Chapter Text
A glossy black car slipped through the morning traffic of Via della Croce, its engine purring like a contented cat. Inside, Buffy sat closest to the right hand window, her bag at her feet, eyes scanning buildings painted in ochre and rose. Willow tugged oversized sunglasses down her nose and jabbed a finger at a gelato stand streaked with pastel awnings. Tara sat opposite, hands folded in her pale blue sundress, inhaling so deeply the car seemed to thrum with basil and sun-warmed stone. “You can smell it all the way back here,” she whispered. Faith slouched in the far seat, a smirk curling her lips as she stretched out her legs, radiating playful defiance.
Their driver—a compact man with silver hair, a mustache so voluminous it rustled when he spoke, and forearms like coiled ropes—kept both hands on the wheel. With a quick rev, the car lunged forward, weaving past Vespas that darted between buses and taxis like bees in a hive. Espresso fumes mingled with exhaust; saints peered down at them from every niche.
Buffy braced a knuckle against the ceiling. “Now remember,” she murmured over the hum of the engine. “Just us—no slaying, no politics.”
Willow entwined her fingers with Tara’s and nodded. “Agreed.” She brightened. “We’re about two minutes from Piazza di Spagna—Trinità dei Monti up there, the Tiber’s just beyond…”
“You’re such a nerd, Red,” Faith teased, playfully hitting her arm, carefully controlling her slayer strength. “But save it—my belly’s growling.”
Their driver chuckled, switched to rapid-fire Italian. Willow translated with practiced ease: “He says it’s the hottest June in memory—”.
Buffy rolled her eyes. “No kidding.”
Willow continued, “—so we’re lucky to arrive before the real crowds hit. Heat advisory this afternoon. He recommends San Crispino for gelato to keep us cool, and he thinks Faith looks like Monica Bellucci. Also, if any of us are single, we should meet his nephew in Trastevere.”
Faith cast a dangerous grin in the rearview mirror as the car ducked under a tram cable and narrowly missed a delivery truck. She laughed, head thrown back. Buffy playfully held Faith’s arm until the narrow streets opened onto a broad piazza dominated by a columned marble façade.
The black car screeched to a stop before towering archways carved with cherubs and scrolls. Two uniformed doormen stood at rigid attention. Buffy’s jaw dropped. “This is our hotel?”
Willow leaned forward, grinning. “Giles said he splurged.”
Faith whistled low as they sat inside the cooling shade. “Boy, he wasn’t kidding.”
The car idled silently, engines rumbling, until the doors finally opened and the first rays of June sunshine hit the marble steps.
The driver popped the doors and hauled their bags onto the curb. He launched into another rapid speech in Italian, ended by pressing a kiss to Willow’s hand. She blushed as the four of them herded their luggage under the soaring columns and into the heart of their Roman adventure.
Inside, the lobby was even more extravagant: velvet chairs, gold trim, stone statues of muscled men wrestling with lions. The front desk was manned by a woman with lacquered hair and a voice like dark syrup. She reminded Buffy a little of Cordelia.
“Benvenuti,” she said, “you are the Rosenberg-Summers party, yes? Mr. Giles has made special arrangements. If you require anything, please do not hesitate to ask.”
She slid four keycards across the marble, and gave a knowing look that hovered between amusement and reverence.
Willow signed the check-in, blinking at the zeroes on the rate, and shot Buffy a look. “Guess Giles really wants us to relax.”
Buffy grinned, then caught herself. “We could probably afford to relax.”
Faith grabbed the keycards and handed them out like playing cards. “To the suite?”
Willow checked the info. “Top floor.”
The elevator was so smooth and silent it felt like magic. Tara reached for Buffy’s hand and squeezed it, the two of them framed by the glass elevator and the skyline of domes and bell towers beyond.
Willow leaned in close, her voice low. “Rome’s got a hundred layers. We only need one: this week, this trip, us.”
