by
Lisa Y. Drexel

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four
Chapter Five Chapter Six

I haven't quite figured out why I still slay—really. After all these years you'd think I would walk away from it. I mean, who am I to be the judge, jury and executioner anymore? I'm a killer—just like those whom I was destined to kill.

But I can't help it.

It's in my blood. For years I was the one mortal girl who was chosen to slay demons, vampires and evil beings and send all them back to Hell where they belonged.

Okay, so I'm not a mortal anymore—I've accepted my Immortality.

Really.

Okay, at least most of the time.

But I still breathe—I still have to eat—I still bleed and from what I've heard from the few daring vamps who have actually tasted my blood and lived to tell about it since I've become Immortal, it's like the purest blood they've ever had...

Hell, I even beat the run on virgin blood. I don't think that's happened for centuries.

Go figure.

An Immortal’s and a slayer's blood all mixed into one body—it's a wonder that Angel didn't lose his soul when I made him drink from me—apparently I'm that good.

And have been since the master killed me just a few months after my sixteenth birthday, during Spring Fling.

Isn't that a kick? Xander didn't need to do CPR—I was a pre-Immie walking into the Master's lair and all he did was hasten the process of my impending Immortality.

I wonder why no one ever noticed me not aging.

Especially Angel and Spike—Gods, they were idiots.

Which leads me back to why I'm even telling this story.

Ten years ago I died—again.

Every Immortal that I've talked to always remembers their First Death. Hell, it's actually capitalized in sentences. Air quotes surround it when we talk to each other. And why not? It's one of the defining moments of an Immortal's life. And it's the only time that an Immortal actually dies with the knowledge that this is it, only to wake up and find out it wasn’t. Sure, when an Immortal loses his head, it's a true and real death. But in that case, the Immortal doesn't revive afterwards and think, 'Wow, what a mind blower.'

Nope, First Death is the only one where that happens.

Or in my case, my Second Death.

There's that breaking the rules part of my personality coming through again.

It was during my freshman year in college that I died again. Back then, even though I had accepted being the Slayer—the Chosen One—I was still a fool enough to believe I could live my life on my terms. If that meant going to school, falling in love and battling the forces of darkness all at the same time—I could deal.

And then came The Initiative with their fancy weapons, their brainwashing drugs, their implants, and their genetic meshing of things better left untouched. Maggie Walsh did what the Forces of Darkness and Light have both been battling against for eons—she made a human-demon cyborg that was unbeatable.

His name was Adam. As I said before, he was part human, part demon and part Terminator. Unfortunately, he had no soul, no demon directive nor the instinctive need to dominate or control that is a mainstay among traits with demons.

He just was.

He killed to understand and study life in all forms, be it demon or not. There was no remorse involved—nothing so human tainted his motives. He actually reminded me of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. He was like a poor, sociopathic but brilliant child who was obsessed with trying to understand the meaning of it all. Pathetic fool, no one bothered to tell him that there wasn't a meaning to anything.

I heard Angel actually took him out with a rocket launcher after the thing killed me. Gotta love those modern weapons of technology—they killed two bad guys when nothing else seemed to work. They sure know how to do the trick when all else fails.

It was a strange time, my freshman year. Giles was out of a job. No more Sunnydale High School librarian for him considering they never rebuilt the school after we blew it up at Graduation. Xander was wandering aimlessly from job to job in search for his niche. Willow at first soared—finally feeling at home among the intellectuals. And then Oz's wolfiness came into play and he left her—broken hearted and half a person. Oh, and Anya. I have to laugh when I think of her—a twelve-hundred-year-old demon stuck in an eighteen year-old girl's body. She didn't have a soul—still demon through and through. But she was human and stumbling through life with a strange combination of naivete and cynicism.

And there was Spike.

He was actually the reason we initially knew as much about The Initiative as we did. You see, he was one of their victims. They caught him and changed him—did something to him that made it impossible for him to feed off any living creature. Starving, he finally came to Giles’ doorstep on that Thanksgiving and like the fools we were, we took him in.

I have to say—he didn't actually betray us. But I do know that he was there the night Adam finally killed me and did nothing to stop him.

Could he have?

I don't know. Like I said before, it took a rocket launcher to bring Adam down. He probably would've just gotten himself dusted if he had tried. And as it ended up, I didn't stay dead anyway. My head was still firmly attached to my body and all my limbs were still connected—thank God—I was just gutted and bled to death.

I woke up in the morgue—alone—and instinctively knowing somehow that my life once again had changed. Just as I was sitting up, patting my chest—crying in relief at the sound of my heartbeat—Whistler showed up.

Whistler.

He's annoying—he has that Bronx accent which makes me wonder just how old he is or if he just prefers to spend his free time in New York. Well anyways, he came to inform of my new destiny.

See, why me? That was my first question. Why would a slayer have two destinies? Isn't one enough? I asked him that while lifting him up by his collar and propping him up against the wall. Of course he didn't have an answer for me but apparently he wasn't shocked that I had kept my slayer strength.

I found out a lot of interesting things that day. One, I was adopted. All Immortals are foundlings. No one knows where we come from. Oh sure, there's some wild theories, but no one knows for sure. Well, let me rephrase that—no one knows for sure who's willing to share. I'm sure the Powers know—but they've never been too forthcoming.

All I know is we're not demons because we're human up until our First Deaths. But everything else after that...who knows?

But I also discovered that being a slayer is genetic. It's in my genes and once I was called—which apparently is similar to an Immortal's First Death—a whole gene sequence was triggered giving me accelerated healing, supernatural strength and the ability to sense demons and other not-right situations. It also can't be turned off—hence, I still have all my slaying abilities and benefits.

According to Whistler, there have only been three Immortal Slayers in existence since the beginning of time. It's like a million to one shot and guess who got hit?

And guess what else I learned that day? The Powers That Be are not infallible. They screwed up. Apparently, the usual procedure for an Immortal Slayer is that once she dies her First Death, another is called and she is whisked away by the council to be trained as a member of one of their elite fighting teams and the Powers are contacted. But with modern medical science and all—they actually believed that Xander's mouth-to-mouth brought me back to life—that I wasn't Immortal. It wasn't until another slayer had been called after my Second Death and the Powers noticed my soul was still very much earthbound, that special measures had to be taken.

Since I had quit the Council—and believe it or not, the Powers thought that was a good thing—they sent Whistler to me instead and let him take me to an Immortal who would mentor me and teach me the ins and outs of Immortality—so I could follow my next destiny.

At first I balked. I wanted to go back to my friends and family, but Whistler insisted that I couldn't. It was then I found out that he was definitely more powerful than he looked. My second lesson in humility that day.

"Why?" I asked him as I stared out the window of the plane.

"Why what?"

"Why everything?" I turned back to face him. "If I managed to survive nearly three years on the Hellmouth without ever running into another Immortal—why couldn't I stay there? Wasn't I safe there?" I started chuckling at the irony—me safe on the Hellmouth. Who would've figured?

He took off his hat and looked at me, sighing. It was then, as our eyes met that I realized that he was a lot older and wiser than I had ever believed him to be before. His dark eyes were sad, and so full of pain and knowledge that suddenly I wished I were the same girl I had thought I was only five hours before—the mortal one.

I didn't want to live long enough to know that much pain.

"Kid, as soon as they realized that you were Immortal—everyone knew instantly that they wanted you to throw away your stake and replace it with a sword. The Immortals need a true warrior for their side. There are so few left that are truly good."

So, that was my introduction into the world of Immortals.

It went downhill from there.

And now here I am, ten years older and still not looking a day over sixteen and still fucking slaying. I just can't help it. I sense demons all the time. Everywhere I go and with every year that passes, my slayer-sense just seems to get stronger. Sure, I have challenges of the Immortal kind. Every headhunter out there wants a piece of me. That short, little blond girl has got to be an easy Quickening, you know. At least that's what they think until they start fighting me.

Thank God for Connor MacLeod—my mentor. That's who Whistler took me to. Apparently the two had met sometime in the last five hundred years and Whistler liked him.

