Things That Go Bump in the Night
folder
BtVS Crossovers › BtVS/Highlander, The
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
3,016
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS Crossovers › BtVS/Highlander, The
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
34
Views:
3,016
Reviews:
11
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
Description: This story begins after the end of the Highlander Series--the alternate Archangel ending being used, and in BtVS it begins after college, Spike is chipped, Xander is with Anya, Riley has left, but Dawn has yet to show up. The pairings are as follows.
Methos/Spike,
Richie/Buffy
Willow/Tara
Doyle/Cordelia
pre-slash Richie/Methos
Disclaimer: All things Highlander belong to Panzer, Rysher, and Davis. All things Buffy and Angel belong to Mutant Enemy Productions and Joss Whedon. Nothing belongs to me. I write purely for entertainment purposes -- no copyright infringement intended. No money has been, nor will it be made.
Warnings: This story contains adult themes, including violence and explicit sex (both het and slash). If any of this is not your cup of tea, or you are not old enough in your geographic location, please do not read.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
by
Kiristeen ke Alaya
********Prologue
**********
**Welcome to Sunnydale,** Methos thought as he entered the official city limits of the small California town. It sounded delightful, although the welcome sign looked like it had seen better days. He slowed the SUV to a crawl, making time to take a good look around him. The town appeared to be a typical small town. It seemed perfect -- nice, quiet, peaceful. There was nothing like the slower pace of a place like this for figuring out what to do next.
He couldn't stop the deep, heartfelt sigh that escaped him. He didn't bother trying, really. It felt right; kind of like he was pushing his old life back along with the air he blew out of his lungs. He smirked. Maybe he'd go a completely different route this time. Maybe he'd adopt a rich persona. It would be nice not to have to worry about how much money he was spending for a change.
He laughed then. He knew he probably wouldn't go that route. It drew much public attention. He didn't like lots of attention. Being a student again was probably a no go, though. Even he got burned out on learning sometimes.
Of course, as always, he had several he could choose from, each complete with paper trails already laid. He could take the next couple of months to decide which he wanted--who he wanted to be for the next couple of decades. For now, however, all he wanted to do was relax, and Sunnydale seemed the ideal place to do that in. All he needed to find tonight was a place to stay until he found himself a temporary apartment.
He grinned as a motel came up on his right, but grimaced as he pulled into the parking lot. It was a dump. There was no doubt about that. Of course, that meant there would also be no doubt that he could afford it--whatever persona he decided on by the time he got to the office. He knew being this ambivalent was dangerous. Last minute choices were the best way to make mistakes, big mistakes--mistakes that led to missing body parts.
That was why he was here in the middle-of-nowheresville. He wasn't ready to give up being Adam Pierson. Unfortunately, regardless of his wishes, that life was over. The only part of it left worth saving was Joe. MacLeod was nowhere to be found. The Immortal had hidden so well even the Watchers couldn't find him. Richie had taken off long before, not handling the odd changes in his mentor well at all. The boy had, had to many bad experiences when Duncan started acting strangely. Methos hadn't blamed the kid one bit when he'd said goodbye to them all and taken off for parts unknown.
Methos couldn't help but trace the changes back to Ahriman. The Highlander simply hadn't been the same since he'd almost killed Richie because of the arse's mind tricks. **And that's all they were!** he thought vehemently, **Tricks. Demons don't exist.**
Demons were things frightened people came up with to explain things they didn't understand--things that scared them. Demon was the name given to Immortals when they were discovered by mortals who couldn't, or wouldn't, take the time to understand them. In all his 5,000 plus years he'd never seen anything that even remotely convinced him that demons really existed.
Methos knew Joe kept track of the young Immortal's whereabouts, but he'd never asked. He often wondered, though, how Richie was faring.
Methos shook his head as he slid out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He shouldn't be dwelling on this now, so long after Duncan defeated the enemy that called himself Ahriman. He sighed heavily as he made his way to the glass door of the office. He supposed it was only natural that his mind kept going back to that, despite his firm belief that living in the here and now was always best, and that the past belonged right where it was -- the past.
It had been the beginning of the end for the camaraderie that had existed between those who belonged to 'Duncan's clan' -- willingly or unwillingly. Duncan had withdrawn into himself little by little, each encounter he'd had afterward serving only to make him more sullen and angry.
That had affected them all in little ways, drawing the tight-knit group farther and farther apart. And despite the advance warning, it had still taken him by surprise when everything had ended.
Of course, he could still be Adam Pierson, if he really wanted to. He knew that. Unfortunately, Adam didn't have enough years left to bother going to the trouble of building a whole new life for him. Besides, Methos rationalized, he was too closely associated with the Watchers to risk one of that secret society realizing that Adam wasn't growing older. He could always dye in some grey hairs, but he well knew from past experience what a pain in the ass *that* was to maintain.
He shook himself out of his thoughts as he approached the registration desk. It wasn't as if any of this had to be decided tonight. He had time. He had time to forget that for once in over 5,000 years he'd been part of a group of Immortals that acted like family, instead of enemies -- bitching and squabbling included. When tempers flared it didn't end with one of them minus a head -- although there *had* been a couple of close calls.
