(Paris, France May 20, 1927)

The bloke before him little resembled the drunken gambler he had met back in 1927 in Paris. Dru had had visions of the pretty, blue-eyed flying man. At first he had thought she had gone on one too many vision quests and this was the result. A flying man, indeed. But then he'd overheard a radio broadcast while he'd killed some poor bugger in a bar, about how some Charles Lindbergh had successfully departed on May 20th from near New York City in an airplane. Apparently, the tosser had blue eyes.

Looking around the bar, his eyes fell on a rather drunk dark-headed fellow bellowing out that he would bet that the Lindbergh chap would crash into the ocean, never to be heard from again. Knowing that Dru had foreseen blue-eyed bonnie Charlie’s landing, Spike felt this fellow was ripe to not only be his meal the following night, but also help add to his rapidly depleting purse.

The dark-headed chap was speaking French but with an English accent. Good, I can play the part of the fool, a fellow countryman who just happened to fall into some inheritance, come to France for a holiday. Perfect. He smirked. He knew that as Spike this wanker would piss off and not fall for his act. Have to play William for a bit. Bugger all.

“Pardon, monsieur. Parlez vous anglais? Je parle très peu le français. I dare say, but I do believe that I detect that you are a fellow Englishman far from home such as myself, are you not?” Spike prattled, gnashing his teeth into an innocent smile.

The dark-haired bloke lit his eyes on what he perceived as a bumbling mama’s boy, English gent and smiled. “Why yes, indeed, I am. So good of you to come over to my table. Please, would you care to join me in a round of cards? I was just discussing with these fine Frenchmen about this American Charles Lindbergh. My name is Ben Adams, pleasure to meet you.”

“William. William Drayton. I would be delighted to join you. Thank you.” He nodded cheerfully to the other chaps. All nice and friendly like. This was too much fun. “Yes, I heard you say something to the effect that Mr. Lindbergh might perish during his flight. Pray tell, why do you think such a way, sir?”

“Oh, my good man,” Ben laid a hand on Spike’s shoulder, patting it twice, “let me order you a beer, or as they say here, 'une bière.' Garçon! Est-ce que nous pourrions avoir deux bières? C’est ma tournée!”

“So, my new friend, what brings you to this little bar in Gay Paree?” asked Ben.

Spike lowered his lashes almost seductively, “I’m on holiday. My sister has accompanied me, but has retired for the evening. Our dear father recently passed, and we came into a little sum. I thought she would like to see Paris. My sister is not well either you see. Forgive me, I do go on.” He had noticed that when he spoke of the inheritance, Ben’s eyes had sparked with mirth. The fly had fallen prey to the spider’s web. Excellent. “You were saying, sir, about the American flyer?”

“Oh yes, of course, Lindbergh. Well, recently, I’ve traveled to America. Fascinating place. Have you ever been? No? Someday, if you are able, you should try to go, perhaps take your sister. Some places, I hear, are quite beneficial for ill health. I digress. I’ve seen some designs for these so-called aeroplanes. I really doubt that the fellow will make it across the Atlantic in one piece,” Ben answered smugly.

“Sir, you cannot possibly mean that he will perish, that the poor man will have effectively committed suicide? Has he not a wife?” Spike made sure he sounded quite perplexed, and the very air of concern.

“No, I do not think he does at the moment.”

The waiter, or garçon, arrived with two frothy beers.

“Cheers!” said Ben.

“Merci,” answered Spike as he sipped his beer, faking a frown at the taste. He was supposed to be the delicate gentleman.

“Oh William, if you must dwell on the demise, think upon it thus, he will die a hero’s death. In the name of science, he flies to further the possibilities of reaching the Heavens. Really, who wants to live forever anyhow?” The wanker winked at him. If he only knew that he was sitting all cozy like with a vampire who, by his very nature, is immortal in his undeadness. Hmmm contradiction in there somewhere, the mix of the beer and the fresh kill still flowing through his undead veins was sending his senses reeling.

“I have just wagered mes amis here a small sum concerning the Yank’s flight. Would you care to join in a friendly wager?”

Spike about choked on his beer. He didn’t even have to do a lot of work for this tosser to ask him. Perhaps he should pull out his William during certain kitten poker games. “I do not know Ben. Surely, you’re not suggesting a wager on whether the gentleman lives or dies?” Spike asked, using his wide-eyed, innocent look. Made him want to heave.

“Why yes, I know it’s a tad morbid. But do not let the unpleasantness keep you from a spot of fun, dear William.”

“If I were to wager any amount of my purse, I would care to place my chances on him surviving and landing his plane. I would much rather think of positive thoughts,” Spike countered reeling his prey in some more.

“Brilliant. Care to say £6?”

Feigning shock, Spike sputtered, “£6! Why that’s outrageous!” Even though he was secretly quite pleased to know that he would be winning such a huge sum of money, the thought that this bugger thought he was going to rob him blind only fuelled his enthusiasm. “Our housing in Pimlico alone…pardon me. I forgot where I was. Do forgive me, sir.”

Looking through his lush lashes while he sipped on his beer, giving the appearance of composing himself, Spike watched as this Ben assessed the moderately well-to-do suburb of London that he had just mentioned. The bloke was falling for his play. Ben had nodded to his two French companions, neither of whom Spike had paid any considerable amount of attention to prior to the nod. His vampire senses were on high alert, just in case the Frogs decided to get bouncy. Having already savored one delicacy of French cuisine this evening, he might as well take home dinner for Dru.

Ben was speaking to him in cautious, coaxing tones that made him want to just rip the man's throat out right there. However, no one in their right mind carried that sort of capital on their person. He would have to be smart, win the bet, and collect it at wherever the pilot chap was to land tomorrow evening.

“William…I certainly did not mean to cause you any distress. Perhaps the amount is a bit excessive?” Ben began.

