Title: Enemy Incognito

Author: Wynn

E-mail: effulgent_sun@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel. They are owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Twentieth Century Fox, UPN, the WB, etc.

AN: One more chapter and a short epilogue to go. Feedback is a wonderful and much appreciated thing.

Chapter Fifty: On the Brink

By: Wynn

Death hung in the air, coating the glossy, dew soaked leaves of the surrounding trees in an otherworldly sheen, making them glow in the pale moonlight. They were bright flashes against the midnight sky, miniature strobe lights straight from nature. Pure black and white. If only life were that simple and not a mesh of muddled grey.

Death softened the harsh edges of the granite crypts and tombstones, blurring the cold grey stone into the cool black night. The world passed by Spike in a monochromatic blur, his eyes unfocused on his surroundings, focused instead upon memories playing and replaying within his mind. It would happen tonight. He would do it tonight, even though his body wanted to march itself back to the confines of his house and lock all the doors and windows. But he couldn’t put it off any longer, try as he might. Procrastination would only make it worse, and the situation did not need to be any worse.

The pungent smell of decay, of wilting flowers and freshly overturned dirt, invaded Spike’s senses, slithering around him and clasping him within its embrace. He was back in Sunnydale, had been for more than a week, but the memories of the ill fated trip to England hadn’t faded like the edges of the tombstones. They were still as fresh and as clear and as harsh as ever, a picture perfect reminder of the uncertainty and upheaval that was his life. He couldn’t put off dealing with them or their accompanying feelings any longer. If he did, he would drive himself insane.

The wet grass squished beneath Spike’s boots as he strode across the graveyard. Though it was late summer, the night was cool courtesy of the storm that had blown through Sunnydale that day. The storm had turned day into night with its inky black clouds and rumbling thunder, whipping wind and pelting rain, keeping all, demons and humans alike, inside seeking shelter from the torrential downpour. The storm had laid claim to Sunnydale, reluctantly releasing the town from its clutches at the first sign of oppressive nightfall.

Spike dug his hands into the pockets of his black jacket and hunched his shoulders against the biting wind. He had stopped by Tara’s grave first, briefly, clearing leaves and broken twigs off the small circular headstone, before continuing on to Joyce’s. There he had lingered, eyes drifting across the elegant script engraved on the marble, to the small wreath of greenery propped against the stone. His thoughts bounced around inside his head like a rogue ping pong ball, darting from anger to guilt to despair in the blink of an eye. He hadn’t felt this out of control of his emotions in a long time, since that ugly time before he fought for the return of his soul, and he couldn’t let himself disintegrate again. There was too much at stake.

Spike passed through the enclosure of trees and stepped onto the moonlit grass. Before him sat a simple, unadorned headstone with a simple, unadorned engraving for a complex, beautiful woman.

Buffy Anne Summers.

Spike stared at the stone until the carving blurred with the granite and became a formless grey lump. He blinked the tears from his eyes and sat at the foot of the grave. Crossing his legs beneath him, Spike placed his hands upon his knees and drew in a shuddering breath, filling his lungs with the heavy, moist air, willing it to dispel the confusion inside him. His eyes drifted shut as he fought to reign in his chaotic feelings and restore some order to his mind.

Time passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe just a few moments before he heard the slow and steady footsteps approach. Spike opened his eyes as Angel sat down beside him, but he kept his gaze fixed on the tombstone instead of glancing at the dark haired vampire beside him.

“They never removed it.”

Spike shook his head. “Everyone was so happy to have Buffy back they forgot all about her death… and any reminder of it.”

Angel remained silent for a moment, staring at the gravestone. “I didn’t think I’d be able to handle seeing this, seeing her buried here, so I never came. And before I thought I could come, I didn’t need to. She was alive again.”

“I was here every night. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle things if I didn’t come here, try to hold on to whatever was left of her.”

They slipped into silence again. Leaves rustled on the trees from the light breeze drifting through the cemetery. Dark eyes darting to Spike, Angel said, “How are you doing?”

“Bloody brilliant, Angel. How do you think I’m doing?”

Angel ignored the sarcasm dripping from Spike’s voice. “Have you spoken to her yet?”

“No.”

“Buffy’s not stupid. She knows something’s wrong. You haven’t seen her at all this week. Dawn won’t talk to her. Even Giles… You need to talk to her.”

“Yes, because what Buffy needs, what Buffy wants, must happen, regardless of what other people want or need or feel.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Angel snapped. “You need to talk. You need to tell her how you feel before you go nuts and drive me and everyone else around you crazy too.”

“Since when did you become all Joe Communicative, Mr. Monosyllabic Sentence?”

“Since I decided to stop eating rats and sleeping in sewers and actually interact with other people. I found out that not communicating with people who care about you tends to piss them off. And it significantly increases the chances of one going evil.”

“So just because you got in touch with your inner teenage girl and chatted up anyone who would listen to you about your feelings, you think I should do the same? If Angel does it, then it must be right.”

Angel sighed. “You can stop trying to pick a fight with me, William. I’m not the one you’re mad at.”

Spike exhaled an explosive puff of breath, caught somewhere in the midst between a sigh and a groan. He focused upon the tombstone again, his eyes drifting across Buffy’s name. “No, you’re not.” He swallowed hard, forcing his roiling emotions from bursting back through his modicum of control, and pushed himself up off the ground. Spike paced the length of the enclosure of trees, teeth gnawing across his bottom lip, hands scraping across his shorn hair. “I’m not mad. Not anymore. I can never stay mad at her no matter how hard I try… That’s the problem, I guess. It’s just… it’s…”

“What?”

Fists clenched, Spike whispered, “It hurts. I thought she’d changed. How she thinks of me, I mean. But nothing’s different. I’m just the same to her. Only bloody good for watching her back, for picking up the pieces. I’m not there fighting with her. She… she doesn’t want me there. Doesn’t need me there.”

“Maybe she needs you for other things.”

Spike turned on Angel, eyes flashing with anger. “For what? A quick fuck? Is that all I am? Someone to scratch that itch? Someone to worship the bloody ground she walks on but not worthy enough to be her equal? I can’t do that Angel. I can’t be shut into only one corner of her life like a bloody doll she drags out and puts back on her whim. We’re supposed to be together… fighting together, but instead she blows me off like I’m as useless as the whelp.”

“If that’s how you feel-”

Spike collapsed back onto the ground and held his head in his hands. “I don’t know how I feel. Everything hurts. It’s all jumbled, and I don’t want it to be.”

“I think you should talk with Buffy.”

“Yeah… Maybe.” Spike smirked, a wry twisting of his lips, and he turned his gaze on Angel. “So any reason you tracked me down other than to dispense your shiny pearls of wisdom?”

“I’ve spoken with Giles,” Angel said as he stood. “Everything’s in order. That is if you still want to do it.”

“It’s not up to me, not really, but everything’s still a go.”

“Even if you lose Buffy in the process? She’s not going to be happy about this.”

“Yeah, well, she lost her say in the matter when she left to go play hero.”

“Spike-”

Pushing off the ground, Spike stalked away from Angel as he said, “Do we really need to go through this again? I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to change my mind just because you disapprove.”

“I just want you to think this through. Make sure you’re not going to do something you’ll regret later.”

“I’m not.”

Angel held up his hands as he fell into step beside Spike. “Alright. Fine. I won’t push any more.”

“Giles agrees with me.”

“I know. I was there at the big discussion, remember?”

“I remember.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

“Spike…”

Spike flashed Angel a smirk and stuffed his hands back into the pockets of his black jacket. It helped, knowing Angel supported Spike’s decision, supported him, even if Angel didn’t quite agree with it. Helped him firm his resolve in the face of the upcoming confrontation with Buffy.

“So,” Spike said. “You and the cheerleader heading back to L.A. tonight?”

“Yeah. Connor’s recovered enough from that drug Travers pumped into him. I think he’s well enough for car travel.”

“Good luck separating him from Dawn. Those two are attached at the bloody hip, all covert glances and goofy smiles.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Spike shot Angel a glare. “What? Dawn’s not good enough for your precious spawn?”

“She’s more than good enough for Connor. That’s the problem. As if our daily confrontations with evil didn’t cause enough stress in our lives, now we have to deal with two hormonally crazed teenagers. The long distance phone bills will be enough to induce insanity. And then there’s the sex.”

Spike blanched. He blinked once and stammered, “The, the what?”