I like Connor. Oh, let's be honest, I love him. Almost as much as I do Giles. He's a father, a teacher and a friend all wrapped up into one person. Like I said, just like Giles. He's got this kind of quietness about him. His eyes are sad. He's seen a lot in the past five hundred years and sometimes I can see every year in his eyes.

But he's good with the sword. He taught me tricks with my Katana that continually made me wish I had known them when I faced Angelus two years before. He rode me so hard and so long—constantly on me—never letting my mouth or my defiant nature get in the way of my lessons. And the best thing about him? He was unimpressed with my previous vocation. It was kinda neat knowing that someone out there didn't put me up there with Hercules or some sort of human protector of the good. With Connor, I was just Buffy—a newbie Immortal.

I liked it.

Until I started getting antsy.

I did manage to stay away from slaying for about six months. Too busy learning all the facets of my new life—mourning over my past one—dreaming of seeing Angel, but knowing that with the clause, it was best to stay away.

And it was. Except for my mother and Giles, I knew everyone was better off without me. Especially the way I had been acting that last year—with the Initiative and all. I still blush in embarrassment when I remember how much energy and time I put into Riley, when after I died, I didn't even think of him.

I thought of Angel first—then my mother and Giles and finally, Xander, Willow, Anya—Spike even. Riley didn't come to mind until we were flying over Iowa. Then I remembered him.

At least I had the decency to feel ashamed.

Unfortunately, I haven't quite managed to get rid of that embarrassment either. One of my major regrets of that last year was how I acted and my inability to make up for it.

Maybe that's why I still slay—it's my way of making amends to my friends and family still living in Sunnydale and LA. Maybe I can't save the world like I used to or be the friend that they deserved, but I can clean up some of the messes left in other parts of the world. Because one thing I learned in my years as the slayer—everything and everyone always ends up visiting the Hellmouth.

It's a fate sorta thing.

At first, I was determined to forget my former life—at least while I was with Connor and awake. I never could control my dreams. But slowly and surely, dueling with my mentor just wasn't enough to satisfy that 'slayerness' in me. It needed to fly—go out among the masses and protect. It needed the night—I needed the night. So, it shouldn't have really been a surprise to me when I finally just gave in and slayed once again. Connor and I had gone out to dinner and were on our way to the corner bar for a few drinks afterwards. He had finally relaxed my training a bit—leaving me with more free time to enjoy this Immortality that the Fates seemed determined to slough onto me. By then I had pretty much mastered the sword and all of its techniques. My slayer abilities had definitely come in handy. Apparently, what I did in six months usually took years for normal Immortals to learn. Connor expected it, knowing that I had been the slayer, but I know he was still surprised, to say the least. And once he heard of Faith and the possibility of an evil slayer, he was more than relieved to know that it had been me that was the pre-Immie and not her.

I couldn't help but agree.

So, armed with my new identity and sword (My new name was and still is, Elizabeth Joyce Winters, age 22) we were walking from Giavoni's, an Italian joint just a few blocks from Connor's to Harry's—a bar that resided on the same block as Connor's home, when I had felt them.

I had stopped as the rush of my slayerness filled me. Suddenly the streets of New York were no longer just byways, but a haven for the undead. My eyes instantly peered into the alley at the right of us, and immediately I sensed two vampires walking towards me. Before I even realized it, I had jumped into the alley, sword out and had decapitated the two demons just as Conner had run up to the entrance.

He sighed, shaking his head and held out his hand for me.

"Done yet, kid?"

I nodded as I slid my sword back into its scabbard in the back of my coat and jogged up to him. I took his hand and we went to Harry's.

By the end of the following week, I was going on nightly patrols.

Connor never said a word about it. Bless him for being so understanding.

Chapter Two
A Vampire's Lament
by
Lisa Y. Drexel

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. My face changed and my teeth sliced into my lip when I clenched my jaw. As the taste of my blood flooded my senses, I finally just shuddered, forcing the demon back down.

Whistler had to be lying.

I saw her die.

I almost cried at her gravesite.

She had died. I had seen it.

"She's alive, Spike. She's an Immortal—"

"What the fuck's an Immortal? And why in bleeding hell didn't she come back here if she was still breathing? She would've never left. Not her family or Peaches!"

The demon sighed, taking off his hat and rubbing the top of his head. "I didn't give her a choice in the matter. She was needed elsewhere."

Even though I heard the sincerity in his voice, I still couldn't believe him.

My slayer would've never left.

"She's Immortal."

"What the fuck is an Immortal?"

Whistler leaned back against the couch and sighed. The long, suffering sigh of a demon who knows too much and hates that he does.

I could relate. I feel that way sometimes myself. I still kick myself for coming back to Sunnydale all those years ago with that bimbo, Harmony, on my arm. I don't know what the hell I was thinking—Ring of Amara. Bloody ring of my fucking demise was what it was.

It was the beginning of the end of Spike, William the Bloody, one of the most feared vampires to roam the Earth. Although a lot has changed since that year I lost my bite, I'm still stuck working with the good guys. Yeah, I may be able to bite, but I can't kill. Peaches saw to that.

Bloody prick of a sire.

It's not too bad a life—except for the loneliness. Other than an occasional romp in the hay with Angel, I haven't been with anyone since Harm. Can't turn anyone—that would be breaking the 'no kill' rule and I don't bloody want a soul—permanent or not. All I have to do is remember the pained expression in Peaches' eyes every time he remembers what his demon did and I'm cured of any desire to snap anyone's neck.

I don't need a soul to feel bad.

I can bloody well do that on my own.

So, here I was, ten years after the slayer had died and I was sitting in my apartment with one of the most powerful demons alive, drinking beer as he fumbled with that stupid red hat, trying to find a way to say what he needed to say and still placate my demon at the same time.

My unlife sucks.

"What's an Immortal?" I asked for the third time. Maybe this time he’d fucking answer me.

He drank half of his beer and slammed the bottle down on the coffee table and then stood up. As he walked around my apartment—picking up various odds and ends—he began to speak.

"They've been around since the beginning—Immortals have. They were among the first humans to walk the Earth. They were the ones who, with a little help from upstairs and other creatures from different realms, overthrew the ruling demons. But, once the enemy—us—was gone, the Powers noticed that the Immortals had begun to fight among themselves. They were unruly and because of their immortality, they couldn't die or be controlled. These Immortals liked terrorizing the mortals...killing, raping, and conquering. Sure, there were some worthy ones in the mix, but the balance was off once again."

I couldn't help but laugh as I finished off my beer. "So, what you're saying is that the Powers created a race of warrior beings so powerful that they could actually defeat the demons—and didn't think that they would turn on their creator?"

Whistler shrugged his shoulders and nodded at me. He leaned against the wall next to my bookcase and met my curious stare. "Well, in their defense, the Powers aren't demons. They, unlike us, didn't understand the intricacies of a warrior state of mind or how violence corrupts everything it touches. So, what the Powers did was give them a vulnerability—an Achilles Heel of sorts. Death only by decapitation. They set down a few rules—no killing on Holy Ground, no ganging up on each other—and let the Immortals take care of themselves." Whistler paused and walked back over to the couch. After plopping down, he met my curious stare. "And they did—take care of themselves that is. Things quieted down enough that when vampires began to multiply, the balance was still kept.

"Immortals are human until their First Death and then their Immortality kicks in. From that point on, the only way they can permanently die is by decapitation. The Powers couldn't banish the Immortals totally—They felt obligated to their first children...so, they're still around, even after all these centuries. They're all foundlings. They're barren, because only the Powers can dictate when an Immortal is born and when one isn't. And if they don't die by an outside force, they never become Immortal. They have human souls—taken from the same well as the rest of humanity. They bleed just like humans. They need to eat. They can go out in the sun—everything that a human can do except stay dead if their head is still attached to their body."

After nearly five minutes of mulling over that bit of legend in my mind, I finally found my voice. "So, when did she die? The first time?"

Whistler snorted as he closed his eyes. "Before you even met her. It was pre-ordained, just like the prophecy said—at the Master's hand. We—the Powers—just didn't realize it until her Second Death."

"You guys fucked up?"

