Things That Go Bump in the Night

**********
Chapter Seven
**********


Methos almost slammed the book shut, but restrained himself enough to limit his sudden tantrum to shoving his chair backwards as he shot up out of it. When it hit the floor everyone around him jumped. "Sorry," he mumbled, pacing toward a window. He couldn't concentrate. He couldn't even sit still, and it was driving him nuts. Everything inside of him was such a jumbled mess, his emotions running rampant, and he couldn't seem to control *any* of them.

The sounds and scents that assailed him constantly were nearly overwhelming in their intensity. He'd never experienced anything like it. He could hear the individual heart beats of everyone in the room. They sounded like a drum line with each drummer playing to his own tempo and rhythm. He could also note the one exception, other than himself. He could *smell* an . . . oddness to some of the people here--most of them in fact. It told him which ones were entirely 'normal'--human, and which were not.

The witches gave off a hint of electricity. Giles did also, and Methos suspected the Watcher was also a practitioner of the mystical arts. However, the three of them smelled human. Though, how he knew that theirs was the human scent was beyond him. Xander and Cordelia, on the other hand, he was almost certain they were human. Of course, what with no one else being normal, he did not have any way to really judge.

Angel gave off his own unique scent and feel. There was a . . . pull there, a powerful draw. He didn't understand it, and didn't like it. He fought it. Buffy, he snorted. Buffy was unique, too, and it was all he could do not to react violently to everything he sensed of her. He felt an intense hatred toward her that he couldn't ever remembering feeling so soon after meeting someone who'd done him no wrong. It scared him.

If he really thought about it, though, he supposed it made sense--in a freaky, twilight zone kind of way, Vampire slayer : vampire, voila, natural enemies. Instincts were powerful motivators.

Even the seer, Doyle smelled . . . different. He didn't know what it was, but he suspected the Irishman was more than met the eye. And when he turned his newfound senses on his own body, on Spike, he began to understand why the vampire had originally been drawn to him above everyone else in that club.

As an Immortal he'd gotten used to sensing quickenings. He couldn't do that now--at least he didn't think so--but, well, he'd never been all that narcissistic, but in Spike's vampire body, he was powerfully drawn to the only Immortal in the room. Unfortunately, some of the urges he was having would have made 'Death' proud. He tried to shake those off.

Unfortunately, that wasn't all. He could bloody *smell* the emotions permeating the room. He'd heard emotions spoken of as being tangible things, in fact, like everyone, he'd done it, but this was over the top. Confusion, concern, anger, fear; he could taste them all. Each one had its own unique scent, most of which he couldn't put a name to. They all blended together in his nostrils and on his tongue. They were a . . . heady combination.

He could smell Willow's sorrow and shame. They hung over her like a thick fog, and they tasted of thyme--bitter. He could taste her friend, Tara's, fear. It was a sweet scent, sweet and warm. The slayer's anger tasted of spicy, hot cinnamon. Gods! He was shaking in reaction to her.

The worst of it all, though, was his own anger. No, that was the wrong word. It wasn't strong enough. Rage; that was the word he wanted. Rage railed inside him, seething like some rabid, uncontrolled beast. It was calling to parts of himself that he'd kept buried for more than a millennia. It excited and repulsed him at the same time.

It called him to the hunt. It called him to violence again--violence for the sake of violence. The rage wanted the blood to flow, and it wasn't particular whose blood he shed. He held himself in place, staring rigidly out the window, refusing to even look at anyone, trying to shut off the overwhelming flow of information coming from his other senses. He wanted, no, needed to shut himself off from the hateful desires growing inside himself.

It all took him back in time, flashing images of that long suppressed reign of terror. It made the rage inside him howl with unholy glee. It turned his stomach.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump, but thankfully wrenched him out of the painful series of flashbacks. "Spike."

"How are you holdin up, mate?"

Methos shook his head, not trusting himself to answer aloud.

"Angry?"

Nod.

"Feeling out of control?"

Another nod, more emphatic.

"Right, then. I'll be right back. I've got an idea about how to help with that."

**Please!**

Knowing he probably shouldn't, he listened closely to Spike's retreat. He listened as Spike approached Angel. Spike whispered, but he could hear what was said, nevertheless.

"Peaches?"

"What do you want, Spike?" Angel snapped.

Methos heard Spike's heart rate shoot up, smelled the sudden anger Spike tried to control, as well as something else, a deep hurt, a sense of betrayal Spike almost managed to control.

"It's about Adam, you ponce," Spike hissed angrily, barely keeping his voice to a whisper. "So, just shut up and listen."

Methos tuned out the rest of the conversation, focusing instead on Cordelia. He felt uncomfortable continuing to listen in. There was history between Spike and Angel, and he suspected it was very personal. Besides, he really wanted to figure out what it was about her that was different. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he *almost* turned around to stare at her. He'd have to ask Spike later, when they were alone.

"Spike, Adam, and I are going out for a bit," Angel said suddenly to the room at large.