Angel laughed as he saw Spike’s expression of horror. “Sexual intercourse, William. Now, I know Victorian education was a tad stifling-”

“Sod off,” Spike growled, snapping out of his stupor. “What in the ruddy hell makes you think that Dawn will be having sex with anyone, let alone Brood Boy Junior?”

“Cordelia.”

“Cordelia?”

Angel nodded. “Apparently she’s been watching them interact this past week. She pleasantly informed me that if things keep progressing the way they are between Dawn and Connor, the time will come when they might decide to get, you know, physical with each other.”

“Over my dead body.” Spike took a step towards Angel, fixing the brunet with his fiercest glare. Voice low and deadly, he said, “You keep your son away from Dawn, got it? There will be no… getting physical, alright?”

Angel grinned and his eyes twinkled with amusement. Spike resisted the desire to choke the unlife out of him. “You’ve come a long way, William. Not so long ago you would have rejoiced at a little corruption of the innocent.”

“Not so long ago I would have ripped your kid’s arms out of his sockets for touching Dawn. Don’t think the urge won’t strike me again just because I have a soul.”

The grin faded off Angel’s face, replaced by a mixture of seriousness, affection, and respect. Angel reached out and clasped Spike’s shoulder. “You’ve come a long way, Spike. You should be proud of yourself. I am.”

Spike nodded, unable to think of anything to say in response to Angel’s unexpected praise. A smile tugged at one corner of his lips. “Thanks mate.”

It was Angel’s turn to nod. He released Spike’s shoulder and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit coat. His gaze dropped down to the ground before locking onto Spike’s face. “If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”

“I know.”

A small smile appeared on Angel’s face. “Ok. Time for me to go, I guess.”

“I’ll be fine, Angel.”

“I know.” Angel stared at Spike for a moment longer before he stepped back. He tilted his head towards Spike in a silent goodbye and then turned and strode from the cemetery gates towards his car, packed with the entire brood from L.A. Cordelia leaned across the front seat and waved at Spike through the passenger window. He smiled at her as Angel opened the driver’s door and eased into the car. The engine revved, and Spike watched the car pull away from the curb, red taillights fading into the shadows of the night.

* * *

Willow hesitated on the porch before Emilia’s front door, her hand raised and poised in midair, a few inches from the cream painted wood. She didn’t want to intrude upon the first moment of calm Emilia and Christina probably had all week. The past few days must have been difficult and painful for both women, what with Christina’s recovery from her kidnapping and both women arranging Charles’ funeral. But something tugged inside Willow, some force that made her want to check on these two women and make sure they were alright. Maybe it was residual emotion from her conversation with Charles, during which she saw first hand his love for Emilia and Christina, a love that drove him to protect them at all costs. Or maybe it was a feeling cultivated during the time she and Emilia were locked inside the same cell at the Council, a feeling to protect the fragile yet strong woman and her enigmatic child. Whatever the reason, Willow still felt the need to come check on them.

But maybe they didn’t want to be checked on. Dropping her hand, Willow stepped away from the door. She shifted the package clasped in her left hand. Maybe it was too late to drop by unannounced. Maybe it would be best to call and arrange a visit sometime in the morning. Maybe they wouldn’t want her to visit. Maybe they didn’t like company. Maybe-

The front door opened and Emilia stepped into the threshold. Dark swaths of blue and black circled her eyes, a testimony to the last few stressful weeks, but her mouth stretched into a warm, inviting smile at the sight of Willow. “You can come inside, Willow. I promise we won’t bite. Unless, that is, you like standing on the front porch…”

Willow felt her face flush at Emilia’s gentle teasing. A nervous grin curved her lips. “I didn’t know if you would be up for company. I should have called first, but I didn’t think about that until I was already over here, and I thought about leaving but I didn’t want you to think I was some crazy stalker person who stood staring in front of people’s front doors for forever. And if I’m imposing or if you don’t want company now, I completely understand…” She trailed off and held the package clasped in her left hand in the air. “I brought tea…” she finished lamely.

Emilia motioned Willow inside. “You’re not imposing Willow. A bit of company will probably do us good. And tea at any time is a wonderful thing.”

Willow followed Emilia down the hall towards the back of her house. Creams, reds, and greens dominated the color scheme of the house, creating a cozy atmosphere that made reminded Willow of winter nights before a crackling fire or basking under the hot summer sun. Warm. Inviting. Like the two women who currently occupied the residence.

Stepping into the kitchen, Willow handed Emilia the small package of tea. The tea leaves were of the same kind used by the coven in England, and the delicious flavor had calmed Willow’s nerves many a time during her stay with them. She had gathered her remaining tea leaves into a small bag before she had left Xander’s apartment, thinking if anyone probably needed a nice relaxing drink it would be Emilia and Christina.

“You can sit if you want.”

Willow snapped out of her reverie at the sound of Emilia’s voice. Her green eyes snapped toward Emilia, who stood next to the stove, eyes and hands focused upon arranging the tea kettle upon one of the burners. Flushing again, Willow eased over to the round kitchen table and slid onto one of the burnt orange chairs. Her fingertips skated over the tabletop as her eyes roamed across the tiny kitchen. The walls were a deep red, almost burgundy, trimmed with cream. The cabinets were cream with glass panels revealing funky colored dishware residing behind the doors. Three flowerpots lined the windowsill above the sink; each bunch contained tiny scarlet buds imbedded within the glossy green leaves. Dangling before the window was a tiny bronze wind chime decorated with Chinese dragons and scarlet tassels.

“I like your wind chime,” Willow said, eager to break the silence that had descended upon the kitchen. “Where did you get it?”

“It was a gift. From my sister. She said it would bring me luck.”

“Oh… I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

“It’s Ok, Willow. Talking about Ariana isn’t as painful as it used to be.” A faint smile appeared on Emilia’s face. She turned and opened one cabinet, reaching inside and removing two sets of cups and saucers. Moving over to the table, Emilia placed both sets onto the table as she sat in the chair opposite Willow. “Ariana didn’t want me moving to the Hellmouth all by myself. I was adamant though. I wanted a change, a challenge.” Emilia rolled her eyes as a grin stretched across her face. “Still indulging in my reckless phase, I suppose. Drawn to the danger in living on the mouth to Hell. Anyway, since Ariana couldn’t persuade me to not come, she bought the wind chime. Her way of making sure I was safe and protected.”

The tea kettle whistled. Emilia stood and walked over to the stove. As she removed the kettle from the burner, Willow opened the package of tea leaves and sprinkled some into the two cups. Emilia returned to the table and poured the steaming water into both cups. The rich aroma drifted from the cups and brought a smile to Willow’s face. Emilia replaced the kettle on the stovetop and grasped a wicker tray next to the stove, as well as a round tin. Moving back to the table, she placed the tin and both cups onto the tray.

A faint frown pulled at Willow’s brows. “What…?”

“If you came to visit Christina, you’ll have to go to her. She’s a bit… angry with me at the moment and refuses to come out of her room.”

“I… I didn’t-”

Emilia smiled, her violet eyes twinkling in amusement. “It’s alright. I have a meeting I need to be at in a few minutes anyway, so I wouldn’t have been able to chat much longer.” Nudging the tray towards Willow, she continued, “Christina’s upstairs, second door on the left. And don’t worry about bothering her. She already knows you’re here.”

Willow blinked. “Oh. Um, thanks. I… Upstairs, you said?” Off of Emilia’s nod, Willow stood and grabbed the tray. She slipped out of the kitchen into the hallway and made her way to the stairs; cautiously, she climbed the stairs, watchful of spilling the tea on the plush carpeting. Light illuminated the hallway from the room Emilia identified as Christina’s. Easing over to the door, Willow peeked into the room and found Christina bent over a cardboard box, hands digging through the carton’s contents.

Voice muffled, Christina said, “Just set the tray anywhere. I’ll just be a mo.”

“Ok. No problem. Take your time.” Willow stepped into the room. The walls were painted a deep purple, which gradually faded into a pale lilac near the ceiling. Gold curtains framed the two windows, and a tiny string of white lights stretched across the perimeter of each window. In the center of the room, directly before the open bedroom door, sat a shiny brass bed covered in crisp white linens and a thick black comforter. Cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly around the room, some opened, some still sealed with packing tape. A roll top desk sat next to the door, and Willow placed the tray onto the bare surface.

“Brilliant!” Christina lifted her head from the box. She clasped a set of striped pink toe socks in her hands and a triumphant look upon her face. “I looked everywhere for these. I was beginning to think I’d left them in England. That would’ve sucked.”

