TITLE: On A Pale Horse AUTHOR: Dae EMAIL: Dr_Dae@hotmail.com CATEGORY: X Over with Highlander: The Series; PAIRING: Spike/Methos SUMMARY: Well intentions and a favor to a fellow Watcher throw Adam Pierson/Methos face to face with an old friend/foe, William The Bloody...Mischief ensues. SPOILER WARNING: Occurs Season 5 (written before this weeks ep, when I'd thought Spike was older and....of a slightly different origin=) RATING: Slash NC-17 DISCLAIMER: The characters from Buffy are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, Sandollar, and Greenwolf Productions, 20th Century Fox, the WB Network, and perhaps even more people who aren't little old me. Methos belongs to the people who created Highlander: The Series (David Abramwitz, Davis-Panzer Productions) with respect given particularly to J. P. Couture who wrote the first Methos ep, and Tony DiFranco who wrote the episodes that gave him depth and darkness of character. I do this with neither their permission or any ill intent. NOTES: Thanks to Emily who made me sit down and watch Buffy one fateful night and Keely who was there when I saw Spike and was so verrrrry encouraging. This was actually supposed to be a PWP, but it kinda kept going and is still going... WARNING: I don't like Riley, I'm sorry...If you like Riley, you will not be particularly pleased with a line of this story. It's a bad line for him. Very bad. In fact, it couldn't be worse. Unless he sees Miracle Max and gets a chocolate covered umm...yes. Well. That's another crossover. Anyways, just thought I should warn you. Now...On to the story! "This is truly upsetting." Giles adjusted his glasses, fingers tapping rhythmically against the counter. Thump, thump, thump. Thump, thump, thump. "I dare say, distressing, even." "Come on, G-Man," Xander groused. "Don't leave us all in suspense here! What is it? The apocalypse? Trans-dimensional gateways to other realities? The dry cleaner found your tweed? What?" "Xander!" Willow hissed. Buffy ignored them both, blue eyes intent on the furrowed brow and pinched expression of her Watcher. Buffy had learned to judge situations on the Hellmouth by the various transitions of expression and behavior the Englishman exhibited. They had started with the typical "Oh dear!", and moved quickly to the phase of multi-syllable adjectives that meant, well Buffy wasn't sure what many meant, but the general gist of them was very bad. Giles had skipped right over the Watcher-Witch babble interlude, and moved directly into the pale and haggard stage. And he was talking to himself. All in all, that meant something very bad. "Giles?" "I think the demon was referring to a very old, very rare Prophecy. I haven't a copy. I did read it once, but it was in ancient Greek which isn't one of my better languages." "Well, we can order it, right?" Willow bounced up. "I'll email the antiquarian book seller in Salem. He was able to track down that first edition of Katechimus Katholischer Erwachsenen lickity split!" "I don't think that will work in this case. There's only two copies in existence. One is in the possession of the Vatican, and the other is housed in a small private collection outside of Paris. The collection in question is the property of a separate division of Watchers. I am in even worse standing with them than I am with our own division of the organization." "Ouch!" Xander winced. "My sentiments exactly." Giles removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's no one you could bribe, cajole or beg for a copy?" Willow asked. "Didn't you have any friends you could call and be like, 'Hey, my Slayers in a jam! Think you could break some rules for me?'" Giles chuckled, the humor fading to a look of contemplation. "Well, there was one person who comes to mind. A right, bloody pain honestly, but he might be willing to do something daring is he's bored enough and I promise a few crates of beer." <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Adam Pierson stared at the sign for the Magic Shop. A magic shop. Of all the places for an over-qualified researcher to find employment, a magic shop? Rupert Giles had finally gone off the deep end, but at least he'd chosen a nice climate in which to do so. Southern California was just lovely. Sun. Warmth. No humidity. It was beautiful, but it did make concealing a broadsword and other various weapons a bit more difficult. The Hellmouth was the last place Adam Pierson would consider carrying a light armament. In fact, he's added a few stakes, some holy water and blessed blade to his typical sword, dagger and revolver. His trench coat was feeling a bit heavy, as was the paper wrapped bundle in his arms. Adam Pierson tightened his grip on the accursed tome. If Giles wanted it, Giles would get it. Adam pushed through the door, wincing at the happy jingle of the bell. A bell. In a magic shop. Rupert was never going to live this down. The first scent of herbs and incense caused Adam Pierson to vanish, leaving Methos blinking through the hazy sunlight as his eyes traveled the inside of the store. He knew these scents: sage, catnip, nutmeg. They colored some of his earliest memories, and some of his fondest. He allowed his fingers to trace an ancient symbol on a chalice, his hand to rest on a stone marked by a glyph older than his 5000 years. It was both humbling and comforting to be reminded that some things were older than the world's oldest man. "Can I help you?" Methos shelved his true persona, sliding back into the role he had called his own for almost 15 years. An innocuous, not quite innocent, graduate student. Adam Pierson. "Actually, I was wondering if the owner was about?" The huge grin faded on the young man before him. "Um, he's in back I think. Anya? Is Giles around?" >From behind the counter, a blond sprite appeared. Adam kept his face neutral as his eyes swept across the familiar form. She looked quite a bit like a vengeful spirit he'd run across a few too many times. She'd never been after him, per say, but Methos was familiar with her work. It couldn't be, but on the Hellmouth he wasn't willing to write off anything as impossible. The female looked at him, eyes neither widening in recognition nor narrowing in scorn. Adam allowed himself to breath. "He and Willow were going through the inventory. If you have any questions I'm sure I could answer them for you." Methos worried his lower lip, unable to resist taunting that haughty tone. