Enemy Incognito

By Wynn

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Good Man

He slept, lying flat on his back in the middle of the black cotton sheets, one hand curled onto his bare stomach, the other flung over the edge of the bed. The smooth expanse of his chest was marred by scars, thin white strips of hardened flesh scattered around in a random pattern courtesy of the violence in which he lived. His head was tilted to the side, mouth slightly open, shallow breaths passing back and forth between his pale, lush lips. Dark eyelashes fluttered against his skin as he dreamt, obscuring the clear blue eyes that had haunted her dreams, sent tremors of desire shooting down her spine, and melted her heart with the naked, raw emotion contained within them.

Buffy sighed and shifted in her chair. Nearly two days had passed since the escape from Wolfram and Hart. The wood bullet had fragmented upon impact, sending slivers and splinters deep into Spike's chest. Fred, Gunn, and Lorne had spent six long and tense hours extracting each and every shard, six hours in which Buffy used every ounce of self-control and patience she had accumulated over the years to stop herself from descending into full blown panic mode. Since the trio of make-shift vamp doctors had finished, Spike had slept, waking twice, long enough only to gulp down two mugs of blood before descending into unconsciousness again.

But it was just as well he stay asleep. Too much had happened in the last few days, and Buffy needed time to process everything, to make it make sense in her head before her confusion burst out of her mouth in nonsensical, stilted ramblings to any and all who would listen. A bitter smile crossed her face. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of humor. She finally admits to herself that she loves Spike, and then… bam! Earth shattering revelation Number Two in the middle of the evil law firm. Spike was a vamp but wasn't. Holy water was no longer a problem for this vampire with a soul. There was too much to think about, how and why the change happened, possible consequences or repercussions, what else was different about him, so Buffy chose not to think.

Instead, she watched him sleep.

He looked peaceful.

She wondered if he knew she was there, if he could sense her like she could him, a slow and steady pull throughout her body whenever he was near, drawing her closer to him, until she could reach out and touch him, reassure herself of his presence. Buffy leaned forward in her chair and brushed the tips of her fingers across the twisted scar near his heart, let them drift over his skin until they rested on his lips.

The door opened and she snatched her hand back. She smoothed the non-existent wrinkles out of her shirt and waited until Angel moved into the room before she casually lifted her head and looked at him. His dark eyes were upon her, and she swallowed. Rising from the chair, she moved towards the door and said, "Hi. Um, what…"

"How is he?" Angel glanced at Spike, the corners of his mouth tilted down in worry and concern. The burns on his hands and face from the exposure to holy water had healed, leaving no evidence of the previously reddened and blistered flesh.

"Sleeping. Some more. No big surprise there considering he's been sleeping for a while now. Not that he shouldn't be sleeping 'cause injury and all, you know, wood bullet in the chest not of the good." Ramble much, Buff? Why don't you just staple a sign to your forehead proclaiming your feelings for Spike?

Angel didn't seem to be bothered by her inability to speak coherently. "No. It's not usually good." He looked at her again as he said, "How are you doing?"

Buffy shrugged. "I'm fine. The bullet just grazed my leg. No big. Slayer healing and all."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh." Here it comes. The questions. The lecture. The overbearing concern for her wellbeing. Her gaze darted to the floor before sliding over to the bed, to Spike. Squaring her shoulders, Buffy turned her head back towards Angel. Times like these called for desperate measures: the lame, obvious change in conversation. "You're in love with Cordelia."

Angel stared at her, silent. His mouth curved into a wisp of a smile and he ducked his head, brown eyes now intent upon the plush carpeting.

Buffy blinked. That was a new Angel expression. A kind of goofy, giddy embarrassment. She bent over and twisted her body until she was looking up at his face and into his eyes.

He looked down at her as he said softly, "Yeah, I am. And you're avoiding."

She straightened, mouth opened, eyes wide. "I am not avoiding."

"Yes, you are."

Buffy crossed her arms across her chest. "So what if I am avoiding, which I am not, but what if I was avoiding whatever it is you think I'm avoiding? You can't force me not to avoid."

"It's Ok."

"Ok? What's Ok? Do you know how much I hate cryptic talk?"

"You can talk to me about it if you need to. I understand."

"That's good. You understand. Whereas, I haven't understood one word that has come out of your mouth since you walked in here."