“No, no…that’s quite alright. I am quite settled now. The shock overwhelmed me initially that is all. The amount is of no consequence. It is fine. Since I prefer to pray that Mr. Lindbergh will fly with success, that God himself will alight under his wings and carry him here to Paris, I feel that it is a safe wager. How will we find each other sir? Do you know where he is to land supposedly?” He had almost choked on the invocation of God during that little speech, but since he was not dust…no brimstone had struck him, he thought maybe the blighter liked his performance too.

“One moment please, and I’ll find out where he is to land.” Ben turned to one of the Frenchmen, the one with a pug nose and asked, “Savez-vous où Lindbergh sera obligé à atterrir demain?”

Pug nose answered, “Oui. Il est supposé pour atterrir au Champ de Bourget de L'un jour autour de 10 du soir s'il le fait.”

“Merci, Luca.” Ben turned back to Spike and translated, unaware that he was not in need of the translation, “He says that Lindbergh is supposed to land at the Le Bourget Field around 10:00 tomorrow evening if he makes it. Why don’t we meet there? I suspect a crowd will be there as well, should be quite a spectacle.”

“Splendid, I shall have my funds ready just in case, and you do the same, agreed?” Ben nodded. “Thank you for the beer. I really must be going. I have stayed longer than I had intended, but your company sir has been a pleasure. My sister is expecting me you see, mustn’t keep her waiting. I bid you a good evening.” Spike even did his stupid, pratty little bow.

“And good evening to you, William. I shall meet you at the Field tomorrow!” Ben’s voice carried after him into the night.

Spike loved creating mischief. The Poofter would have been amazed at his acting this evening. Damn Angelus. Running off to New York of all places. Darla had gone off to the Master, who quite frankly, was a little too old, stodgy, and controlling for the likes of him. No, now it was just he and Dru. But still, Dru longed for her Daddy. Someday soon, though, he thought, she would stop yearning for her Sire and be content with just him. Someday. Shaking off his thoughts, he grimaced. Too much acting like William tonight cannot be good. Leads to bad thoughts. He continued down the street.

@_@_@_@_@_@_

(Le Bourget Field, May 21, 1927, 10:10 P.M.)

Spike was standing among a sea of people. Approximately 100,000 others had gathered to witness the bonnie, blue-eyed pilot from America fly into Paris to land in this overcrowded field at night. Dru was off somewhere circling the masses. He scented the air for Ben’s scent which was sort of woodsy, but old at the same time. Something he just couldn’t quite explain.

Ah, he smelled the bloke. Putting on his William spectacles, he lowered his head in a coy-like manner as he shuffled through the crowd. He wanted to appear to run into Ben sort of unexpected-like. With a bump into the chap’s shoulder, and a muffled “Oomph,” he knew he'd scored a successful hit.

“Oi, watch it there mate ... oh, hey there, William!” Ben grabbed his arm through his coat. “William, here you are. Been looking for you, mate.”

“Mr. Adams, so sorry to have run into you like I did. My apologies.”

“William, call me Ben…remember. We’re mates now. Well, it looks as if you might win this, if he lands without crashing. I cannot believe so many have come out to see this pilot.”

“You know, I was thinking the very same thing. I do hope no one gets injured. If the plane crashes, as you say, then what about all the people? I cannot believe they arrange to have such bright searchlights out and ready and these rockets! Oh look another lighted parachute. And if it lands, do you think the crowd would contain itself behind the iron fence? I, myself, am glad to be on this rooftop out of the way.” He almost could not hold in his snicker – a vampire worried about humans getting injured!

“I’m here with Pierre and Luca, you remember them from last night?”

“Ah yes, bonsoir.”

Pug nose and bland boy nodded and replied.

It was now 10:15 P.M., and the roar of an engine could be heard above his head. His eyes flashed amber briefly; he could make out the outline of the plane better than most. The plane circled overhead and turned. A few minutes passed. At 10:22 P.M., a great, shark-like nose came into his view, gliding down to the earth, alighting on the field. Two seconds later, the swell of humanity teeming at the high iron fence surged forward and broke down the gate, swarming the field. Spike could picture the rotor of the plane tearing into the lovely flesh of the stupid mob running toward the plane. Ah, Dru would think it such a lovely party.

In his fascination with the landing, Spike had almost forgotten the presence of his soon-to-be meal and profit for the evening. However, once the plane touched down, he turned to gloat to the bastard. Unfortunately, Ben had fled through the crowd. Spike observed Luca and Pierre chasing him shouting obscenities. Damn welsher! With that thought, he gave chase.

When he caught up to the group, he was stunned. Luca and Pierre were aiming pistols at both Ben and another tosser, but did not seem to know just who to really aim at. Ben was in the middle of a sword fight with another strange looking, blonde-haired git – well, not really a sword fight. Ben had a sword; the other guy had what looked like a medieval battle-axe. They were speaking in what sounded like some Scandinavian language, but Spike didn’t speak it, so he could not be sure.

Dropping the pretense of William, Spike hollered, “Oi! What are you blokes doin’? You welshing on a bet, Ben? Who is this nasty buggah?”

Without looking his way, which greatly impressed him, Ben shouted, “William, don’t know about that accent of yours, but this is none of your concern. I’m not a welsher. I just have to take care of a little something.” Nodding to the fellow attempting to strike a blow to his head and countering with a block and sucker punch to the gut, “Could you do your fellow Englishman a favor and get the Frenchies off my back? Guns are not a good item to bring to this little soirée.”

Wanting his money, and really intrigued that a human would actually sword fight in the early 20th century? The modern era, for blood’s sake! “Right, then.” He grabbed Pierre hauling him away from the fracas, twisting his neck before returning for Luca of the pug nosed clan.

Just as he returned, Ben stabbed Blondie in the gut. Apparently, Luca was displeased with this turn of events. Right, the bastard must work for the Axe-Wielding Swede. A gunshot went off. Smoke plumed from Luca's gun barrel as Spike jerked him backwards. Too late, he saw that Ben had been shot in the heart by Luca’s gun. Vamping, he drained Luca, who had a decidedly bad taste.

Afterwards, he'd searched Ben’s pockets and found not one quid to the tosser’s name. Bastard.