Methos spun around in surprise, to find that Doyle and Cordelia had risen. Both appeared to be hesitant about Angel's announcement. He *really* didn't think going out like this was such a good idea, either.

"I'm n-not sure that's such a good idea, Angel," Giles' offered tentatively. "I'm sure Adam is having--"

"It's a *very* good idea, Giles, for the exact reason you were going to use against the trip," Angel interrupted, glancing significantly at his LA companions, who both nodded and resumed their seats without voicing a single concern. It seemed they, at least, trusted Angel's judgement. "He needs to blow off some steam."

Giles' eyes widened, and the Watcher darted a look toward him. "Oh, right, quite. I--"

"I'll go with you," Buffy offered, jumping up out of her seat.

**No.**

"No," Angel responded instantly, "that's not a good idea, Buffy."

Methos tuned out the resulting argument, following a wave of hurt from Buffy, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to be out of that stuffy room with all those people and their fears and their pounding hearts. He barely noticed the hand that grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. It was Spike that's all he knew or cared. He swallowed heavily, tensing, however, when Angel stepped to his other side, and didn't manage to relax until the door closed behind the three of them.

And suddenly he felt like he could breathe again, the tightness in his chest loosening finally.

The three of them strode away into the night. Methos had no idea where they were going, but frankly, he didn't really care. His insides hummed with excitement instead of feeling like he was going to come apart at the seams, mirroring what he could feel coming from the men on either side of him.

"Thank you," he said finally.

"Drowning in there?" Angel asked quietly, as if afraid to startle him.

Letting out an explosive breath, Methos nodded again. "Yes, that's it exactly." He paused, trying to form his thoughts into words, something he hadn't understood while in the midst of it all finally coming into focus. "They all obviously care about each other," he said slowly, "but I don't see how they can function as a group. There's such an underlying sense of hurt, and . . . betrayal. It was nearly suffocating."

Methos snapped his head around to stare at Angel when he suddenly smelled immense guilt flood the vampire.

"That's a long, sordid story, Adam. Most of that stems from our sudden appearance here, well, mine mostly."

At the hurt he could hear in Angel's voice, Methos stifled his own innate curiosity, as well as a sudden urge to poke at what was obviously a painful wound. Instead, he turned his attention elsewhere. "Where, exactly, are we going?" he asked eyeing their surroundings. He supposed cemeteries may be cliche for vampires, but these two certainly seemed to gravitate toward them.

"We're here," Angel replied. "This is part of Buffy's normal patrol route, and since we're out, I figured this would be as any for what we need. Do you know how to fight?"

Frowning, Methos nodded warily. "You could say I have a passing familiarity with it. And what patrol route?"

Angel grinned, and when Methos turned to look at Spike, he wore a nearly matching one.

"What's going on?"

"We're going to help you relieve some excess tension," Spike announced, fairly bouncing on his toes.

"Correction," Angel interrupted, "I am. You're human now, Spike. He can't hit you. Or did you forget that already?"

"Hit him? I don't plan on hitting anyone," Methos protested, looking back and forth between the two of them. He didn't particularly want to hit Spike, anyway. Well, yes he did. He wanted to do a lot more than just hit, but he wasn't going to. "I thought we came out here to prevent that kind of thing."

Spike's face fell. "Bloody hell! Yeah, I had forgotten."

Methos tried again. "Would someone care to explain to *me* what's going on here?"

It took only a few minutes of Angel's patient explanation for Methos to capitulate. It *did* make sense after all. He moved away from Spike, requesting he go climb a tree or something equally inaccessible.

"I'm not hiding up a tree like some bleedin nancy boy!" Spike exclaimed in outrage. "Besides, even if you do try anything. You'll hit the ground in pain long before I will."

Methos winced, instantly recalling the moment he'd attacked Spike at the crypt, and later when he'd lunged at poor Willow. He had to admit, the pain was an effective deterrent.

Returning his attention to Angel, he was startled to note that the vampire had changed forms, his face ridged and his eyes golden. Methos swallowed and allowed his control to relax as he slipped his coat from his shoulders. It was strange feeling his face morph, and he couldn't resist the urge to reach up and trace the changes.

"Can I assume that the concept of fair fighting is a non-issue?" he asked, smirking at Angel.

Angel grinned right back at him and nodded once. "As long as the fight stays barehanded, anything goes."

Methos acknowledged Angel's single condition with a quick nod and dropped into fighting stance. It still felt awkward, but having spent the last several hours in this shorter, stronger body, he felt more able to hold his own. His extra years of experience ought to hold him in good stead. He frowned as he suddenly realized he had no idea how old Angel was, or Spike for that matter, and for a fraction of a second he wondered whether it was as impolite to ask a vampire as it was to ask an Immortal.

Then he was too busy defending himself as Angel faked a lunge, kicking his feet out from under him instead. Startled at finding himself suddenly on the ground, Methos rolled to his feet, and came up wearing a feral grin. This, he decided, was going to be fun.