Buffy lay awake much later than she normally would. Beneath the covers, she clutched a certain leather jacket that was several sizes too big for her tightly around herself. She hadn't worn it since Angel had come back. Its former owner was too much to deal with in person at the moment, though, so the small amount of comfort it offered would have to suffice.

"You know, I never properly thanked you for sending me to Hell, and I'm just wondering, where do I start? Card…fruit basket…evisceration? I know what you're thinking. Maybe there's still some good deep down inside of me that remembers and loves you. If only you could reach me. But, then again, we have reality."

It was just an act. It was just an act! Those five words had become her mantra throughout this unbearably long, lonely, and sleepless night, but she couldn't get the images out of her head. An act it may have been, but it had brought back a flood of memories of the previous spring. Buffy knew such thoughts wouldn't do her any good, and she tried to take comfort in the knowledge that, thanks to Wesley, she'd never have to deal with the real Angelus again. It was indeed a comforting thought, but that wasn't all.

"See," said Faith, "when I was a kid, I used to beg my mom for a dog. Didn't matter what kind; I just wanted, you know, something to love." And she seized a fistful of Angel's shirt and pulled him into a kiss. His lips lingered on her neck when she turned back to face her, a look of gloating triumph on her face.

What cruel irony. Her initial fears about Angel and Faith had been irrational, but then she'd had to watch the manifestation of them anyway. And it still didn't mean anything, but it was just so engrained in her mind's eye. She couldn't think about Angel without seeing him kissing Faith, and from there, she couldn't stop herself from wondering what else might have happened so he could maintain the charade. How much of that had been an act? How hard had he tried to prevent it? Her fear of the answers to those questions and her shame at being unable to suppress them were yet more reasons why she didn't feel like she could face him just yet. How she wished everything could go back to the way it was mere days ago!

[o]

As much time as he had spent in it alone, Angel had never fully appreciated how lonely his apartment could be. He supposed it was better than if he was in the mansion with even more space to be by himself, but that was hardly a silver lining worth thinking about. And he didn't have to be in the mansion to remember what had happened there.

"See," said Faith, "when I was a kid, I used to beg my mom for a dog. Didn't matter what kind; I just wanted, you know, something to love." She seized a fistful of his shirt and pulled him into a kiss—a kiss he had no choice but to participate in with enthusiasm. He could feel Buffy's eyes on him as his lips lingered on Faith's neck.

He hated that it had all been necessary, and the reason it had been necessary in the first place did little to improve his mood. Faith. Even though, in the end, the choice had been hers, he blamed himself. He had been the one she trusted the most, and somehow he had failed her. Should he have spent more time with her? Put more pressure on the others to accept her? Or would he have been unable to make a difference no matter what he did?

"Faith, we need to get out of here, now."

"Speak for yourself, B. Me, I like it here."

He growled and Buffy turned to face him just in time for his fist to send her crashing to the floor, unconscious.

The bruises on his knuckles had already faded, but he wished they hadn't. It didn't seem right that his physical discomfort as a consequence of hurting Buffy, even if it had been done for the sake of keeping the act going, would be negligible and only last an hour.

True, they had learned a lot about the Mayor that they didn't know before—most of it extremely ominous—, but it didn't make him feel like the victor, for here in the aftermath, he was alone in his apartment, where he was avoiding Wesley and being avoided by Buffy. He felt too guilty and ashamed to do anything to change the latter—and that should be her choice, anyway—and he knew that Wesley would try to pull him out of his dark depression if he gave him the chance, and that was something he didn't think he deserved as long as Buffy wanted to stay away from him. Wesley had already come knocking once, but the door was locked and Angel had simply pretended not to be home. Though the things Wesley shouted through the door proved he didn't buy that Angel wasn't there, he eventually gave up and went away.

Angel's thoughts became darker the longer he sat in silence. It wasn't the first time he'd pretended not to have a soul. The first few years after the gypsies cursed him had been spent following Darla around the globe, trying to convince her he hadn't changed. Her multiple rejections (and death threats) had been devastating then, but he was profoundly thankful for them now. He hadn't really done much acting when he met Spike on that submarine in '43, but his general surliness and domineering presence seemed to satisfy him well enough. Perhaps Spike had grown wiser in the intervening years, though, because his act at the parent teacher conference just after Spike came to Sunnydale hadn't fooled him.