Whistler nodded solemnly. "Yeah, we did. We actually believed that the boy's CPR saved her life. We had no idea that for the next two years she would be battling both of her selves for control. That every time she went out to slay some demon or another, believing it might be her last time, that it wasn't. Or that until she died a second time and forced her body to recognize the dominance of her Immortality—that she would switch back and forth between her Immortality and her Slayerness—neither one really in the driver's seat."

"Fuck...it's a wonder that she didn't go mad."

Whistler nodded in agreement. "A testament to how strong she is that she didn't."

"Why couldn't she stay?"

"Here or in Sunnydale?"

I nodded, trying to ignore the ache in my heart for her. I know, I know, in the past ten years, I've gotten a bit sentimental when it comes to my slayer. There was just so much there that was never was touched or explored. And it wasn't until I saw Adam kill her, that I realized exactly what I had lost.

"The balance with Immortals is tipping once again. That plus there's this demon who likes to taunt Immortals. Comes around every 1000 years and makes life miserable for the one Immortal who's the best of them all. The demon lives off Immortals’ feelings and thoughts—tainting them and twisting them for his own betterment. Immortals may be a separate race from humankind, but they're connected in a way that's basically mystical to all life on Earth. What goes bad for Immortals, goes bad for everyone else. Well Ariham, the demon, nearly broke his last subject. Ariham might've lost, but the Champion didn't win either. And unfortunately for everyone, it affected all life on Earth."

"So, what's this have to do with her?"

Whistler snickered impatiently at me. "Come on, Spikey, what better Champion the next time around than a slayer—one who understands and even has loved demons—to fight him? Immortal slayers are so few and far between and this is the first time the Powers were able to extract one from the Council's grabby hands. Plus, I don't see her ever turning bad on us. Her soul is too bright. I think she can handle Immortality and all its trimmings quite well."

"Why not tell Angel and me?"

"Why do you think? When was the last time you saw your sire?"

I closed my eyes and thought back to the last time I stopped by Angel Investigations and couldn't help but laugh softly. I had tried to get him into bed, but he balked, saying that he couldn't do that to Cordelia and Wesley. I couldn't believe my ears. My sire was not only intimate with one human, but two of them. A bloody menage a trios in which there was no room for me. If it hadn't hurt so much, I would've felt proud of him.

"Okay, I understand about Angel. What about me?"

He looked at me pointedly. "I'm telling you now."

I shot up out of my chair and for the first time since he told me she was alive, I felt my demon screaming in rage. Ten fucking years I had remained alone. For ten years, I had dreamt of that night Adam had killed her and felt my undead heart break a little bit more. For ten lousy, bloody fucking years I had been alone when I didn't need to be.

Thank whatever sane part of my mind that remained that I didn't try to snap his neck right there. It would've been the end of Spike, William the Bloody.

I finally stopped pacing the perimeter of my living room and stood in front of him, demon face on and growling softly. "Why did you wait so fucking long?"

"I had to be sure. We had to be sure."

"Of what?" I snapped, feeling my fangs rest dangerously on top of my lip. "Of whom?"

"Her—that she would accept her Immortality. And you—that you would choose life over death. You know, Spike. You like to think that you're tough and untouchable, but let's be honest here. You may be a demon, but you never did let go of your humanity. You love, you're loyal. You value life. You're willing to make compromises. We needed to make sure that you would continue on this path and not throw your hands up and say the hell with it and us and yourself."

Stunned, I just stood there, glaring at him as he threw all my weaknesses in my bloody face. Oh, I've known for years that I wasn't a 'normal' demon. Hell, even Big Blue knew that when he threatened to zap me for loving Dru. Which is probably why I caught the Powers’ attention in the first place. But to hear him say out loud what I tried to keep hidden inside of me, enraged me.

Without saying another word, I grabbed my coat and a handful of stakes, and left my apartment.

For the next six hours, I dusted every demon that had the sorry misfortune of crossing my path. The ones that I didn't dust right off, I tore into like a vampire possessed—losing myself in the bloodlust before I ended their pitiful existence.

I actually felt a bit better by the time I returned home.

Nothing like a little bit of violence to put things into perspective, I always say.

Unfortunately, Whistler was waiting for me.

And now it's two days later and here I am in Paris, minutes from seeing her face for the first time in a decade. Granted, a decade isn't that long for vampires—being immortal and all—but it sure as fuck felt like a lifetime to me.

For ten years, I have lived my unlife like the Poof had done before he got pelvic with the slayer. I've got the cryptic boy act down pat. I've met a half-dozen slayers and helped them when I could. And I've hated nearly every moment of it.

The only times I never resented my forced commission to the Powers was when I would help out the slayer's friends.

For them, it was easy. They were all I had left of my old life. Dru had long ago disappeared into the arms of that fucking fungus demon. Whatever that creature was doing for her, it must've worked. She hasn't come around to taunt me or Angel since I left eleven years ago.

The Scooby Gang and Angel were all I had left of my old self or the slayer. So, when they needed a hand, I would come. If Willow needed a shoulder to cry on, I was it. If Xander wanted me to be—I still can't believe he actually asked me—his best man, I did it. And when Giles needed help with his slayer, I was there.

For them, it was an honor.

The rest of the fucking world could go to hell as far as I was concerned.

I hated the lot of them.

But Whistler was right. For some odd reason, I couldn't quit—I couldn't give in. Too fucking stubborn, I guess. I've always been a scraggly street fighter when push comes to shove and there was no fucking way that I was going to let the Powers get the better of me. I would prevail. Either my sire would die and I would be free once again or I'd find a way—some how, some way, to be happy despite the blood oath and the curse hanging over my head.

And until that happened, I would take care of those I had chosen to protect.

Maybe the truth of it all was that I've always been soft, I just never let anyone know.

Oh, and did I say that I got brooding down to a science as well? Just like Peaches. There's got to be something more than demon in our bloodline! Bloody hell, but all of us were a bit nutty one way another.

Like father, like childe.

And then I was there—standing right outside the bar in which Whistler told me she went every night before she went on patrol. If my heart could beat, it would've been jumping out of my chest. How the hell did I go from hating her with every fiber of my being into being in love with her? I don't know.

But it happened. And ironically enough, it had happened long before I saw Adam plunge that knife in her gut, or even before Willow's spell in which we spent the night so in love with one another that we couldn't keep our hands off each other.

If I was really honest with myself, I would have to admit that I had loved her since the beginning—when I’d watched her dance with Willow and Xander at the Bronze.

I really, really hate being honest with myself.

Chapter Three
Fates Collide
by
Lisa Y. Drexel

For ten years I managed to do both: being an Immortal and slaying on the side. Most of the challenges I received were when I was out slaying—and the ones that I couldn't get out of, I faced like the good little Immortal that I was. The ones that I could get out of—I did. Killing was still distasteful to me—even though I had been doing it nearly half of my life. First demons, then Immortals.

I lived by myself and was a creative consultant to about six gaming companies. It was my job to come up with the bad guys—a job well suited for a slayer who had seen almost every bad guy in existence and killed nearly all of them. It was an easy job and profitable—enabling me to set up a nice nest egg for the endless years I had ahead.

Since I had learned of my Immortality, I had kept my romantic dalliances to the non-committal kind. I wasn't quite sure why, other than fear. Fear of the pain—fear of loss—fear of love.

Take your pick.

I traveled a lot—purposely staying clear of only three cities in the world: Sunnydale, LA and London—all for personal reasons. I didn't want to bump into any of the COW members and have them bundle me away someplace 'safe' for their use—so London was out. Sunnydale and LA—well, the reasons were pretty apparent—that's where Buffy Summers had lived and died.

And I was no longer Buffy Summers, but Elizabeth Winters.

Don't get me wrong—I still cared and loved my friends in California, but that was Buffy's life. Buffy, the slayer. Buffy the Immortal's life had begun in NYC, and she had an apartment in Paris and a house in Seacouver. Buffy the Immortal didn't go to Sunnydale every year during the holidays—she went to the Highlands of Scotland or to Seacouver with her mentor, Connor MacLeod.