Angel only smiled at her, a smile full of secret knowledge that made sense only in his head and made her want to hit him really, really hard. He moved around her and approached the bed, standing silently for a few minutes, staring down at Spike. He said softly, "The more things change…" He drifted back into silence.

Buffy sighed. Now there was a deep, philosophical utterance to go along with the cryptic talk. Wonderful. "What are you talking about?"

Angel shook his head and turned back towards Buffy. "I was just thinking about how much he looks like William." He paused as another small smile appeared on his face. "Has he ever told you about William? What he was like?"

"Sort of. The one and only time Spike talked to me about his life he lied his ass off. Told me he was this badass Victorian rebel." Buffy rolled her eyes. "He's a horrible liar."

"Yeah, he is. William was quiet, sensitive. He wanted to be a poet in the vein of Shelley or Byron. They're Romantic po-"

"I know who they are."

Angel blinked. "Oh. Good. So he wanted to be a poet, but he was horrible. Awful. Truly wretched. He-"

"I get it. He sucked. Moving on to the point now?"

"William had the passion for poetry but not the skill. Which was good because there were already too many passionless people in the Victorian Age. Everyone repressing their emotions and desires because of social standards and decorum. But not William. He was different. He wore his heart on his sleeve for the entire world to see, baring his deepest desires and wishes to everyone. And the thing he wanted most in the world wasn't money or social standing. He wanted love."

Her body was still, but Buffy's mind was a flurry of activity, trying to discern why Angel was reminiscing about William. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because one hundred years wasn't enough for the demon to kill the good man inside him. I know. I tried to break him, to get rid of the last inklings of William that formed the core of Spike, but I never succeeded. And I hated him for it. That is until I got my soul." Angel turned from the bed and walked to Buffy. "Then I envied him. For his passion. For the good man that was buried deep inside him, hidden by the cocky, pain in the ass demon, but never gone for good. Not like me. Take away the soul and all that's left is the demon. A sick, sadistic bastard bent on torture and killing."

"Angel…"

"What did you think I was going to do, Buffy? Tell you that you were wrong to love Spike? That you deserve better than him? You do. Even Spike would tell you that. But I'm not going to condemn you for feeling the way you do because I know what kind of a man Spike is."

"I…"

Angel reached down and grasped Buffy's hand. "I want you to be happy, Buffy. That's all I've ever wanted for you. And if what makes you happy is an impulsive, annoying, cocky, exasperating, irritating, good man who happens to be a vampire with a soul… then that makes you officially crazy. Happy, but crazy."

She knew her mouth was hanging open and her eyes were doing the whole bugging-out-of-their-sockets thing that was always freaky looking, but Buffy couldn't help it. He knew. Angel knew, and he was Ok with it. The world was officially coming to an end. "Ok… who are you and what have you done with Angel? Because he would have been all brood, brood, brood, hate Spike, protect Buffy, brood some more."

Angel laughed and drew her into a hug. "Thank you for the astute assessment of my character, Buff."

"I meant-"

He leaned back and looked down at her. A grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. "I know what you meant."

She smiled and placed her head on Angel's chest, her hazel eyes resting on Spike. "Thank you for understanding," she whispered.

"You're welcome." Angel stepped away from her and moved towards the door. He crossed the threshold as he said, "Plus, Spike knows I'll stake him faster than he can say 'Bloody hell' if he so much as lays a finger on you."

"Hey!"

Angel glanced over his shoulder at Buffy, a wicked, mischievous smirk on his face. He held her gaze for a moment before he pulled the door closed behind him.

* * *

He was in hell. His eyelids were stuck together, his mouth was dry, and his tongue was like sandpaper. His mind was a hazy fog, trying to shake off the remaining vestiges of unconsciousness and regretting the action as the first few lances of pain radiated from his chest with the speed and force of a runaway freight train.

"Oh… bloody hell."

Prying his eyes open, Spike stared at the stucco ceiling, drawing in hisses of breath from between his clenched teeth. His entire chest cavity ached, which was expected since he had had three sets of hands poking and prodding his tender flesh for far, far too long looking for tiny pieces of wood.

