Things That Go Bump in the Night

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Chapter Thirty Three
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Methos watched the others walking in front of him with only abstract attention. While part of him took comfort from the hum of Holy Ground, most of his thoughts were taken up with the upcoming ritual -- and the part he had to play in it.

He didn't *want* to think about it, but, unfortunately, he couldn't seem to stop, either. Oh, he didn't really have an innate problem with the less than private setting -- though in recent times he'd come to prefer it. No, it wasn't that, nor was it the fact that he'd soon be having sex with his own body -- a novelty he could have happily have lived without experiencing. He steadfastly ignored the part that disagreed. He wasn't going to have that part much longer anyway.

No, it was the blood-letting that had him . . . concerned.

Part of him, deep inside craved it with a hunger that excited and scared him in equal measure -- the demon within howling with unholy glee. Intellectually, he knew it had to happen -- assuming he bought everything these people had told him.

//How else did you switch bodies with the *undead*?//

Methos shook his head, tuning out the sarcastic little voice; he didn't need it to tell him all this was real. He made it a habit not to lie to himself -- if to no one else -- but that didn't mean he had to pay attention when his Id decided to get nasty.

Emotionally buying into all those, though; that was another matter entirely. No matter what his mind said, he had difficulty convincing his heart -- his currently unbeating heart. He'd simply lived too long believing all the things that were now happening to him were things straight out of myths and fairy tales.

//And aren't you glad a certain Highlander isn't here to say a big fat, 'I told you so'.//

Methos shook his head, frowning, but winced at the memory of accusing Mac of being crazy, of hallucinating. A sudden surge of glee caught him by surprise, and he barely managed to keep from laughing out loud. He clamped down on the demon's amusement at the chaotic time he was remembering, weary beyond telling of fighting with half of himself to retain any degree of civilization.

Glancing ahead once again, Methos found himself wondering how Spike was handling the very different body the vampire found himself in. They had talked a lot over the last few days, but tharticrticular subject had never come up. He frowned, wondering if maybe it should have. They'd certainly spent enough time talking about how this was all affecting him.

Unfortunately, they reached the crypt all too soon, and before he could fully pull himself from his thoughts, Methos found himself standing beside the trap door everyone gathered near.

"Willow and Tara should set up, up here," Giles began, pointing the the dusty open area to the left of the opening.

Beside him, Spike smirked suddenly, and Methos almost winced, wondering what sarcastommeomment was going to come out next.

"So, Rupes, I guess that leaves you coming down below to watch and relay info?" Spike said, his smirk growing, then leaning in closely to Methos, the ex-vampire stage whispered. "Maybe I should frisk him -- you know, make sure he isn't carrying a spy camera or what not. Wouldn't want to be starring in his private porn collection."

Methos had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud. Willow and Tara both gasped, turning a shade of red it should really have been possible to get. Rupert's face could easily have stood in for a stoplight as his glasses quickly came off and he began rubbing them furiously.

Methos jabbed sideways with his elbow, catching Spike just below his ribs. "Oops, sorry," he offered, not sounding sorry at all.

Holding his ribs, Spike flashed him an insincere smile -- albeit a rather wan one.

Methos shrugged. "Still don't know my own strength, I guess."

The look Spike favored him with clearly told Methos he was *not* believed, but couldn't find it in himself to care overly much. He returned his attention to Rupert, who was replacing his glasses. He gave the clearly unrepentant ex-vampire a hard glare before continuing. "I belive all three of us can remain above ground. It shouldn't be necessary to be in the same room to know when to begin the spell casting," he continued primly. "Leaving the trap door open should be sufficient."

Methos' lips quirked again. Rupert sounded so like the English governess one of his wives had employed; it was positively uncanny.

Spike grinned at him, then dropped down, the sound of his landing on the wooden table resounding through the crypt. "You coming Adam?" he asked from below.

Methos shook his head and took a deep breath, but dropped down without saying a single word. He did wonder, however, just how much of Spike's sarcasm was directed solely at getting the watcher flustered. So much of every word out of his mouth did just that.

"So, how loud do you want us to be, Rupes?" Spike shouted toward the hole in the ceiling, making Methos roll his eyes.