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He allowed his lashes to drop low, a blush to heat his checks. "Well, I'm looking for the ingredients for a spell to cure venustraphobia." "Really?" The pursed pink lips spread into a smile. A perfectly manicured hand brushed through curly blond hair. "Oh yes," Methos leaned against the counter. "Whenever I'm around beautiful women, I just tense up! I can't speak. I can't breath. Why, I can't even look them in the eye!" He quite pointedly stared into the blue depths. "Hmph." If looks could kill, Methos would have been dead several times over. Methos sighed, catching the feminine hand in his own. "Forgiveness, My Lady. It was a shameful and tasteless joke." "Very. I believe we have some hemlock that might be able to cure that despicable trait." "It works wonders on vanity too, I've heard." Methos tempered the words with his best smile and hazel eyes that just begged forgiveness and offered a most pleasurable challenge. It might have worked, if that damnable bell hadn't jangled again. "Hey Buffy!" "Buffy?" Methos muttered under his breath. What a horrible name. He looked up, focusing on the latest addition. His blood turned cold. The Slayer. He knew she'd be here. It was the Hellmouth, and he was there to see a Watcher. Whatever the Council might say, Giles was a Watcher. A real Watcher, not like the wanna be's the Council spit out or the guys with blue-black tattoos on their wrists that followed Immortals around. Giles was like Marek, or the other rare manifestations of the Slayer's Companion. He wasn't some smuck they trained for a job, and they couldn't fire him. The gall of the Council still incited Methos. It was in Giles blood to guard and train, just as it was in the blond bombshells' blood to kick ass. The blue eyes were focused on Adam. He tilted his head, returning her measuring stare. He was probably the first Immortal she'd ever seen. Immortals tended to stay as far away from paranormal nexuses like Hellmouths' and congregate along ley lines without even being aware of doing so. In fact, very few Immortals were aware of the existence of either. They simply acted on instinct, like a Slayer finding something unexplained in her territory. Methos could actually see her muscles tensing. That simply wouldn't do. He wasn't going to have his identity or Immortality revealed because he was a sucker for Giles' desperate phone call. Best to distract the Slayer. With a loud thump, Methos deposited the brown, paper wrapped package on the counter. "What's this?" Anya reached out to touch the package but Methos gently slapped her hand away. He spoke sharply and loudly, hoping his voice would carry to the back of the store. "Not something for little girls to play with. Now, where's the proprietor of this unfortunate excuse of a supernatural repository?" "I beg your pardon!" "Ahh, Rupert. There you are." Methos watched with not so subtle amusement as Giles emerged from the rear of the store with a red haired child in tow. Woman, Methos amended when they drew closer. "Adam! I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest! You talked them into releasing it?" Large eyes clawed hungrily at the package. "Not exactly." Methos shrugged, happily noticing the Slayer had backed down into a less aggressive stance. "I didn't actually ask before I borrowed it." "Adam?" Giles' expression was simply priceless. "They just let you walk out the front door with it?" "More or less. Front door, side window." Adam shrugged, offering a lop sided smile. "Now, didn't you mention something about beer?" Several hours latter, Adam finished the last of the supply of beer Giles had procured. He looked mournfully at the last glass bottle. Empty. It had been empty for almost an hour, but Giles quite stubbornly refused to get him any more until he had finished the translation. "How's it coming?" Adam glanced up into the smiling face of the red haired witch. She had a kind soul, and despite his better judgment, Methos was getting fond of her and the rest of Giles' strange little crew. Even the Slayer was growing on him, but he refused to get involved. More involved at least. After an hour of watching Giles stumble through the ancient Greek text, Adam had pulled the book aside and set to work on it. It was simply too painful to watch the Watcher massacre the language. Adam was just going to translate the relevant prophecy, and then be on his way. Sure. He had learned long ago that good intentions only got him in trouble, but recently he kept forgetting that. Damn Boy Scout. It was all HIS influence. "I'm almost done. Unless his majesty decides that he simply must have another one of these prophecies translated. I should have been done three chapters ago." Willow wrinkled her nose in the most entertaining fashion. "Sorry about that." Adam watched the child fiddle with a bauble on the desk. He stilled her hand with his own. "Is there something else?" "Well, there's a little problem with this annoying vampire who used to go to school with Buffy, Xander and I. It's nothing serious. Harmony isn't much of a threat but Buffy needs to find her new hideout and stuff, so we're going to go ask this other vampire who's really cool though, well, kinda bad, but not too bad because this secret government agency put this behavioral modifier thing in his head that won't let him hurt people. Good people, anyway. He can still kill demons." "Breath, little dryad. Breath. What exactly are you going on about?" "Well, you seemed really interested in life on the Hellmouth, and if you wanted to meet a real live, or well, undead vampire, this would be a good time. It's perfectly safe, and Buffy says its OK." "You want to take the poor, innocent, researcher