Things That Go Bump in the Night

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Chapter Eleven
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Apparently *they*, him and Spike, were the reason the spell had gone awry. He almost grinned. *That* had disgruntled Spike no end. The ex-vampire had so badly wanted to blame the witch for their current problem. Of course, it still *was* her fault, but no one had bothered to mention it to the pouting Spike -- least of all the witch in question.

Then, it being as late as it was, it had been agreed that the discussion and research should be postponed until tomorrow. Neither he nor Spike had been happy about it, but both of them had known continuing with everyone so tired would be next to useless.

What he wanted to know, was what Willow had been trying to achieve with her spell. It hadn't gone unnoticed by him that both times Spike brought it up, the answer had been shunted aside by a quick question asked by someone else. First it had been Cordelia who'd done it, which Methos had written off since the girl seemed rather self-centered, and just the type to think her question more important.

The second time Spike had asked, Doyle was the one who'd diverted the conversation, asking where everyone was going to be staying for the night. Eventually, everyone had agreed that he and Spike should stay together through this, him especially. All he needed was for Spike to have a fatal run-in with another Immortal while they were still like this. He definitely didn't want to be stuck as a vampire for the rest of his existence. It was hard enough to fit in with the mortals around him as an Immortal. He couldn't imagine it being any easier with the additional limitations placed on vampires.

It had come as a complete surprise, given the amount of animosity flowing between the two of them for most of the night, when Angel virtually commandeered Spike, ordering the apparently younger man to stay with him at this run down home.

Spike and Angel had history, that much was painfully obvious, both in their interactions with each other and in how Angel sometimes started to react to him. That their shared history wasn't all pleasant was also very obvious. Methos had spent tonight alternating between amusement and irritation as he watched the two of them. Of course, watching *his* body do the interacting had been an experience he could have done without.

Spike, of course, had protested Angel's order vehemently. Angel hadn't listened. Well, truthfully, he had actually listened to what Spike was saying, he'd just countered every argument the ex-vampire used with one of his own. Then, when that still hadn't gotten Spike to budge, Angel had simply picked him up, flung him over his shoulder, and bodily carried him out of Rupert's flat.

Methos had reluctantly swallowed his own protests at that treatment when all it garnered from those still present was laughter, -- That was *his* body being manhandled like that! -- and followed behind those who were staying with Angel.

He nearly rolled his eyes. This *had* to be the single strangest situation he'd *ever* gotten himself into. He was seeing it, feeling it, living it, and he still wasn't sure he should believe it. He was only sure of one thing, when he finally ran into MacLeod again, he was going to give him a hearty apology for thinking, even for an instant, he was insane when he'd started 'seeing things'. Never again would he be so . . . blase about strange occurrences -- never.

In defense of his disbelief, it hadn't taken him long to figure out this entire group of people was absolutely insane. They had to be. In this modern era of science and technology, two of them were witches, one of them was 'The Slayer' complete with preternatural strength and speed. Two of them were vampires for crying out loud! One was a seer, like Cassandra, though evidently his visions came via horrendous headaches. And to top it all off, they supposedly used to count a werewolf among their number.

And all of them went out nightly to fight against creatures straight oft of a child's nightmare. The whole thing definitely left him feeling completely out of sorts and befuddled. He certainly wasn't sure what he was supposed to believe.

And those books! Under other circumstances, Methos would have been fascinated by the ones lining Rupert's shelves and gracing the table in front of everyone, if only for their mythological value. There were a couple there actually written in languages he *didn't* know -- and many of them had seemed ancient.

He had access to books containing works he was sure most of the world had no clue even existed, and the Watchers would have salivated over, and instead of pouring through them, here he was, going quietly out of his mind. With the empirical evidence before him, or surrounding him actually, he had no choice but to believe the unbelievable, but it was . . . frightening, truth be told. What really got to him however, was his breathing, or rather the lack thereof.

The first couple of times he'd realized he wasn't breathing had sent him as close to panic as he'd been in a *very* long time. While his mind understood that this body didn't actually need to breathe . . . it was dead, after all. His heart -- his unbeating heart -- couldn't quite seem to accept it. After all, he *did* need to breathe. Not needing to . . . well, it just wasn't right.

He spun suddenly as someone entered the room in near silence. His unbeating heart jumped and twisted inside him, and it was only by sheer force of will that he was able to stop from launching himself at the intruder.

"Spike," he hissed.

"Yeah." Spike hesitated, then stepped forward. "You doing okay?"

Methos shook his head. "No," he ground out, "I'm not. I'm going slowly insane, actually. But, I could ask you the same question. . . ."

Spike shrugged. "Well enough, I suppose. Pissed off."

Methos snorted. "I hear that. I'm tired of being so angry. I don't like it."

"Well, like we said, that's the demon. Your soul should help with that part. Most of what the demon side of you wants, your soul should be pretty much repulsed by."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you." Silence fell between them as Spike moved up next to him. Neither of them interrupted it for long moments, though Methos could see that Spike was itching to. Finally, he turned toward his companion. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

Spike smirked. "I knew that . . . even before I found out you were Immortal."

"Now that I've been in your shoes a while, I can see why," Methos admitted wryly. "Let's just say that, a very long time ago, I wasn't a very nice person. I would have given any vampire a run for his money in the brutality department."