I still kept an ear out for the happenings in Sunnydale. Wherever I was, I still checked the homepage of the Sunnydale Gazette and read the news. It was from there I found out about my mother remarrying some art connoisseur who had visited her gallery. And it was from there I heard of Xander and Anya's wedding, and of Willow starting her own computer consulting firm. Irony of all ironies—we've worked on some of the same games. She writes the code—I create the monsters and she doesn't have a clue. Oh yeah, and Giles was finally hired by UCSunnydale as a full-time professor of Folklore. He received tenure three years ago. Oz finally came back and whisked Willow away romantically. They're married and now he's working his way up the Billboard Top 100 with his new band. Apparently, Devon's still playing with him.

And Angel?

Well, I don't know, other than that Cordelia, Wesley and he still fight the hordes of evil that invade LA. I have no idea if his soul's permanent or if he's involved with anyone. If he is, most likely it's Cordelia and/or Wesley.

What a mental picture.

The only person I haven't heard about is Spike. Sometimes I wonder if he ever got that implant out and if he did, where he went. I couldn't see him staying in Sunnydale. None of the other slayers who have been called after me died by his hand, so either he's still got the implant or he got the hell out of Sunnydale the moment he was back to normal.

Or he's dust.

For some reason, that idea doesn't settle well with me. I don't like the thought that he's just gone—it makes the world seem a bit more gray and dismal. So, at least in my mind, he's still undead and kicking.

I was feeling pretty comfortable with my life as it stood—if not complacent. I created lots of boogie monsters for the gaming companies, I slayed vampires and I fought the occasional headhunter. A pretty full life for a 29-year old girl, right?

You would think so.

Lonely, but full. I had friends—of the Immortal kind. Connor, Duncan—his kinsmen and all of Duncan's clan. There's Methos—a story there if I heard one—Amanda, Nick...Father Liam...and Joe Dawson—the only mortal of the group. Joe's cool. I like him. And he sings a mean blues song.

Ironically, it was there, in Le Blues Bar that my old and new lives collided.

Here I was, sitting back drinking a beer before going out—relaxing as I listened to Joe belt out the Blues while Methos was on a roll, spouting off witticisms at every break to Mac and me, when he entered the bar.

Almost instantly, I felt him.

Ironically, it wasn't my slayer-sense that kicked in, but it was his-sense that nearly knocked my socks off. One of the 'benefits' of being the slayer is that if I spend enough time with a certain vampire—for example, like I did with Angel and Spike—I get a different feel for them. I'm not sure if it’s because Angel had fed from me—in a sense claimed me in the vampire way and because Spike is his childe, I can feel him too—or if it’s because I spent enough time with both of them that I can differentiate their presence from other vampires.

Who knows?

But when the doors opened and he walked in—wearing the same leather duster I saw on his shoulders ten years ago—I actually choked on my beer.

Same hairstyle, same clothes—same old Spike.

"Oh my God," I coughed, slinking down in my chair.

"What? What is it, Buffy?"

"Shhh, Mac. It's Beth, remember? Don't say my name, don't you dare say my name—"

"Who's the blond reject from the eighties that just walked in, 'Beth'?"

I nearly growled at Methos as I shook my head.

"Well, he's heading over here—"

"Oh fuck," I mouthed, sliding even further in my chair. "Got any wisdom for me, Old Man? Like what to do when your past comes walking through the door?"

A cool hand grasped my shoulder, squeezing it painfully. Thank God for Immortal healing powers. "Hello Cutie," he whispered in my ear.

Swallowing once, I forced a smile on my face and turned around. "Hello Spike. Fancy meeting you here."

His scarred eyebrow shot up as he smirked knowingly at me. "What is that you used to say? Massive understatement?" He pulled up a chair and slid it next to me. Once seated, he reached over and plucked my beer bottle of out of my stunned fingers and took a deep drink from it.

I had forgotten how much of an asshole he could be. I closed my eyes and sighed. "I'm not the slayer anymore, Spike. They made sure of that. Let it go."

He lit a cigarette and snorted, obviously not sorry. "Not from what I hear. Rumor has it that there's this young girl who roams the streets late at night—saving poor, hapless humans from becoming some git's dinner. And the descriptions?" He shook his head, finishing my beer and setting it on the table in front me while nodding at the waitress to bring over two more. "Got me thinking. Every one of them sounded like it was a slayer and even more puzzling, the descriptions fit you to a tee... But, since I'm still in contact with my bloody sire, I know that one slayer is Sunnydale, the other one is London and I saw you die, I had to ask myself who's this chit running around the streets of Paris, Seacouver and New York City dusting vampires?"

I heard Methos snickering and my head shot up to glare at him. "You're not helping!"

"Well, it's your own damn fault, woman," he said, leaning back in his chair. "You're the one that kept going out nightly."

I glanced over at Mac and he just shrugged.

I dropped my head down on the table and groaned.

"There there, pet," Spike said, patting my back in mock sympathy.

"So, why do you care? Obviously 'things' have changed since I died or you'd still be in Sunnydale. And I'm not bothering you, so what difference does it make what I do?" I asked, lifting my head up to look over at him.

Big mistake.

Spike always got to me—in ways I hated and looked forward to in equal parts. He was too damn sexy and good-looking to be my nemesis. His jeans always looked too good on him. His hair always begged me to drag my fingers through it. And those pouty lips—God, I can remember that one night I spent sucking face with him like it was yesterday.

Fuel to feed my fantasies for years.

He flashed me a patented Spike-sexy-smirk as his dark blue eyes met mine, pinning me to my chair. "Curious," he said softly, brushing my hair off my face. "You're right though—I'm no longer defanged. Actually, it was Peaches who found the way to get the bloody thing out of my head. For a price."

I straightened in my seat, dislodging his hand. "And what was that? The price?"

He shrugged, his eyes finally taking in the others at the table. "So, are you going to introduce me?"

"Do I have to?"

Methos chuckled and leaned forward in his seat. "I'm Ben Adams and this is Duncan MacLeod. We're old friends of Beth's."

"Beth? Changed your name too?" Spike laughed, shaking his head. "I'm Spike—an even older acquaintance of Buffy's."

"Acquaintance? What a laugh!"

Duncan cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable with our bickering and stood up. "We're going to go over there and talk to Joe, Buffy. Spike, nice meeting you."

"Damn it, MacLeod. It was just getting fun!" Methos whined, standing up himself. "Nice meeting you, Spike. Have a good time, Beth. "

I really, really wanted to take his head right then. "Yeah, I'm sure I will," I said staring down at the table. I heard Spike move his chair back to the table and suddenly his hand reached out and grabbed mine. I gasped at its coolness—amazed that something that used to be so normal to me, now seemed so unusual.

I forced myself to look up and was almost shocked to see a flash of tenderness cross his face, before that familiar coolness replaced it. Could he have missed me? Like I missed him and everyone else?

Nah.

"I'm sure you have a million questions..."

Spike snorted, setting his beer down on the table. With his free hand, he reached over the table and grabbed my other one, stilling it. "Yeah, you bet your cute ass I do. Like how the hell can you still be alive? Your skin's warm to the touch. I hear your heart beating like a banshee. I even detect a bit of human arousal...so, tell me Slayer, how the hell can you still be alive?"

I sighed heavily, my eyes closing as my that scene of my second death flashed before my eyes for the millionth time. "Fate, Spike. Destiny. Odds." I drank down about a fourth of my beer. "Did you know that I really, really died that spring when I killed the Master? I'm Immortal. Xander's CPR didn't save my butt—my Immortality did. That's why I was stronger and different after I died. Because I was different. I was Immortal. But Immortals tend to stay away from the Hellmouth and I never bumped into any—even that summer when I ran away—so, I never knew. And you know, with slayer's healing abilities and all, I never thought anything was different. It wasn't until my second death—the one you saw—that the Powers realized something was amiss. I 'died', They followed procedure and activated another slayer. It wasn't until They realized that my soul was still earthbound and my body was still very much alive, that They realized their error. Apparently, they have to activate and deactivate slayers somehow mystically—up there," she said, pointing to the ceiling. "So, they deactivated me—meaning that no one else would be called if I ever 'died' again—a permanent death or just a temporary one." I shook my head at the way that sounded. Temporary death. How icky and yet, how many times have I 'died' in the past decade? I lost count after a hundred. I guess being the slayer does that. I met Spike's eyes and continued. "I'm the third Immortal Slayer in all these thousands of years of slayers being in existence. Can you believe that? The odds that it took for me to be Immortal and a slayer. So, I woke up in the morgue—ready to do a Snoopy Dance because I still had a pulse—when Whistler showed up. You know him?"