"I ever find the bloody bastard that invented sodding wood bullets," he grumbled as he rolled to his side, "bastard's a dead man." Spike pushed himself into a sitting position and placed his feet on the floor. The room was empty and the door was open, but the air was still warm from the presence of Buffy. He shook his head slowly as he stood. Bloody stubborn chit probably hadn't gotten any sleep in the last couple of days from watching over him. That was going to change now that Spike had rejoined the Land of the Conscious. She was going to rest if he had to drag her kicking and screaming to her bed. Grimacing, he walked over to his bag and pulled out a soft black T-shirt, another bolt of pain shooting throughout his body. So maybe Angel, Gunn, and Connor would drag her kicking and screaming.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting dressed," he said, pulling the shirt over his head and smoothing it across his chest. "What does it look like?"

He heard Buffy sigh and stalk across the room, latching onto his elbow and forcing him back to the bed. "You're supposed to be resting. And healing, in case you've forgotten about the recent hole put through your chest from the lawyer goons."

"Haven't forgotten. Just tired of… sleeping…" Bloody hell...

Her feet were bare, toes painted a shiny cherry red. The black pants riding low on her hips molded to her curves, exposing the smooth expanse of her tanned stomach peeking from beneath the nearly unbuttoned scarlet shirt she wore, the two sections of silk held together by two buttons over the middle of her chest. Her glossy honey hair hung in soft waves, framing the face that left him breathless. Wide hazel eyes with impossibly long lashes and full crimson lips that caused trembles to shoot across his skin. He closed his eyes, sucked in a lungful of air, and nearly moaned at the hint of lavender invading his senses.

"Spike? Spike? Are you alright?"

He jumped at the feel of her hand on his arm, the heat emanating off her body, igniting infernos beneath his skin.

"Oh! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, um, make you uncomfortable. I'll just go."

"No!" His eyes flew open, and he reached for her, drawing back as she turned towards him again, confusion and concern swirling within her hazel eyes. "Sorry. It's not you. I'm still kind of… woozy, you know, from being asleep for so long. I'm fine now. Um, how are you?"

"I'm Ok. Are you sure you're fine because-"

"I'm alright, Buffy." My hormones decided to re-enact the Invasion of Normandy on my body, but I'm fine. He flashed a reassuring smile, his blue eyes drifting across her red top, his fingers reaching out to brush against the cool fabric. "Is that… my shirt?"

Her eyes widened and she giggled nervously, a rosy blush tinting her skin. "Um, yeah. It was… uh… Clem, he was, um, there, and he said that… yeah… You weren't… so I took it to keep. For you. 'Cause it's your, um, shirt."

He couldn't help the smile from forming on his lips as he listened to her babble, her voice a little breathless, her skin flushed, fingers fidgeting with the tiny black buttons. "Looks better on you, luv."

"Yeah, it does."

"Thanks, pet." She blushed again, and he laughed as she swatted him across the arm, a mock frown pulling at her features. "So what's the occasion for the outfit?"

"I have a date."

"What?" The grin slipped from his face as he slid onto the bed. His throat constricted and he struggled to force the words out of his mouth. "You have a what?"

"A date. Well, maybe more of an informal business meeting. I don't really know how to describe it. It's not everyday a Slayer, half-demon Higher Being Thing, and an ex-other dimension Slave with an eerie Physics aptitude interrogate an evil lawyer who is possibly trying to kill us and, even worse, possibly sleeping with my ex-Watcher."

Spike blinked. "What?"

Buffy patted Spike on the head, her shoulders shaking with silent giggles. "Brain isn't fully functioning yet? That's what thirty-six hours of sleep will do." A wide grin curved her ruby lips. She sat next to Spike. There were no sounds in the room, save for her quiet breathing. A minute passed. It stretched into two. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath as she murmured, "You almost died."

Spike tilted his head and looked at her. Her eyes were focused on the wall before them; her entire body was tense. "But I didn't."

She sighed, her taut muscles relaxing, and she turned her head towards Spike, glancing at him from beneath her dusky lashes. "I know. Don't do it again, Ok?"

He searched her hazel eyes and fell into the depths of emotion she hid from the world, from her friends, from him pooling within her green and gold orbs. He felt the room tilt and a soft, insistent tug on his soul, pulling him towards her, drawing him towards her. "I'll try not to," he said, his voice low. "Same goes for you."

