Enemy Incognito

By Wynn

Chapter Twelve: Friends… Enemies

She was here, standing in his house, staring at him with her wide hazel eyes. He glanced at the doorway. She stood at the threshold, slender arms folded delicately across her chest. Her hair hung in soft, glossy waves down to her shoulders, and she wore a pair of jeans and a navy, one shouldered top. Spike drew in a deep breath and tore his gaze away from his Slayer. She had sought him out, tracked him down. No one knew where he was living now, not even Angel, yet she still managed to find him. For four days he had wondered if she would come and barge into the house, eyes blazing with anger, and throw him out of her town and out of her life. Or if she would just stake him on sight, no questions asked. He hadn't expected her to slip in unnoticed through the back door, calm and composed.

He looked at her again. She hadn't moved. He stood and stepped away from the chair, in front of the fire, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "Buffy."

She blinked, her gaze sliding down to the book clutched in his hands. "What are you reading?"

"What? Oh." Spike turned the volume of poetry over in his hands, running a finger along its spine. It was his gift from Angel, his solace when the past tried to engulf him, drown him in his ever present guilt. "It's, uh, poetry. William Wordsworth. Tintern Abbey."

Buffy walked forward into the room, uncrossing her arms. She locked eyes with him again and said, "Would you read part of it to me?"

He stared at her for a moment. Her head was tilted slightly, a lock of golden hair falling across her face. Her eyes, green and gold and blue, glowed from the firelight. Spike swallowed and lifted the creased book, thumbing through the pages until he came to Tintern Abbey. He licked his lips again and began to read.

"'…That serene and blessed mood,
In which the affections gently lead us on,
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
And even the motion of our human blood
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
In body, and become a living soul:
While with an eye made quiet by the power
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
We see into the life of things.'"

A faint smile crossed her face as she moved further into the room. "I remember reading this in my English class in college. I liked it. I wish I could have read more poetry." Buffy met his gaze. She pointed towards his face and said, "When did you start wearing glasses?"

Spike's hand snatched the metal frames off of his face. He had forgotten he had them on. "Um, a while ago." Like one hundred and thirty years ago, to be precise. He placed the book and glasses on the low glass table. "Buffy, what-"

"Why did you come back?"

Spike's eyes widened, struck by her words. He mentally chastised himself for expecting more than a cold confrontation from Buffy, especially after what he had done to her. He ran a shaky hand through his tousled hair and edged behind the armchair, sliding into the shadows in the corner of the room. "I-"

Buffy surged forward, arm outstretched. "No! I didn't mean it like that. Like you shouldn't have come back. It's just… after everything… I thought you would want to stay as far away from Sunnydale, and from me, as possible."

"What? Why would you think that?"

Buffy sighed. She moved away from him and paced the length of the room, fingers fidgeting. "I- You loved me, and all it got you was pain. From me and from you. Loving me brought out the worst in you last year. I brought out the worst in you. Who would want to come back to that?"

Spike's mouth dropped open. He took a few hesitant steps from the shadows. Buffy had retreated to the doorway, her eyes locked on the fire, glistening with unshed tears. He stepped around the glass table and moved closer to her. "Buffy, loving you brought out anything that was worthwhile in me, the parts of me that hadn't been… affected by the demon. You brought out what was left of the man inside me." He paused, sighing softly. It was now or never. No more running could be done, no more hiding. The time had come. "I came back to Sunnydale because of you. I know it's never going to be enough, but I wanted to try to apologize for… for hurting you. I never wanted to hurt you, but I did. I'm sorry, Buffy."

A stray tear slid across her cheek. "Me, too. Last year… I did stuff I'm not proud of. And I hurt a lot of people. Including you. I'm sorry."

They faced each other in the firelight, past sins laid out between them like fractured china, deceptively innocuous yet vicious and razor-sharp. A few simple, sincere words had swept them all away, allowing for a new beginning from residual pain.

Buffy rubbed a hand across her cheek, wiping at the tear, a small smile curving her lips. She glanced at Spike from the corners of her eyes. "Are you staying?"

"Yeah."

She bit the corner of her lip and said, "Maybe… we could be friends, or something. If you want to, that is."

"I would like that."

Silence surrounded them again, intermingled with the unspoken acknowledgement that the past was forgiven, not forgotten, and both would try for a better future. Buffy smiled again. "Good. Maybe I could stop by in a few days. Make you read me some more poetry."

Spike regarded her for a few seconds. "Are you sure? Because, you don't have to Buffy. I'll-"

"I want to."

Spike nodded. "Ok, then. Might have to skip the poetry though. A game of rummy maybe. Less embarrassing."

"Ok. I, uh, have to go now." She rolled her eyes, an amused gleam shining through the sarcasm. "Dawn drug Giles out to the movies. No telling what she made him see."

A faint grin crossed Spike's face. "She likes the strange movies."

"Yeah. Giles'll probably need a week to recover." She glanced behind her towards the door then faced Spike again. She took in his appearance, hazel eyes sliding from head to toe. She shook her head softly.

Spike raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Buffy shrugged. "You… look the same. The glasses… the hair… all black."