Willow watched Christina slip the toe socks onto her feet. She wore bright pink capri pants and a large black button up shirt over a metallic gold tank. Her black tipped silver hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail. Standing, Christina flashed Willow a bright smile and said, “Thanks for the tea. Oooh… are there biscuits too?”

Willow blinked and looked down at the tray on the desk. She saw two steaming cups of tea and a burnished tin. Reaching for the tin, Willow popped the lid open and peeked into the container. Shortbread cookies. Interesting.

Willow glanced up at Christina, mouth opened to declare the presence of cookies, and she jumped a little at the other woman’s close proximity. She hadn’t heard Christina cross the room. Still grinning, Christina lifted one of the cups of tea and delicately sipped at the golden liquid. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savored the tea. “This tastes fabulous. Thanks so much for bringing it.”

“Oh… You’re, ah, welcome.” Willow swallowed. She twisted her fingers together as her eyes darted around the room. “I, um, I like your room.”

Christina shrugged. “It’s alright, I guess. I don’t know if I’ll be staying here much longer though.”

“You’re leaving Sunnydale?”

“No. It’s just that my cousin Jeremy’s moving here to work for the new Council and living with him will be infinitely more bearable than staying at Casa Mum’s. Did you meet Jeremy? Tall, skinny, glasses, bright red hair like yours?”

Willow scrambled her brain. She somewhat remembered a lanky red haired kid in England, hunched over a computer in Charles’ apartment. “Not officially, but I know who you’re talking about. You two don’t look much alike to be family.”

“He’s not really my cousin. Not by blood anyway. Not that that matters much when it comes to family. He and Charles were brothers. Half-brothers. I’ve known Jeremy for most of my life.”

Willow nodded. “How is he doing with Charles… how are you doing?”

The light faded a bit from Christina’s eyes. She glanced down at the tea cup in her hands and said, “Alright considering. Charles…” Christina bit her lip. She placed the shaking tea cup back onto the tray. Glancing at Willow from beneath her eyelashes, she said, “I wanted to thank you. For helping me get out of that place. Get out of that horrible device.”

Willow shrugged. “It’s no big. I just did what any other person would do. I- You remember what happened there? ‘Cause you seemed pretty out of it at the time.”

“I remember bits and pieces. I remember you.”

Willow felt her face grow hot from the intensity of Christina’s grey stare. She fidgeted with the hem of her emerald top. “You, you said something. To me. Back at the Council. You said gold and black and red.”

Christina smirked. “Making absolutely no sense whatsoever, I’m sure. Not exactly the ideal first impression one wants to make, now is it, sounding like a blibbering idiot?”

A smile tugged at the corners of Willow’s lips. “You didn’t… blibber exactly. More strange cryptic murmuring than anything else.” Willow paused. “What did you mean when you said that?”

“I didn’t really mean anything. I was just saying what I saw.”

“What you saw?”

Christina nodded. “I don’t see like normal people. I see with my mind. I see the world’s energy. With people it’s their psychic energy, the essential make-up of the person. It’s sort of like aura reading but in Technicolor. Like with Dawn, she’s white and green. Very powerful, very old energy surrounding her. Connor… he has a lot of red, some grey, a bit of blue. My Mum’s lavender and green, a dash of yellow.”

“And you see red and gold a-and black when you look at me?”

“Yeah.”

“It doesn’t sound like a very pretty combination.”

“On the contrary. I think it’s quite beautiful.”

Willow felt her breath catch in her chest at Christina’s words. Christina smiled again as she turned towards the tray. She lifted both cups and handed Willow hers. “You should drink up before your tea gets cold. And then maybe, if you want, you could tell me more about Sunnydale. And about you.”

Willow couldn’t help the grin from forming. She was sure she looked like the world’s biggest goof with the world’s biggest smile plastered on her face, but it felt too nice to smile, too feel a spark of joy ignite inside her at Christina’s enthusiasm for pink toe socks and shortbread cookies. Eyes locked upon Christina, Willow said, “I think I’d like that.”

“Good. Me too.”

* * *

Something was wrong. Buffy knew it, deep down inside of her skin and down into her bones. Not completely, horribly, irrevocably wrong. Just a little off kilter, a little left of center. Conversations with Giles were more clipped, more formal than usual, and his eyes, normally shining with affection or irritation or frustration or a myriad of other emotions she elicited from him, were duller, more guarded. Dawn barely spoke two words to her since their return to Sunnydale, and the words that were spoken were heavy with hostility and bitterness. And Spike… she hadn’t seen or spoken to him since their interlude in the stairwell at the Council. Although Buffy hadn’t exactly been up to conversation on the plane ride back to California; most of that time was spent in the oblivion of unconsciousness, and the remaining conscious part was a fuzzy, morphine induced haze to combat the lingering pain from her concussion and gun shot wound. So coherent conversation for Buffy was a slim to none possibility then. But as she’d recovered, grown stronger and more clear-headed, he still hadn’t come. She knew relations between Giles and Spike were tense at best, so she wasn’t too concerned that he didn’t show up on Giles’ doorstep to visit her and Dawn.

But he hadn’t even called. At least not to talk with her. Buffy knew Spike had access to a phone because she had heard Dawn talking to him two days ago, briefly, catching a few snippets of the conversation before Dawn had noticed her and went stomping into the bathroom and slammed the door closed, muttering about the need to respect other people’s privacy.

Everyone else treated Buffy the same as always. She’d received visits from Angel, Willow, and Xander as she coalesced at Giles’ house, and none of them were cold or distant or angry with her. Even Cordelia stopped by to check up on her, gabbing the whole while about the utter cuteness that was Dawn and Connor and how Lorne and Clem were planning on reopening Caritas. For all intents and purposes, all was right with the world of Buffy Summers. Travers was no longer a threat to her or her family. Major changes occurred within the Council to prevent another situation like this from ever happening again. She was alive, her friends were alive, and her family was alive. But all wasn’t right with the world because something wasn’t right with the people Buffy cared most for in this world. And Buffy didn’t know specifically why they were angry with her, but she suspected it had something to do with the cause of all the strife in her life over the past few months.

Travers.

She gritted her teeth as his name echoed through her mind. His very name was as grating as nails drawn down a chalkboard, and it set her whole body on edge, teetering on the precipice between sanity and insanity. Even in death he still managed to fuck with her life. For a moment she wished he were still alive so she could kill him.

“Buffy?”

Buffy blinked, jerked from her contemplation by Faith’s voice. Glancing up at Faith, she forced a smile upon her face that hopefully concealed the rage simmering beneath her skin from thoughts of Travers. They were in the Magic Box, sitting around a makeshift table perched in the center of the main room. Yellow light from the streetlamps lining Main Street filtered into the dark interior, allowing Buffy enough light to watch Faith watch her. “Yes?”

A flash of concern shot through Faith’s eyes, but Faith refrained from asking Buffy if she was alright, much to Buffy’s relief. She didn’t want to try to explain to Faith the emotions careening through her, how even now, a week after Travers’ death, her anger still burned in her gut white hot and blinding, scratching at her skin with a desperate need to be released and unleashed upon the world. Buffy supposed Faith would understand exactly how she was feeling, but that reason alone, that she was experiencing the same level of hatred and rage felt by Faith on numerous occasions, kept Buffy silent.

But Buffy also didn’t want to jeopardize the tenuous trust that had built between the two women since the events at the Watcher’s Council by lying to Faith either. They needed to be able to trust one another if they were going to gain the upper hand against the remnants of the Council. Petty infighting would leave them vulnerable to another attack like the one waged by Travers.

Instead, Faith smirked and said, “Exactly how long do you think we’ve got before there’s a mutiny among the Tweed?”

Buffy shrugged. “Maybe a week or two. Maybe tomorrow. I’m sure we pissed off more than a few of the traditionalists with our power coup, and those fragile male ego’s probably won’t stand for being swindled by a couple of girls.”

Negotiations between Buffy, Faith, Giles, and Wesley with the remaining Council members had raged earlier today. The death of Travers and the destruction of the London headquarters sent members scrambling to fill the resulting power void. If things were going to change within the Council, they needed to change now before the old establishment reaffirmed its control. Accusations and mudslinging occurred in both camps, with every major player playing every card in his hand in a gamble to intimidate and outmaneuver the other side into submission. But in the end, the advantage fell to Buffy and co., thanks in large part to information provided by Elizabeth Barrett, interim leader of the Council and ally during the final fight against Travers, and Emma Rochester, Ice Queen Extraordinaire and Travers’ spawn. Buffy couldn’t contain the shiver of revulsion at accepting any sort of help from Travers Junior. Someday, somehow, she knew it would come back to bite them all in the ass.