"I realize you've been told this before, Spike, but you really are a pig," Rupert responded disgustedly from above.

"Hey now!"

"And *don't* call me that."

Methos laughed as he heard Rupert continue muttering too lowly for Spike to hear.

"Xander's 'G-man' is bad enough."

**

Xander held the blade exactly as he was told -- at least he thought he did, holding in his frustration by the merest of threads as Richie corrected his hold *and* his stance for about the 6th millionth time.

"This isn't working," he said through clenched teeth, letting the tip of the wooden practice blade drop toward the ground. "I'm not going to learn to fight this way."

Richie stepped back from him immediately, somethinndernder couldn't quite identify slashing through the Richie's eyes before the older Immortal quickly hid it away. Xander wondered briefly if his new 'teacher' was as frustrated with his inability as he was.

"You need the basics, Xander," Richie said patiently. "Until you have that down, you can't move on, or you'll just learn bad habits you'll need to unlearn."

Richie paused, a shocked look crossing over his face. "And I can feel myself turning into my teacher as I say that," he said with a blink.

Despite his frustration, Xander couldn't help but smile at Richie's shock. It was, unfortunately, a very short respite in his dark -- and getting darker -- mood. Suddenly tossing the blade across the room, Xander sighed immediately after.

"Sorry," he said quietly, sinking down to the floor. "It's just that," he continued, then let his voice trail off.

"You're bored," Richie supplied.

"No," Xander replied instantly, shaking his head. "Well, not just that, anyway," he admitted sheepishly, a crooked, half-grin form on his mouth despite everything. He looked down at the floor for several moments before continuing.

"I've been fighting demons with Buffy for a long time . . . a long time for me anyway . . . and I still haven't learned to hold my own. Oh, I can stake the odd vampire every now and then. And yeah, I help, but I'm not getting any better at it, and I'm scared I'm never going to learn this."

Richie sank down beside him, remaining quiet for a long time -- a very long time. Xander began to wonder just how bad was bad, afraid to meet his eyes.

"Has anyone actually tried to *teach* you to fight -- to 'hold you own'?"

Xander looked up startled. "Well, no."

Richie shook his head, his smile returning. "How can you learn if no one teaches you?"

Xander's body went weak with relief, and he, too, grinned suddenly. It didn't seem so bad when it was put that way. He tilted his head, watching his teacher thoughtfully and came to a decision. He did wonder if he should ask about it though.

"I know Buffy wants to come to these sessions. Why haven't you let her?"

Richie glanced up at him, surprise written across his face. "Mostly because she has abilities and training you don't." Richie shrugged. "I didn't want you to fee self conscious or. . . ."

"Embarrassed," Xander finished.

Richie nodded, looking faintly like someone caught doing something they shouldn't. Xander was intimately familiar with that look. He knew *he* wore far too often.

"Thanks. It won't you know. It won't embarrass me, I mean -- at least not much," he admitted, shrugging. **Not anymore, anyway.** "She won't be running out and spreading the 'guess what a fool...' stories to anyone else, and that's the only thing I'd really mind."

"You sure?" Richie asked.

"Yeah, I'm sure." He laughed then. "Besides, I'm used to being embarrassed in front of Buffy. It's a Xander thing."

Richie grinned and shook his head, jumping back up to his feet. "Get up. Time to get back to work."

Xander shook his head and didn't move from his position on the floor. "No," he refused, his grin growing wider. "Go get Buffy. I wouldn't mind watching another spar while I recover."

**

Cordelia collapsed into the chair behind her, mutely shaking her head. Doyle couldn't help but feel he'd just shattered her world. She looked so . . . devastated. He took a step forward, wanting nothing more than to hold her in his arms, but the shaking hand she held up stopped him.

He wasn't sure what to do, what to say. It wasn't like he'd done this before. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He'd expected anger that she hadn't been told earlier, sure. But he hadn't expected this . . . this utter despair.

"No," she whispered, tears glistening in her eyes.

