Enemy Incognito

By Wynn

Chapter One: Last Resort

He hated the cold. He hated everything about it. How it seeped into your bones, numbing everything until you felt absolutely nothing. Until you felt like you were nothing. He hated winter and he hated snow; he didn't like ice cream or popsicles or iced tea, not because he didn't like tea, but because of the ice. He never took cold showers, and he loathed walking on the cold floor barefoot. He hated the cold, but it was all that he had. All that he could be. Not that he hadn't tried to be warm. He had. He was always in constant motion, a blur of movement, of thought, and of sound desperately trying not to be cold.

Then one night after living in the cold for so long, he found warmth in the most unexpected and unlikely place. He looked up and saw the sun staring down at him. Mesmerized by the radiance, he didn't feel cold. Not at that moment or any after. He touched the sun and was consumed by the heat. The night sky burned, the hard earth scorched, and he came alive when the sun reached out and touched him too. Passions ignited from their first touch, escalating into a fiery dance, a spontaneous combustion that had rocked the world. Unrestrained, the warm and the cool, the fire and the ice, the sun and the moon had exploded in front of them, between them, and within them, destroying them both. He had left his sun and his sun had left him, probably never to return. At least not without one hell of a fight. But that was what he was good at, fighting. Everything else he royally bollixed up.

His tendency to screw everything up is what had sent Spike to Africa. He was tired of the confusion, of the misunderstandings, of the one step forward-two steps back that existed between himself and Buffy. His last attempt to salvage their relationship had horribly deviated from his original intention, and he had hurt Buffy in a way he had sworn to himself he never would. He snapped under the pressure of the mixed signals and half-truths, leaving Buffy shaken and angry and himself guilt ridden and confused. Desperate for a change from the 'can't be a monster, can't be a man,' Spike had taken fate by the balls and committed himself to the only option he could think of to solve the dilemma: the return of his soul.

Which is how he had ended up in the dark African cave decorated with the brutal primal art and inhabited by the powerful demon with the glowing eyes that had placed his hand on Spike's chest and said, "Very well. We will return your soul." Pain raced through him, pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. He felt as though he was burning and freezing at the same time. He heard himself scream, felt his throat go raw from the continuous scream of agony. The demon's hand rested on his chest for a moment, for eternity, before it lifted itself off. Spike collapsed onto the cold stone floor, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face. He inhaled harshly. The demon moved past the prone vampire and said, "We have fulfilled your request," as he disappeared into the shadows of the cave. Curled into a fetal position, Spike closed his eyes and muttered a weak "Bloody hell" before slipping into unconsciousness.

***

Awareness drifted slowly through Spike's mind. He opened his eyes and attempted to move, hissing sharply at the bolt of pain that shot through him. Remaining still, he glanced at his surroundings. The cave was dark, and the demon was nowhere in sight. Gritting his teeth, Spike slowly stretched his body from the fetal position and rolled onto his back. He lay on the cold stone floor, panting, adjusting to the overall ache that permeated his body. Spike muttered another "Bloody hell" before pulling himself into a sitting position. He glanced down at his hands, noticing that the burns from his fight with the fire demon were gone. A quick search of the rest of his body revealed that the rest of his battle wounds had healed during his unconsciousness too.

Spike stood, bracing himself against the cave wall. His muscles protested as he began to walk out of the cave; he stumbled over to his boots and shirt, slipping the boots on over his feet and leaving them unlaced. The African sun was setting as Spike reached the mouth of the cave. He squinted his eyes against the dying light and waited for night to emerge. 'Wanker Angel sure as hell never mentioned getting a soul would feel like this. Feel like I've been run over by a bloody tank.' He pulled his shirt over his head and laced his shoes as the last remnants of sunlight disappeared, and he walked out of the cave into the African night.