But for now, everything related to Slayers and the Hellmouth was now under the jurisdiction of the newest branch of the Watcher’s Council in Sunnydale. The renovated Magic Box, as well as Tyler’s abandoned dojo, would serve as headquarters. Giles would oversee operations, reporting back to Elizabeth in England, while the remaining seats of power would be divided among a committee of five: Buffy, Faith, Wesley, Simmons, and Emma. The inclusion of Buffy and Faith into the power structure had been the most fiercely debated point on both sides. Buffy and Faith stood firm in the face of the opposition’s criticisms, that they were too young, too inexperienced, to ignorant, never wavering from their desire to appropriate some control over their destinies from the Council.

And they had won. A new beginning for Watcher-Slayer relations, hopefully one that shifted viewpoints of Slayers as tools to be used in the fight against evil to Slayers as people to aid in the fight against evil.

“Yeah,” Faith said, breaking Buffy from her reverie once more, “but they should know better than to take us on. I mean, look at what happened to the last guy who tried to mess with us. He’s deep fried Watcher now. You saw to that.” Buffy opened her mouth to protest, but Faith continued speaking, waving a dismissive hand at her indignation. “It’s not like I’m crying over Travers’ fortunate demise, B. You did what you had to do. It’s understandable.”

Her mind flashed back to Spike and Dawn and Giles and their strange behavior of the past week. Quietly, she said, “Is it?”

Faith cocked her head to the side and regarded Buffy for a few moments. The concern reappeared within her brown eyes and her brows tugged together in a slight frown. “Something up, B?”

Buffy sighed. She pushed her fingers through her hair and rested her head in the palms of her hands. “No… Yes. Since we came back from England, things have been… different between me and Dawn. And Giles. And Spike. And I don’t know why. I don’t know if I did something or something happened in England I don’t know about.” Looking up at Faith, she said, “Did something happen back in England? Something I don’t know about?”

Faith dropped her eyes down to her hands. Her tongue darted out of her mouth and licked across her bottom lip. Dark eyes returning to Buffy’s face, Faith said, “They were a little angry. At you. After you left them and went back into the Council.”

“Angry?” Why would they have been angry? She had gone after Travers to protect them, to protect everyone from the evil smarmy bastard and his evil smarmy schemes.

Faith nodded. “Look, maybe you should talk this over with them. It’s not really any of my business.”

“I’ve tried to talk to Dawn. She just gets up and storms off anytime I say one word to her.” Buffy tried to stifle the bitterness creeping into her voice, but a week of cold shoulders, harsh glares, and polite distance had worn on her patience. “And Spike hasn’t come to see me. He hasn’t even called so I don’t know how I’m supposed to talk to him if he’s not even there.”

“Maybe you should go see him.”

“What?”

Faith pushed away from the table and reached for her jean jacket slung over the back of the metal folding chair. Sliding into the jacket, she said, “If you want to talk to Spike, go find him and talk to him. Because it seems like he sure as hell doesn’t want to find and talk to you.”

“Why-”

“You willingly walked into a certified death trap, leaving the people who love you behind to mourn you again. That’s probably not going to sit too well with them. In fact, it looks like it hasn’t sat too well with them, if what you’ve just said is true. So if you want to have things return to normal between you and Giles and Dawn and Spike, you have to do it. Not them. They’re the one’s hurting. Talk to Spike, B. Before it’s too late, alright?” Faith sighed. She shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear and stepped away from the table. “I’ve got to jet. Look, I’ll be at Anya’s if…”

A small smile appeared on Buffy’s face. New beginnings for everyone it seemed, including her and Faith. If Angel and Spike could bury the hatchet wielded in a hundred years’ worth of betrayals, then so could Buffy and Faith. “Thanks. For the offer. And for the advice.”

Faith shrugged. “Sure, B. Whatever. Don’t get all weepy on me or anything.”

Her smile shifted into a smirk at Faith’s nonchalance. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

Nodding once, Faith turned and walked out of the empty Magic Box. The faint tingle of the door bell jingled throughout the shop as Buffy gathered her jacket and eased it over her shoulders. She glanced once more around the future home of the Watcher’s Council before following Faith out the door. Digging the key from her pocket, Buffy locked the front door and then turned and started down Main Street. It was time to find Spike. Time to straighten out the mess that was her life and make everything right in her world again.

* * *

Chapter Fifty-One: Aftermath

By: Wynn

Anya’s apartment was dark and silent as Faith eased the front door closed behind her. The living room blinds were drawn, concealing all vestiges of the night lurking outside the window. Leaning back against the door, Faith closed her eyes and sucked in a slow breath. She winced as a twinge of pain shot through her; her ribs hadn’t fully healed from the flight from Travers’ window. She slid down to the floor, teeth clenched as her knee threatened to seize up on her. No more jumping from third story windows for Faith. At least not onto metal dumpsters. The impact hurt like hell.

Faith sighed and willed the tension from her body. She had been tense all day, her muscles like steel rods beneath her skin. Grating, pompous British voices did that to her. More than once she had wished she could reach through the phone and bitch slap every single one of those whining losers. She would have been fine with ditching the whole corrupt bunch, but Giles’ spiel on resources and books and blah, blah, blah silenced any argument she might have broached. Faith would keep doing her thing, regardless of whether or not the Scoobies decided to work with the Nerd Herd.

Her breathing slowed as a week’s worth of exhaustion pulled at her mind. The need to cut loose, to leave Sunnydale for places unknown, sang within Faith like a Siren’s song, luring her with the temptation of no worries, no stress, and no pain. But she couldn’t leave B to deal with those intellectual freaks by herself. She couldn’t leave Anya, not when Anya needed her now more than ever. And she couldn’t leave Wesley, even if Wesley had already left her.

Faith rolled her eyes. Ok, so he hadn’t left her. Not exactly. He had left Sunnydale immediately after the meeting at the Magic Box so he could take care of unfinished business in L.A. Specifically, unfinished business with Lilah. Faith sneered. Lilah Morgan. Another person on Faith’s list of people in need of a good bitch slap. Or two. Or three. Faith normally didn’t indulge in jealousy. If someone had something she wanted, she took it. No fuss, no muss. But when something of hers fell into someone else’s hands… that was a horse of a different color. Faith didn’t like to share. What was hers was hers until she said so. Not that she would ever tell Wesley to his face that he was hers. But he was. He was her Watcher. He was her torture victim. He was her source of guilt and remorse. He was her lover or boyfriend or whatever the fuck he was to her. Hers. Not Lilah’s. She just hoped the lawyer remembered that little fact during her meeting with Wesley or Faith would be arranging a meeting of her own. Soon.

“Faith? You alright?”

Faith opened her eyes. In the dim light of the hallway she saw Xander leaning against one wall, hands stuffed down into the pockets of his jeans. Pushing off the ground, she said, “Five by five. Just a little drained from today.”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Pretty decent. The Tweeds have decided to let us be for now. If they have any brains at all, things will stay that way.” Faith stopped at the threshold of the hallway. Pale yellow and green bruises colored Xander’s face, remnants of Tyler’s vicious beating at the Council. Concern pinched the corners of his eyes and mouth. His eyes strayed from her face down the hallway towards Anya’s bedroom. Following his gaze, Faith said, “How is she?”

“The same.” Xander’s voice was choked with pain and rage. He sucked in a deep breath and continued. “I did get her to eat something. A grilled cheese and pickle sandwich.”

“Dill or sweet?”

“Bread and butter.”

“Eww. That’s wicked gross.”

“Oh, yeah. But it’s what she likes. And at this point I don’t care if she wants caviar and champagne or Crisco straight from the can. I’ll get it if there’s a chance in hell she’ll eat it.”

Faith wanted to say something comforting, like everything will be alright in the end, just you wait and see, every cloud has a silver lining, it’s always darkest before the dawn, but she couldn’t force the words past her lips. Lying had never been her forte, and she had never been fond of false platitudes. Everything might be alright in the end, but right now everything was seriously fucked up, and neither Faith nor Xander had any clue how to make anything better. So all Faith said was, “You better go. Before it gets too late and all the demons come out to play. Or you’ll be stuck on the couch again, and believe me I know how not comfortable that piece of shit is.”

Xander nodded, his eyes still fixed on Anya’s closed bedroom door. He eased off the wall, listing to one side, his hand carefully clutching his stomach. Faith wasn’t the only one with still bruised ribs. Eyes darting to Faith’s face, Xander said, “Call if she needs anything.”

“I will.”