***End of Flashback***

(Private hanger, Cleveland’s Burke Lakefront Airport)

“So, Adam now, is it? Interesting how that was your surname our last go round,” Spike said, coming out of his reverie.

“Like you are one to talk, William. Imagine my surprise to find out that you were a demon, a vampire no less,” Adam countered.

“Can I just say 'whoa!' and 'Holy Bazooka Joe!' Okay, wait just a second here. Adam is an immortal, but he has a heartbeat, right? Is an immortal some sort of demon?” asked a flustered Xander.

Adam cracked a smile, “Immortals are not demons. Well, not really. Some of us are evil though; some of us are good. We are born without a mother, somehow; I don’t quite understand it myself. Anyway, we are human until our first death. If our first death is from an act of violence and not a natural one from old age, then we are ... re-animated, I guess you could call it, at that point. Spike is correct. He saw me suffer a gunshot wound to the heart. However, at that point, I had already been around awhile. That was another immortal that you saw me fighting with, by the way,” he said, nodding to Spike. “Soon after, he must have left the scene; I awakened in that damned field free to continue my existence.”

Rona walked back up to her Watcher, staring him intently in his eyes. Then she turned back around, getting a permissive smile from Spike, and spoke, “Well, ain’t that something. I’ve got the coolest Watcher. One that I can kill in training and everything! Cool, man!”

With that, everyone relaxed. The entire troop piled into the “let-us-not-announce-our-arrival" limo.

“Hey, Ahab.”

“Hey, Bleached Wonder?”

“I thought I told you that we didn’t want to go around announcing to the world that we had arrived here in Cleveland? This limo just screams ‘subtle’ to me,” Spike quipped.

“Well, Ode to All Things Peroxide, we had to fit all of us into one vehicle, and seeing as how we were coming from a private hanger, I didn't think a beat-up Honda would say, ‘Yeah, we can afford the parking, storage, and the costs of a private jet.’ Come on man, lay off. Wait until we get to HQ,” Xander pleaded.

Spike observed his charges and the rest of the group. Next to him on his left sat Connor, tense but heart rate steady just like a warrior. He was observing as well, but also looking out the tinted window. On his right was Illyria.

On the side seats next to Connor sat Gunn and Rona. They were whispering and flirting. Perhaps Gunn should stay in Cleveland with Rona to heal when I depart for Rome. Be good for the lad. He had heard that Gunn and Fred had been a couple long before she and Wes had started having feelings for each other. It was good to see him at least approaching a happy smile. And Rona, who had never cracked a smile, except after that potential excursion when he and Buffy left the girls to fend for themselves in the crypt with the newly risen vamp, was showing one through her eyes.

Opposite them sat an obscenely snuggled Faith and Wood. She was draped over his body like he was the dark chocolate to her vanilla, making them one of those Hershey Hugs or something. Could he give it a Buffy and Dawn, "ewww!" He now could appreciate what Rupert felt like during the whacked out ‘Will Be Done’ spell that Willow had cast those many years ago. Unfortunately he wasn’t blessed with Rupert’s blindness, and as for his hearing ... Bloody hell.

Xander was sitting on the opposite end, back facing the driver, on the same seat as Dana and Adam. Xan was pulling on Dana’s pigtail bobs, or whatever those things sticking out from her head were called. She was beaming at him and relaying all the carnage that she had brought forth in Los Angeles. Watching the way the whelp brought out the playful side of the formerly-deranged murderer softened his undead heart just a tad for his former roommate.

Adam was staring out the window, seeming to pay no one any attention whatsoever. However, Spike noticed that Illyria was staring intently at the Immortal Watcher. Her face conveyed a look he had not seen since the Time Bomb incident when she thought they had sought to destroy her completely.

He whispered, “What’s wrong, Blue?”

Without shifting her stare, Bluebell whispered back, “That one. I know that one somehow, from when I laid entombed in that well with others of my kind. At times when violence reigned, images floated around me. That one and three others riding horses brought destruction and terror wherever they played. He made even demons tremble in fear. He rode a white horse. He was Death. Apes, such as you, had only begun to cluster together in what you now call cities when that one began his reign of terror.”

Adam shifted his gaze to Illyria seemingly having overheard her whisper, even though no one else had; either that, or he felt that they were discussing him. He quirked a cocky smile and nodded at the Goddess.

Spike contained his shock. He knew that Grandma was around during the last great demon age, which was over 8000 years ago. She could not possibly mean that the being sitting so casually across from him was thousands of years old. No, she must be mistaken. For if she was correct, he shuddered at the thought of his young vampiric-self trying to match such an old one. But, then again, he wondered if any vampire had ever attempted to turn an immortal. Something he would definitely have to ask later.

The limo had arrived at some suburban street. As it turned the corner, he looked out onto the houses that lined the street. The car slowed, and Spike took in an unneeded breath. Both Blue and Con looked at him strangely. But they didn’t understand what he was seeing.

Before the car had come to a complete stop, he leaped from the car, unmindful of the sun’s deadly rays. Thankfully, Con or someone threw a blanket on him and rushed him to the porch. It was Xander. Hastily saying, “You’re welcome to my home, Spike,” thereby shattering the barrier keeping him out, Xander rushed him into the house.

Inside, he remained gobsmacked. Too many shocks to his system in the last twenty-four hours. His mind could not take much more, he thought. For here he was, standing in an exact replica of 1630 Revello Drive, right down to his tree in the front yard and the furniture layout inside.

Faith had appeared beside him. “I know, it’s freaky, with the whole déjà vu thing and all, but you get used to it, Bleachy. Everything’s five by five.”

**end chap 7**

A/N: In 1906, a pint of beer cost approximately 2 pence (2d). 240d or 240 pennies = £1. 12d = 1s (shilling) and 20s = £1. A guinea is 21 shillings. An upper middle class gentleman (not landed gentry) would earn roughly £700 yearly. So to estimate £1 would pay for approximately 120 pints of beer for Spike back in the 1920s! Credit for this information: http://www.victorianweb.org and http://www.victorianlondon.org. For the information regarding Charles Lindbergh’s first solo flight: http://www.charleslindbergh.com/history/paris.asp.