Holding his hands out to his sides in surrender, Doyle stepped forward again, kneeling in front of his Princess. "According the others, yes." He paused a moment when her eyes met his, the plea in them plain to see. She wanted him to tell her it wasn't happening. "Is it really that bad?" he asked, and knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

Cordelia jumped up out of the chair, striding half way across the room before spinning back around to face him. "That bad?" she asked, her voice just shy of hysterical. "That bad? How could it not be?"

Doyle shook his head helplessly, worried he'd just say the wrong thing again.

"According to *them* I'm going to have to live with a sword the rest of my unnaturally long life! I'm going to have to live with Immortals wanting to chop my head off!"

Doyle opened his mouth to find some kind of reply, but Cordelia continued first.

"I can't do it, Doyle," she said, her knees giving out from beneath her. "I just can't."

Doyle almost missed her next, whispered, words.

"I can't kill."

He shook his head, confused, and once again approached his Princess. "I don't understand," he said softly as he knelt beside her. "Why not?"

She jerked her head up, staring at him in open-mouthed startlement. "What do you mean, why not? You're acting like it's no big deal!"

"No," Doyle soothed immediately. "That's not what I meant. You help do it almost every week. Why is this different?"

"I help kill evil demons, not humans."

Doyle's heart twisted in his chest at her words. "So demon means evil and okay to kill, where human means good."

Cordelia's eyes widened in shock. "That's not what I meant! I said evil demons, not demons, Doyle." One corner of her mouth quirked upwards and she reached out a hand and gently cupped his cheek. "I know not all demons are evil. I may have been slow to learn that, but I did. I love you Doyle -- demon side and all."

Doyle couldn't help but grin. "Yeah?"

Cordenoddnodded, a sudden mischievous twist to her smile. "Yeah. I think it, I say it. It's my way."

Doyle laughed out loud at that. "We've come a long way since you first said that."

"Yeah, we have," she replied softly, then looked him over consideringly. "I even think your fashion sense is starting to grow on me."

Snickering, Doyle shook his head in mock disbelief. "Okay, how long before the world ends?"

"Oh, you!" Cordelia retorted, swatting him on his shoulder, laughter bubbling up for a second before her face turned serious again. "What am I going to do, Doyle?"

"I don't know, yet, Princess, but we'll figure it out -- together."

Cordelia sighed, but some of the doubt cleared from her eyes as she leaned toward him.

Doyle opened his arms and folded them protectively around her, content, for the moment, to simply hold her.

**

Methos lie on the bed, watching Spike as the other man sat down next to him. He wasn't sure what it was, but something was . . . off. Then it clicked. All of Spike's usual bravado and sarcasm were entirely missing. It surprised him considerably.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly, making sure to keep his voice too low for the people upstairs to hear.

Spike lifted his head, and the confusion Methos saw staring back at him made no sense -- confusion and something else . . . fear.

Methos sat up quickly, instinctively reaching out to comfort the other man. "Tell me," he encouraged quietly.

Spike shrugged off his hand, jumping back out of the bed. "What if this doesn't work right?" he asked so softly that even Methos' vampire hearing almost missed it.

"You mean if we can't switch back?" Methos asked, shuddering slightly at the thought.

Spike snorted, and shook his head. "No," he replied, dismissive, "I could . . . get used to that. I *mean* what if . . . what if," Spike's voice trailed off, his eyes growing shadowed before he continued. "What if the *soul* Willow called stays?"

**Ouch,** Methos thought. "Would that really be such a bad thing?" he asked carefully, completely aware the ground he now walked was quicksand.

Spike's eyes widened incredulously. 'You don't know what it's been like."

"You're right," Methos admitted instantly. "I don't. There's probably only one being in the entire world who could come close."

Slowly making his way back to the bed, Spike's expression changed to one of disbelief -- as if he couldn't believe what he was about to reveal. "Ever since we found out about it, I *know* everyone's been wondering why I haven't been sulking and generally acting like an all around git."

Methos opened his mouth to deny it, but closed it again when he saw the almost amused dare in Spike's eyes.

Then Spike snorted. "Well, they aren't alone. I have too. But. . ." Spike's eyes dropped before he continued, his voice subdued. ". . .sometimes, when I'm alone, just before I fall asleep, I can feel something yammering at the baf myf my mind -- something that almost makes me feel . . . ashamed. It's like there's a wall between me and it, though. I can barely sense it."