from Paris to met a vampire?" "A harmless vampire. He can't bite, even if he wants too. And we'll be with the Slayer. It's perfectly, completely, absolutely, 99.99999% safe." Willow frowned. "I thought you were from Wales?" "The fertile crescent, actually," Methos chuckled, voice too low for the mortal to hear. He looked at the text, then toward the night that spilled in through the panes of glass above his head. It was suicide. To accompany the Slayer into the darkness to pay a social call on one of the undead was pure folly. It was irresponsible. It was inconceivable It was entirely too tempting. Too hell with playing it safe. To hell with the rules. To hell with it all! <><><><><><><><<><>>>> "No, no, no!" Spike swept the assorted trinkets to the floor, glaring around his poor excuse for an apartment. He was frustrated, tired and in no mood to play. His night couldn't get any worse if the Slayer herself appeared! "Redecorating, Spike?" "Speak of the devil," he muttered. He turned, glaring at the Slayer, Willow and a darkened figure that stayed in the shadows. He sniffed the air. Male. Aroused. "Is that a new toy you have, Slayer? Whatever happened to that other one? Break it already? Tsk, tsk!" "Shut Up, Spike. This is Adam. He's a Watcher. Sort of." An acidic retort was swallowed as Spike discerned the features of the pale form that trailed behind the Slayer. Tall and slender, almost unremarkable except for the gold green eyes that shone from the angular face. Lips. Very tempting lips, the type that were created for sin. A hand reached up, pushing back a brush of dark hair before the long fingers delved back into the snug blue jeans. The motion was illicit. "Well?" Spike glared at the Slayer who was suddenly in his face, hand curled around his collar. Spike almost welcomed the cold wall he found himself pushed against, the room had become unbearably warm. "Can't you ever say please?" "Fine. Please, Spike, where the hell is Harmony?" Attitude dripped from every word. "Oh, her!" Spike scoffed. "She was hanging out with some nasties over by the old cemetery." "Thank you!" Buffy banged him against the wall one last time before spinning around and storming from the room. "You're bloody welcome!" He called after the retreating trio. He rubbed his bruised collarbone, kicking at the mess he'd made just prior to his guests arrival. "Bloody hell!" Almost an hour latter, he was still sorting small piles around his adobe. A noise distracted him. A heart beat, one just a little too fast. Close. Spike straightened, stalking slowly toward his door. Before he could reach for the cold steel knob, the door swung open with sudden violence. Bravado failed Spike momentarily. Vehemence, fury and barely restrained aggression greeted him. The shy Adam who had haunted Buffy was gone, replaced by something entirely different. The cultured British voice was rough, emotion heavy as were his hands that closed over Spike's arms. "William the Bloody." "Benjamin Adams!" Spike sneered, his self-control sorely tempted as his hands ached to reach out and punish the mocking form. Nails bit into his cold flesh and Spike acted instinctively, bracing himself for the pain that never came as he lashed out. The government's gift did not respond but the lean form before him did with precise and practiced movements. Pain, ecstasy. He didn't even see the blow that sent him to the floor. Steel ghosted across his form, cutting away fabric and leaving his chest bare and marked with dark crimson. A hand replaced the cold metal, holding him down as the menacing figure came close. The sword clattered to the floor. Another hand yanked his head forward to meet hot flesh and hard teeth. He sighed, tasting anger, passion and blood. "Took you damn long enough to lose the Mortals, Lover." The other man growled, his breath hot against cold skin as he traced the line of Spike's jaw with tongue and teeth. He paused above a sensitive spot below Spike's ear, nuzzling his neck roughly before teeth bruised and broke the skin there. "Lover? Isn't that a bit presumptuous, you brazen little tart! Perhaps this is merely revenge for Liverpool!" Spike laughed, the memory of a dark alley and an inebriated form pleasant to recall. Such times, those had been! He stretched under the looming form, seeking friction where their bodies met. His hand crept over denim and under the loose sweater to glide over smooth skin, soft down and one peaked nipple. The luminous eyes above him dilated, breath catching. Spike took advantage of the distraction, supernatural speed and strength reversing their positions as he flipped the other man on his back. The dark head hit the cement with a dull thud, Spike catching the involuntary cry with a brutal kiss. It was a battle of teeth and tongue, neither being willing to back down. Aggression, violence, and lust met and were exchanged, again and again. Damn, he had needed this! Spike dragged himself back from the sweet recess of the other man's mouth, greedy eyes devouring the trapped figure. Benjamin. Adam. The name didn't matter. Only the man mattered. The form was most appealing, and the aura intoxicating. Violence vibrated from the lean lines of his body, muscles tense and poised. Waiting. A darkness deep within the still form whispered to the demon Spike was. It promised pleasures that stirred Spike's body to a level of arousal he'd never achieved as a mortal. It promised satisfaction in spades. Spike felt his vampire nature stir; he forced back his party face but felt his fangs bite into his own flesh. He whimpered at the throat, pale and throbbing, that the other man tempted him with. He leaned closer, unable to resist following the curve of neck with his tongue. He could feel the blood, hot and thick, just below the surface of the skin. So close. His fangs brushed flesh, scraping ever so lightly. The groan of the other man and the acceleration of his heart pushed Spike over the edge, teeth sinking deep into skin. "Gods!" Adam moaned, hands pulling Spike closer still. "And here I thought they tamed you!" "Never!" Spike