Work Text:
Pairing: Andrew/Jonathan, mention of Spike/Angel, Buffy/the Immortal
Thanks to Emony for the beta.
S!x
By Anna
It's not at all implausible to say that, upon Andrew's departure, Spike and Angel beat a hasty path back to the Lear jet and tumbled inside with lifeless sighs of relief. The mini bar was likely once again raided. And then, one can imagine, a short time after take off, not yet over the Atlantic, they may or may not have given up the ghost and fucked on the couch.
Andrew didn't know this for certain, of course, but, in the back of the limo, arms full of females, his mind played over the images and a smile of satisfaction lingered around his mouth. In his fantasy he did not even need to be involved; merely to spectate, speculate, watch with quiet pleasure. The Pope might have sped by on a Vespa and Andrew's mind would have remained thoroughly engaged in the scene he created inside his head. The girls giggled at his faraway stare and now and then held up champagne for him to thoughtfully sip. It was good of them, he thought in a vague and vacant sort of way. They did not need to be quite so attentive. Though it must be said that Jonathan paid them well.
*
The Immortal was bored. The club was booming, sound filling his immortal ears now in new and more violent ways as time passed and amplification became more and more powerful, and ordinary mortals became more and more deaf. He sat in a section of the club so exclusive and mysterious that his only view of the dance floor was through a one way mirror. Most patrons of the night spot did not even know it was there. For who, when asked, would ever claim a status equal to that of the Immortal? So old that he had no name, so rich that no pleasure was denied him, so charming that he could have any woman in the world, and indeed had had any that were of interest to him.
Only one man in the world could outdo him on every count except longevity. One man, and the Immortal had to admit that he deserved every accolade, every praise. He was the only man on earth beside whom the Immortal felt puny, insignificant, childish and artless as a peasant. That man was, of course, Jonathan Levinson. And so, one can imagine, the fact that Jonathan Levinson was at that very moment dancing in a rather intimate manner with the Immortal's girlfriend was more than needling; it was a thorn in the side, a scourging, a torment, a frantic and twisting panic. His girl, the most powerful and most beautiful Slayer the world had ever seen, would leave him for Jonathan. He was sure of it.
The Immortal crushed a fine crystal wine glass in his left hand. The laceration of his skin was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. Shame burned his cheeks and he felt like a child. He always felt like this when Buffy flirted with Jonathan Levinson.
*
Jonathan loved Rome. As a city, it was splendid; as a retreat, it was perfect. Jonathan's life was lived to the strobe of the paparazzi flash, a rhythm he usually took in his stride, but here in Rome it seemed not only bearable, but right and proper that he should be adored. Rome was the Eternal City and Jonathan had every intention of being eternal. Here where, with a flick of his wrist, he would order the finest, the oldest red wines, the most delicious food. Here where he could witness glorious orange sunsets over the Coliseum, the Forum, the relics of a great and glorious empire. Here where he could find the most beautiful women, the flashiest cars, the most perfect tailoring in the world.
Here where he could find Andrew.
A hidden secret, kept from the world. It was not that he feared censure; the sheer improbability of any objection were Jonathan to openly take a man to bed ensured that such anxiety never bothered him. In fact, the secrecy thrilled him. So little in his life was secret. With great power, he knew, came great responsibility, and he felt it his duty to allow his fans see how he lived, see the honest greatness of Jonathan Levinson.
Andrew was his secret. Andrew was the one thing he refused to share with the world. The girls he kept as camouflage; no one noticed girls around Jonathan, and no one noticed if there was a man or two also in the throng. Andrew was not seen when he was with the girls.
Andrew was his only secret. He had no demons any more.
Buffy danced like a Slayer. Jonathan danced like a star. He kept one arm on her waist and one eye to the door. When Andrew arrived, it would be the perfect night.
*
The night was balmy, and the penthouse was open to the sky. Jonathan had felt something of a pang turning Buffy away yet again, but one glance at Andrew's face and he knew that there was no other choice. He vaguely remembered a time, dim and gloomy like a scene underwater, when he would have given anything - anything? - for a night with Buffy Summers. No longer. He bid her goodnight at the secret back door of the club and told her to return to her Immortal. Tears glistened in her eyes like dew. One, he noticed just as he turned away, spilled down her cheek, cutting a line of sorrow through her rouge.
It was tough, breaking hearts. It was something Jonathan found difficult to get used to.
Andrew waited with the girls in the car in an alley at the back of the club, and already the photographers had found their way there. Jonathan waved and smiled in his suave and practised manner before climbing into the limo. The chauffer closed the door behind him. Andrew smiled, and Jonathan heaved a sigh of relief.
"Thanks, girls," he said, warmth and sincerity radiating from him in waves. The girls giggled a little and batted their eyelashes. "We couldn't do this without you."
Andrew leaned forward and kissed Jonathan on the mouth. "I'm so glad you called," he whispered.
"Andrew," said Jonathan, his smile changing into something more real. "It wouldn't be Rome if I wasn't with you."
*
Andrew lay against the pillows, staring happily out of the high French windows of the penthouse at the stars. Jonathan lay asleep beside him, curled against his chest. It made Andrew vastly contented to feel that he was the one, the only one, upon whom Jonathan ever leant.
He counted in his head, his fingers moving in time.
Two visits in England. That was really the beginning. The Council had asked Jonathan for his help and Jonathan, being Jonathan, had flown post haste to London. There he once more met Andrew, but this time Andrew had not retreated from the room in the face of Jonathan's greatness. He stuck around, silently at first, but slowly learning to voice his opinions. Jonathan listened so carefully to everything he said that soon speaking became an addiction, merely to have those eyes on him again.
It was during Jonathan's second visit to London, voluntarily this time, that they first found themselves alone together. At the time Andrew thought that it was happy chance that Jonathan should have been in the old Council library at the very time that Andrew went to study Italian, but later Jonathan had admitted that he had timed it purposely in order to ask Andrew out. The thought filled Andrew with a heady pride. He recalled happily how restaurant advice had turned into an invitation to dinner, and how dinner had become a long night of food and wine and finally bed, long and slow and secret.
The third time was just before Buffy, Dawn and Andrew finally made the move to Rome. Jonathan had called Andrew in London, causing him to come close to dropping his cellphone under a double-decker bus, and suggested that he break the journey in Monaco, a special guest in Jonathan's own casino hotel. Andrew accepted the invitation. In his excitement he had barely registered Buffy's tight smile and sad eyes when he secretively told her why he would arrive in Rome a week late.
And now, Jonathan's fourth visit to Rome. That made seven in all. Seven times he had shared Jonathan's company, and six times his bed. Andrew sighed, his fingers playing lightly over the perfect skin on Jonathan's arm. They traced the scars on his shoulder - Andrew loved the shape - over and over again. Jonathan slept deeply. Andrew could feel his breath against his chest.
Andrew had lied to Spike and Angel, he reflected. He would never have changed his plans tonight, not for them, not for anyone. He was glad they hadn't asked.
END