Spike jumped up, pacing with quick angry steps. "Demons aren't *supposed* to feel shame." Spike stopped and stared at Methos, his eyes growing more horrified. He dropped his head down, then brought it quickly back up to resume his stare. "What if it's William?" he asked in a rush whisper.

Frowning, Methos shook his head, his confusion growing. "You *are* William."

"No!" Spike shouted fiercely, then winced with a surreptitiously glance at the ceiling. "I'm not," he continued in a more normal tone. "William was a fop who never did anything wrong in his short life. He was a boy who wrote bad poetry, and let everyone walk all over him."

Methos had absolutely no clue how to reassure Spike. It wasn't like this was exactly an everyday occurrence. He laughed mentally. It wasn't even a once in a millennium experience. He supposed aspects of this whole thing could be similar to taking an overpowering quickening, but he doubted that would help Spike.

He could always lie, but somehow, he didn't think Spike would appreciate platitudes. Another moment passed in silence, then he realized there *was* something he could offer that might help.

"Willow promised me she'd try her best to end all this leaving you without a soul."

Spike looked up sharply, suspicion narrowing his eyes. "She did?" he asked.

Methos simply nodded, and was surprised at the immediate change his companion. He grinned suddenly . . . and pounced. Methos was hard put not to yell in his surprise.

Firmly straddling him, Spike's grin faded, his eyes darkening as he locked gazes with Methos. "Let's say we skip the foreplay," he suggested his voice low, urgent. "I'm ready to shag now."

Methos groaned, the idea running both hot and cold flashes through his body.

Clothes came off in rapid succession, each one pulling at the other's garments until every piece lay abandoned on the floor. Methos tasted Spike, his tongue flicking out to trace the salty skin. Latching on his sucked -- hard, temporarily marking the quick healing body.

Spike moaned low in his throat, and the was of lust that rushed over Methos made him repeat his action, delighting in the power he had over his partner. Over and over he bit gently, using his blunt human teeth to leave a trail marks.

"Now!" Spike urged, and suddenly Methos found his hand full of a tube of lube.

"But," Methos began, frustrated at having to speak now. He wanted sex, not conversation. The demon within wanted in, and he wanted it *now*. He growled.

"Same as it was before," Spike bit out, canting his hips upward.

Methos growled again, surprising himself at the sudden anger that rushed through him at the delay. "Yes, *you* topped last time."

Now showing his own frustration, Spike nodded, once, tersely. "Yeah, mate -- in that body."

Methos froze, shocked realization flooding him. Then he grinned; he grinned an evil, anticipatory grin, and closed his eyes to savor the renewed torrent of lust, as well as the tangle of emotions flooding off his partner -- his nostrils flaring to catch every last intoxicating scent.

The quiet lasted only a moment, however. Urgency riding him as he could never remember it doing before, Methos flipped the two of them over, then rose up just hight enough to grab Spike by the hips and flip him onto his stomach.

Pulling the Immortal beneath him onto his knees, Methos just barely remember the lube -- most of him screaming to simply ram himself into the warm, willing body.

With trembling fingers, he pushed one slicked finger inside, pumping it only a couple of times before adding another. He knew intimately what that body could take before pain became an issue -- and judging by the way Spike kept pushing back against his hand, Spike agreed.

He pushed a third finger in, finally brushing just once against the sensitive prostate inside. Spike gasped and bucked beneath him, following his hand back as Methos withdrew.

"More!" Spike urged, his voice raspy and breathless.

Grabbing Spike's hip firmly with one hand, Methos placed himself at Spike's tight entrance, rubbing the tip of his cock over the puckered hole. "Is this what you want?" he taunted softly, not allowing Spike to push backward.

"Yes!" Spike growled. "Now."

Delighting in his control, Methos pushed forward, allowing only the tip to slip past the tight ring of muscle.

Spike tried to surge backward, but Methos stopped him, gripping his hip more tightly. Slowly, inch by inch, he seated himself inside the unbelievably hot channel, stopping as soon as he was fully sheathed.

"So long," Spike murmured, sound wistful.

Frowning, Methos tilted his head, curiosity overcoming even the demon's lust. "So long since?" he asked.