"A few times," Spike said softly, his face momentarily darkening. By the time he looked back over at me, it was gone—whatever it was that was troubling him. "He's the demon that finally pulled Peaches out of the gutters."

I nodded. "Yeah, I had met him during the Acathla incident. He's the one that told me how it was Angel's blood that could close the portal. Well, it was Whistler who explained to me that I was Immortal and that it was time for me to move on and deal with my second destiny, as he put it. He whisked me away to New York where I trained to be an Immortal." I shrugged. "The rest, as they say, is history."

"Why didn't you ever contact your friends? They were really torn apart by your death."

I finished my beer. "I know. I couldn't. I was told in no uncertain terms that I had to do this. Apparently there had been a heavy shift in the Immortals. A lot bad eggs were running around and the possibility of an evil Immortal winning the Game was just too dangerous and too close to happening for them to let me go back to Sunnydale and slaying. And Whistler was afraid that if I let everyone know I was alive, that I would go back to Sunnydale and slay," I said, staring at our clasped hands. His was so pale and smooth—mine, tan and hardened by the slaying and dueling. "He, unfortunately, was right. I would've done just that. So, I didn't call—figuring that if I ever ran into you or Angel—I'd just deal with it when it happened."

He lit a cigarette after releasing my hand and leaned back in his seat. "So, what is this Game?"

I couldn't help but let out a sharp laugh. "If you think demons ending the world is nuts, try a bunch of Immortals running around cutting each other's heads off in order to win the Prize. The Prize is supposedly the knowledge and wisdom and memories of every Immortal that has ever lived. Apparently, the winner of this prize could rule the world. So, you can see why the Powers get a little nervous when they picture their world ruled by an evil Immortal."

"They're humans, pet," Spike scoffed, waving his hand at me. "What kind of evil can a human do that's even close to what Angelus did during his heyday?"

My eyes landed on Methos across the bar and I found myself chuckling at the apparent naiveté of such a question. And coming from Spike, of all vampires. He, who was the recipient of a human's evil doings...wonders never cease. If he only knew.

"Immortals may not have super-human strength, but after living hundreds, maybe thousands of years, don't you think that they could be pretty capable of doing just about anything?" I turned to Spike and shook my head. "I know of Immortals that would make you and Angelus look like baby chicks in the hen house...I know of Immortals who have killed and murdered in ways that would make your mouth water in bloodlust. No, demons don't have a patent on evil. As a matter of fact, human evil scares me even more—because we have a soul and choice. A demon's choice of lifestyle is lot more limited than a human’s."

I shrugged, thinking about how much I really meant what I had just said. In the past ten years, I had seen so much darkness that I wondered if the world was really worth the trouble of saving. With demons, everything was for the most part, cut and dried.

All I had to do was look at Methos and know that could never be said about humans. We're too fucked up with free will and choices to ever possess the simplicity of a demon directive. Maybe that was why I still slayed. Everything was so much easier when dealing with demons.

I finished off the last of my beer and looked up at Spike. "So, I guess you can say I just changed fronts in the ongoing war between good and evil. I'm still fighting—it's just a different battle."

Spike smirked as he waved the waitress over. "Beer, pet?"

I nodded as I watched him hold up two fingers to the waitress. Once the woman left, his eyes studied the bar, stopping at Methos, Mac and Joe and nodded at my friends. "So, who are those chaps?"

"Immortal 'family' structure, for lack of a better term, is kinda funky. It starts with your mentor or teacher. Whistler arranged it so that it would appear that I had been cremated a bit earlier than it was supposed to happen and got me out of town that night. Flew me to New York City, where I was introduced to my mentor, one Connor MacLeod. Duncan is not only one of Connor's former students, but they also were brought up in the same clan—just eighty years apart. So, in a sense, Duncan is my brother."

Spike laughed softly at that and shook his head at me. "Is it my imagination or does he remind you of my sire?"

I had to chuckle myself when he said that. How many times in the past ten years had I asked myself that same question? "Yeah, it's the brooding, boy-scout Batman kinda thing."

"And Adams?"

I looked over at Methos and found that he was watching me. His eyebrow arched as he tipped his beer in my direction. I was so tempted to stick my tongue out at him that it I had to force myself to look away from him. God, he pissed me off. So arrogant and knowing and cocky and...

I stopped, my face blushing as I realized who else fit that description and started giggling. I shut my eyes, shaking my head at the ironies and finally just shrugged when I turned to Spike. "A mystery within an enigma."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that...he's just a guy who happens to be really old and really, really irritating," I said as the waitress finally arrived with our drinks.

Spike watched her carefully and instantly I could tell he was hungry and felt my slayer instinct kick in. "No eating of Joe's staff. Miranda's the first good waitress he's had in here in five years and I know we would all hate to see her die." I started tracing the water on the table. "She has enough problems just working for Joe."

Spike growled softly and shook his head. "Don't worry, ducks, I don't kill anymore. Unless it's for the 'good.'"

My eyes widened in amazement as I stared at him. "By choice? No chip and you're not killing?"

Scowling, he shook his head. "Can't, love, part of the deal with the chip. Peaches got me real good this time. I thought with a soul, I could handle him. But it didn't matter, demon or soul, Angelus is one crafty son-of-a-bitch."

"What did he do?"

"Pulled out an ancient sire/childe blood oath that's unbreakable until one or both of the parties die as well as a new, improved soul-restoration spell with a fucking Orb of Thessulah and everything. If the blood oath didn't keep me in line, the threat of getting my soul did. I can still do the sip-n-go thing—I just can't kill anyone."

"Well, that sucks for you."

Spike snorted. "Another understatement, love. You're just full of them. So, you didn't answer my question. Why is he a mystery in an enigma as you put it?"

Biting my bottom lip, I stared down at the table and thought of how I could answer his question without breaking any confidences. The fact that I was privy to Methos' identity at all was a measure of how much he actually trusted me, despite our ongoing arguments. I didn't want to disappoint him. Pissing off Death was not a good thing. "Let's just say, with Immortals, you can't really tell what's in the packaging, ya know? With vampires, eventually they wear their age on their bodies. The Master—Kakistos. The longer Immortals live, the more layers, secrets, mysteries they accumulate. He's just lived long enough that he's got a lot of layers."

Spike nodded in understanding. "And the mortal? He owns this place, right?"

"Yeah, he does. Joe Dawson. He's a Watcher. Not the same kind that Giles is, but he watches Mac and a long time ago they became friends. He's a really neat person. He's a Vietnam vet—lost his legs there."

Spike finished off his beer and placed the empty bottle on the table. He looked over at me and noticed that I still had half of mine left. "Are you gonna finish that, love?"

Blinking my eyes in confusion, I just nodded and drank half of it. "Why?"

"Because, slayer-of-mine, I need to talk to you and I don't want to do it here."

Frowning, I looked over at him. "And I should go with you because...?"

Smirking, he leaned over to whisper in my ear as his fingers latched onto my hand. "Because, you're dying of curiosity and you want to know what compelled me to travel across the world to find you." His lips grazed my neck, sending shivers down my spine as his fingers caressed my wrist. Suddenly, it was ten years ago and I was sitting on his lap in Giles' living room...I felt the goosebumps break out on my arms and a long, shiver that started at the base of my neck and work its way down my spine. The son-of-a-bitch...he always knew how to get underneath my skin.

I could feel the smile on his mouth as it moved up to my earlobe, nibbling it. "And finally, because you can't resist my charms..."

I fell back against him and turned to look at him, unable to wipe that silly grin that I knew I was wearing. "And you know this how?" I asked—our lips nearly touching.

His scarred eyebrow arched in question and suddenly he kissed me.