There'd been only one other time he'd come even close, and that--well that time was something he didn't like to think about. It wasn't exactly a time he was proud of. For the next couple of weeks -- at least -- he fully intended to forget about Immortals, Watchers, lost chances, *and* new identities. He was on vacation from . . . everything.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Methos answered gamely, politely ignoring the odor wafting across the dusty counter, coming from the unkempt, and dirty desk clerk, the three or four days worth of stubble on the man's face, and the hairy beer belly that peeked out from beneath a tank top that was at least one size too small. "I'd like a room for one, please," he continued, quickly changing his mind from his original plan of staying a week. "For one night."
The desk clerk nodded, pulling out a 3 by 5 card and shoving it across the counter toward Methos. "Fill this out," he said shortly, "and I'll get you your key."
A few minutes, a couple of terse exchanges, and money passing hands later, Mtehos headed out towards the room he had just rented under the name Max Winters. He just hoped the clerk's appearance wasn't an accurate representation of his room -- though common sense told him it probably was.
He shuddered as his worst suspicions were confirmed. The room was -- well, it was bad. He certainly wouldn't want to come back to it drunk. He might not survive the experience. The peeling, off-white paint revealed a neon green beneath it. He looked a little closer. Maybe it was white paint. The 'off' looked more like nicotine staining -- *old* nicotine staining. Everything was covered in more than one layer of dust. In fact it looked like it hadn't seen a rag in at least a year.
The carpet was torn in places, stained with substances Methos didn't care to speculate about, and the air itself carried with it an scent he was equally sure he didn't want to identify.
"Well, Max, old buddy, you've slept in worse places. Hell, you've *lived* in worse places." Methos scanned the room again, hoping maybe something had improved. "But it certainly hasn't been recently."
He shrugged it off. It would simply give him good reason to find a place that much more quickly. If worse came to worse, this town probably had another cheap motel -- one that wasn't quite as bad. Tonight, however, he was going to shower. He was going to go out, and he was going to forget. He snorted. **As if!**
Grabbing only the necessities, he headed for the bathroom, cringing when the door sounded like it was going to fall off its hinges. He let out a sigh of relief when it held.
"Bloody hell!"
He blinked twice. He had to. No, it hadn't changed. Mildew really was growing in almost every crook and cranny, as well as in all the cracks that lined the floor and walls. He didn't even bother to look up. It even looked like -- no, he wasn't getting close enough to find out for sure -- there was *moss* growing in the corners, and along the window sill. With no more than a quick glance at the toilet, he decided he wasn't going to lift the lid to check its condition.
He turned on one heel, stuffed his things back into his bag, and without taking the time to zip it up; he walked out. He didn't even bother to glance backward as he drove off. No camaflage was worth staying at a place like that.
Methos/Spike,
Richie/Buffy
Willow/Tara
Doyle/Cordelia
pre-slash Richie/Methos
Disclaimer: All things Highlander belong to Panzer, Rysher, and Davis. All things Buffy and Angel belong to Mutant Enemy Productions and Joss Whedon. Nothing belongs to me. I write purely for entertainment purposes -- no copyright infringement intended. No money has been, nor will it be made.
Warnings: This story contains adult themes, including violence and explicit sex (both het and slash). If any of this is not your cup of tea, or you are not old enough in your geographic location, please do not read.
Things That Go Bump in the Night
by
Kiristeen ke Alaya
********Prologue
**********
**Welcome to Sunnydale,** Methos thought as he entered the official city limits of the small California town. It sounded delightful, although the welcome sign looked like it had seen better days. He slowed the SUV to a crawl, making time to take a good look around him. The town appeared to be a typical small town. It seemed perfect -- nice, quiet, peaceful. There was nothing like the slower pace of a place like this for figuring out what to do next.
He couldn't stop the deep, heartfelt sigh that escaped him. He didn't bother trying, really. It felt right; kind of like he was pushing his old life back along with the air he blew out of his lungs. He smirked. Maybe he'd go a completely different route this time. Maybe he'd adopt a rich persona. It would be nice not to have to worry about how much money he was spending for a change.
He laughed then. He knew he probably wouldn't go that route. It drew much public attention. He didn't like lots of attention. Being a student again was probably a no go, though. Even he got burned out on learning sometimes.
Of course, as always, he had several he could choose from, each complete with paper trails already laid. He could take the next couple of months to decide which he wanted--who he wanted to be for the next couple of decades. For now, however, all he wanted to do was relax, and Sunnydale seemed the ideal place to do that in. All he needed to find tonight was a place to stay until he found himself a temporary apartment.
He grinned as a motel came up on his right, but grimaced as he pulled into the parking lot. It was a dump. There was no doubt about that. Of course, that meant there would also be no doubt that he could afford it--whatever persona he decided on by the time he got to the office. He knew being this ambivalent was dangerous. Last minute choices were the best way to make mistakes, big mistakes--mistakes that led to missing body parts.