"Buffy, you haven't seen-"

"No, not in Sunnydale. In my dream." She paused, flashing him a brief smile. "Bye, Spike." Buffy turned and left the room, slipping out of the house, before he could think of anything to say.

* * *

"Pass the popcorn."

"There isn't any left."

"You ate it all?"

Anya rolled her eyes and pointed towards Faith. "No, *you* ate it all. And you ate the cookies. And the chips, too."

The two women were in Anya's apartment, surrounded by empty bowls of junk food, music blaring from the stereo. Faith looked at the empty bowls and shrugged. "Guess I'm still craving food with taste. Prison food's like watered down cardboard."

"Sounds… yummy."

"Not really." Faith drew her leg up on the couch and set her chin on her knee. "Could've been worse. Stale bread and shitty water. Or nothing at all." She drifted into silence, her years in jail replaying through her head. Constant threats, other women wanting to try their luck against the strong one, the silent one, the loner; suspicious glances from the guards, waiting for her to loose her cool and lash out; quiet nights filled with memories of hatred and rage, cries of pain and anguish. She would never go back. Ever.

Her stomach rumblings brought Faith back from her thoughts. Rubbing a hand across her belly, she looked at Anya and said, "You got any of those pizza rolls?"

"Yeah. Xander used to eat them." Anya sat on the couch for a moment, a distant expression on her face, golden-brown eyes lost in memories, before standing and walking into the kitchen.

Faith followed her. She watched Anya dig through the freezer and yank out a frost covered box of pizza rolls. Taking a few small steps into the kitchen, Faith said, "Look, Anya, I wanted to, you know, say thanks. For letting me crash at your place and everything." Her gaze traveled around the room, restless and nervous, and she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "I- They all hate me, especially Xander, and-"

Anya held up her hand. "Right now, I don't give a fig's ass what any of them think. Especially Xander. I asked you to stay here because you're my friend. Not because they hate you or because I want to make them angry by harboring the Slayer that tried to kill them. You're my friend, and you didn't have anywhere else to go." Anya lifted the box of pizza rolls, ripped open the thawing cardboard, and tossed the frozen snacks into the microwave. She set the timer and turned back towards Faith.

Faith stared at Anya, dark eyes assessing her friend. After a minute, she nodded, then moved next to the cabinets and pulled out a clean plate. Setting the dish next to the microwave, Faith said, "I talked to Angel yesterday. Connor came back."

"Did he try to kill Angel again?"

"No. Apologized for dumping him in the ocean and explained about a scheme between some Slayer wannabe and an old guy that wanted revenge." Faith opened the door to the microwave and dumped the sizzling pizza rolls onto the plate. "Angel still took the kid in. First Spike, then me, now Connor. Guy's looking to be killed."

"Did he say anything about Spike?"

"Nope. Think he's still in L.A.?"

Anya reached for a roll, biting carefully into one steaming end. "Maybe."

Faith arched an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"There's something… different about Spike. I'm not sure what exactly, but something's different." Anya shrugged and grabbed the plate of pizza rolls. She walked back into the living room and sat on the couch, placing the plate on the coffee table. "Did he appear different to you?"

"Not really." Faith picked through the pizza rolls, collecting a few in her hands, and sat back on the couch. "But I don't know him too well. It's mostly been crude suggestions and threats between us. The fun stuff."

"You do know he's in love with Buffy?"

"Get out. Blondie has a thing for B?" Faith chuckled at the thought of Buffy involved with another vampire and Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, in love with one. "Got to hand it to her. She's got good taste in men. Well, in vampires at least." Faith and Anya glanced at each other and burst into laughter. Poor Riley. He never stood a chance.

***

The door to the long hall opened, and the six people composing the Inner Circle filed into the room. The stone fireplace and gold chandelier lit the luxuriously furnished interior, highlighting the rich wood surfaces and plush carpet.

The man set his briefcase on the table and watched the others file into position around the table. He turned towards the man on his left, eyebrows lifted in disdain. "Well, you're troupe of vampires failed. The Slayer dispatched of them without even breaking a sweat. At our last gathering, you showed your ignorance and lack of preparation through your significant lapse in knowledge concerning the vampire William the Bloody. And now this…"

The second man licked his lips. "Sir, the vampires were not expected to succeed. They-"

"No, they were not expected to succeed. But they were expected to last more than a few seconds." He sighed and turned towards his second-in-command sitting to his right. "What is the status of William the Bloody?"

The woman dug through her briefcase and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper. She handed it to him and said, "We know he's back in Sunnydale. However, he did not return to his crypt, and our sources haven't been able to ascertain where he is living now. It's only a matter of time before we know."

The man nodded. He slipped the piece of paper into his briefcase as he said, "What about the Larouse demons? Are they ready to proceed?"

"Yes."

"Good." He glanced across the table at the man lounging in his chair. "And what is your opinion concerning the Larouse demons?"

Straightening in his chair, the man smirked and said, "They'll fail. The Slayer will probably kill them as quickly as she did the vampires."

"Yes, I suppose she will. But this allows for the situation brewing in Sunnydale to come to a head, so I have decided to continue with the previously arranged plan." He looked around the table, hard eyes drifting from one face to another. "Everything is proceeding according to plan. It is only a matter of time before the Slayer and her cohorts are dead."

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