whispered, releasing the vein in favor of another bruising kiss. He pressed his body down, fingers clawing the material that separated them. "Back, you Savage!" Adam hissed, a well-placed leg and an unexpected motion dislodging the other man. "What? You got me all hot and bothered, Mate. You're not backing out on me now!" "Wouldn't dream of it, Mate." Adam shrugged out of his long coat, reaching down for his sweater. "But unless you want me to run back to the Slayer completely starkers, we have to go easy on my attire." "Hmph!" Spike pretended indifference as the sweater was tossed aside and a T-shirt fell to the floor. He allowed the act to slide as long fingers fiddled with the button on the jeans. The metal teeth of the zipper were simply mesmerizing. He felt his body tense as the last article of clothing slid away. "I must say, William. This place is an improvement. Nice bed you have there." "What makes you think you get to use it?" Violence and passion was thick in the air. Neither being would last long if they didn't put some distance between them. But there was no fun in that. An idea tugged at Spike. He leapt to his feet, pushing Adam against the wall. He slipped out of his tattered shirt, using the material to knot Adam's wrists together. "And what was wrong with my last place? It was a perfectly good crypt." Adam snorted in reply. He tested his bindings, a dark smile appearing when they held. "You've gotten better at this." Spike ignored the comment, forcing the man toward the rear of his room where pipes and wiring emerged from the wall. Spike tested one pipe before puling Adam's arms above his head and attaching him to the plumbing. He allowed his hands to travel down from the binding across Adam's arms and shoulders. He followed the line of shoulders across to the collarbone, thumbs tracing lazy circles in the vulnerable area above the seductive line of bone. He intensified the pressure slightly, feeling Adam's windpipe catch as the air came roughly in and out of his body. He looked from the path of his hands to the dark eyes that watched him. Dark, lust filled eyes. Spike reached up into the trim dark hair, catching what he could of it and forcing the head back. The brown green eyes closed as Spike leaned up to nibble at the soft area of skin under Adam's chin. He scratched the flesh faintly with his fangs, lapping at the thin line of blood and blue energy that emerged. The form under his hands and mouth shivered. Spike pulled Adam closer, turning the compliant body so that he could follow the curve of the neck to the concealed line of vertebrae that ran down the pale man's sculpted back. He massaged the contour of muscle along Adam's shoulder blades, varying his caresses with a scrape of nails and teeth. He traced the faded lines of scars there with his tongue and breath. His hands traversed the expanse traveling ever lower, palming the small of his back then spreading out to stroke his waist and hips lightly. A quick hard slap to the man's rear made Adam jump and Spike chuckle. The body arched for him and Spike rubbed back briefly before stepping away. The air surrounding Spike was dreadfully cold in comparison to the heat rolling of the body in front of him. He ignored it, planning his attack. To many areas competed for his attention. The neck was an unspoken weakness of his. Twin nipples, dusky rose against the marble chest, winked at him. The line of soft hair that lead to the bellybutton was persuasive as well. And of course, there was a certain other part of Adam's anatomy that just begged for attention. Wept for it, actually. Spike stepped in close again, lips grazing chest and abdomen. He kept his touch light, dancing away as Adam moved towards him. He teased one nipple then the next. He took a certain pride in covering the entire length of Adam's torso with a feathering of kisses and nips that stopped right before a certain desperate part of his person. He breathed deeply over the proud erection, tasting musk and arousal in the air as he blew softly on the impressive length. He moved closer, allowing the head to brush against his parted lips. A flick of tongue stole a taste. Just one, then Spike ducked away as Adam moved forward involuntarily, the groan of frustration sweet to his ears. Spike turned his attention to the inner thigh of Adam's right leg. He nuzzled the smooth skin softly before biting into the flesh. Pain and pleasure escaped in Adam's cry. Something in a foreign tongue stumbled off his lips. Spike couldn't be sure if it was a curse or a blessing. Chuckling, he started to retreat again but found legs capturing him and pulling him close. "No. No more teasing." Adam released him, pulling up on his bounds and slipping the knots quickly and efficiently. The hands flexed, and Spike swallowed nervously. "Bed." The voice was a growl. "Yes, Master." Spike retreated rapidly, but not fast enough. Hands hooked into the belt loop of his slacks and dragged him forward. He encountered heat and hardness, and was pressed onto the bed with great haste. Hands were everywhere, followed by lips and teeth and tongue. He pants were ripped down, the fabric bruising his body as it was torn away. Spike cried out as warm heat enveloped his cock, fingers squeezing his sac in tandem with the mounting pressure. Where his touches had been light and soft, the hands and mouth on him were harsh and devastating. Cruel even. He loved it. "Is this what you want, Demon?" The vicious mouth abandoned his length, breathing instead in his ear as Adam's entire body pressed down on him. Sweet, wonderful pressure. "You know what I want." "Do I?" The mouth bit at lips and neck and shoulder. A hand clawed down his side, snaking underneath him to probe his ass. One finger than another invaded his body. "Yes!" "Brazen little tart!" The voice was laughing, kisses sweet and brutal stolen from swollen lips. A moment of disorientation found Spike face down in his blankets. Hands manipulated muscles from his shoulders down passed his calves. A tongue tickled the hollow behind his left knee, then smoothed a bite to his