She watched him maneuver through the dark living room and snatch his jacket from off the couch. The front door opened and a sliver of light entered the apartment, highlighting the haggard bent of his head and the exhausted slump of his shoulders. He glanced back at her and a wan smile passed across his face. Strange how mutual love for Anya and a murder cover-up could bond together even the worst of enemies. The door closed, and as the locks slid shut, Faith turned and moved down the hall towards Anya’s bedroom.

She knocked softly and opened the door. Like the living room, Anya’s bedroom was dark. A few candles burned on her nightstand next to the bed, but the weak yellow light failed to penetrate the oppressive black covering the room. She could hear shallow breathing and the rustling of bed sheets as she entered the room and shut the door behind her.

“Xander?”

“No. It’s me. Xander just left.”

“Oh.”

Faith crossed the room and climbed into a plush armchair beside Anya’s bed. From this close proximity, she saw Anya’s form huddled on the center of the bed. Her left shoulder and arm were encased within a blue sling; a white cast wrapped around her right wrist and arm from her fingers all the way up to her elbow. A knee brace stretched along Anya’s left knee from mid-thigh to mid-calf. Faded bruises marred her face; her golden hair hung limp around her head. Her tawny brown eyes were flat and dull, staring blankly into the black shadows.

Faith clasped her hands together in her lap, stifling the tremors of rage that quaked through her at the sight of Anya’s appearance. Moments like this made her wish she had struck the killing blow for Tyler rather than Xander. Keeping her voice neutral, she said, “Giles asked about you at the meeting.” Silence. Faith licked her lips and continued. “He wants to stop by and see you but his British manners are keeping him away. Some shit about not wanting to intrude.” Anya blinked, slowly, but didn’t respond. Undaunted, Faith spoke again. “We, Giles and I, arranged a job for you with the Council if you want it. Special Consultant to the Demonology division. Big fancy title that basically means you get to boss all the little Watcher peons around.” Still no response. Faith stifled a sigh. This gentle and caring stuff was beyond her. She communicated with hard fists and harsh words, not comforting murmurs. Faith stood as she said, “Try to get some sleep. I’ll be in my room.”

Faith was halfway to the door when Anya spoke.

“Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you… could you stay? Until I fall asleep? I don’t dream when you stay.”

A place in her chest Faith didn’t even know existed anymore twisted up inside of her. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them quickly away. Nodding once, she said, “Yeah. I’ll stay.” And she returned to the chair, tugged it closer to the bed, and sat down upon it, folding her legs beneath her. “You can sleep now. You’re safe.” Faith heard Anya sigh and burrow down within her blankets, and then she leaned over and blew out the candles, settling in for a long night of dreams and screams.

* * *

Wesley slid his tongue against the roof of his mouth, savoring the residue of wine coating his teeth and lips. He sat in the dark, in one of Lilah’s leather armchairs, waiting for her to come home. If she thought her use of Faith as a distraction at the Council would permanently divert Wesley from her activities, then she thought wrong. He should have stayed with Lilah, stopped her from doing whatever it is she did during the chaos preceding the explosion. He knew her, knew she had manipulated his vulnerability by manipulating his affection for Faith. But Wesley would have hated himself worse if Lilah had been right, if Faith had actually been in trouble and he had done nothing to save her. Whatever Lilah had done, Wesley could deal with it now. Could deal with her now. Now that everyone and everything was safe and secure.

The front door opened, and Wesley saw Lilah step into the apartment. Her suit coat was draped over her briefcase and the first few buttons of her blouse were undone. Rough day at the office then. Wesley smiled. Good. Then Lilah was more likely to make a mistake, reveal more information than she would have otherwise intended.

She paused in the doorway, and he knew she had spotted him. Her free hand coasted over the wall, flicking the light switch, turning on the two floor lamps in her living room and flooding the apartment with a muted yellow glow. A slow smile appeared on her face as she locked eyes with Wesley. “I was wondering when you would come see me. I must admit I was hoping it would have been sooner rather than later.”

“My apologies. It took longer than expected to clean up the mess you helped create.”

Lilah pouted. She dropped her briefcase onto the floor and threw her suit coat over the back of her couch. “Now, Wesley, don’t be mad. Everything turned out alright in the end, didn’t it? Everyone’s back safe and sound in Sunnydale, including your precious little Slayer.”

“Yes, she is. A fact for which you should be very thankful.”

She paused, halfway to the kitchen. Her dark eyes cut towards Wesley and one corner of her mouth quirked up. “Really. So if Little Miss Psycho had bit the dust back in jolly old England I would be in trouble now? What would you have done, Wesley? Kill me?”

Wesley held Lilah’s gaze and brought his wine glass back up to his lips, sipping at the burgundy liquid.

Lilah raised one eyebrow. “Interesting. I didn’t know she meant that much to you if you were considering murder as retribution for her death.”

“Now you know.”

Shaking her head, Lilah continued her trek to the kitchen. “Oh, how far the mighty- or should I say virtuous- have fallen. You’re a regular black hat, Wesley. You’ve mastered the arts of manipulation and deception, and now you’re contemplating murder. Congratulations.” She reached into a cabinet and extracted a wine glass. Moving over to the counter, she lifted the bottle Wesley had opened, glancing appreciatively at the label. “Tell me, Wes, how does your reformed sinner like this new, evil you?”

“Stop it, Lilah.” His grip tightened on the glass.

“Stop what? I’m merely asking a question. Faith’s worked real hard at redemption. I don’t think associating with a fallen hero would help her sustain her good girl status.”

“I was never a hero.”

Lilah smiled, a dangerous, cat-ate-the-canary grin. “No, I don’t suppose you were. That was always Angel’s job, wasn’t it? Big soulful hero of the Powers That Be. With you as his trusty little sidekick. Although you’re not so trusted now, are you? He hates you.” Lilah poured the wine into her glass. She returned the bottle to the countertop as she said, “Isn’t it ironic that Angel’s buddy-buddy with Faith, someone Wolfram and Hart hired to kill him, someone who completely fucked the love of his life over many times, but you, his friend, his confidante, gets the shaft for one teensy weensy mistake?”

Lips thinned, Wesley said, “Are you quite finished?”

“Why? Have I touched a nerve?” Lilah sauntered over to the living room, watching Wesley over the rim of her crystal glass. She sank down onto the couch and spread her arms along the back edge. “If push comes to shove, Wesley, if Faith’s forced to choose between you and Angel, who do you think she’ll choose? The one man who’s stuck by her no matter how much she’s fucked up, her sponsor in Villains Anonymous? Or you, her former torture victim, her failed former Watcher?”

Wesley clenched his jaw and fought to control his ragged breathing. He needed to remain calm if he was going to learn anything useful from Lilah. Allowing him to be affected by her taunts would accomplish nothing. He focused his gaze on the half-empty wine glass clutched between his hands as he said, “You’re pathetic attempts at distraction won’t work this time, Lilah. You went to the Council for a purpose, under orders from Wolfram and Hart. I want to know why.”

“Well, duh. I didn’t think you came all this way for pleasant conversation.” She smiled again and her dark eyes raked over his body. Eyes sparkling with amusement and desire, she said, “Unless, that is, you came over here for another reason.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lilah.”

“I’m not. How quickly you forget, Wesley. How loud you screamed. How rough, how hard you moved. I remember exactly how much you enjoyed our little… dalliances. I think you do too.”

Wesley drained the rest of his wine and pushed off the chair. He stalked over to the kitchen and placed the glass in the sink. Hands gripping the rim of the metal basin, he said, “I don’t care what you remember. Or what you think I remember. You meant nothing to me. You were a means to an end. And if you happened to provide a bit of amusement into an otherwise unsavory endeavor, then so be it.” Dragging in a shaky breath, Wesley turned towards Lilah and said, “I will discover what you did at the Council, and I will stop whatever it is you and Wolfram and Hart have planned.”

“Discover all you want, Wesley,” Lilah said as she stood. Glass gripped loosely in her hand, Lilah moved towards Wesley, her hips swaying gently beneath her skirt, faint smile playing upon her ruby lips. “It doesn’t matter what you learn. You can’t stop anything. Wolfram and Hart have waited a long time for this moment, and they’re not going to let a fired Watcher and his pet Slayer screw it up. You can’t stop the ride once it’s been set in motion, Wesley. All you can do is buckle up tight and pray to whatever god will listen that you’ll survive. And I suggest you pray real hard, or maybe you should simply consider what side it’s safer to be on in the coming months. I doubt it’s fair Faith’s.”

