Things That Go Bump in the Night

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Chapter One
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**The Bronze, unique name,** Methos thought as he pulled open the door to the club the corner store clerk had recommended. Although he still wasn't quite sure about the woman's parting 'be careful'. He'd almost asked her what she meant, but had decided at the last moment that it wasn't worth the time spent. While he was the last person to judge by appearance alone, the blue spikes in her hair, the safety pins piercing her ears, nose, and eyebrows, as well as the black lipstick, gave him reason to believe he just might be wasting his time trying to figure out what she'd meant. He shuddered to think what else might be pierced that way.

He glanced around the semi-darkened interior of the club. At first glance it seemed much like any other club he'd ever been in. He easily made his way toward the bar through the light early evening crowd, hoping they might actually stock a decent beer.

Paying only scant attention to the bartender when he arrived, Methos ordered a beer.

"ID."

Methos blinked, surprised by the request. Five thousand bloody years old and he was getting carded. He didn't look *that* young just because he was letting his hair grow longer . . . did he? He chuckled and dug out his wallet. He supposed it could be worse. If they'd had these laws a mere couple hundred years ago, he'd never have been able to buy a drink.

That was definitely one of the many good things to come out of the increasing longevity of the mortals around him. He now looked older than he used to. It wasn't because he'd changed. It was because others took longer to grow up and grow old.

Depending on his hair length and assorted accessories, he could look anywhere from his early twenties to his middle thirties. There was a time, however, that people thought he was younger than young Ryan looked.

The hulking bartender stared at his driver's license for several long moments, taking time to glance at him several times before nodding grudgingly, and reaching for the beer Methos had requested.

"Tell me something. Did you really think I looked too young to buy a beer?" Methos asked skeptically as he accepted the chilled bottle.

The bartender shrugged uncaringly. "You never know in this place," was all he said before moving on to the next customer.

Watching the huge man continue down the row of customers, Methos wondered at the odd phrasing. That was the second person today to say something that seemed really out of place. Finally, however, he shrugged it off as a quirk of the two people, and returned to his own disquieted thoughts. He threw back several swallows of the beer, questioning why his mind was suddenly insisting on raking over the past. It really wasn't like him.

The thing was, even with as much thought as he'd given it, he still wasn't sure what to think of the whole Ahriman mess. He in no way believed Ahriman was a demon. That went without saying. But he was equally certain-after the fact-that MacLeod hadn't just been seeing things, hallucinating. Though, it had seemed like it at first. Someone had wanted MacLeod destroyed, someone with a lot of power. They had chosen to make Mac see things that weren't real. Now, *that* was something he could believe. He'd seen various kinds of mind power many times -- Cassandra being only one.

That was far more believable than Ahriman being a creature of hell -- a true demon. He didn't believe in those. He certainly carried enough personal ones around with him; he didn't need to go creatinysicysicals ones as well.

They, this someone whom he doubted he had a real name for, had almost succeeded in their plan to destroy The Highlander. If Mac had actually killed Richie that day, he wouldn't have been the only one destroyed. Joe regarded Richie in much the same way Mac did -- as a son. Well, it was rather a moot point. Mac hadn't, and there was no sense in dreading what hadn't happened. That made about as much sense as trying to change the past-none.

Methos signaled the bartender for a second beer as he swiveled the stool around so he could see the open floor of the club. He definitely wanted something to distract him from his morbid thoughts.

There weren't many people here yet, though he supposed it was a bit early, the sun just now setting and all. Of course, that's why he'd come here now. He wasn't here to interact with the people who closed the place down -- the hardcore drinkers. No, he had come here for something different than that -- something he didn't want to do in his normal stomping grounds. A corner of his mouth quirked upward. It was too high profile -- too attention getting.

Looking around this place and its patrons, however, he was fast becoming relatively certain he wouldn't find it here. The place was quickly filling up. Unfortunately, it seemed most of them were teenagers, or near enough to it that it didn't matter. He hadn't expected that in a place that served alcohol. At least now he understood why he'd been carded.

With a disappointed sigh, he downed the last of his second beer, and tossed a couple of bills on the polished bar top. Even with the fact that basically everyone in the world was significantly younger than he was; he wasn't in the mood to play 'guess who is old enough'. While risk was a part of life, he had no intention of making *that* mistake.

He was about to leave when a man entered, striding across the room with a casual arrogance that caught Methos' attention. He looked young, but exuded blatant power and a raw sexuality that was enticing.

**Predator,** was Methos' instant thought. His first instinct being to draw in on himself, he rounded his shoulders forward and slouched back against the bar, drawing the cloak of a young student around himself like a protective shield. Frowning, even as he did it, he wondered why he'd reacted that way. The man wasn't an Immortal, so could pose no true threat to him. Given that, his reaction confused him.

He surreptitiously watched the blond approach as he tried to figure out what it was about the man that had triggered his defensive response. Cocking an eyebrow when the man was close enough for him to see details, he noted the slicked-back hair was obviously bleached -- very bleached.