Faith glanced at the mirrored ceiling. “Just sayin’, if this is the honeymoon, I think our marriage is off to a good start.”
Buffy laughed, the sound echoing off glass and gold. As the elevator doors slid open, the four of them stood in a line, suitcases at their feet, ready for the next chapter. The corridor ahead was quiet, hung with oil paintings of saints and sinners.
Tara led the way, her blue dress drifting like a flag in the air-conditioned breeze. She paused at the suite door, tapped her keycard, and held it wide for the others.
Inside, Rome waited for them: a view of the city so vast and ancient it could make anything else seem trivial. The air was cool and heavy with the scent of lemons.
For the first time in days, Buffy’s shoulders dropped. Just a fraction.
The suite was the size of a cathedral nave, with ceilings so high they threatened to pull the heat right off your bones. Windows framed the city in every direction—St. Peter’s Dome off to the left, crumbling aqueducts in the distance, the red clay of rooftops pressing up against a sky the color of old denim.
Buffy set the suitcases on the bed—impossibly huge, canopied in indigo silk—and unzipped hers with clinical efficiency. In under five minutes she had her clothes hanging in the armoire, her shoes lined up by color, and her "special" weapons case hidden in plain sight among the laundry bags.
Willow's unpacking was a slow-motion act of devotion. She placed three spellbooks on the writing desk, each carefully wrapped in waterproof sleeves. Pouches of dried herbs, vials of clear liquid, and a slim new iPad were lined up like scientific instruments. She flipped through the hotel welcome book—English, Italian, French, Mandarin, reading sections in each language.
Tara claimed the corner table, stacking three thick binders and a sheaf of notes. She'd brought policy briefs, her own iPad (at Willow’s suggestion now standard issue for ministers), and a creased folder titled "URGENT." She opened the window, took in the city, and promptly forgot about the paperwork for a solid ten seconds.
Faith's suitcase barely survived the journey. She upended it onto the bed, sending t-shirts, lingerie and an unwrapped bottle of bourbon sliding onto the sheets. She grabbed the bottle, placing it where she could easily reach it, and stashed a knife under her pillow before even glancing at the view.
Within half an hour, the suite looked as if four completely different lives had erupted in a friendly collision. There were traces of hair product on the bathroom counter, someone's heels already kicked under the sofa, and four identical pairs of hotel slippers lined up by the terrace door.
Willow commandeered the large table, unfurling a set of maps and tourist guides in a radius that threatened to engulf the centerpiece of imported peonies.
"Okay," she said, "the Colosseum’s obviously a must, and I’ve circled every single Caravaggio in the city, but I think we should hit the Pantheon first. Thoughts?"
Buffy hovered nearby, phone in hand, scanning both the itinerary and her lock screen at ten-second intervals. “Looks good, but what about the vampire rumors near Piazza Navona? Any overlap?”
Willow frowned, flipping a page. “No vamps, just that gelato place.”
Faith, now sprawled on the chaise in shorts and a tank, propped her feet on the glass table and said, "How 'bout we try a night out like normal people. You know. Dinner. Dancing. Not hunting."
Tara sidled in with a pitcher of water and four tumblers. "I’d like to see the Vatican gardens," she said, "and maybe the catacombs." She shot a look at Faith, who shrugged: "Sure, long as we don’t get stuck down there with something hungry."
Buffy set her phone down—face up, but still—and ran a hand through her hair. "I feel like I should be doing something. Patrol, or…at least a sweep for vamps. It’s weird just being here."
Willow reached across the table, her fingers light on Buffy’s wrist. "You’re allowed to not be on duty. You said yourself no slaying this trip.The world will survive."
Buffy gave a rueful smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"Little bit," Faith chimed in. "No one’s gonna get bit at the Pantheon, B. Relax."
Tara gently replaced her glass. "When was the last time you took a day off, Buffy?"
Buffy considered, and Willow filled the silence: "Six years, two months, and… five days ago. You spent the whole day in pajamas and watched Turner Classic Movies until your eyes glazed over."
