, who was... hard to describe.
"Buona sera, Dawn." he greeted her, flashing a broad smile. She forced herself to smile back. "And... your friend?"
Andrew had come up behind her. "Yeah, this is Andrew, one of our friends from Sunnydale. He's never been to Italy before." This was, technically, true. "He'll be here for the next week."
The Immortal extended his hand. "Salve, Andrew. I am delighted to make acquaintance with any friend of the signorinas Summers." There was that smile again. "I hope your visit is, how do you say, splendid."
"It's incredible to meet you, signor, uh, Immortal! I mean, wow, I've heard so much about you, and um, um, I'm a huge fan, and—"
Dawn didn't have to look back to know that Andrew was practically drooling. She kicked him in the shin. "We were just about to go see St. Peter's, so you guys can have the apartment to yourselves for a while."
"Grazie," said the Immortal, looking directly into Dawn's eyes. She repressed the urge to shudder.
"Yeah, thanks, Dawnie. You've been studying hard all week, you should have a nice night out," her false sister agreed, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. Her smile was brittle. "Go have fun."
She could feel the Immortal's gaze following them as they made their way out.
After a few days, Dawn began to be grateful for Andrew's company. The other Buffy's efforts to be sisterly had trickled off after the first few weeks of their time together; their interaction was, necessarily, shallow. Lately, Dawn hardly saw her at all, unless she was hanging out with the Immortal in their living room. The Immortal liked silent films — "the pinnacle of cinematic achievement, yes? D.W. Griffith, so skilled a storyteller!" — and exotic gelato. She knew he would have hated the real Buffy. Andrew had smuggled in microwave popcorn as well as the entire run of Sex in the City, a combination that Dawn soon found preferable to her homework. It was almost the end of the semester, anyway, and in a few short weeks she'd be done with high school altogether. Her Assyrian tutor would cut her some slack.
She began, by the third day, to feel as if she were waking out of some enchanted sleep, as if she were peeling off the languages and ancient texts she'd been studying, layer by layer, to reveal something she'd hidden inside. Yes. That night, she convinced Andrew to sneak out with her and stake some vamps under the cover of darkness. It was stupid, but she didn't care. By the second vamp, she was getting into it, drunk on the rush of plunging a stake home and waiting for her target to dust.
Andrew high-fived her after they'd dusted the third one. "You go, girlfriend! You got it."
She looked up into the night sky to see the clocktower of a nearby basilica, the hands of the clock pointing up toward midnight. "Come on," she said, and stuck her stake back into the waistband of her pants. "Let's go home."
"I'm leaving tomorrow," Andrew told her. "And I have to pack, and I have to meet up with the slayers from Austria. But Giles got me tickets to this amazing opera and I don't know what to do." He looked at her with sad puppy eyes.
"I'll go, I'll go," Dawn found herself saying as she put out her hand. Andrew grinned toothily. "But," she added, "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."
He averted his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back. "I have no idea what you're talking about. None at all." He began to inch back toward the hall. She grabbed him by the shoulder before he could go anywhere.
"Look at me, Andrew." When he turned his head further away, she tightened her grip. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
His eyes were so blue, and as deceptively innocent as ever. "I'm looking now."
Dawn took a breath and steadied herself. "I can't come with you, back to—" she caught herself, "America. But I'm going home soon. And whatever it is, whatever you're doing, I'm going to find out. Buffy is going to find out."
"I know," he answered her. Those eyes again. "Just... not yet. Not now?"
This time, it was Dawn who looked away. "I understand. But I won't wait forever."
"I know." She released Andrew's shoulder, and he rubbed it. His expression was still serious. "I know."
Dawn wasn't a huge opera fan, although she'd gone once before, with the other Buffy and the Immortal. This show, though, was as excellent as Andrew had promised. Maybe the company had spoiled it for her the first time.
Returning home, she saw two men climbing into a red convertible in front of her building; one was in shadow, the other wore a long leather coat. His pale head shone under the lamplight. She froze for a moment, then began to run down the street toward them. "Spike!" she yelled, although she doubted he could hear her from this far off, over the rushing traffic.
But even as she was shouting, the first man moved into the light, and she saw that he was wearing the sort of ridiculous jacket that only tourists ever wore. Or maybe Dale Earnhardt Jr. Her steps slowed, and she felt her cheeks burn. What was she, crazy? Spike was dead, and nothing was ever going to bring him back, and that was why she was here, after all: she had time to learn, time to waste, they were no longer on the verge of dying every five seconds, all because Spike had saved the world.
She looked up from the pavement; the car had gone.
Dawn took off her high heels in the hallway, and padded up to the third floor. The apartment looked the same as ever, although someone had straightened up the couch. When she stepped inside, she felt something cool under her foot. She bent to pick it up. The small scrap of black leather was smooth, soft. It smelled like cigarette smoke and gunpowder when she brought it to her nose, and something else, something—
"Andrew," she shouted, "Andrew!"
The apartment was empty.