Too bad someone coming to this place probably wouldn't be a man who wanted to play, Methos thought as he assessed the slender man approaching the bar. Despite his youth, there was something about him that spoke of experience. Methos smirked at himself as he suddenly realized he was no longer making any move to leave, and instead was continuing to covertly survey the man.

The blond had made no stops, talked to no one, hadn't even bothered to look around. But despite the fact that the slender man hadn't looked his way either, something told Methos the other man was very much aware of him. It was as if by simply walking into the room, he'd already assessed everyone there, Methos included, and dismissed them as unimportant.

It was rather unsettling feeling, Methos was surprised to discover. He was used to going unnoticed. It wasn't that, that bothered him. He'd purposely cultivated the ability to fade into the background-to appear harmless. No, it was the impression he had that had he bothered to pull himself up to his full height, and let everything he was show, the blond's reaction would have been exactly the same.

He couldn't say where the impression had come from, but he'd learned to trust his instincts a long time ago. This man, Immortal or not, was dangerous. Methos' better sense was telling him to get up and walk away. He turned around aignaignaled for a third beer. He smirked again. Sometimes a little danger was a good thing, he thought, safe danger. He almost laughed aloud at the contradiction in his thoughts. Was there *really* anything that could be called 'safe danger'?

A quiet chuckle sounded beside him as both his and the blond's beers arrived, and Methos turned toward the man. "Care to share what you find amusing?" he asked, intrigued despite his better judgement.

A smirk spread across the man's pale face as the blond cocked his head to look directly at Methos for the first time. "Like what you see, do you?" he asked, his British accent filled with light laughter.

Startled, Methos straightened and pulled a quick on on his beer to cover the sudden adrenaline shot flushing through him. He could remember the last time someone had so easily seen through him. Oh, yes, this man was dangerous. This was a man who could ferret out secrets.

"What makes you say that?" he short back with a smirk of his own. His assurance faltered again, however, when the blond beside him burst into surprising, open laughter. This one would take careful handling, he thought. There was absolutely no doubt about that.

Taking a deep breath the blond leaned toward him, the smirk back in place, his grey eyes filled with mirth. "Let's just say I'm . . . observant."

"Really?" Methos asked drily. **I couldn't tell.** He thrust out his hand. "Adam Pierson."
hat hat happened to Max Winters?**

The blond's eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and his lips curled downward just a touch, but he met Methos' hand with his own.

"Spike."

Methos gasped as the cold fingers curled around his, and the smirk returned.

"You know what they say, don't you?"

"About?" Methos asked.

"Cold hands."

"Warm heart."

"You're alright, mate," Spike replied, and Methos was left with the distinct impression that he'd just passed a test. "The next round's on me."

Methos hesitated only briefly. Despite his earlier doubt he'd find it, this was exactly what he'd come here for. He just hadn't expected to find it this quickly, nor had he expected to find someone who could actually add that tinge of fear that added so much . . . spice to an encounter. "Sounds good to me," he responded, saluting Spike with his beer before taking a healthy swig.

Spike's eyes narrowed ever so slightly--again, and Methos broke eye contact, glancing down at his drink. And *that* definitely surprised him. The man beside him was exuding danger the way that most men gave off the scent of cologne, and it was at once enticing and intimidating.

There weren't many who could actually begin to intimidate Methos. In fact, aside from Kronos -- well, if he were being completely honest, and Kalas -- there hadn't been anyone in literal ages.

**Maybe this isn't such a good idea,** Methos thought with just a touch of nervousness. **I should have gone with my first instincts. I know it.**

"So, what brings you to Sunnyhell?"

**Sunny*hell*? Interesting phrase choice.** He looked back up, trying to decide between finding out why Spike seemed to dislike the town, and finding a graceful way to back out of this as yet unstated arrangement, but discovered Spike was no longer even looking at him. He frowned. Could the man have lost interest *that* quickly?

"Oh, bloody hell!" Spike exclaimed explosively, jumping up from his barstool angrily.

Methos turned his head to follow Spike's line of sight, but couldn't see anything that could possibly have upset the man. He appeared to be glaring at a small group of teenagers who'd just entered, but that didn't make any sense. Methos certainly couldn't see anything about them that was out of the ordinary.

"I'm outta here," Spike said suddenly, returning his intense gaze back to Methos. "You hungry?"

"Yes, actually," Methos replied, most of his mind still busy trying to figure out just what had Spike so upset, "but--"

"Come on, then," Spike interrupted, striding toward the door without giving Methos the chance to saying anything more.

"Bloody hell," Methos muttered beneath his breath, unconsciously echoing Spike. He stayed where he was, not moving, watching as Spike passed the group of teenagers and shared a glare with the petite blonde girl. Curiosity piqued, Methos rose and slowly followed.

Stepping out into the cool night air, Methos paused, searching the area for any sign of Spike. This night could be very fun, assuming he was reading the other man correctly -- not entirely safe or responsible, but definitely fun.

"Had trouble deciding whether or not to follow, did ya?'"

Methos jumped and spun around, nearly dropping into a fighting stance. He fought his instant irritation at the smirk that bloomed across Spike's pale face. "You move very quietly," he said, instead of answering.