Spike was standing in the foyer, with Slayer’s den just to his left. Without turning, he knew if he looked to the right, he would see the dining room table and chairs that many a dinner was served on in a destroyed Sunnydale. Before him lay the exact same stairs, where he could almost envision the sight of Buffy, newly returned from Heaven, wearing her white button down blouse. Over there was the spot he had cornered Buffy during their secret relationship - well, to him it was a relationship - while the Scoobs were in the next room, only to be interrupted by Glinda.

He heard Faith, but his mind was not registering any of them. As he moved into the den that had the same color scheme, the same furniture, the same fireplace, more memories flooded his mind. Babysitting Dawn; watching Passions; even that first sit down with Joyce, when she had learned of Buffy’s calling and his true nature.

However, he did notice that the pictures he was expecting to be displayed weren’t. Still, this was all wrong. This wasn’t Joyce’s house. This wasn’t Buffy’s house. Everything was destroyed and rested in the bottom of a crater once called Sunnydale.

Eyes flashing amber, he turned angrily on Xander, grabbing him by the arms. “What the bleeding hell have you done, Harris?”

He felt both Rogue’s and Con’s hands on him, trying to restrain him. Much to his displeasure, Ahab was acting as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

“Calm down, Fang breath. Ease up, will ya? It’s my house, and I wanted a reminder of the only place that made me feel at home. Don’t tell me this doesn’t make you think ‘home.’ I know that it does,” Xander calmly responded.

Jerkily releasing him, Spike huffed unnecessarily, not wanting to give Xander the satisfaction of agreeing with him.

Xander continued, “Besides, I wanted to make sure that these future Slayers knew where it all began ... well, sorta. Once you look around, you’ll see that really it isn’t the same. I have more rooms in the back and on the second floor, which comes in handy for any emergency Scooby crisis. And that’s good for you…‘cause you’ll be staying here for the night.”

“S’alright Con. Rogue, let go of the leather.” He refocused on the rest of the group. Charlie and Blue had moved in behind him while Rona, Dana, Adam, and Wood skirted around the edge more into the center of the room behind Xander. Unconsciously, the two cliques had once again separated into their camps, and Spike had to inwardly smirk at this.

Regaining his cool, he decided to give the replica house a closer inspection, trying to keep his emotions in check. He had remembered Pinks telling him about her Watcher crying over pictures of his Ahn, and once he cleared his memory-vision, he noticed several pictures of Demon Girl. How had the whelp recovered these? Spike walked over to one, feeling the Whelp’s eyes on him the entire time.

“She was a right bird. Miss hearing her prattle on about money and vengeance.” He looked over at Xander, who was focused solely on the photograph. Bloody hell, first the house and now the pictures of the Demon bird … Harris was making a shrine to Sunnydale. Bloke was wallowing in his grief, and no one was seeing it. Just like Willow, after Oz that time.

Xander seemingly shook himself out of whatever thought he was having and responded with a goofy grin, “Yeah, my beautiful Ahn. And wouldn’t ya’ know, my stupid girl died saving Andrew. Anyway, welcome to me casa. Dana can show you to your rooms later. Right now, we need to catch up on a few matters, don’t you think?”

As everyone was placing the baggage in the dining room, Gunn moved in close to Spike and whispered, “So, this is what the Summers’ house looked like? I always wondered you know. I never made it to Sunnydale. LA was always my scene.”

“Yeah, Charlie boy. Bloody shrine’s what Harris has done. I’d say in all my dealings with the First, this about tops that. If the First would deign to appear as a house, I would almost think I was back in its bloody clutches,” Spike confided.

Gunn placed a hand on his shoulder, “I’m here if you need perspective, Spike. But for now, I’ve got me a fine honey to cuddle up to on that sofa in there. Excuse me.”

Spike smiled as he watched Charlie saunter back in the direction of the den. He felt a presence at his side. Adam.

“I need to speak to you privately before the main festivities. I have some information for you that the others do not know and can never know.” The Immortal Watcher dourly eyed him. “Come, I’ve already told Xander that I need a moment with you, before he begins. He will detain the others.”

“Where do you propose we talk in private in this house? I know this house, nowhere is actually private.” Spike asked, careful to keep the hesitancy out of his voice. The whispered words of Illyria were still replaying in his mind. Who was this bloke, really?

“No, you knew the other house. Harris, from what I gather, has changed a lot of the back of the house. Just these front rooms copy the one from the pre-Cleveland Hellmouth days. Come, there is a study.”

With a shrug, Spike followed. Adam was not lying. After the stairwell, the rest of the house was designed differently. They entered a study - the Whelp has a study - that was obviously a Watcher’s oasis. He could have easily pictured Rupert here, but Ahab was an entirely different matter.

Xander had amassed quite the collection of dusty tomes, a fully complete Watcher starter set; but, in the corner, displayed proudly behind glass and backlit, were his Star Wars action figures and Babylon Five collector plates. Either Xander had shipped them out before the final days, or had restarted his collection afterwards. He remembered Xander being so proud of those damned plates when they had been forced roomies after he first got the chip and he had worn out his welcome at the Rupert’s. Ah, the smelly, fruit rollup basement, with the plethora of Hawaiian shirts. Brando said it best, “The Horror.”

“Ahem,” caught his wandering attention. He turned his focus to the other individual in the room. He found him propped up against the desk, having removed his camel colored long overcoat that had previously hid his sword. If I bought into all that color mojo, then I would suspect someone had switched the playbook without telling me, sneering internally. For here he was, wearing all black – a good guy, as if that wasn’t worth a chuckle; and then there was Adam over by the desk, wearing a white-Heather cable knit sweater with khaki pants – the quintessential white hat but was he really? That was the question of the moment?