right hip. Fingers probed him again and he arched back toward the heat he felt deliciously close to him. There. Gods! Pain, heat, pleasure. Adam invaded his body, his length pressed deep into Spike in one swift movement. They paused, gasping together. A sweet burning spread through Spike. He pushed back further against Adam, seeking the pain and pleasure entwined in the luscious pressure. He wasn't aware of the sounds he was making until Adam hushed him softly, lips whispering against his neck reassuringly. "Please!" Spike felt the lips smile against his skin. A hand snuck around, cupping his balls and the lightly tracing a nail along the under side of his length. "Well, since you asked so nicely!" Adam slide almost out in one long, smooth motion, then pushed forward aggressively, his hand tightening around Spike in rhythm with his thrusts. Harder, deeper, over and over again. The friction was intense, fire raging through his body, consuming ever nerve with a bright flame. So hot, and fast, and hard! The edge was so close! Faster, and faster, closer and closer. Light and darkness flashed before him, passion exceeding any and all physical sensation. Spike felt his release break free, Adam cresting right behind him. For several breaths, no one moved. "So," Spike panted from tangled sheets, sliding free of Adam's gratifying weight and turning to face him. "What's his name?" <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> "Who?" Methos refused to look into the midnight blue eyes, instead charting the ridge of Spike's cheek bone with an appreciative gaze. Their bodies were still snuggled together, the vampires' skin warmed by passion and Methos' blood. Methos shifted closer still, trying to distract the creature again with warm flesh. It didn't work. "The bloke you're frustrated with. The one you wanted to be shagging?" Spike's lips curled up into a knowing smile. "Don't get me wrong, Mate. I'd never turn down a roll with the hay with you, no matter where your mind might be at, but a bloke should know where he stands. Or lies, as the case may be." Methos took a deep breath, denial and fabrication warring for position. He was startled to hear the truth fall from his lips. "Duncan MacLeod." "Duncan MacLeod?" Spike pushed himself upright. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod? Have you lost your bloody mind?" Methos merely glared. "Buddy, I hate to be the one to remind you of this, but you're not exactly a good guy. You have your moments, but they're few and far between. Duncan MacLeod is a bloody knight in shinning armor. He tracks down guys like you or I and does terrible, horrible and quite permanent things to them. Like take their head. You know, make you dead. Really dead. Not ever coming back dead?" "I haven't done anything that bad in centuries. Millennium even." "But before that? I didn't set about tracking you down because you shag like the Devil himself. I mean you do, but I went looking for the meanest, most devious bloke known in all of history. And fate and Dru lead me to you. Now, somehow, I don't think that would go over well with Duncan MacLeod of the Damn Clan MacLeod!" "No. Probably not." Methos reached out and caressed the cheek that had caught his interest, his fingers straying up to thread through the pale hair a moment latter. "I never did understand how you found me in the first place. Or knew me." "Dru. Don't question it, it simply is." "Dru. Yes. Where is your little pet?" The vampire's face darkened. "Brazil. Don't ask." "I won't." Methos remained silent for several moments, lazy touches given and exchanged in the quiet that settled over them. A finger found its way to trace the lines of Spike's mouth, vanishing into the dark depths momentarily. "Ouch!" Methos pulled his finger back, glaring at the pin prick of blood that stained his skin. "Rumor has it you can't do that anymore." "Nah, I can still hurt demons. It's just people I have to be nice to now. Bloody frustrating. Can't even get a little nibble in." "I'm not a demon though," Methos frowned. "You're close enough, I didn't program this damn thing. Immortals, demons. Like the government knows the difference. Just be glad the Initiative was taken down before you got here, Mate. I'm sure they would have had all sorts of fun things planned for you if they found out about Immortality." Methos shivered. "As if there aren't enough scary things here on the Hellmouth." "Speaking of which, what are you doing here?" "Oh. Giles needed a book. I kinda stole it from the Watchers for him." "Not another damn Prophecy." "Unfortunately so. Slayers are besieged by them, I'm afraid. I remember there was this one Slayer in the early Iron Age who-Mmph!" Spike broke the kiss only when breathing was imperative for the other man. "Enough. I really have had enough of Slayers, past, present or future." "That's too bad, because I really should see what the Slayer and her gang are up to. Something about that last Prophecy I translated isn't sitting well with me." "Well, we could see what all the pesky mortal demon hunters are up to or we could just have another go at the old in and out," Spike offered suggestively. Methos chuckled. What would another hour or two hurt? "Well, when you put it like that..." <><><><><><><><><>><><><><><><> "I still don't see why I have to go with you. I'm not the recovered bad guy, I'm just a slightly our of commission bad guy!" Spike knew he was whining. He hated whining, but he was irritable. Being undead had been quite dry since he lost his capacity to be naughty. Killing demons and monsters had entertained him for a little while, but it was against his nature and got him in trouble with the locals. His frustration had neared catastrophic levels, peaking in self-destructive acts and desperation before starting the eternal slide into monotony. Then, a dark form from his past had appeared. Good times and excitement were promised him in that lithe figure, but then the man had to have a bloody identity crisis. He supposed after 5000 years Methos was entitled to one, but why did he have to go and