That was why he was here in the middle-of-nowheresville. He wasn't ready to give up being Adam Pierson. Unfortunately, regardless of his wishes, that life was over. The only part of it left worth saving was Joe. MacLeod was nowhere to be found. The Immortal had hidden so well even the Watchers couldn't find him. Richie had taken off long before, not handling the odd changes in his mentor well at all. The boy had, had to many bad experiences when Duncan started acting strangely. Methos hadn't blamed the kid one bit when he'd said goodbye to them all and taken off for parts unknown.
Methos couldn't help but trace the changes back to Ahriman. The Highlander simply hadn't been the same since he'd almost killed Richie because of the arse's mind tricks. **And that's all they were!** he thought vehemently, **Tricks. Demons don't exist.**
Demons were things frightened people came up with to explain things they didn't understand--things that scared them. Demon was the name given to Immortals when they were discovered by mortals who couldn't, or wouldn't, take the time to understand them. In all his 5,000 plus years he'd never seen anything that even remotely convinced him that demons really existed.
Methos knew Joe kept track of the young Immortal's whereabouts, but he'd never asked. He often wondered, though, how Richie was faring.
Methos shook his head as he slid out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He shouldn't be dwelling on this now, so long after Duncan defeated the enemy that called himself Ahriman. He sighed heavily as he made his way to the glass door of the office. He supposed it was only natural that his mind kept going back to that, despite his firm belief that living in the here and now was always best, and that the past belonged right where it was -- the past.
It had been the beginning of the end for the camaraderie that had existed between those who belonged to 'Duncan's clan' -- willingly or unwillingly. Duncan had withdrawn into himself little by little, each encounter he'd had afterward serving only to make him more sullen and angry.
That had affected them all in little ways, drawing the tight-knit group farther and farther apart. And despite the advance warning, it had still taken him by surprise when everything had ended.
Of course, he could still be Adam Pierson, if he really wanted to. He knew that. Unfortunately, Adam didn't have enough years left to bother going to the trouble of building a whole new life for him. Besides, Methos rationalized, he was too closely associated with the Watchers to risk one of that secret society realizing that Adam wasn't growing older. He could always dye in some grey hairs, but he well knew from past experience what a pain in the ass *that* was to maintain.
He shook himself out of his thoughts as he approached the registration desk. It wasn't as if any of this had to be decided tonight. He had time. He had time to forget that for once in over 5,000 years he'd been part of a group of Immortals that acted like family, instead of enemies -- bitching and squabbling included. When tempers flared it didn't end with one of them minus a head -- although there *had* been a couple of close calls.
There'd been only one other time he'd come even close, and that--well that time was something he didn't like to think about. It wasn't exactly a time he was proud of. For the next couple of weeks -- at least -- he fully intended to forget about Immortals, Watchers, lost chances, *and* new identities. He was on vacation from . . . everything.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," Methos answered gamely, politely ignoring the odor wafting across the dusty counter, coming from the unkempt, and dirty desk clerk, the three or four days worth of stubble on the man's face, and the hairy beer belly that peeked out from beneath a tank top that was at least one size too small. "I'd like a room for one, please," he continued, quickly changing his mind from his original plan of staying a week. "For one night."
The desk clerk nodded, pulling out a 3 by 5 card and shoving it across the counter toward Methos. "Fill this out," he said shortly, "and I'll get you your key."
A few minutes, a couple of terse exchanges, and money passing hands later, Mtehos headed out towards the room he had just rented under the name Max Winters. He just hoped the clerk's appearance wasn't an accurate representation of his room -- though common sense told him it probably was.
He shuddered as his worst suspicions were confirmed. The room was -- well, it was bad. He certainly wouldn't want to come back to it drunk. He might not survive the experience. The peeling, off-white paint revealed a neon green beneath it. He looked a little closer. Maybe it was white paint. The 'off' looked more like nicotine staining -- *old* nicotine staining. Everything was covered in more than one layer of dust. In fact it looked like it hadn't seen a rag in at least a year.
The carpet was torn in places, stained with substances Methos didn't care to speculate about, and the air itself carried with it an scent he was equally sure he didn't want to identify.
"Well, Max, old buddy, you've slept in worse places. Hell, you've *lived* in worse places." Methos scanned the room again, hoping maybe something had improved. "But it certainly hasn't been recently."
He shrugged it off. It would simply give him good reason to find a place that much more quickly. If worse came to worse, this town probably had another cheap motel -- one that wasn't quite as bad. Tonight, however, he was going to shower. He was going to go out, and he was going to forget. He snorted. **As if!**
Grabbing only the necessities, he headed for the bathroom, cringing when the door sounded like it was going to fall off its hinges. He let out a sigh of relief when it held.
"Bloody hell!"
He blinked twice. He had to. No, it hadn't changed. Mildew really was growing in almost every crook and cranny, as well as in all the cracks that lined the floor and walls. He didn't even bother to look up. It even looked like -- no, he wasn't getting close enough to find out for sure -- there was *moss* growing in the corners, and along the window sill. With no more than a quick glance at the toilet, he decided he wasn't going to lift the lid to check its condition.
He turned on one heel, stuffed his things back into his bag, and without taking the time to zip it up; he walked out. He didn't even bother to glance backward as he drove off. No camaflage was worth staying at a place like that.