She stopped before him; her arm snaked around his waist and deposited her wine glass onto the countertop. Her dark hair tumbled across her face, and Wesley could smell the remnants of her perfume lingering in the air between them. Chanel No. 5. He always loved the fragrance. Classic. Sensual. The epitome of what made a woman a woman. Her fingers trailed across his clenched hand, and Wesley barely suppressed the shivers threatening to course through his body.

Moistening her lips, Lilah said, “And in regards to everything else you said, I think I meant more to you than you would have liked. And you may have convinced yourself you’re in love with Faith, but think about what I said. You’ll never be number one with her. Never. And that’s a fact I’m sure Angel knows.”

“Your point?”

Lilah’s hands drifted across his body, up the line of buttons fastening his shirt, to the patch of exposed skin at his throat. Her fingertips lingered across his pounding pulse as she said, “You’re a smart man, Wesley. You figure it out.” She stepped back; a triumphant look glittered in her dark eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s been a long day at the office, and I’ve been looking forward to a nice, long, hot soak in the bathtub. I’m sure you can show yourself out.” She smirked. Her eyes skimmed over his body again as she said, “Unless you care to join me…”

“I’ll pass.”

“Pity. Could’ve been lots of fun, Wesley.” Lilah turned and walked towards her bedroom. As her hand closed over the knob, she said, “See you soon, Wes. Real soon.”

* * *

The silence was oppressive, pressing down on Emilia from all sides, clogging her nose and throat with stale, thick air. Her heartbeat pounded in her chest and her ears, miniature sonic booms within her body, unnaturally loud in the quiet. The Bronze was closed for the night, officially for renovations, unofficially so Emilia could have a neutral location where she could talk openly and honestly with Rupert, although she now wondered whether she should have arranged this meeting in a more populated locale. Only Christina knew she was coming here for the night, and with relations between them being what they were, namely on the shits, Christina probably wouldn’t care if something bad happened to her. She’d probably level Emilia with a narrow-eyed glare and mutter something about karma. Not that Emilia expected Rupert to go all Ted Bundy on her. Over the past few months, she noticed he tended to direct his rage internally, growing calmer and quieter as his ire increased. So she felt as safe as one could feel living on the Hellmouth.

She took another sip of her drink and wiped her palms off on a napkin. She briefly contemplated a meditation exercise to calm her frazzled nerves but discarded the idea on the basis that she should be tense. This was a tense moment, not a relaxing one, although if Emilia became tenser she felt she would collapse back upon her like a black hole and disappear forever. She was never any good at situations such as these, tending to avoid heated confrontations at all costs. She wished Ariana or Charles was here; she desperately needed some advice on how to not fuck up this conversation. And tonight was too important. Rupert was too important. Her normal dry wit wouldn’t suffice. She didn’t have any righteous anger to work with. All she had were pain and lies. Twenty years worth.

Emilia started when the door to the Bronze swung open. She licked her lips and tried for a casual pose, fidgeting on her bar stool as Rupert entered the club. She froze when she saw him, her heart rate tripling in her chest. He always had that effect on her, from the first moment she spied him across the smoky London club where he sat hunched over a glass of liquor, desperation and depression weighting down his shoulders.

“You look like shit.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Miss. But bugger off. I don’t want company.”

“And what do you want? To sit in your dark corner in this hellhole of a bar and drown all of your troubles in foul piss tasting liquor?”

“That’s about right.”

She ignored him, of course. Emilia couldn’t have left even if she’d wanted to leave. The intellectual aura surrounding Rupert, an aura tinged with a sly wit and understated sensuality and a dash of danger and mystery, sent shivers shooting across her skin with its beauty. He took her breath away, stole it and kept it for twenty years until the moment she’d found it, found him again.

“Are you coming inside?” Delicate arch of her eyebrow. “Or did you come only to look at my flowers?”

“They are very nice flowers.” Grey eyes twinkled with amusement. “However, I did come to see you.”

“Good.”

Rupert hesitated during his approach to the bar, dropping his eyes to the ground briefly before steeling his shoulders and continuing towards her. He flashed a hesitant smile as he slid onto the bar stool opposite Emilia. She wanted to freeze this moment in time, freeze the way he looked at her, with chagrin and hesitation and some fleeting flash Emilia dared to hope might be love, before she melted it from his face forever.

Emilia returned his hesitant smile with one of her own. “Thank you for coming. I wasn’t sure you would want to talk with me.”

“I did, actually. Want to talk with you, that is.” Rupert drew in a deep breath and locked eyes with Emilia. The honesty of his gaze twisted her heart, and she gripped her hands in her lap to keep from shattering into a million, sobbing pieces. “Before, when I confronted you about your, your alliance with Charles and Wesley against Travers, I was angry a-and shocked.”

"And you didn't think I could have acted right along with the rest of you, put a blind eye towards Quentin while helping you work against him. I am not a child Emilia-"

"I know you're not a child! Don't you dare presume to think that I think of you that way or that any of this has been easy for me. It hasn't been."

"Yet you still lied to me."

Rupert sighed. “For a moment, I did feel like you and Charles and Wesley had treated me like a child, as no more capable than Buffy or Faith to handle sensitive information. But, after some time for reflection, and some time for ego deflating, I realized if I were in your shoes, if Travers had killed Buffy as ruthlessly as he killed Ariana, I would have done anything, anything, to bring him to justice.”

“Rupert. Rupert, please don’t-”

“No, Emilia,” he said, grasping her hands within her own. Rupert leaned towards her. She broke the gaze between them. “You deserve an apology. I-I behaved horribly. You were weak and I took advantage of that to vent my frustrations over Travers and the whole damned situation we were in. I… I know you wouldn’t willfully deceive anyone like that, not-”

“Rupert, stop. Just stop.” Emilia pulled her hands from his and shoved off the stool, moving away from him, his apology, and his faith in her. Nausea rose in her throat, and she pressed a fisted hand over her mouth. She couldn’t do this, but she had to do this. He deserved the truth, even if he hated her for it. She let a few tears fall for what might have been between them, for another chance at happiness dashed to pieces by her own cowardice and stupidity, for all of the days and months and years lost, never to be regained ever again.

Emilia felt him approach and gently lay a hand on her shoulder. “Emilia-?” She shook her head. Tremors coursed through her body. She licked her lips again, tasting the salty remains of tears upon her lips. Eyes closed, she whispered, “You… you said I wouldn’t willfully deceive you. But you’re wrong. So very wrong.”

His hand withdrew from her shoulder. Apprehension and worry laced his voice as he said, “I don’t understand. Emilia, tell me. I can handle whatever it is.”

A harsh laugh escaped her lips. She needed a drink. She needed more than a drink; she needed a miracle to get through the next couple of minutes. Forcing her body to turn towards Rupert, Emilia said, “I… I lied to you, all those years ago, when I told you I had reunited with Michael, my ex. My father… He thought it for the best if you thought I didn’t love you, then you wouldn’t come after me, then you wouldn’t know…”

“Know what?”

“That… that you had a child. A daughter. With me.”

Emilia risked a glance at Rupert. He stood perfectly still, eyes wide and locked on her. She winced at the rage of emotions coursing through him, anger and betrayal and shock and pain, knowing this moment never had to have happened if only she had been stronger or smarter or more faithful. If only she had followed her heart. If only. She reached out with her hand, and Rupert flinched away from her, jerking from his stupor into a blaze of anger.

“I have a child? A daughter?”

Voice calm, masking her own set of turbulent feelings, Emilia said, “Christina. She’s your daughter.”

“How… what…you, you knew? You knew she was my daughter, and you never told me?”

“No. We- I thought it for the best.”

“You thought it for the best? You thought that the best would be to lie to me about my child for, for twenty years? You thought the best would be to deprive Christina her father?”

“I did what I thought would keep Christina safe. You know how rare it is for Elves to have children with humans. I never dreamed…” Emilia shook her head, knowing her words were as insubstantial and transparent the wind. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear as she said, “I was young and scared and I didn’t know what to do. I went to my father. He was furious, furious that I had become involved with you, that I had fallen in love with you, that I had been foolish enough to have a child. And you had just become part of the Council. He was worried that the Council would discover Christina, her heritage, and try to take her away from me. From us. So he forbid me from telling you.”

“And you went along with this? Willingly?”

“Yes.” A whisper, one soft syllable damning her forever. “I was never strong. Not against my father. Not like Ariana. I did what he willed, hating myself the whole time.”