switch what side he played for now? "This redemption role so does not suit you!" Methos ignored the comment. "It's all the Scott's fault, I've decided. Only you would fall for a Boy Scout. It damn near suicidal! You have horrible taste in men." "Present company excluded, of course?" "I'm not a man, I'm a demon." "A castrated demon." "I beg your pardon!" Spike stopped and glared at the man. "I meant that metaphorically." Quiet laughter emerged, a hand pulling the offended vampire close. "I know all your parts are present and accounted for, though I wouldn't mind another demonstration." "Not bloody likely. I'd rather tup a goat." "Argh. You and Byron." "I'd shag just about anything rather than him! Horrible taste in men, I tell you! Horrible." "As if your taste in women is all that much better. I'm surprised you haven't hooked up with a Slayer yet, given your track record." Methos tilted his head, taking note of the sudden ashen pallor of his companion. "You didn't!" "No." Spike shivered. "But I've been having some incredibly disturbing dreams." "Better be careful then, foresight is strong in your blood line. Your great grand sire was quite the prophet, and Dru is uncanny, if a bit odd." Methos frowned, glaring through the darkness. "You're eyesight is much better than mine. Is that them?" "One Slayer, a Watcher, some Slayerette's, a handful of vampires and one rather nasty looking demon. Yup. Probably them. I suppose you'll want to get closer and check though?" "I was thinking of it. What type of demon?" "I can't say. He has horrible fashion sense though." "Most do." Methos crept up slowly, keeping to the shadows and behind ornate tombstones. Spike followed behind him, rolling his eyes. "That's completely pointless, Love. Hide all you want, but your heartbeat is damn loud and they'll be able to smell you once the wind shifts." "Smell me?" "Oh yes," Spike smirked. "You smell like sex. Even more so than normal. Do you remember that graveyard in Edinburgh? There was that delightful grave marker, quite like this." Pale fingers ghosted over the dark stone provocatively. "Get your mind out of the gutter, Spike." "Stop looking so damn tasty and maybe I will." Spike pushed Methos back against the stone, hands sliding inside the dark trench coat. Methos reached up to slap him away, annoyance rather than violence motivating his hand. Spike met the limb in all seriousness, catching it and bringing it to his lips. Teeth pierced the skin of the wrist. The fight bled out of Methos. Spike licked the wound clean, tracing the line of the wrist up to the palm of the hand then tasting each individual finger. "It's not our job to save the world, Mate. That's for the Slayer." "William." Methos sighed. "Shh." Spike leaned down, intent on silencing the living man most pleasantly when a sound caused him to freeze. "Bloody hell!" <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>< Zhoukoudium, terror of Zawi Chemi Shanidar, tyrant of the lower regions of Gandhara and cursed of Mahajanpadas looked down on the pale skinned, gold haired child that had been thrown to his feet. The Slayer. At his feet. He felt almost giddy. He hadn't been this pleased since Shalmaneser had conquered Israel in 721 BC. He couldn't remember why that incident pleased him, but it had been a good day. Much feasting, quite a bit of blood shed. "You're not going to get away with this!" "Why ever not?" He looked at the Slayer with a smile. So much energy. Perhaps he would let her live. She seemed entertaining. He could always use another consort. "I'm going to kill you!" "Are you?" He reached down, ignoring her hands and legs that seemed intent on bruising his current form. She had nice eyes. Good teeth. "Don't you touch her!" He glanced over at the male mortal who had started to struggle with some of the minions the fair haired demon had brought to him. Again. He was rather annoying, and offered no compensation in appearance or entertainment for his churlish behavior. And he would not shut up. The resulting snap of the breaking vertebrae was very satisfying. "Riley!" "Opps! You're all so fragile!" He allowed his gaze to slide over the remaining mortals that had accompanied the Slayer. The older gentlemen was a ghastly shade of grey, but Zhoukoudium, terror of Zawi Chemi Shanidar, tyrant of the lower regions of Gandhara and cursed of Mahajanpadas sensed power in him. And in the small female besides him. He'd keep them both. The other male mortal was very pale, but entertaining when he did speak. He could live for a little while at least. Zhoukoudium, terror of Zawi Chemi Shanidar, tyrant of the lower regions of Gandhara and cursed of Mahajanpadas could be merciful. Sometimes. "Zow-ho-kou-diemo-" "Zhoukoudium, terror of Zawi Chemi Shanidar, tyrant of the lower regions of Gandhara and cursed of Mahajanpadas," he corrected, turning his attention to the female vampire who had accidentally freed him from his prison. He was grateful for her assistance but she was wearing on his nerves. He held up a hand, stopping her second attempt of his name. "Just call me Bob." "Spike!" "No, Bob. I like Bob. I think it suits me." Zhoukoudium, terror of Zawi Chemi Shanidar, tyrant of the lower regions of Gandhara and cursed of Mahajanpadas, hence forth known as Bob, stopped, taking a long look at the two new arrivals his minions brought forth. One vampire, one mortal. Both very pleasant on the eye. "We found these along the perimeter." "Get off, you creep!" The pale creature shrugged off the vampire holding him, glaring indignantly. "Some nerve you have! Can't I guy just be out for a bit of bite without having to be manhandled! This cemetery is open to the public, I'd have you know!" "Liar, liar! Pants on fire!" Bob winced, tearing his eyes away from the striking, slim vampire and his attractive, dazed looking companion. "Harmony?" "Spike was, like, cursed! But not, it's really hard to explain but he can't bite or be bad! He's trying to trick you!" "Not anymore, Pet." The pale form laughed, dragging the other man close. Fangs flashed and a dark streak of crimson