“Ah yes, I see you’ve noticed our host’s priceless collection. What Americans consider art these days! Although I do sort of appreciate watching 'Stargate' on occasion.” Pausing for a moment, Adam continued, “I need to tell you about Kristophe, how I know about him, what else I know, and lastly, who I really am. First, let me assure you that, in this matter, I have my own reasons for wanting in on this hunt. No, I personally have never had the pleasure of meeting either Miss Summers or her dear sister, but I have had the pleasure of correspondence with Dawn. She is really quite the intelligent young lady, a voracious researcher.”

“Whoa there, Ben, Adam, whoever the bleedin’ hell you say you are. Just because we shared a few pints back in Paris don’t mean I’m gonna let you go on about my Nibblet. So, just shut your gob about her.” He wasn’t about to let this ‘immortal’ bugger even discuss his Dawn. He didn’t have the right. Arrogant prick.

As he began to pace the floor of the library, his questions kept on piling. “All right, you mentioned a 'Kristophe.' Who the bloody hell is Kristophe?”

Adam looked dumbfounded. “Why, he is the one you call ‘the Immortal,’ of course. Kristophe is his given name. He has had several throughout his lifetime, actually, as have I.” At that statement, he cast a smile back at Spike. “However, Kristophe is his real name. He is an Immortal, and there is but one true way to kill him. Unfortunately, you will need me to do that for you.”

“Sod off, you gormless tit! That bastard apparently helped the Senior Partners get a hold of my girls, and mate, that makes him mine,” Spike practically screamed back at Adam.

“An Immortal must kill another Immortal.” Adam sighed as if he was teaching a remedial pupil in school, and had given this lecture time and time again. Spike figured he probably had. Adam began to mutter more to himself, “True, a human or I guess another being, such as yourself could get lucky and kill one of us the proper way, but the quickening is lost, and that is entirely unacceptable at this stage of the game.”

“Quickening? Game? Is that it? Are we some lesser beings here to be toyed with while you Immortals play your games? You shite!” Spike was ready to put a sword through this guy’s heart right now … just for the pain of it, knowing it wouldn’t kill him, but it would make Spike feel a lot better.

“I wish Duncan were here, he could explain it better. Of course you two, would both go in balls to the wall after the damsels without a plan, which is why he needed me, why my former brothers needed me til I betrayed them for Duncan.” Spike noticed that the Immortal Watcher stared off into some haunted past from which he was still trying to recover. His voice was almost timid, alarming Spike at first, “I’m sure you can appreciate this, as I’ve read your tale in what Rupert has written, and also the unofficial accounts from the potentials, Andrew, Dawn, and Faith. You’re born. You grow up in a hard existence, not quite fitting in, and not really understanding why. Three older boys suddenly start to take an interest in you. Sure you are the smartest of the four, and you figure that is why they need you, but you don’t really care as long as they need you. It feels good to be part of something. They teach you to ride, to do unspeakable acts and enjoy them. I was a Horseman. I became the Most Feared, for I rode the Pale Horse, and I was Death.”

Adam paused. Spike felt he should keep quiet, because he knew Adam would be continuing his story soon. “We raided countless villages, laid waste to thousands of communities, raped and pillaged and looted. We took, because it was all ours, don’t you see? The life of a horseman. Until she came. Cassandra. We'd ridden into her camp, destroyed her entire people, including her. She, of course, was one of us. I waited for her first rebirth to immortal life; you know what that is like. Feisty wench tried to stab me right off! Fiery green eyes that matched her disposition. For some reason, I did not treat her the way I normally treated our other spoils. I kept her for myself, and she in turn began, I believe, to care for me. Unfortunately, this move of mine did not go unnoticed; Kronos made his move. In order to not be killed myself, I had to deny her, and she was taken out of my care immediately. She escaped. Funny thing; for millennia, I thought she was dead. Then she appears at Duncan’s, sees me, goes into vengeance mode, and tries to do me in. Bloody women! Further complicating matters, Kronos had reappeared along with my other brothers, Silas and Caspian, both of whom I had long thought were dead; unfortunately, they weren’t, and Kronos released them. The Four Horsemen rode again!”

He snickered, “You thought Angelus cornered the market on being a right bastard? Just know he could have been properly schooled by Kronos. He saw Duncan as an obstacle to their getting me to return to their ways, and the bonus that Cassandra was in town was too great an opportunity to pass up. Had to play both sides close to the vest; fortunately I chose Duncan.”

Methos, "Death," stalked over to the bar cabinet, opened up the mini-fridge, took out a beer, raised his eyebrow in offer to grab one for Spike, threw one to him, and then moved to a comfy chair to sit. “My real name is Methos. Please do not let anybody in the Watcher’s Council know that Methos and I are the same.” Spike nodded in agreement; when would he ever tell the Wankers’ Council anything anyway? He twisted off the top of his imported beer; impressive choice of Harris, must keep it on hand for Adam…Methos. Feeling the cool liquid soothe his throat, he felt better just having the bottle in hand; if nothing else, he could beat the bloke over the head with it once it was empty.

Now that he was Methos, his demeanor changed, and Spike could see the inner warrior that had waged war millennia ago. “So mate, how old are you, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Working on 5000 years, give or take a few.”

Drawing an appreciative whistle, “So what’s with all the secrecy about being Methos? Hell of a better name than Ben or Adam.”

“Well, the Council has it in their minds that, if I really existed, being that I’m the oldest living Immortal, I would be quite the find. Furthermore, imagine the embarrassment of having had me under their bloody noses for years without any of them being the wiser. In 1984, as Adam I graduated from their Academy to study Immortals and to become a Watcher. I maneuvered myself into the task of compiling the Methos Chronicles, to separate fact from myth, as many of my colleagues who are now dead, due to the Immortals/Renegade Watchers Wars and then the Caleb explosion, believed he (I) was a hoax. With this plum assignment, I was able to control what information flowed about me. However, the Cassandra and Kronos debacle blew not only my human cover, but also my Adam Immortal identity as well to those in that division. Here’s some bitter irony, I had my own Watchers assigned to me.”