Bonfires were ablaze in the nearby village. Spike could hear the conversation of the natives as he bypassed the settlement, not wanting another confrontation with the tribesmen. He doubted they would have interfered with his leaving, but he didn't want to test the theory. The moon hung brilliantly in the sky, illuminating the path that led from the village to the ruins of a temple. The roof of the temple had collapsed and a vast array of flora and fauna had taken up residence in the stone ruins. Spike ducked under an archway and entered the structure, eyes searching the shadows. A sound to his left caused him to drop into a fighting stance. He heard a chuckle and relaxed his posture. A small figure emerged from the darkness; he was dressed horribly, a lime green shirt and brown pants covered by a black jacket. A bowler hat completed the eclectic ensemble.

"Kinda jumpy there soul boy?" Whistler asked as he moved into the moonlight. He looked at Spike; his eyes squinted as he examined the vampire's face. "Hmm… better than Angel was the night he was cursed with his soul. He broke down in tears the second he remembered everything he had done as Angelus."

"I know what I've done. I didn't go through all of this to feel guilty for what I've done in the past. I can't change anything, so brooding about it like Peaches is pointless." He glanced down at his hands and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, his pale blue eyes glistened with unshed tears. He said quietly, "I won the soul to stop me from doing any more harm… from causing more pain."

Whistler stood quietly as the blonde blinked away the tears. After Spike had left Sunnydale on his motorcycle, the Powers That Be dispatched Whistler to intercept him. He caught up with Spike halfway to Los Angeles and offered to help him in his quest for a soul. Convincing the unstable vampire to come with him had been difficult for the immortal. Spike was irrational, focused only on gaining his soul; after a few dodged blows and a few persuasive pieces of information, Spike had calmed. He listened patiently to Whistler's description of the African cave and its glowing eyed demon, and, after a moment of contemplation, he had swung at Whistler again and took off on his motorcycle. It was another hour before the immortal intercepted Spike again. Exasperated at the demon's persistence and desperate to regain his soul, the blonde vampire agreed to accompany Whistler to Africa, under the threat of ripping the immortal's head off if the trip resulted in nothing. Whistler had only smiled and opened a portalnext to the deserted highway. The pair stepped through and emerged under the night sky inside of the dilapidated temple. Whistler pointed down the path, sat on a stone bench, and watched Spike stalk out of the temple.

"Are you ready to go back? There are big things waiting for you."

Spike shook his head. "Change of plans mate. I'm not going back to Sunnyhell yet. Need to… talk with someone first."

Whistler stared at Spike, who glared in return. "Are you sure about this? Big stuff's going down… they might need you there."

Spike arched an eyebrow. "They never need me. What good can a demon do?"

"More than you think." Whistler sighed. This vampire was always unpredictable. After all, it wasn't everyday a soulless demon wanted the return of his soul. He should have expected Spike to change the plan. "So where do you want to go?"

The corner of Spike's mouth twisted up into a small smile. "L.A." A visit to the poof was long overdue.

***

The interior of the Hyperion was like a tomb. Quiet and dark, with the slightly abandoned feeling that comes from a loss of activity. Spike stepped into the lobby, letting the door swing shut behind him. He was dressed in his clothes from Africa, black jeans, black long sleeve T-shirt, and black boots. His blonde hair was a mass of riotous curls on top of his head. He examined the darkened lobby. There was a light emanating from the office behind the lobby desk; Spike crossed the entrance hall, senses outstretched for signs of activity. He picked up a business card from one of the small stacks and read the name: Cordelia Chase. 'Looks like the cheerleader's still here. Surprised the Hair Gelled Wonder hasn't driven her off yet.' Spike didn't recognize the names on the other business cards: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and Charles Gunn.

He entered the small office. A haphazard pile of case files lay on an oak desk, along with opened books and the lighted lamp. File cabinets lined one wall, and two leather chairs were placed in front of the desk. Spike sat in the chair behind the desk and propped his feet on the wood surface. He was apprehensive of coming to the hotel and asking for Angel's help. Their last encounter hadn't been the most friendly, what with the torture session over the Ring of Amara. 'A lot's happened since then though. He's probably forgotten about it.' Spike grimaced as he recalled his own torture at the hands of the hellgod Glory. 'Then again maybe not. Probably should tell him about me and Buffy from across the room. Better yet from across the planet.'