stained the seductive line of neck. "Mmm. I think I might keep this one." "Spike!" The Slayer hissed. "Let him be or I'm coming for you next!" "You hardly seem to be in the position to make threats, Love." The vampire grinned, one hand stroking at his toy lightly. He gave a respectful nod to the demon, addressing him directly. "I have to hand it to you, seems like you've done some fine work here. Can I watch you kill her? Ow!" He glared at the man next to him who kicked him in the shins. "That one has spirit." Bob motioned toward his goons. "Return to your duties." Spike adjusted his coat, straightening his shoulders. "So." "So." "Now what?" The question hung in the air, the vampire's blue eyes darting from the demon, the Slayer and his dark eyed companion. "Now you all die!" The Slayer jumped to her feet, pulling a hidden stake from her jacket and taking out two of his minions before heading straight for the demon. Bob laughed, pushing the Slayer away. He pulled the stake from his heart, tossing it back to the fallen girl. Her eyes were wide with shock, which only served to amuse him more. "Silly child! The Slayer cannot kill me! I may die only by Death's own sword! So it was written!" "Well then. We best get on with it." The dark haired man spoke for the first time. The voice hadn't been what Bob expected, neither weak nor strained. It was soft, but edged with steel and confidence. Hands vanished in his long trench coat, retuning an unpleasant looking blade. <><><><><><><><><><>><><>><><><><<><< "Whatever happened to your Ivanhoe, Pet?" Spike tilted his head. One hand vanished, returning with another sword that Methos tossed in Spike's general direction. Spike caught the hilt easily, continuing the steel's momentum as he used it to slice through a goon who ran up behind him. "Wonderful craftsmanship! They just don't make weapons like this anymore." Spike's comments were generally ignored. The remaining vamps backed away with Harmony. The mortals stared in shock as the silk and polyester clad demon advancing on the one they knew as Adam. A claymore appeared in the demon's skeletal hands. "Who are you?" "Death." Methos whispered, meeting the blade with a ferocity Spike was fond of and familiar with. "No, no. Naughty, naughty!" He waved his borrowed steel at two vamps that made a move to interfere with the fight. His voice stirred Buffy to action, and the two were dusted before they could make a decision to press forward or retreat back. "Nice to see you haven't lost your touch, Love." "What the hell is going on, Spike?" "Damned if I know." Spike reached into his coat, feeling for his pack of smokes. "I don't suppose any of you have a light?" "No." The Slayer's eyes were locked on the battle before them. Willow, Xander and Giles were preoccupied as well. Spike sighed. "Ouch. That was a bad move. He's in for it now! Never tick off one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Very bad form, that." Spike commented. "One of the what?" Giles stirred, eyes wide. "One of the Four Horseman, you know. War, Famine, Pestilence," he motioned toward the fight, "Death." Spike's eyes narrowed. "You're looking a little pale there, Mate." "Oh Dear." <><><><><><><<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Methos stared down on the decapitated demon. He looked dead. He smelled dead. But one could never be too careful with a demon. He sliced away at the corpse for a few minutes just to make sure. He didn't want to turn around. There would be questions when he turned around. He didn't have the patience for questions right then. The bloodlust had dissipated, but adrenaline still ran through his blood. He didn't want words. He didn't feel capable of words. What he needed was a good hard fuck. Frustrated, he whacked at the corpse one more time. The vampire stood next to him, "I think it's dead, Mate." Methos glanced up, struck by the cocky pose and the smug expression of the demon. He growled. He couldn't help it. Blue eyes narrowed and Spike took an involuntary step back. "Now, now. None of that." Methos growled again. Unfortunately, before he could capture the vampire, a hand stilled his arm and a voice interrupted his primal urges. "Adam? What is this?" Methos stared at the Englishman in confusion, but finally the world beyond the tempting figure coalesced around him. The Slayer was cradling a fallen form, the two children by her side and the Watcher looking at him with large and questioning eyes. "No." Methos took a deep breath. "Not now. Collect your dead. Go back to the magic shop. Leave. Now." "Adam," Giles started again. "You heard him, get." Spike ushered the others away, the footsteps retreating. Methos took a deep breath. He stared up into the night. The stars swept out across the blackness. They seemed so dim. Faded. Methos cold remember when the sky had glowed. Thousands upon thousands of stars had blinked in and out of the night, lighting the heavens and sending their light to earth. "They're gone." Any calm Methos had managed in those few seconds of peace vanished at the smug tone and warm breath on his ear. He growled low in his throat, striking out instinctively. Spike met him blow for blow, pushing them both towards a mausoleum and away from the carnage. The aggression bleed into arousal, and Methos found himself achingly hard. "Nothing like a spot of violence, is there?" Spike hissed, pushing Methos back against the sturdy mahogany door of the tomb. The wood groaned at the impact, Methos unable to stop his own moan from escaping. Yellow eyes laughed at him, the contorted face of the demon reaching passed him to grip the chains and lock that held the entrance closed. The rusty metal crumbled away against the fierce hold. The door swung free. Methos found himself toppling down the first few steps that lead into the sanctuary. He glared through the rising cloud of dusk but Spike was no longer in the doorway. A frown crept across his face. Methos started to rise from the floor but a vice like grip prevented him from standing. "On your knees." Methos shifted to obey the order. He kept