He closed his eyes for a second. Spike figured that whatever had happened must have been bad. His past dealings with the Council proved they were a bunch of wankers; Travers was no great loss to him. So, for this guy to have infiltrated the lot, knowing his chance at exposure could bring him a world of trouble raised Spike's estimation of him slightly. What surprised him was that the Council had this supposed separate division he never knew about, dedicated only to immortals. Who knew? And here, the tosser, Kristophe - what a poncy name - was holding himself out to be the only one. Right bastard!

Methos continued, “I had severed my official dealings with the Watchers, but those of us that were part of the Immortal section bore these tattoos.” He raised his sleeve slightly to show a blue, Celtic-looking circle that contained a weird "W." “If you see this, you know it is one of us. However, there are still some of the renegades out there, so we have to be cautious. Years went by; I went sort of underground, only keeping contact with a certain trusted member of the Council – and no, before you ask, not Rupert. Anyway, after the bomb that destroyed HQ, and incidentally my three Watchers, my friend contacted me. He informed me what Rupert Giles was trying to establish and how I could be of assistance. When I came here, Rupert knew of my research skills, and he needed trained Watchers; fortunately, the records containing the information about my expulsion were in the building at the time of the explosion, and were never recovered. I had a clean slate again, until you threw a spanner in the works.” The last was said with a smirk.

“My heart bleeds for ya, truly.” Finding a chair of his own to settle into, Spike sat down and asked, “So, Methos, tell me about the tosser, Kristophe, and what else it is that you know. I plan on lettin’ the kiddies rest the night, but I don’t intend on wasting my time dawdling here in Cleveland while Evil Incorporated is holding my girls. So get on with your tale.”

“Spike, before I tell you more about Kristophe, let me put your mind at ease about one thing. I have a friend watching out for Buffy and Dawn.”

“Wot?”

“Hopefully, if all goes to plan, he’ll be making contact with them soon. Then he’ll give me a status update. I expect to hear from him within the next few hours.”

A/N: Inner thoughts are in italics. Dialogue credited to BTVS: "Chosen" and my own "Poetry Slam." This chapter contains sexual situations, so purely NC-17... then again, the whole fic is rated that, but I wanted to emphasize this.

~@~@~@~@
(Rome, Italy)

Curled up on the green plush chair in the makeshift sitting area, Buffy reflected on the past 24 hours.

When Dawn had first awoken, she was still drowsy from the drug these ‘lawyers’ had given her. Buffy had scoped out a medicine cabinet and found some aspirin, but she wasn’t about to trust any medicine they put forth. Instead, she found a washcloth, wet it, and used it to cool Dawn’s forehead hoping to prevent any headaches.

Dawnie, of course, wanted to seriously put a hurt on anyone and anything when she became fully aware of what had happened. Learning that the Immortal helped kidnap them brought her Summers temper royally on, in full force. Her eyes flashed with a hurt that looked so much like Spike’s, it tore at Buffy's heart even more.

Neither of them had liked the Immortal at first. They had moved to Rome for Dawn’s studies. Buffy had been emotionally numb since Spike’s death; well, romantically, at least. She did feel free to do things she never thought she would be able to do, like travel, and see Europe. The only downside to having that freedom was she didn’t have Spike by her side.

She'd tried to put on a brave front, like she always did. Only Dawn really knew how she cried at night; how the nightmares - repeatedly seeing his hand ignite in hers, and him telling her, “No, you don’t. But thanks for saying it.” - haunted her, night after night. But even Dawn didn’t know about that last night, the night before she lost him.

***FLASHBACK***

Standing across from him in her basement, he stood before her. She knew that he would be happy to merely hold her for the night, as he had the past several nights. As he stood there, she could almost picture the man he once was, the man he had become, and the man he was destined to be, and it astounded her. He had done it for her, to be hers; to be given such a gift, and only now, here at the end, to really appreciate it. But still he stood there, anxious to see what her next move would be. Here stood the man - yep, no longer just a vampire to her - a man who had pieced her back together the other night, and helped her regain her confidence when she so desperately needed it; he was always there. He'd never left - only that one time, when he went out to get a soul for her.

Standing there, she realized that yes, she loved him, the whole package, and tonight she would show him.

Buffy had caressed his cheek, then moved her fingers to the curls on the nape of his neck, breathing, “Kiss me.”

He had smirked before pleasuring her with one of his knee-quivering kisses. God, he could kiss! She had learned that during Willow’s ‘Will Be Done’ spell, but foolishly tried to deny it for so long afterwards.

Pushing him back onto his cot, she removed her white sweater. She hissed as she felt his cold hands rub her nipples through her simple cotton bra. And, just like that, a flood of wetness dampened her panties. He could arouse her in the simplest of ways, sometimes with just a look, sometimes watching him fight; and now, here, with his touch.

He leaned forward nuzzling her stomach and growling, causing wicked sensations throughout her body but especially to her most sensitive spot.

“Spike,” she moaned. Leaning down, she nibbled his earlobe, which always drove him to distraction.

“Slay-er,” he sing-songed back to her. Using his hands, he swiftly undid her pants, and she kicked them somewhere to the side. Then he ripped her underwear from body.

Damn. Oh well, if she died tomorrow, she wouldn’t need to shop for more anyway. She tugged at the black tee shirt that seemed permanently attached to his rock-hard body. Whimpering got his attention, and he complied by raising his arms for her to remove his shirt. Oooo…delicious. She bent down to taste the skin on his chest, teasing one of his nipples.

At that, he flipped her onto the cot, causing her to momentarily lose her breath. While she recovered, he had already removed her bra, and had one nipple in his mouth, tweaking the other between his thumb and finger. His demin-clad cock was hitting her clit. Damn! What are his jeans still doing on?!

As much as, oh yes, that felt good, she really wanted to feel more of him; but he wasn’t pushing the issue, due to what had happened last year. Trailing her fingers down his back, to his waist, she manipulated his belt buckle and unzipped his jeans, releasing his cock into her ready hand. He stopped with a questioning look in his eyes. In answer to his question, she began to move her hand on his cock, to use her feet to push down his jeans, and eagerly press her lips to his in a hungry kiss.