Spike again tried to move, but Methos held him still easily.

"Move," Spike demanded.

"So long since what?" Methos asked again, still not moving. When Spike didn't answer, Methos moved just enough to brush against the sensitive spot.

"Yes," Spike hissed.

"So long since what?" Methos repeated, no longer moving.

"So long since I've been on the receiving end," Spike ground out. "Now, bloody move!"

"Methos chuckled and moved . . . one bare inch.

Spike whimpered. "You're enjoying this," he accused.

"Yes," Methos replied fervently, slowly withdrawing until he barely remained inside. "Oh, yes." Just as slowly pushing forward, he adjusted his angle, making sure to hit his partner's prostate with every torturously slow stroke. Beneath him, Spike shivered and panted, sweat beading up on his flushed skin. The need wafting off the vampire-turned-Immortal in waves of scent that teased Methos to a fever pitch.

Finally, unable to resist, he leaned down and trailed his cold tongue along one lust-laden trickle of sweat. As Spike's heart rate shot up in instant response, Methos felt his unaccustomed fangs descend. Panting, he thrust forward suddenly, through with the slow torture he'd been inflicting on both of them. Now, he set a steady, almost punishing rhythm, pounding into and out of the other man.

"Yessss!" was the the last coherent word out of either of them for long moments as they strained and moved against each other, rocking in that primal rhythm that called to the beast in them .
.

Methos' lungs locked up, refusing to allow him to draw breath, as he felt himself climbing higher. Reaching around with one hand, he began stroking Spike in concert with their movements, his thrusts growing jerky as he neared his climax. And with two last twitching thrusts, Methos came, spurting cold seed into his partner. Only moments later, Spike convulsed around him, cumming over Methos' hand.

Gasping, at long last able to draw breath again, Methos collapsed against Spike, who trembled briefly then fell to the bed beneath him. It took him time to gather enough energy to want to move. He rolled to the side, pulling Spike tightly against him. "Wow," he whispered hoarsely. He heard and felt Spike chuckle quietly.

"Yeah," came the soft reply. "Ditto."

It was Methos' turn to laugh. The single word brought a wealth of images to his mind. "Don't tell me you saw that movie?" The vampire in his arms started, then mumbled something he couldn't quite make out.

"What?"

"I said," Spike repeated, irritation in his voice. "Don't tell anyone. It'd ruin my image."

"You mean, don't tell anyone that inside, you're an old softy that likes sad love stories?"

Spike growled at him, but Methos just laughed, even the demon happy for the moment. "That doesn't sound as impressive coming from," he began, nipping lightly at Spike's shoulder, stopping his words mid-sentence as the man in his arms gasped and arched back into him.

"Liked that, did you?" he asked, his voice low and husky as he dipped forward to repeat the action, brushing only blunt teeth at the now bared throat.

"Oh, yeah," Spike murmured. "Bite me, Adam. Do it now."

A shiver shook Methos' entire body, Spike's words driving straight to his gut and groin. He moaned, even as he felt his face shift. His eyes fastened on the pulse point of Spike's neck, the rapid fluttering there holding him captive.

He didn't realize he'd growled until Spike's hushed voice reached him.

"Remember, gentle like. We don't want to be setting the chip off."

"No," Methos murmured against Spike's throat, keeping himself from ripping into the vulnerable throat by only the thinnest of margins, "that would be bad."

"Very bad," Spike agreed faintly, arching even more into Methos' shoulder. "Bite me, Adam, take me back in time."

His mind flashing back to the only other time he'd done this, Methos eased his razor sharp fangs into Spike's neck. The demon inside him once again howling with unholy glee, Methos moaned as the first spurts of hot, Immortal blood hit his tongue.

A whimper escaped Spike, and Methos winced, waiting for the pain. When the expected agony didn't explodsideside his head, the demon surged forward once again, reveling in the draining, reveling in the parade of emotions rolling off of Spike. All of them -- lust, excitement, fear -- rolled over each other and shot straight through Methos, hardening him instantly.

**So soon?** he thought abstractly, amazement coursing right along side the nearly overpowering blood lust. Spike twitched beneath his hand and Methos reached across and stroked him, but it was at that moment that Spike's heart beat began to falter.