his eyes facing forward, every other sense attuned to the creature behind him. He heard as well as felt one nail scratch a thin line down the back of his neck. A rustle of fabric filled the emptiness when the light pressure vanished. The sound of cloth and skin was broken by the hiss of metal and the rough pull of denim. "Did I say you could move? Hands at your sides." Methos froze, suddenly conscious of the hand that had crept down to caress his own aching need. The command hung in the air. Part of him cried out in defiance. He wanted to turn and force the vampire to _his_ knees but another voice whispered patience. They had played these games before. He allowed his hands to fall limp at his side. "Good." Spike stepped leisurely around the man on the floor, stopping directly in front of him. Methos allowed his gaze to travel slowly from the bare feet and wiggling toes up ankles and calves. He took a moment to appreciate the play of light over the lines of muscle and skin of Spike's thighs before settling on the erection that twitched impatiently under the weight of his stare. Methos restrained a grin, eyes darting up to meet the dancing blue of Spike's own. His face had melted back into its human guise, but a feral grin reflected his demonic nature. "Serve me." Methos didn't respond with words, reaching out instead and bringing the cold body close. His lips breathed over Spike's cock, but he ducked his head to capture his balls with his mouth. Tongue and lips cradled them, a brush of teeth eliciting a sweet groan. Methos clasped Spike thighs tightly, refusing to allow the creature to move. "Meeeee-thos!" Methos released the sac, nuzzling the weeping cock as he glanced up into the yellow eyed glare of his companion. "Yes?" "Take me!" Methos licked the underside of Spike's length. Amusement tickled the back of his throat as he saw the demon take in another unneeded breath in response. He pursed his lips, allowing his breath to caress the flesh and said, ever so softly, "If you insist." <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>>, Sensation overtook him. "Satan! Lucifer! Beelzebub!" Spike chanted, the skill of the mouth and tongue that consumed his length chasing away all coherent thought. It was all he could do to remain standing. His nails bit into Methos' shoulders. He pulled the man closer, suction and pressure blinding him with sensation. "Azriel! Alistair! Lilth, Queen of Night! Hands stilled him as Spike tried to thrust deeper into the divine heat that wrapped around his cock. "Not yet," a voice whispered. Spike growled. He pulled Methos to his feet, shoving him back into the wall of the crypt. "You have a dozen heartbeats to get out of those clothes or the rest of the world and their sensibilities be damned. There won't be enough material left to cover Napoleon's prick, diminutive as it was." "Really, Spike." Methos slid out of his clothes, eyes dark and dancing. "You can be so crude." "If you wanted sweet nothings and gentle caresses you wouldn't have come to me, Pet." Spike stepped forward, clawing absently across Methos' chest then licking the blood that emerged as Methos finished kicking off his jeans. "I don't want it gentle." "Never a problem, Lover." Spike reached down, palming the head of Methos cock and applying just a little too much pressure for there to be pleasure. The hiss of pain made Spike smile. "Demon." "You know it, Baby." Spike slid his hand around to Methos' rear, fingering the tight opening. A twinge of trepidation crossed his features. He blamed the stray thought on far too much time spent with mortals. He was going soft. Thinking thoughts that were almost humanitarian. Crikeys. "What?" "I don't have anything." He increased the pressure on the ring of mussel to emphasize his meaning. Methos snorted, "That didn't stop me earlier." "But I'm a vampire." "And I'm Immortal." Methos pushed Spike back, forcing the smaller man toward a ornate sarcophagus that was the centerpiece of the crypt. "I spent a thousand years with a man who thought pain was the only aphrodisiac. Where the concept of lubrication was as foreign as, as vegan'ism would be to you. But, if you're suddenly feeling squeamish." Methos ducked down, holding Spike's hips still as his deep throated him. His fingers teased his balls, pressure and nails causing Spike to cry out. Saccharine torture. "Now, take me!" Spike didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed the man by the hair and a convenient limb, and threw him against the sarcophagus. He parted his legs with knee, pushed him over the tomb. He entered him with a cry his demon brought to him from the very depths of hell. So tight. So sweet. Blood and sweat. Musk. Spike was aware of very little outside the wash of sensation. Touch. Smooth, hard planes. Muscles clenching. Blood rushing so close the surface. Taste. Blood. Salt. Bitter need. Scent. Arousal. Pheromones. Adrenaline. And sight. The form beneath him withered and strained. Pushing back as much as Spike pushed forward. It was too intense to last for long. Spike's fangs found the juncture of shoulder and neck, the wave of pain sending the form beneath him over the edge of his own orgasm. Spike came right behind, pain and pleasure twined in his relief. Exhilaration and exhaustion overcame him. He collapsed, dragging them both in a tangle of limbs to the ground. "Needed that," came a contented rasp across Spike's neck. "Mmm." He leaned into the lips that ambled across the back of his neck. Movement of a particular part of the form pressed tight against Spike made him chuckle. "You can't possibly be ready to go at it again." "Not yet. But soon." The voice came soft in his ear, its timbre rich with dark and forbidden promises. "It's _my_ turn now!" Spike tilted his head so he could see Methos' eyes. "Your turn?" "Oh yes. To touch and take what I want from your slim and pale form. My turn to mark you. To have you. My turn to ride you." The words followed fingers and lips, Spike's skin on fire. Methos last words sent a shiver up his spin. "After all, Death rides on a pale horse."