When she broke the kiss for much-needed air, he moved to kiss and nip at her neck and breasts. Again he gazed up, but this time his face contained a demon’s mischief. Oh, she was in for it now! Even though his lips were cool, her skin seemed to sizzle with each kiss as he moved further down her torso.

The menace teased her with that talented tongue of his, swirling it in ways that reminded her of Heaven. Pulling on his bleached locks, she locked her knees around his head, so happy that he didn’t need to breathe. She had so missed this! Trembling, she found herself coming hard into his waiting mouth. Of course, he had to smirk at her, coated with her juices.

Jerking him back to her lips, she kissed him, tasting herself. Before he could get settled, she flipped him so that she was on top. Smiling wickedly, Buffy grabbed his cock, positioned herself over him, and then slowly inched herself down onto him. His girth stretched her walls, and his length reached her in places no one else ever had reached.

His eyes had rolled back in his head, and his hands strayed to her hips, urging her to move. Varying the pace, she started to ride him faster, placing her hands on his chest for support. Spike shifted his hips, raising himself to a seated position, and kissed her lips.

Sitting astride his lap with him nuzzling her breast, a sudden urgency overwhelmed her. She needed more. She needed to tell him, show him, and give herself to him. Purposefully slowing her rhythm, Buffy waited for him to turn his sapphire eyes up to her face.

Studying his face, wanting to savor each moment, she whispered, “I want you to make me your girl.”

For a moment, he eyes shone, but then dulled. “You don’t mean it, luv,” he replied.

His expression echoed the same one he'd after she told him she was just using him, after she had helped blow up his crypt. God, could she have been any more a bitch? Watching Spike quickly cover his true emotions, Buffy realized just how emotionally scarred her vampire really was, and her heart felt heavy with the guilt of her contribution to those scars.

Inspiration struck. The words came to her; she suddenly knew just what to say. She urgently whispered, “Yes, I do. I want it more than anything. This may be our last night. I am yours, William. I am yours, Spike.”

Keeping her slow rhythm, Buffy watched as Spike shifted into his beautiful game-face. She had always secretly thought that, for some reason; he'd always had the most beautiful vamp face, even when she'd first met him.

“Tell me you love me,” he pressed as his pelvic bone hit her clit.

Could he read her mind? Did he know that she had just thought of that moment too? Should have known he would have that memorized, but she’d surprise him by showing him that she did, too! Not able to stop the smile forming on her face, she replied, “I love you. You know I do.”

“Tell me you want me.”

As she said this, she allowed the truth to fill the words, hoping he'd pick up on it, “I always want you. In point of fact…”

“Good enough.”

Buffy felt his fangs enter her neck where it had been marred by the Master and Dracula. Even though her Slayer instinct should have been screaming at her for allowing him to bite her as it had the three previous times, this time, her Primal Slayer self arched closer to his fangs.

After she felt him pull her blood from her body, he demanded, “MINE.”

None of her previous bites had been anything like this. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, in time with pace of their bodies joining, his cock hitting her cervix. Spike’s hands seemed everywhere at once – her arms, her breasts, her back, her hair, her ass, her stomach. All the while his tongue lapped more blood, each time causing a deep pull in her loins.

What now? Her Primal Slayer instructed her. Licking her lips, she latched her teeth onto his alabaster skin. Biting harder than probably necessary, she smiled inwardly when his blood pooled into her mouth. Swallowing a bit, she removed her mouth to clearly state, “MINE.”

Spike growled in her ear, and her womb quivered in responding climax as his filled her. Her inner muscles squeezed and milked his cock for the last of its spendings. Meeting his stare, she found love in his sapphire depths.

***End of Flashback***

Later that night, she had coaxed him into marking her over Angel’s bite. Now she rubbed both sides of her neck through her black turtleneck sweater.

The first few hours after being rejoined with Dawn, she went into reconnaissance mode. Searching the prison apartment, she discovered hidden cameras and microphones. When she had ripped out the first microphone, Miss Voice had immediately squawked that she stop removing them. Two burly, Italian-suited goons entered the apartment, guns drawn, with a techie-type, who replaced the mike.

Earlier, she had also found one camera in the bathroom, which she promptly had obliterated into a million little pieces. Now it was a safe place to at least shower and pee. No one was going to tape her Dawnie using the bathroom. That was just too much!

When Miss Voice had come on, she let her have it with both barrels, asking Miss Thang how she'd like being sued for taping an underage girl without her consent, and basically in the realm of child pornography? She had listened to Willow rant about child internet pornography so many times that she guessed it had soaked into her brain, because enough legal jargon spewed out of her mouth that Miss Voice shut the hell up and didn’t replace the bathroom camera. Score one for the Buffster, Buffy the Evil Lawyer Slayer!

Still, microphones were embedded in all parts of the furnished prison apartment, so they had to be careful about their conversations. If they truly wanted a private conversation, they went to the bathroom and turned the water on full blast, but nevertheless kept their voices lowered.

Buffy came out of her reverie as the door to their cell opened, and two men entered. Both men were different from those who had come before; however, that wasn’t unusual. One pushed a food cart; he was heavy set, and looked stupid, in an old black-n-white movie comedy "stupid crook" sort of way. He obviously deferred to the other one, who walked with a cane.

Mr. Cane had salt-and-pepper hair, cut messily short, with a beard to match. Unlike the others at this firm, this guy wore a worn, heather-gray wool jacket and jeans. Also unlike the others, he looked straight at her. This drew her attention even more to him, which made her realize that it wasn’t a limp that caused him to walk with the cane for assistance; he wore prosthetics on both legs.

“How did you lose your legs?” she couldn’t resist asking. She knew that all her conversations were monitored and that these "helpers" were directed not to speak to her. None of them had, so she just had to see if she could get this one to.

“Little lady, now, that was a rude question.” He hobbled over toward her. He then motioned to Stupid to bring the cart over to him. To Stupid he said, “Wait for me at the door; I need to correct Miss Summers' manners.”