"May I help you?"

Spike jumped out of the chair, knocking it on to its side. He was so lost in thought of the various tortures Angel would be likely to use on him he hadn't noticed the approach of the thin brunette. The girl took a step backwards at Spike's sudden movement and looked at him apprehensively. She had long, curly brown hair and big eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses; she wore a flowing dress and a pair of sandals.

"I'm sorry," she continued softly, "but we're not taking on any new clients right now. We're kind of short staffed at the moment. I could recommend another detective agency for you to use if you're interested."

"Who are you?"

She stared at him for a moment, thrown momentarily by his directness. "My name is Fred. I work here at Angel Investigations. Your name is…?"

"Where's Angel?"

Fred glanced down at the floor. "He's… uh… he's out at the moment. I could take a message for you, but it'll probably be a while before he gets back to you."

Spike tilted his head to the side at the girl's obvious lying. He wondered where the brooding wanker had run off to this time. "What about the cheerleader? Does she know where he is?"

"Cor-Cordelia? She's… uh… on vacation."

Spike smirked. "Vacation, huh? How about the Irish guy? Is he on vacation too?"

Fred looked at him, puzzled. "Irish guy? Do you mean Doyle? He died a few years ago."

The blonde vampire sighed. He picked up the fallen chair and slouched into it. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "So what you're saying is Angel's out, Cordelia's on vacation, Doyle's dead, and you're the only one left to uphold the 'helping the hopeless' mantra of the brooding one?" He placed his head in his hands and muttered, "Should've gone to see the Watcher. Poofter always has to make things difficult." He looked up in time to see a young black man approach the office. He was dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a t-shirt. Fred turned and smiled at the new arrival. The young man approached Fred and gave her a squeeze on the shoulder.

"Who's this?"

Fred glanced at Spike, then back at the young man. "He didn't tell me. He wants to know where Angel is."

The young man stepped in front of Fred and glared at Spike, who was still seated behind the desk. Spike chuckled at his show of machismo. "No need to get all manly there. If I wanted to hurt the bird, I would've done it the second she walked in." He sighed again as the man stared mute at him. "Look if you don't want to tell me where Brood Boy is I'll find him myself. I just want to talk to him." Spike stood and moved around the desk. He maneuvered around the silent pair and exited the office.

"Angel's missing."

Spike halted at Fred's admission.

"Fred!"

"I'm sorry, Gunn. But we've looked for Angel for over a week and we still haven't found him. Lorne left, Cordelia's gone, and Wes is missing too. We need help."

"We don't even know this guy. We can't trust him."

Spike turned around and approached the arguing duo. "My name's Spike. Do you know Darla and Dru?" At Gunn's slow nod of ascent, he continued, "Dru's my sire. A long time ago it used to be the four of us, Darla, Dru, me, and Angelus. But now I live in Sunnydale, and I know Buffy and Dawn and everyone else there. I need to talk to Angel. I don't want to kill him. Yet."

Gunn and Fred glanced at each other for a moment before Gunn nodded. Fred turned to Spike and said, "Angel's been missing over a week. He went out one night to… uh… well he went out, and he never came back. When Cordelia went missing too, we thought that they may have gone away together, but Lorne told us before he left that Cordelia contacted him and that she asce- went away somewhere but that she was Ok. We've checked all of the places we thought Angel might go, but we haven't found him yet.

"Did you try a locator spell?"

"No," answered Gunn. "We don't usually do stuff like that."

"I used to know a witch in LA that could do locator spells. She tracked down Peaches for me when I wanted the Ring of Amara. Could ask her to do it." He looked at Gunn and Fred. They glanced at each other again, then back at him, and nodded. "Right then. Where's the phone?"

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