The smirk grew. "Comes with the territory, pet."

**Comes with *what* territory?** Methos thought in confusion. **And what's with the 'pet' bit? That went out ages ago.** "Right," Methos replied, watching Spike uneasily, when what he really wanted to know was what the hell it was about this guy that had so many of his internal alarms going off. He snorted mentally. That and why he was ignoring all of those alarms.

"Having trouble figuring out what's different, aren't you?"

Methos frowned. This evening was getting stranger and stranger. Lots of little puzzle pieces were being thrown his way, but every one of them seemed to belong to a different bloody puzzle. It was almost as if this Spike was throwing down a challenge to figure out who he was. Now, Methos was not adverse to a little . . . nervousness in his life, but he wasn't particularly fond of confusion. "Something like that," he said slowly, "but I have to admit that it's beginning to seem like I've come into a joke just in time to hear the punch line, and am feeling quite left out as to why it's so funny."

Spike laughed again. "Like I said before; you're all right," he offered, but didn't clear up any of Methos' confusion. Then, dropping a hand to the small of his back, Spike guided him away from The Bronze.

Methos allowed it, for now, having assumed within the first few minutes of this encounter that Spike would want the 'controlling' role. He could be wrong of course, and that would be okay too, but he really doubted he'd misread that. Spike seemed to be on the extreme end of the spectrum known as Alpha male.

**

Dinner went quickly, despite the fact that Spike seemed to play with his food more than actually eat it. Half way through, Methos still wasn't sure whether to be uneasy or to simply enjoy the cryptic and often biting humor Spike threw his way. By the time they'd finished, and the plates were cleared away, he was leaning more toward simply enjoying the company of the unusual man.

It wasn't often that someone so eluded his ability to understand, but Spike was doing just that. It was just one more thing that added to his attraction. There was something decidedly different about Spike, something that defied definition. It not only captured Methos' attention, it intrigued him no end. No, that wasn't enough; it excited him. In fact, everything added together to leave him nearly breathless.

Spike was one contradiction after another. One minute he was mouthing off with a wit that could cut as surely as the Ivanhoe hidden beneath Methos' duster, the next he would show a flash of vulnerability, loneliness, that struck a chord inside Methos. In yet the next moment, danger fairly oozed off of Spike in palpable waves, and Methos was left wondering which was the real Spike.

"You ready to head out?" Spike asked as Methos finished the last of his coffee.

Methos nodded, and they both rose, Spike tossing money down on top of the bill. He could feel Spike moving just inches behind him as they headed for the door, and as soon as it had shut behind them Spike's hand returned to the small of his back, subtly guiding his movements--now playing merry havoc with his senses. As with everything else tonight, it had been a long time since he'd been this off balance, this unsure of exactly what would happen next. Even with Kronos' unexpected appearance in Seacouver, he hadn't felt this unsure. No, then, he'd gone into manipulation mode as soon as it he'd realized to was too late to run.

Methos suddenly shuddered at the comparison, wondering if he had finally gone insane. What else could explain his choosing to remain with a man he mentally compared, even briefly, to the worst nightmare of his very long life? He was playing with fire. He knew that with every fiber of his being, but decided in that instant that he wasn't going to let it interfere. If he got burned, he'd recover.

"So," Methos asked suddenly, as much to distract himself as to break the silence that had grown up between them, "I take it you don't get along with that group at The Bronze. . . ."

"You could say that," Spike snorted. "They've been a right bloody thorn in my side, they have."

"Oh."

"Yeah, that Buffy, though, gotta admit she's one hell of a fighter. Holds her own, she does."

**Fighter?** "Buffy? Oh, the blonde?" Methos guessed.

"Yeah, the blonde. She's a right scrappy one."

"You like her," Methos said quietly.

"Hell no!" Spike shouted, then instantly lowered his voice. "Gotta respect her though. And I admit, though I'll deny it if you ever manage to mention it to her, I feel safer bein' on the same side as her, than I ever did bein' on the opposite."

**Same side?" Methos thought in even more confusion. **The same side of what?** "Same side?" Methos asked, echoing his own thoughts, before he could censor his words.

"Now that's a long story, Pet."

"And what's with the 'pet' bit?" Methos asked instead of what he *really* wanted to ask. He knew all about long stories, and about not necessarily wanting them out in the open. 'It's a long story,' equalled 'I don't want to talk about it'.

Spike shrugged easily. "Just a habit. Don't mean nuthin' by it." Slipping his hand further around Methos' waist and pulling him closer, Spike lowered his voice to a whisper, his lips now mere inches from Methos' ear. "Unless you want it to mean something more."

A shiver sped down Methos' spine, but before he could do anything, or even consider how he wanted to respond to that oblique offer, Spike pulled away, leaving only that hand laying lightly on his back. Now, however, it had changed to something intimate, something erotic, and Methos found himself having trouble concentrating on anything else. Instead of wondering if he'd lost his mind, he now wondered how long it would take him to warm that hand up.