Buffy at first couldn’t believe that he'd responded to her question, and then got suspiciously angry at what he implied to Stupid. Dawn had noticed the unusual interaction, and had moved from sitting on the edge of the bed to a defensive position behind her. Good.

“Miss Summers, and ah, I see your sister has joined us.”

“Leave her out of this, don’t speak to her,” she interrupted him.

“Of course.” He lowered his voice noticeably, “Damn it, girl, wise up and play along. You think just anyone here would speak to you?” Louder, “Miss Summers, it is rude to address me in such a manner. And here I am to serve you a nice dinner of your favorites.”

Buffy closely observed as he raised the lids to one of the entrée plates, his wrist sleeve raised just slightly, showing a weird looking blue tattoo of a Celtic-looking circle enclosing a blue "W;" but, more importantly inside the lid cover was a note. She looked up into Cane Man’s face, and saw an urgent but kind expression there.

Opting to play along as if she didn’t see the hidden note, she coyly said, “Oooo, goody. Look, Dawn at the yummy goodness, aren’t we fortunate! So, how did you lose the legs?”

“Vietnam.”

“Oh, sorry.” Buffy actually felt a little tinge of regret, but then again this guy was working here for her abductors. Regardless of what he'd said in the lowered voice, she’d been played too many times in her recent history to just listen to someone who told her to. Yep, Rupert would be proud. Heh, Spike would be even prouder. Spike. Her heart ached for him; but now was not the time to dwell on what she would like to do when she finally saw him again. Well, if he’d let her, that is.

“Well, your highness, you and the princess will be so happy to know that I’ll be your regular server from here on out. Franz, who doesn’t speak any English,” he said with a nod, “will be assisting me. You can call me Joe.”

“So Joe, what d’ya know?” she giggled.

She couldn’t help it. His name just brought out her inner Xander, and God what an awful image that conjured in her mind. Yuck. Oooo, Snoopy dance. I wander if Spike would do a naked Snoopy dance for me…yummy naked Spike parts, dancing.

Her mind felt a definite, sharp rebuke, as if Spike was telling her, "No bloody way in hell!" about the Snoopy dance. Well, that was certainly different. Okay, no time to focus on what that meant, back to business. Be serious Slayer Buffy now.

Joe and Dawn were both looking at her strangely. She must have zoned out there for a second. “Sorry, must be the low blood sugar. You were saying?” Dawnie kept giving her a weird look, so she tried to signal to her to leave it alone for now.

Joe continued, “Like I said, I’ll be by later to collect the plates. My ‘boss’ will be happy to note that both of you look well.” Buffy again felt that when he said "boss" he wasn’t meaning Wolfram & Hart, or Miss Mysterious Voice. She had to find a way to read that letter without the monitors catching her doing so.

“Oh yeah, confinement just does wonders for our complexions. I hear it’s the latest spa treatment. Don’t you, Dawnie?”

“Umm, yeah, Buffy…what you said.”

“I will see you later, Miss Summers.” With that, Joe departed.

“Buffy, what in the world….” Buffy brushed her bangs away from her face, interrupting Dawn. That was their signal to stop any conversation until they got to a safe spot.

“Dawnie, let’s just see what exactly we have to eat first, okay?” She gave her one of Joyce’s best "I want no arguments young lady," looks. Dawn immediately took the cue, realizing the seriousness of the look and the request behind it, and joined Buffy at the food cart.

Carefully lifting each lid off their respective plates, Buffy saw that each dish contained either her or Dawn’s favorite foods. She did not flip the lids to look underneath them in case the hidden cameras had zoom lenses. Unfortunately, she wasn’t able to covertly feel under them either to see if any others possessed a note. Stacking them could possibly ruin the ink, so she took each one over to the bed. If Dawn found that odd, she didn’t let on, because Dawn was already digging into one of her dishes.

“Ummm, Dawnie?”

With her mouth full of food, so typical Dawn, even more mature, “Mm…yeah?”

“I’m just going to eat on the bed tonight, okay. I don’t feel like eating at the table. I’ll be sure to clear off any crumbs.”

“M’okay,” said Dawn, taking in another forkful of food.

Buffy helped herself to a small plate of her favorites and settled herself on the bed. She made a big production for the cameras of arranging the lids to serve as a makeshift food tray, which enabled her to feel underneath each one. Those that didn’t have a note underneath, she stacked on top of each other.

Two had notes. Those she surreptitiously slipped into her long-sleeved black sweater. Hey, she did learn Spike’s slight-of-hand! Fake stretching; she made sure they stayed in her sleeves, while she ate.

Finishing her food as quickly but in as unsuspicious a manner as possible, which was extremely hard to do, Buffy made her way to the bathroom.

Opening the first note, she gasped in surprise. Quickly flushing the toilet to cover her gasp, she began to read.

The heart that now only sees half of everything sends his regards. Friend of Eve’s husband.
I’m one who records & keeps a diary.

That note ended, due to the length of the paper; she quickly unfolded the second.

Remember Cleveland Rocks!
An Observer

Turning on the sink, Buffy began to cry. Xander! This guy, if this wasn’t a trick, was sent by Xander and Adam, and on top of all that was a Watcher. She and Dawn were no longer alone here. Relief filled her body, as her tears ran down her face.

Upon hearing the sink, Dawn came into the bathroom.

“Buffy, are you okay?” she said loudly for the microphones in the other room.

“No, Dawnie, I think I have an upset stomach. Too much good food,” Buffy responded, equally as loud. She handed over the notes for Dawn to read.

Wiping away her tears, she watched as Dawn’s face went from incredulity to barely-contained elation. Nodding after Dawn mouthed in question, “Xander? Adam? Watcher? Joe?” She ran and hugged Buffy tight.

Drying her tears, Buffy signaled Dawn to calm down. Running water over the notes, Buffy wet the paper and swallowed them, in order to assure herself that no one would find them. Putting her arm around Dawn, together they returned to the main room more hopeful about the future.

A/N: Here I officially disclaim that I do not own Joe Dawson. He is the property of Highlander: The Series and Davis-Panzer Productions.