The night before, however, he had succeeded in fooling Faith and the Mayor. No matter how useful it had been, the idea that he was capable of pretending to be his soulless self that convincingly disturbed him—much more so for the undeniable sense of perverse enjoyment it had given him, limited though that had been. It had felt powerful and liberating, and he was afraid of what that meant. He was still a demon; was having a soul not enough to make him incapable of doing what he had done without one? He remembered the cashier at that doughnut shop in the '70s. He hadn't killed him, but he hadn't done anything to stop him from dying. The man's heart had hardly stopped beating before his fangs were in his throat. No wonder Buffy was avoiding him.

Trying to stave off further unwanted recollections (but not really succeeding), he pulled out his sketchbook and charcoals and went to work, hardly aware of what the lines he drew were forming. Then, for the second time in two hours, there came a loud series of knocks on his door, followed by Wesley's angry voice.

"Angel! Open up! I know you're in there!" As he had done before, Angel ignored him. "Look, I'm not daft, I can see light under the door!" Angel had to bite back a chuckle at that. "Fine! Even if you won't let me in, I know you can hear me, and I know you're sitting there brooding. You're being ridiculous. Nobody blames you for what you had to do to get that information. The fact is we had very little to go on before that, but not anymore, thanks to you. The whole thing was bloody brilliant, too, if you ask me. You played their hand against them and won. That's something you should be proud of, even if it is rather daunting to know that the Mayor is invulnerable…" He trailed off, apparently struggling to find a way to bring back the indignant optimism he'd started with. Angel waited, amused, but evidently Wesley couldn't do it, for he changed the subject instead.

"And I suppose you think it's your fault Faith betrayed us, do you?" he demanded. "Well, how do you think I feel? I'm her bleeding Watcher, aren't I? She was my responsibility, not yours! Even Xander blames me more than he blames you, so if you don't mind, I'd like my helping of the guilt for it, and while I'm at it, I'll take everyone else's portions too, since we all feel horrible about it. At least you tried to get through to her. Most of us have been treating her like a live grenade for ages; so, really, it's a small wonder she didn't turn on us sooner!"

When this too failed to illicit a reaction, Wesley changed the subject again. "Oh, but perhaps you're just sulking because Buffy needed a bit of time to herself to put this behind her. Well, who wouldn't? Brilliant plan or not, of course it was hard on her, but there's no reason to lock yourself away because of it. If you and she could get past what happened last year, this shouldn't be any trouble at all!" He said nothing else for a long moment, and then Angel distinctly heard him stamp his foot. "Oh, stay in there, then, if you insist! But if you're still shut up when our next scheduled training session comes around, I will break down this door!" Angel listened to his footsteps as he stormed back up the stairs. Then came the slam of the outer door, and then silence.

[o]

Buffy pulled the jacket tighter around her, but she still couldn't fall asleep. She had gotten too used to the feeling of Angel's arms around her over the past couple of months, and the jacket really couldn't compare. After a long time spent staring at the night stand next to her bed without really seeing it, she noticed the small book sitting on top of it. It took her approximately five seconds to realize that it was the copy of Sonnets from the Portuguese Angel had given her the day he came back. Abandoning the attempt to sleep, she sat up, turned on her lamp, and picked up the book as though it were extremely fragile. She opened it, and her vision immediately blurred at the sight of the elegantly scripted word on the title page. She traced her fingers over the ink lines, and a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

Always.

[o]

It was a moment before Angel registered that the sketch he had just completed was yet another of Buffy. There was a tender smile playing about her lips and eyes as she turned back before leaving the apartment.

"You still my girl?"

"Always."

Angst. Angst. Angst. *snicker* Okay, even though we're dealing with Angel here, filling up a whole chapter with brooding is still kinda hard, but it was pretty much unavoidable, and it was the least canon-lift-y way to address the end of "Enemies". Wesley shouting at Angel was very helpful. And then the "Always" theme! At least that ends it on a bit less of a brooding note.