Spike studied him silently a moment, appraising him. "That would make it more difficult," he replied finally.

"Well, *that's* just about the biggest understatement I've ever heard," Methos retorted nastily.

"Bringing up old memories? Old buried habits?"

Methos nodded, grimacing. He was utterly certain of one thing only. He did not want this conversation to continue as it was -- so, he redirected it. "Angel spoke of 'regaining his soul'. Did he mean that literally? As in something called a soul actually left him when he was turned?"

Spike nodded. "The soul leaves the body at death, the demon takes possession and reanimates the corpse," he replied then frowned, staring pensively out the window.

Methos glanced at him questioningly, then laid a hand on his arm. "You don't seem the broody type," he prompted.

"Yeah, well, your question got me to wondering . . . worrying actually. It seems your soul is still with you, in there with my demon. So what's in here with me?"

Methos opened his mouth to answer, then snapped it shut as he realized he didn't know for sure. He was no expert on souls or demon possession. His memories? But without soul or demon to animate it, why was his body still functioning? Was it only because he was Immortal that this had worked at all? That didn't really answer all the questions though. "Your soul?" he offered questioningly.

"Bloody fucking hell!" he exploded, then his shoulders slumped. "I was afraid you'd say that." he continued more quietly, then spun on one heel and stormed out into the living room.

Methos followed, puzzled, not only by Spike's rather extreme reaction, but his own feeling of upset at the thought of Spike's soul being returned. Why should it bother him? And was it really Spike's soul in there -- if there really was such a thing? Or had they actually traded souls?

Methos shuddered. That *really* didn't bear thinking about.

"What bloody spell was Willow trying for?" Spike demanded of Doyle, stopping only inches from the Irishman.

"Spike, calm down," Angel snapped. "We don't know what the spell was supposed to be."

"Don't tell me to calm down, you bloody wanker!" Spike shouted, waving a hand back toward Methos. "He's got his soul in there. My demon stayed put. So, what the hell do I have in here, huh?"

Angel went silent, his mouth falling open. "Your soul," he whispered several moments later. He swiveled slowly to face Doyle, the only person in the room who had spent time with Willow while the other's had not been present.

Doyle cleared his throat and nodded self-consciously. "After we'd determined that Spike and Adam's actions during the spell casting would be the determining factors of what went wrong," he said, speaking directly to Angel, "we finally began discussing what the spell was meant to do. And apparently," he continued, casting a look toward Spike and Methos, "if they hadn't added sex and blood into the mix, it would have worked."

"What . was . the . spell . supposed . to . do?" Spike demanded again, stepping further into Doyle's personal space.

Methos almost moved forward, wanting to calm Spike down, but really couldn't blame him for being angry. Willow had tried to do something to him, without his permission. Methos knew *he'd* be pissed too, if their positions were reversed. He was angry enough just having gotten caught in the crossfire, so to speak.

"She said she was trying to help," Doyle offered softly. When Spike just glared challengingly, he continued. "It was a permanent soul restoration spell," he finished quickly, stepping backward.

Spike's angry, "The bloody bint, I'll kill her!" and Angel's whispered, "It would have worked?" sounded at the same time.

Methos looked from one person to the next. Everyone was stunned, but he could see Spike was the one about to lose it. He was right.

Spike launched himself toward the door, with Angel and Methos right behind him. Angel reached him first.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going to see that witch!"

"No you're not," Angel replied, beating Methos to it by a fraction of a second.

"I am too, you bleedin' ponce! That blasted girl's gotta learn to keep her spells to herself."

"I'm sure she has, Spike," Angel replied calmly. "She didn't mean this to happen. I'm sure--"

"Yeah, tell me another one! She didn't mean me and the slayer to bloody near get married either!"

"What?!" resounded loudly from three different directions, and Spike smirked.

"Yeah, the last time she cast a big spell, Giles went blind, Xander literally became a demon magnet, and the slayer and I were all set to get married."

Methos watched as Angel's eyes drew dark and Spike's smirk grew larger. **Angel and Buffy?**

"Yeah," Spike taunted, "took me weeks to get the taste of slayer spit out of my mouth."

Angel's arm swung, his fist connecting to Spike's jaw, sending the ex-vampire across the room. That was when Methos moved again.

"Hey!" he shouted, grabbing hold of Angel's arm, preventing him from going after Spike. "That's my body you're beating up!" Out of the corner of his eye he saw Doyle also move between Angel and Spike.

Angel took a deep breath and stopped trying to move toward the fallen Spike. Methos let go and rushed over to Spike to inspect the damage done to *his* body. Of course, no matter the damage, it would heal, but that was beside the point.

Spike was sitting up by the time Methos reached him, his hand held over his mouth and chin. Methos shuddered as the smell of freshly spilled blood assaulted his nostrils. He pulled back instantly, though part of him wanted nothing more than to lean forward and... His stomach rebelled -- kind of. He swallowed hastily, though he wasn't too sure whether it was to prevent nausea, or drooling.

Doyle strode into view, and reached down toward Spike. "I can help get you fixed up," he offered to Spike.

"Won't be necessary," Spike replied. Standing slowly, he made his way out of the room.

"So," Doyle asked after Spike disappeared, "anyone wanna tell me why he's not brooding about all the bad things he's done, if he's really gotten his soul back?"