It was a soft, gentle kiss that sent my whole body into tingles. He pulled away and took one my hands into his. "Need you ask, slayer?" He stood up, pulling me with him.

Chuckling softly, I shook my head and grabbed my coat, waving goodbye to Duncan, Methos and Joe before being tugged out of the bar.

A part of me wondered what the hell I was doing, but for the first time in ages, I just let myself be.

Spike always seemed to do that to me—make me question myself and my actions.

Maybe, that's what I needed.

I guess I'll find out, won't I?

Chapter Four
The Beginnings of a Beautiful Friendship
by
Lisa Y. Drexel

The first thing that came to mind as we walked out of the bar was: 'Now that you got her, Spikey-old-boy, what the hell are you going to do with her?'

I couldn't help but laugh out loud.

I'm such a bloody fool.

Love's Bitch—yes, that's what I am.

I snuck a peek at her and for the first time that evening, I really looked at her. Even though physically, she hadn't aged since the last time I had seen her—that was the curse of an immortal existence, be it vampire or Immortal, we remained virtually unchanged—but I could see the years and the wisdom she had gained from the last ten years in her eyes.

My slayer had gone and grown up on me.

Before, there had always been an aura of innocence and goodness that surrounded the slayer. And, if I were really honest, it was probably that same essence that kept me at bay all those years ago. No matter how different I am from other demons, it doesn't change the fact that I am still a demon and goodness and virtue is not normally a turn-on. Maybe for a quick fuck and feed but never for a long-term commitment.

And slayers—you can't turn them. The balance doesn't allow a slayer to lose her soul once she's brought across. So, even with a demon inside of her, she'd still radiate a goodness and a light that no other vampire can touch.

It's bloody annoying.

But now, as I studied her pensive, child-like face, I realized that somewhere in the past ten years, that painfully bright aura had been dimmed to a much more comfortable gray-like essence.

At least comfortable for me.

I wondered what had changed and then it hit me—I knew exactly what had happened to her...she was now a killer.

She killed humans—beings with souls—and in almost a vampiric way, took her victim's souls into her self, forcing those individual beings to merge with her own self.

That's what tainted my slayer: the combination of killing and absorbing all those Quickenings.

What a sobering thought. If ten years of battling other Immortals had done this to her, how could Whistler be right in saying that her soul was too bright to ever turn to the darkness? Maybe what the demon meant was that she would just ride that fine line—that same fence that Peaches has occupied for over a hundred years—never to topple over onto the wrong side. It seemed almost inevitable to me.

But then, what do I know? I'm just a soulless demon forced to fight on the side of the light—in direct contradiction to everything that I am.

Growling softly, I pulled out a cigarette and lit it as I cursed where my thoughts were taking me.

See what I mean about the brooding? What the fuck was happening to me?

"Spike?" I heard the slayer call out as she squeezed my hand.

"Yeah love?" I took a deep drag off it and sighed as the nicotine soothed my tired and overworked brain.

"Where do you get those?" she asked, pointing to my cigarette. "The black market?"

I laughed softly as I shook my head at her. Even though I understood why she asked it, it did come out of nowhere. Cigarettes were hard to come by nowadays—even in Europe. "Was that what you were going to ask me, love? For real?"

She blushed, momentarily ducking her head from my view. "No, that wasn't what I was going to ask but suddenly I had to, because it's been driving me nuts all night."

I nodded once as I dropped her hand and slipped my arm around her waist—tugging her body closer to mine. "Fair enough. I actually roll my own. You can still order tobacco in bulk, buy the tubes and do it yourself. It gives me something to do during the day. Never could sleep more than a few hours at a shot—too bloody hyper."

She snuggled her head against my shoulder and sighed softly. "Makes sense," she whispered. "So Spike, why are you here?"

I kissed her hot forehead and smiled down at her. "Haven't you figured it out, love?" I stopped walking and turned her to face me. Her hazel eyes stared up at mine. For a second I could have sworn I saw a bit of want and fear in them, but I forced myself not to react—I couldn't take the chance that I was wrong. I wasn't foolish enough to believe that I was immune to reading into her look something that I desperately wanted to see. I brought my hand up to her face, caressing her skin—my fingers touching her hair, and almost immediately, I could feel myself harden in want.

Bloody hell, even after ten years, the very sight of her turned me into a blithering fool.

She lifted her hand up—her hot fingers pressing against mine and she turned her face and kissed the palm of my hand. "Was it me?" she whispered shakily. "I mean—when—how?"

"Always, Slayer," I said as I dropped my hands to her hips and tugged her body flank with mine. Pressing my arousal into her, I dropped my head and kissed her softly on the lips. "I was just too much of a wanker to see it," I confessed softly against her lips.

"Really?" she asked, licking her lips and tickling mine with her tongue.

"Really," I said right before I finally kissed her the way I had dreamed of kissing of her since the night after we spread her ashes along the public beach in Sunnydale. Her mouth—so hot and enticing—suckled on my lips as our tongues met somewhere in the middle. In that instant, I wanted to devour her—take everything that she was inside of me...her light, her darkness, her loyalty...love...everything.

Growling softly, I felt my face change as my hands slipped under her coat and shirt and cupped her buttocks. She moaned, running her tongue against my fangs, drawing blood.

I nearly came right there tasting her magical, Immortal-Slayer essence.

Who knows how much time passed as I mauled the slayer on a deserted sidewalk on the streets of Paris before she broke the kiss, panting heavily.

She chuckled softly in between breaths and wrapped her arms around my neck. "Unlike you, my dear vampire, I still have to breathe," she whispered against my neck, peppering it with her hot, wet kisses. I nearly whimpered when she stopped and looked up at me. "Do you have a place to stay?"

I shook my head. "Nah love, I didn't have the time. I just flew in—cargo plane. Didn't want to risk the sunlight and all. Got in right after sunset tonight."

She pulled back and grabbed my hand. "We'll go to my place then. That is, if you want to," she asked me, her voice suddenly unsure.

"I'd love to, Buffy," I said, her name rolling so easily off my lips. Although in my mind, I called out her name a thousand times, in reality, I could count the times I actually said her name out loud on both hands. And ironically, the majority of those times all took place in one evening, during our 'engagement.'

When she heard me, a pleased smile curled her lips as her head dropped. I could hear her heartbeat race and found myself incredibly pleased that I was the cause of it. Who would've ever thought that we could do that to one another? Sure as hell not me. Even after Willow's spell.

I was beginning to like this new and improved Buffy—a bit more jaded, yes. But then, if she hadn't been, I don't think I would be here with her now.

It wouldn't have been possible.

Although we didn't talk much after that, I did catch her sneaking quick glances over at me—almost as if she were making sure that I hadn't disappeared on her. And I have to admit, I wasn't too much better.

I was still reeling from the kiss. A part of me couldn't believe that she let me kiss her like that—hold her—with the promise of passion on her lips. This was not the same slayer that would've rejected me outright ten years before.

She really had changed.

Maybe it had to do with that gray-essence thing I noticed earlier. Before she had left Sunnydale, the Slayer had a firm definition of what was right and what was wrong. And lines were rarely blurred to her. At least as far as I was concerned. I knew the only reason she didn't stake me all those months I wandered around the Hellmouth with that bleeding chip in my head, was because I couldn't defend myself.

It would've been wrong for her to slay me when I couldn't fight back. Oh, she talked of dusting me...constantly, to be honest...but I knew, just like she did, it was just talk.

I was helpless. And as the slayer, she protected the helpless. Sure, I was a soulless vampire with dreams of death, blood and destruction dancing through my head, but in reality I was a poor excuse for a vampire that had been driven to drink pig's blood out of a bloody coffee mug with a straw.

Sometimes I wonder what would've happened with us, if she had remained in Sunnydale. Would we have ever gotten to the point where we are now?

Growling, I shook my head in disgust. There again I was doing that thing I hated the most—brooding.

She squeezed my hand and gave me that sexy half-smile that she must've perfected way before she even had breasts, and I couldn't help but smile back at her.

What a Nancy-boy, I thought to myself as tore my eyes from her. Yeah, I may have my fangs back, but my heart was becoming more and more human with every day that passed.