Buffy groaned. "That was a bad flu."
"You still laughed at the old screwball comedies," Willow reminded her. She squeezed Buffy's hand, thumb stroking a gentle arc across the knuckles.
Faith pulled her knees up and nodded at Tara. "Same goes for you Tara. First day off since…?"
Tara laughed, the sound like breaking glass but warm. "Never," she admitted. "Not unless you count my last semester of grad school, and I was working three jobs then."
"Sounds like we’re all a little out of practice," Willow said. She leaned in, the four of them crowding the map. "But we can start small."
Faith pointed at a bolded entry: "I vote this one. ‘Bar Notturn, haunted by the ghosts of two failed popes.' Could be fun. Perfect for late night action"
Willow wrote it down, her handwriting a cheerful mess. "It’s a date."
Buffy looked at the others—her family, her partners, her impossible, beautiful, infuriating found home—and let out a long breath. "Fine," she said. "I’m in. Just…if any actual supernatural drama happens, can I at least do a basic sweep?"
Tara smiled. "Deal."
Buffy’s phone vibrated—once, insistently—but she turned it over and, for the first time in memory, didn’t check the alert.
Willow and Tara exchanged a look, proud and a little awed. Faith winked at Buffy, then popped open the mini-fridge and extracted four tiny sodas.
"To Day One," she said, and held hers aloft.
Buffy smirked and clinked bottles with the others. "To the weirdest honeymoon ever."
Their laughter echoed off the stone walls, and for a moment, even the ghosts outside the window seemed to stop and listen.
A little later, the sun bled out behind the skyline, purple and gold bruising the ancient stone. The suite’s balcony ran the length of the room and caught every scrap of it—domes, bells, the slow wink of evening windows, smoke rising in lazy skeins from dinner kitchens across the city.
The four women crowded around the balcony’s iron railing, each with a glass of wine: red for Willow and Faith, white for Tara, sparkling for Buffy because she said it "looked like a celebration." The group had decided on a relaxing start to the evening before they headed out. They were flush with the kind of tiredness that makes everything taste sharper, the city somehow louder and softer all at once.
Willow lifted her glass and said, “To surviving. To Rome. To—”
“To us,” Tara finished, eyes damp with the effort of not crying.
Buffy clinked her glass in and said, “To not getting arrested in a foreign country. Faith, I’m looking at you.”
Faith grinned, teeth white in the dusk. “To a honeymoon with no body count.”
Willow laughed and added, “For two weeks, let’s just try being ordinary.”
Buffy leaned into the rail and looked at the city. “It’s weird. I keep expecting someone to call and say there’s a world-ending crisis. Or at least a minor haunting. But it’s just… quiet.”
Tara touched her arm, gentle. “You can rest, Buffy. We’ll keep each other safe.”
Buffy looked at the three of them—their different faces, their ring fingers, the way even their silences sounded like a conversation. “I don’t know if I ever really learned how.”
Willow squeezed her hand. “Then we’ll teach you.”
Faith knocked her glass back and hooked her chin at the city below. “It’s a good night for getting lost.”
Buffy smiled. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I just want to watch the sunset.”
They let the moment stretch, wine burning paths down their throats, words evaporating like blood on hot pavement. Rome ignited one window at a time, the street noise sharpening into a predatory hum. The four of them stood shoulder to shoulder, not touching but vibrating with each other's heartbeats, the air between them electric with unspoken battle plans.
Buffy's spine finally unlocked, her shoulders dropping as if she'd laid down a weapon too heavy to carry—the weight of countless apocalypses temporarily surrendered to the violent beauty of the view.
As darkness devoured the city, Tara raised her glass with the solemnity of a war oath: "To family."
The others answered like a battle cry, four voices cutting through the city's roar, then silence fell like a guillotine, leaving only the feral laughter from a bar below and the dangerous whisper of a Roman summer night.