Rupert clenched and unclenched his fists. He whipped his glasses off his face and rubbed his fingers against his closed eyes. “So, it was unsafe for Christina to know her own father because of his connections with the Council. But it was alright for Charles to be a part of my daughter’s life? He had been with the Council longer than I had-”

“Charles and Ariana didn’t know about Christina until she was five years old. They didn’t meet her until she was six. I lied to my sister about the pregnancy. Lied to everyone. Said I wanted to see the world, get away from England for a while. I traveled from place to place for six years, terrified someone would discover Christina’s existence and come after her. But she deserved more than a life on the run. And Ariana trusted Charles with her life, so I knew Christina would be safe with him, with them.”

“And not with me?”

“I-I didn’t know. I tried to tell you when Christina and I returned to England. I tracked you down. But you had moved on. You were happy, settled into life as a Watcher. I didn’t know how much a fling-”

“A fling?! You thought I thought what we had was a fling?” Voice rising with incredulous anger, Rupert took a step towards her and said, “I loved you, more than anything… You saved me, Emilia. You were everything. Everything. I would have died if I hadn’t met you in that bar. I didn’t care anymore, about anything or anyone. I just wanted the pain to stop. But you, you wouldn’t let me. You made me believe I could become Rupert again, instead of Ripper. You… you seriously believed I wouldn’t want to know about my daughter, about our daughter?” Rupert broke off, shaking his head in disgust.

A pale numbness settled over Emilia, anesthetizing her mind to the raw ache within her soul, within Rupert’s soul. Ignorance may have been bliss, but knowledge was the most painful weapon imaginable, able to slice through defenses and beliefs and relationships with the strength of a wrecking ball and the precision of a laser. Softly, she said, “I know there’s nothing I can say-”

“You’re bloody well right about that.”

Emilia dug her nails into the palms of her hands to keep from collapsing on the spot. This wasn’t about her or her feelings. It was about Christina and Rupert and the relationship she and her father had denied them for the past twenty years. “Christina knows. About you. She would like to get to know you-”

“Let me guess, you think that’s a bad idea? Or maybe your father doesn’t approve?”

Tears pricked her eyes again at his jaded tone. “No. I want you two to meet. I don’t want to get in the way. Christina’s an adult and she can make her own decisions. She wants to know you.”

Rupert nodded. “Good. Please inform her she is welcome to stop by my flat any time, day or night. Or if she would like to meet elsewhere, she can call. I’ll meet her anywhere.”

“I will.”

Rupert nodded again, a stiff tilting of his head. He stepped away from her; his steps were stilted, angry. A sob broke in her throat at the tense posture and furious expression. “Rupert-”

“No.” His voice was cold, tone flat and emotionless, as he said, “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say ever again.” Turning on his heel, Giles strode towards the exit of the Bronze. He slammed the door open and stalked out into the night, and as the door banged shut, Emilia broke inside and collapsed upon the barren floor, mourning the loss of her love, her daughter, her family all in one fell swoop.

* * *

She found him standing before the burnt and hollow remains of her house. Buffy stopped half a block down the road, watching Spike watch the house. He wore a grave expression along with his standard black: pants, shirt, shoes, and coat. The moonlight danced along the blonde streaks in his short hair and cast his eyes into midnight black shadows. His beauty took her breath, snatched it right from her body, and stirred emotions deep down inside her. A slow, aching want. A fierce, burning love. Buffy missed him, and she had been so stupid to sit and wait for him to come to her, lingering in Giles’s apartment like some fairy tale princess waiting for her gallant knight. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding since that moment she forced herself to leave him and Dawn at the Council, and she felt a missing piece resettle within her at the sight of Spike. Whatever it took to keep him safe and alive, she would do. He was too important. To her and to Dawn.

Spike cocked his head to the side, blue eyes locking onto her hazel, and she started towards him, pulled by a force beyond her control. Fate. Destiny. Love. Maybe all, maybe one. She’d fix whatever problem kept him from her. She wasn’t going to be separated from him again.

He turned towards her as she finished her approach. Buffy licked her lips. A soft smile appeared on her face. “Hey.”

“’Lo.”

Her eyes dropped at his curt tone. His body was tense, one tightly coiled spring, ready to snap under the slightest pressure. Buffy wished for strength, for more finesse than she possessed, so she would successfully navigate this delicate situation. Subtlety and finesse were not her strengths, but she doubted knocking Spike to the ground and kissing him senseless would solve the problem between them. Lifting her gaze to his, she said, “I missed you this week.”

“Did you, now.”

A slight flare of irritation ignited inside her, but Buffy stamped it out, keeping her voice calm and controlled. “Yes, I did. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Spike shrugged. “Don’t know much of what you’re thinking nowadays.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Meaning’s plain enough, Buffy.”

“Obviously it isn’t or I wouldn’t be asking.” Buffy paused and drew in a calming breath. She couldn’t let herself get angry and out of control. Spike was angry enough for the both of them. “Spike, I don’t want to fight with you. I want to talk, not fight.”

Spike crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to the side, regarding her with cool, diamond hard eyes. “What if I don’t want to talk to you?”

“What?”

“What if I want to, say, abandon my friends and family and run into a fucking ticking time bomb? Why don’t we do that because it’s such a brilliant thing to do?”

Buffy stepped back at his words. She closed her eyes as she said, “Faith told me you were angry about what happened.”

“Yeah, well Faith told you the understatement of the century there, Slayer.”

A bitter smile crossed her face as Buffy met Spike’s gaze. “So it’s Slayer now. Does this mean I have to call you Vampire? Captain Peroxide? Are we back to name calling?” Buffy shook her head as she moved towards him. The conversation was spinning rapidly out of control, and if it kept its current pace, they would resort to fighting before too long. “Look, Spike, I meant what I said. I don’t want to fight with you. I just want to know what’s wrong and fix it. Just tell me what it is and I’ll fix it.”

Some of the rage faded from Spike’s eyes. He ran his hands over his hair and said, “Well, that’s the problem now, isn’t it? You want to fix it. You. Not we. Not us. You want to fix the problem. You want to go after Travers. I don’t figure into the equation at all, except as an afterthought. Someone to watch Dawn, that’s all.”

“What? Spike-”

“Do you remember what I said at the house? Back before we left for England? I said we would rescue Dawn. We would deal with that bastard Travers. Not you. Not me. Us. You and me. Together.”

Buffy opened her mouth to reply, but she snapped it shut again. Fingers pressed against her temples, she said, “I don’t understand why you’re angry. Did you want to leave Dawn by herself? Did you want to let Travers get away? Because we couldn’t have dealt with both of them if we were together.”

“We didn’t need to deal with Travers at all, Buffy! Fuck, we already had! We got Dawn and Connor back. We fucking had Travers fired, Buffy. He was running scared, grasping at straws, and you just played into his hand.”

“I… I what?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow. “You think he set that bomb to sit back and watch a pretty explosion? No. He did it to kill us. And you… you went storming back into the building without a second thought, not one fucking thought that you might die and he would have gotten exactly what he wanted.”

“If I hadn’t gone after Travers, he would have gotten away and come after us again. He needed to be stopped.”

“And you were the one to stop him.”

“Yes.”

A strained laugh escaped Spike’s lips. He stared at Buffy, eyes filled with incredulity, voice silent. A moment passed and then he said, “And you didn’t think that maybe, just maybe, we could have stopped him? Or not even you and me. That Faith could have stopped him? Rupert? Willow? Angel?”

“I… I suppose. But it’s not their responsibility. It’s-”

“-yours. Because you’re the Slayer, right?”

“Yes.”

“Faith’s a Slayer. Why is it your responsibility and not hers? Is she not good enough? I’ve seen her fight. She’s more than capable of handling one old man.”

Buffy drew her fingers through her hair, frustration welling up inside her. She quelled the need to scream, to kick and stomp and shout out her rage. Voice tight, she said, “It’s not that Faith’s not capable. Or that she’s not good enough. It’s-”

“It’s just that you’re better.”

The shock went through Buffy like a physical blow. Her hands fell limp to her sides. Brows drawing together in confusion, she said, “What? Better? I never said I was better than anyone.”

“You didn’t have to. Your actions spoke pretty damn clear.” Spike shook his head. He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck as he kicked at a loose pebble on the ground. Softly, he said, “Buffy, I’m not like your little Scoobies. I won’t sit quietly by the wayside like a good little sidekick and wait for you to fight the good fight.”

“I never asked you to sit by the wayside.”

“No, you never asked at all. I was just there already.”