"We're almost there," she said, breaking the silence. "My apartment is just around the block."

"Lived here long, love?"

"On and off for the past eight, nine years. For that first year, I stayed with Connor. He didn't let me go until after I took my first head," she said, her face darkening with the memory. "It's like an Immortal coming-of-age thing. It's the mark of a mature Immortal—the ability to protect themselves."

"I didn't think you would have too much of a problem with that love. I saw you with a sword—you were pretty good...even back then."

She smiled sadly and nodded. "That wasn't my problem. I could've taken Connor within three, four months of training. My problem was the killing," she confessed. "Maybe that's why the Council has taken it upon itself to protect Immortal slayers. I don't know—it's just that slayers are trained not to kill humans. It's like in our genetic make-up. That's why it was such a shock that Faith could kill mortals on purpose. We're supposed to protect humans, not kill them. Die for them. Do everything in our power to make sure that humans continue to exist. And as an Immortal, you spend your life always preparing yourself for the next challenge.

"Becoming an Immortal forces you to become a killer," she said softly. "The only way you can avoid it is to live your life out on holy ground, and even then, you take a big risk if you have to leave it for any reason," she said softly. "I didn't think I could do it." She chuckled, her voice rich with irony. "I kept beating the crap out of this asshole who kept challenging me and then would walk away. Well, he didn't appreciate it too much."

"What did he do?"

For a moment she didn't answer as she stared up into the sky. She finally shook her head and looked back at me. "His name was Fredrick Deutschman—came into his Immortality during WW2. He was a Nazi. And a prick at that. He managed to get the drop on Rachel, Conner's adopted daughter. Even more ironic, Rachel's parents had died in the concentration camps. Connor rescued her when she was just a little girl and raised her as his own. She's a kind gentle soul—and she was kidnapped by this Nazi because I didn't want to take his head.

"Connor was livid and was going to take the challenge himself. And that's when I realized I couldn't run from it—this newest curse that the Powers bestowed on me. I knocked Connor out and tied him up. Left a note where I was going in case I didn't make it back and took the challenge.

"The Quickening was the most horrific experience of my life. It even beat sending Angel to Hell."

"What was so bad about it, pet?" I asked, intrigued despite myself.

"It wasn't the taking of a human life that did it—after all Deutschman had done and would continue to do if he lived, I nearly felt justified in taking his head. But the Quickening—it was akin to getting drained. I don't know if you remember what it's like as a human to have a vampire drink your blood, but let me remind you, in case you don't. It's the most painfully erotic and orgasmic experience I've ever had...that is until my first Quickening."

I don't know why I was shocked. It actually made sense, in some weird way. How much different could a Quickening be from drinking blood from a human? For vampires, the exchange of blood was not only the most sacred of rites, but also the most enjoyable of all our traits. If what Whistler said was true about Immortals, then why not this? It only substantiated the theory that Immortals were more godlike than their mortal counterparts. With demons and gods, their chosen ones always were subjected to that strange mixture of pain and pleasure. Demons loved S & M games. Sires taught their childer early on how to love pain as much as pleasure.

And it didn't appear to me that Immortals were immune to that side of immortal life any more than vampires were.

I looked over at her and watched as she nodded knowingly. "I know what you were thinking about...vampires and pain and pleasure, right?"

I nodded, deciding not to say anything.

She snorted softly. "Maybe we're really demons after all—because it was like that. For those few minutes that his Quickening slammed into me, I not only experienced his life, but enjoyed his sick passions and his perverted pleasures. And then suddenly, as my body had finally come down from the most profound arousal I had ever felt, it hit me what I was enjoying." She swallowed hard as she wiped her wet face.

I squeezed her hand, feeling oddly compassionate towards her even though I knew perfectly well as a demon, I would've loved every minute of it without experiencing even a pang of conscience.

"I lost my lunch right there on top of his headless body and barely made it home, with Rachel in tow—mind you—before I threw up everything in my system.

"I hid out for a week—too depressed to even come out of my room."

"What happened after that?"

She gave me an embarrassed smile and shrugged. "Connor finally got a hold of Whistler and had him come by and talk some sense into me. By the end of the second week, I was out on my own."

"What did he say?" I asked, silently wondering if the short shit actually had a bit of wisdom in him after all.

"Nothing that Connor hadn't said earlier that week," she said, shaking her head. "I guess I just needed to hear it from Whistler—from someone who really knew me—the whole me—the slayer and the Immortal. He just basically said I was a good person and that I needed to trust myself and accept the Quickening as part of the package of Immortality. He also pointed out that it wasn't too much different—although much more intense—than the highs I used to get from slaying. And I was killing then too. Granted, my victims were vampires and demons, but in reality, they weren't too much different than the headhunters or evil Immortals.

"And he was right. I knew that, but I needed to hear it," she added, suddenly stopping mid-step, dropping my hand and reaching behind her coat. Seconds later, her sword was out and in her hand as she began to scan her surroundings.

"What is it, slayer?" I asked as I extended my senses—trying to pin down whatever had spooked her.

"Immortal," she whispered as she pointed her sword across the street just as sensed another human hiding in that same general direction.

"Just one person, love."

She nodded as I watched her face harden. Glancing back at me, she took a deep breath. "I need to go investigate this. Stay here—it's not your fight."

Even before the words were out of her mouth, I was already planning out her rescue. I know that one of those rules of Immortality is no interference whatsoever, but since when have I ever paid attention to anyone's rules.

It just wasn't in me.

So, instead, I waited until she crossed the street and then instantly took off after her. Even if I didn't interfere, there was no way in Hell I was going to just stand there, across the street—like some damned whipped wanker.

Just as I entered the mouth of the alley, their swords clanked together signaling the beginning of the battle. Not even a minute had gone by when I realized I was definitely out of my element. I may have preternatural traits and skills, but Immortals with swords were a scary combination even for a fearless demon like myself.

As I watched the slayer fend off each attack effortlessly, I couldn't help but feel a pang of something for the poor fool that thought she would be an easy mark. The damn asshole had no idea that he was challenging a woman who had been born to be a warrior—that every molecule in her body sang for encounters just like this one.

No wonder the powers wanted her to live the rest of her long life as an Immortal—she was magnificent. And I thought she was majestic as a slayer.

What a fool I had been.

Another couple of minutes passed with parries and lunges, when suddenly, almost faster than I could see with my eye, she not only disarmed him, but took his head as well.

Her sword dropped as she turned around and met my eyes—tears spilling down her cheeks. "Get out of here, Spike! I don't know what—" she stopped when a curl of blue lightening left the lifeless body at her feet and soared into the air as if searching for something or someone.

It swirled around her small body, wrapping its light around her as more and more lightening streaks followed its path. Suddenly they began slamming into her as she let out a loud moan.

It wasn't until one of those lightening streaks came looking for me, that I hid around the side the building—my undead heart lurching with fear and uncertainty. I had no idea what kind of damage one of those could do to me, but I had no desire to find out. Not when I had just found her.

Not when I had just found hope.

After nearly ten minutes and a few broken street lights later, the heavy air cleared. It was still filled with a strange mixture of burning ozone and magic, and for just a moment, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling its beauty.

It was almost as if I could taste the beginnings of life in it.

I shuddered in delight as I pushed off the brick wall and jogged into the alley.

There she was, squatting next to the headless body of her opponent and leaning heavily on her sword as her body shook uncontrollably.

Within seconds, I wrapped her sword in her coat and had her and her coat in my arms as I ran across the street.

Yawning, she pulled out her keys and as we walked up two flights of stairs, she burrowed her head into my chest as she continued to ride out the after-effects of the Quickening. When I reached her door, she lifted her head and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

"You can let me down now, Spike," she whispered against my skin.

Reluctantly, I slowly released her legs until she was standing on her own. After taking more than a half dozen deep breaths, she walked over to her door and slid the key into the lock. "You're invited into my home, Spike," she said softly as the door latch clicked and swung open.

She yawned again as she kicked off her shoes and began heading down the hallway, her hand tugging on mine.