Methos almost drew back, having to fight the urge to bleed for Spike. He understood it even less this time than he had when he'd taken too much from Richie.

"I'd forgotten," Spike murmured quietly, a satisfied smile ghosting across his lips just before his heart stopped completely.

Methos froze momentarily then withdrew his fangs from Spike. His face fading back to human guise, he licked the stray drops of blood from around the two new wounds in the Immortal neck. He swallowed convulsively as he stared down at the now dead body, mixed feelings fighting for control. He knew it wasn't a permanent death -- it was his body he was staring at, after all. It had come back from more deaths than he could accurately recount.

Pulling his body even closer, Methos listened carefully. He couldn't hear anything from above, but he didn't dare interrupt. Long tense, silent moments passed, and Methos was about to give up and call out when the pain hit. Screaming at the sudden onslaught, he doubled over, but refused to let go of Spike. He wanted them to stay as close as possible.

Through the blur of pain, he had no clue if it would make a difference, but he wasn't taking any chances. He held on until the world around him dissolved and everything went black.

**

Methos came to abruptly, gasping air into his lungs as if he hadn't breathed in forever, the feeling of drawing that breath of life into his body exhilarating.

**Home,** he thought, the word reverberating around his mind. **I'm home.**

As his senses turned outward, away from the wonderful feeling of being *alive* again, Methos realized he could hear crying. Raising himself up weakly, he tried to locate the sound. To his utter surprise, it was Spike. Spike, who had made it almost all of this entire debacle with his sarcasm and bravado completely intact, was huddled in a corner of the dark crypt sobbing.

Methos tried to speak, then swallowed, vainly attempting to wet his very dry mouth and throat.

"Oh, good, you're awake," Giles said, stepping forward.

"Water," Methos croaked, wincing as the words abraded his throat.

Tara scurried forward and held a bottle of water to his lips.

"I hate dying," he whispered, after taking several small sips.

Tara giggled nervously, then hurried back to Willow, who Methos could now see was hunched in the corner as far from Spike as she could get without leaving the room. She looked as forlorn as he'd ever seen her.

"Oh, bloody hell!" Awkwardly rising to his knees, he shook off Rupert's supporting hand. "Why isn't anyone with him?" he demanded.

Rupert shrugged, looking sheepish. "We did try. He wouldn't let anyone near him."

Frowning, wondering what else he was getting himself into -- and thinking maybe he already knew -- Methos made it to his feet. HE swayed slightly as a wave of dizziness hit him, and this time accepted help from the younger man.

"It'll take time, even for your body, to replace all the blood it lost."

Methos nodded abstractly. It wasn't anything he didn't already know. It may have been the first time he'd been drained by a vampire, but it wasn't the first time he'd lost all his blood. There were more ways to bleed to death than there were days in the year.

It was a slow, wobbly trip, but he made it to Spike's side, and carefully knelt down next to the vampire He almost reached out a hand, but not sure of his reception, decided against it at the last moment.

"It stayed," he said quietly.

Spike looked up at him and nodded, not saying a word.

"As bad as you suspected," Methos guessed -- could only guess what the vampire might be going through. While he had his moments of reliving the things he'd done -- moments of weakness -- he'd never had it assault him all at once in one large sneak attack.

Spike laughed, but the sound didn't have much humor in it. "In some ways, no. In other ways it's far worse than I could have imagined."

Methos tried to come up with a response to that, and couldn't. He did reach out then, gently cupping Spike's face in his hand, and was surprised when the vampire leaned into the touch.

"S'okay, it doesn't make any sense to me either -- and *I'm* living it. There's too many voices pulling me it too many directions. It hurts, Adam, it hurts here," Spike whimpered, splaying his hand across his chest, above his unbeating heart."

Methos gasped at the defeated sound of Spike's voice and pulled the vampire into his arms. "You'll figure it out -- in time." That much he knew. Given enough time, the strength of the person in front of him would shine through. He just wondered what would emerge at the end. Who would Spike be when he came to terms with himself.

Spike laughed harshly. "If I don't go insane first," he whispered, clinging tightly to Methos.


TBC