Her head spun. Buffy sighed and clenched her hands into fists and tried to make sense of the past few minutes. Nothing made sense. It was like she and Spike were speaking two different languages, speaking two different conversations. “I was trying to protect you. I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to-to make you a sidekick. I just wanted to keep you safe. I couldn’t bear it if you… if he hurt you.” She locked eyes with Spike and tilted her chin into the air. “And if that’s a problem, then I’m sorry. My feelings are not going to change.”

The fight drained from Spike, leaving him slumped and defeated. His eyes were tired and heavy with sorrow as he said, “I know. I know. But I don’t need protecting, Buffy. I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve been in some pretty nasty situations over the years. I know how to take care of myself. Just like I know you can take care of yourself.”

Buffy lost the fight to control her emotions. “Then what, Spike? What do you need? What do you want me to do? Because I don’t know. If you don’t need me to protect you, if you don’t want me doing my job and keeping the world safe from people like Travers, then what do you want? Do you want me to stop, let Faith o-or Angel fight for me? Do you want to fight for me and leave me to take care of Dawn? Is that it? Is this some macho man thing?”

“No. This is not some macho man thing. This is some partner thing. I want, I need, to be there fighting with you. I want to be there with you. I want to work as a team and not with you as the leader, ordering me around like one of your Scoobies. I’m not going to be used as a tool in your fight.”

“You are not a tool.”

“What am I then?”

“You’re… You’re… Goddamn it, Spike! You’re… I need you. I need you there more than anyone else. I need you…”

“For what?” His voice was soft, pleading, barely above a whisper. “What do you need me for? For a shoulder to cry on? For someone to love? For someone to love you? For someone to support you? For someone to watch your back?”

“Yes.”

“To do all that I would need to be there. With you. Not left behind someplace you’re not.”

Silence descended, driving the wedge between them deeper and wider. They stared at each other in the moonlight, not knowing how to bridge the gap forcing them apart, wishing they could kiss the problem away and forget about everything but each other. Buffy scrambled for a way to fix this, to soothe away Spike’s pain and anger, but she didn’t know how. How could she solve the problem if the problem was within her?

And then Spike spoke, and all thoughts of solving anything fled from Buffy’s mind.

“Dawn… she wants to live with me.”

“What?”

“Instead of living with Giles, or finding a new place to live with you, she wants to move into my house and live there. With me.”

Buffy arched an eyebrow. “She does.”

“Yeah.”

“And what did you say to her when she told you this?”

Spike drew in a deep breath and pushed his hands through his hair. “I told her that it was alright with me, but I wasn’t the one she needed to be asking.”

“Dawn never said anything to me-”

“I meant Giles.”

Buffy blinked, caught off guard by Spike’s clarification. “G-Giles? She talked to Giles about moving in with you?”

“We both did.”

“You both did,” Buffy said flatly. She felt her anger start to flare inside her again, and she clenched her fists in an effort to stifle her rage. “You didn’t think to include me in this discussion of Dawn’s welfare? I’m her sister. Her guardian-”

Spike’s calm demeanor cracked, and a flash of irritation flickered in his eyes. “Yes, let’s talk about who exactly has been guardin’ Dawn lately. Because it sure as hell hasn’t been you.”

“What-”

“And to answer your question, we did think about including you. But we chose not to.”

“Oh, you chose not to include me. That makes everything better. Really, it does. And here I thought you just forgot all about me and how I’m Dawn’s sister. Her family.”

“Look, Buffy, Dawn was the one who didn’t want you there, and Giles and I chose to respect her decision. She’s not a little kid anymore. She’s got a sharp mind and she’s capable of thinking for herself.”

“D-Dawn? She didn’t want me…” Buffy swallowed against the lump that had risen in her throat. She felt hollow, as though she had been sucker punched and all of her insides torn from her, leaving her a barren, empty shell. Eyes wet with tears, Buffy whispered, “Why?”

Spike sighed. His face softened, the rage disappearing from his features, leaving behind a numb mixture of pity and remorse. “She feels betrayed, Buffy. She’s hurt and angry and bringing up all sorts of past uglies from last year after… after they brought you back. She said, she said you chose death over her. Again.”

“That is insane! I did what I did to protect her, to keep her safe. I love Dawn, more than anything, and I wasn’t going to sit back and let anyone hurt her. Ever again. How could she think…”

“I’m not saying I agree with the Bit. I know why you went after Travers, even if I don’t agree with it. But this is how Dawn feels. She doesn’t want to live with you. Not right now. And she told us if we make her, she’ll run away. Giles and I thought, for now, she would move in with me and then in a few months, when she’s settled down, all of us, including you, could sit down and discuss it again.”

The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. She didn’t think she could have stopped them if she wanted to. The hurt bubbled up inside her, spilling over the confines of her body and out into the world. “Why would Giles ever want Dawn to live with you?”

Through her own haze of pain, Buffy felt a little piece of herself die as the light faded from Spike’s eyes and his gaze grew cold and deadly. “Believe me, he wasn’t happy about it initially. But he saw how I was with her outside the Council, and Angel-”

“Angel’s in this against me, too?”

“This isn’t about you, Buffy! This is about Dawn! She doesn’t feel safe with you! And she likes Giles fine but doesn’t want to intrude upon his own fatherly duties. So that leaves me. She wants to live with me, and I want her to stay with me, too. And Angel and Giles have used their contacts to get papers for me: a birth certificate, social security number, license, and everything else I might need to make her living with me safe and legal. And, no, you don’t get a say in the matter. You left your say in Dawn’s affairs behind when you left her behind. And I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but it’s already done. She and Rupert are going to move her few remaining things into my place tomorrow morning.”

Everything felt heavy. Buffy tried sucking in a breath, but she couldn’t. Her lungs wouldn’t work. Her arms, legs, everything felt heavy and numb. She blinked her eyes and licked her lips, tasting the warm saltiness of tears coating her face. Her body shook and her brain spun and nothing made sense but everything hurt.

“B-Buffy?”

She recoiled from Spike’s hesitant touch and from the concern in his voice and his eyes. Drawing back a few steps, Buffy folded her arms across her chest and hunched her shoulders, trying to fight off the sudden cold that had descended upon her. “Don’t. Don’t touch me. How could you? How could you take her from me? No house. No mom. No you. No Dawn. There’s nothing. Nothing.”

“Buffy-”

Buffy turned and ran, unable to handle the worry and love shining on the face that had stolen everything from her. Her feet pounded the pavement; her lungs burned from exertion. And she ran. Harder and faster and farther. As long as she kept moving… She had to keep moving or she would fall apart. The world streaked by her in a dark blur, and still she ran.

* * *

AN: Here it is. The very last chapter, sort of the linchpin in this massive two part series that has dominated my brain for the past year and a half. Everything changes after this, and what I have planned for Enemy Unleashed makes Enemy Incognito look like a kiddy ride.

I cannot show my appreciation enough for SpikeLover7 for sticking with this story for more than a year. All I can say is thank you. And I cannot thank enough everyone who has been kind enough to leave feedback. Reading everyone’s comments over the past year has been a joy, and I’m so glad people have enjoyed this story as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

Epilogue: Enemy Unleashed

By: Wynn

She toyed with insanity for fifty years.

Ten years into her captivity at the Council, ten years of probing experiments bordering on torture sessions, ten years of interrogations masking as interviews, ten years of constant stares and whispers from the various Watchers who were “lucky” enough to gain access to the Council’s biggest prize and worst mistake, Ava tired of the entire situation and decided to become crazy to amuse herself. Watching the Watchers scramble around like headless chickens, desperately trying to interpret her deliberately ambiguous comments, never failed to bring a smile to her face, which in turn caused the Watchers to work overtime to know how and when and why she smiled.

But even insanity grew tiresome after half a century. Playing puppet master to those who had betrayed her and sent her to her death eventually lost its luster, and Ava had been seriously contemplating another escape attempt when her cell opened and her savior in a Prada suit waltzed in with the most delicious offer imaginable. Freedom. Freedom with no strings attached except to do what she already planned to do. And the sick and twisted thing was the lawyers would help her achieve her goals. They were at her beck and call, her little minions to help bring about the end of the world.

But first. First, she would have some fun. Wolfram and Hart would get its apocalypse, and she would get the return of her beloved. But first. First, she would get revenge. Revenge against the institution that sent her to her death three hundred years ago because she refused to be a pawn in their little games. The Watcher’s Council had played with fire, throwing her into the proverbial death trap, laughingly labeled a test of her abilities, the Cruciamentum, and left her to burn.

Now. Now, they were the ones who were going to burn.

After all, Hell hath no fury like a Vampire Slayer scorned.

* * *