Buffy nodded. She leaned towards him and rested her head on his shoulder. He reached up and smoothed a hand on her glossy honey hair.

Same goes for you.

* * *

That look. He had never seen it before. Not on her. At least not when she was looking at him. Before the acquisition of his soul, there had been loathing, hate, lust, fear. After the soul, there had been confusion, pity, remorse, heartbreak. But this was new and strange and complicated and confusing.

Sighing, Spike shoved the blanket off his legs and eased off the bed. Buffy had left twenty minutes ago, popping into his room long enough to order him to stay in bed and get more rest before leaving with Cordelia and Fred. He entered the small bathroom, flicked on the lights, and twisted the cold water faucet, splashing the icy liquid on his face. He looked into the mirror and stared at the blurred, hazy reflection. Anya had told him of his newly reflected status after his return to Sunnydale; she had seen it in the kitchen window here in the Hyperion. Spike hadn't told anyone of the change, planning to research but waylaid by the events of the last few weeks. But now he was immune to holy water and the time for research had arrived.

He left the bathroom and made his way downstairs, pausing on the stairs. Spike raised one eyebrow and looked around the Hyperion's lobby. Angel sat in his office while Lorne and Gunn stood around the front desk. Connor lay sprawled across the circular sofa in the middle of the room. Four perfectly healthy males of the human and demon variety doing absolutely nothing but standing or sitting or sprawling, twiddling their thumbs.

"Someone want to tell me how we got stuck here while Buffy, Cordelia, and Fred went out to question the lawyer bint?" Spike said as he completed his descent down the stairs.

Angel pushed away from his desk and walked into the lobby, one hand rubbing against the back of his neck. "Buffy was tired of waiting, so she decided tonight was the night to question Lilah about the pictures we found of her in Sunnydale. I didn't want her going alone, so Cordelia said she would go."

"This was after you volunteered to go with Buffy," Lorne said as he turned towards Angel. "But then our delightful Cord reminded you of your vampire status and how Lilah probably wasn't going to be to keen to invite you into her apartment."

"So Fred hears that Cordelia and Buffy are going to Lilah's," Gunn said, his dark eyes locked on Spike, "and she jumps onto the interrogation bandwagon too. Doesn't want to be left behind with the guys while Buffy and Cordelia are out having all the fun."

"Buffy was going to protest Fred's involvement," Angel said. "But Lorne here had to point out the Charlie's Angels vibe going between the three of them. So Fred was in, we were out, and now they're gone."

Spike nodded. "So what are you going to do then? Sit around and wait for them to get back?"

Angel shrugged. "We thought we'd go out and kill some things."

"Good thing about L.A.," Gunn said as he moved from the front desk to the weapons cabinet. "There's always some evil nasty lurking around just waiting to be killed." He pulled a large double-sided ax out of the wood and glass cabinet and twirled the steel weapon in his hand, watching the light glint off the gleaming metal. "You coming?" he asked Spike.

Shaking his head, Spike crossed the lobby and eased onto the stool next to Lorne. "No. Buffy'll stake me if I leave the hotel. She's probably going to stake me anyway for leaving the bed and 'not getting enough rest to heal properly.' It's not like I haven't been unconscious for two sodding days."

Angel smiled and shook his head as he moved past Spike towards the weapons cabinet.

"What?"

Quickly shaking his head, Angel grabbed a few stakes and placed them in the pocket of his jacket. "Nothing." Off of Spike's look, he continued, "It's nothing, William. Can't I be happy that my favorite Childe is undead and well?"

"No."

"Fine. Be a grouch." Angel walked to the front door where Gunn and Connor were waiting. Over his shoulder, he said, "Lorne, I give you permission to stake him if he bothers you too much."

"Will do, cupcake," Lorne said as Angel, Gunn, and Connor disappeared through the twin front doors of the Hyperion.

Spike was silent for a moment, watching the doors slam shut, before he turned towards Lorne. "I have a favor to ask. You don't have to do this if you don't want to, but-"

Lorne waved his hand, cutting off Spike, and slid off the stool. "I know. But if I can help, I'm going to help."

"Thank you."

"No problemo, sweet cheeks."

"So what do I do?"

"You sing a song, I read your aura, and hopefully we find out why you're holy water immune while our other resident vamp with a soul is not."

 

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