She walked into a room and flipped on a light. As she sat down on the edge of the bed, she sighed softly as she looked up at me. "I need to sleep," she said as pulled off her shirt, revealing a white sports bra underneath. "This room is the only one that's totally sun-proofed, so we'll have to share." I glanced over at the dark purple curtains covering the windows and nodded in agreement.

She finally pushed herself off the bed and went over to her dresser and pulled out some clothes. She tossed me a tee-shirt and a pair of boxers. "You can sleep in those," she told me right before disappearing into the bathroom.

Stunned and more than just a little exhausted myself, I began shedding my clothes and slipping into the ones that she gave me.

It didn't occur to me until we were already in bed and she was asleep to wonder whom the boxers belonged to.

And then, I decided I really didn't want to know.

Chapter Five
A Slayer's Troubles Never Ends
by
Lisa Y. Drexel

I usually don't wake in the middle of the night, unless I've had a bad dream or one of the stupid slayer dreams that the Powers accidentally send my way, but I did this time. Maybe it was the comforting feel of Spike's cool arms as they held my body protectively against his chest, or it could've been just the thought that for the first time in almost eight years, I wasn't alone.

Whatever the reasons, for just this moment, I decided not to fight it. Instead I found myself remembering the last time I let someone get this close to me…

~~~Flashback~~~

Joe's Le Blues Bar
Christmas Time – 2002

"Okay...I've got one!" Ben said as he looked up from the table, grinning at Amanda. "If one of the gods gave you one wish and it could be anything—as long as it harms no one—what would it be?"

Amanda's eyes twinkled as she leaned against Nick. "One wish, Nick. What would yours be?"

"You first," Nick told her right before he finished off the last of his beer. He picked up the pitcher and poured himself another beer. He saw my glass and his eyebrow arched.

"Go ahead," I said quietly, all the while wondering how I could get out of answering this question. I really didn't want to go there. I didn't know these people, and they wanted to know what I wished for most in the world. I glanced over my shoulder and spotted Connor talking to Duncan—their faces both drawn and serious—and inwardly groaned. I could see the glint in my mentor's eyes, and knew that he wasn't planning to leave anytime soon. He was too worried about Duncan and was going to once again try and talk some sense into his kinsman.

Sighing underneath my breath, I turned back to the conversation at my table in time to catch the tale end of Amanda's wish. "—Royal crown jewels of England."

Joe snickered softly. "And that wasn't expected."

"Come on, Amanda, be creative!" Ben said as he leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs out. "From what I heard, you already had those at one time..."

She pouted, as she cupped her chin with her hand and strummed her fingers softly against her cheek. After sighing dramatically, she looked up and met Ben's curious gaze. "And lost them after only a week." She finished off her drink and groaned. "I don't know..." she paused, her eyes closed in thought. Her face suddenly lit up and she let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "This is going to sound stupid, but oh well. Liam and I were talking and I remember mentioning how safe I used to feel at Rebecca's and how much I wished that there were a place in the world for us...to be safe. Like a Holy Island that had all the enmities...electricity, phone, shopping...food, entertainment...housing. And we could all go there and be safe. That's what I would wish for."

Nick squeezed her hand and chuckled softly. "Took the air right out of my wish..."

"So that's yours too?" Ben asked the Immortal.

"I was about to say something in the same vein as what Amanda said," Nick said nodding. He looked over at Joe and grinned. "What about you, Dawson? What would be your wish?"

Joe chuckled softly as his eyes closed. "A couple of years ago, I would've said getting a chance to meet Amy, my daughter, but that has already happened. Now...it would be a toss up to a record deal or better made prosthetics. These things are a pain—literally."

Ben nodded knowingly as he smiled at Joe. Then his eyes turned to me. "What about you, Buffy? What would be your wish?"

Suddenly that panic that I been fighting since the conversation began, hit me full force. What the hell was I going to say? I tried racking my brain for some sort of lie to come bubbling out of my mouth, but even as sat there, mouth opened, nothing came out. Why couldn't I ever babble like Willow? I asked myself. I took a deep breath and forced my heart to quit racing. Plastering a fake smile on my face, I turned my attention to Ben. "No, I want to hear what Ben has to say first."

Even as the words slipped out of my mouth and I watched his expression, I knew he wasn't going to let me get out of this one. I had only known him for three days, and I could already tell that he was too sharp and intelligent to let anyone manipulate him.

He also had an insatiable curiosity streak that only was surpassed by an incredibly strong self-preservation tendency. And unfortunately, he didn't feel threatened at that moment.

He shook his head. "No way, I asked the question...I get to answer last. Come on, it can't be that bad or embarrassing—let it out. It might make you feel better."

I could feel my knees begin to quake as four sets of eyes of watched me. Damn him, I thought to myself. And damn me for letting this get to me.

But I couldn't come up with a lie, because the truth—the wish, the fantasy—had always been right there—at the tip of tongue—anchored into my heart. Holding me there—in the past—where I had believed that I really belonged.

None of those people knew me. They had no idea that at fifteen I began a journey that would ultimately change my life. A calling that led to not only my first death, but the second one as well. These people—these friends of Connor's—had no inkling that I was not only Immortal, but a slayer too. Although I wasn't active, I was a slayer nonetheless. My enhanced strength and speed were a testament to that.

And because they had no idea of whom I really was, they had not a clue that I would actually miss that life...almost as much I was sure Joe still missed his absent legs. That life...that slayer life was in my blood, and my family and friends that helped me were a part of my soul.

A picture of Angel and I wrapped in those red, satin sheets, his cool body covering mine flashed through my mind as I felt my control over my emotions falter even more.

"Buffy?" Ben's voice broke through my ruminations

I do not belong here, I thought to myself. My heart was still yearning for Sunnydale, vampires and lost loves—not this life of immortality. I hated being here—in Paris, where it was cold in the wintertime and where snow fell lazily from the gray clouds covering the stars.

So unlike my home.

I yearned for the warmth of the San Anna winds and the dark night sky too much to appreciate the wonders of Paris during Christmas.

Too many memories clouded my mind...of better times...of sadder times. Of being in love and being loved back.

"Buffy?" Fingers snapped in front of me, and I nearly jumped in my seat.

"What?"

"Your wish?"

Suddenly it felt as if someone had cleaved my heart in two as tears filled my eyes. I pushed back my chair, grabbed my coat and stumbled out of the bar—ignoring the calls for me to return—and stepped out into the cold, Paris night.

Ben found me just as I had dusted a pair of vampires that had attacked a woman. I was helping the woman stand and telling her to go home when his presence filled my senses. As I released my hold on her arm, I looked up to the mouth of the alley and saw him standing there, his head tipped to the side, his coat billowing in the wind as he waited for the woman to walk past him. As soon as she left the alley, he lifted his head and whispered one word: "Slayer."

And that dam I had built which had been desperately holding my emotions in check broke and before I could even nod in affirmation, a huge sob wracked my body as my knees buckled and I fell into the ashy remains of my victims.

~~~~end of flashback~~~~

That night, Ben took me to his home and held me as I told my tale. It was then that I became more than Connor's latest protege and he became more than that annoying friend of Duncan's. From then on, I was Buffy the Vampire Slayer to him just as he was Methos, the oldest living Immortal to me.

I never told him what my wish was—knowing that even uttering it in the dark as he held me in his arms—would cause my heart to shatter into a million, unrepairable pieces.

As long as it remained a wish, I could still hope.

And now, eight years later, I was in the same position with a different man—or being, if I wanted to be all proper about it—and unlike that night with Methos, the urge to run and flee wasn't consuming me. Maybe Methos was right when he told me that forever was a long time to live a life of alone-ness. And who better to know, than a man who until ten, fifteen years ago had spent two hundred years living a life of solitude?

I gently turned around in Spike's arms and studied his face in the darkness. So peaceful and relaxed, I thought to myself. Another thing he had in common with Methos. Both of them seemed so much more innocent and youthful as they slept—as if none of the horrors committed by either of them touched them while under Morpheus' spell. Methos was never Death on horseback as he terrorized three continents with his brothers in arms when he rode as one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. And Spike...it was hard to believe that this same creature that held me so tenderly in his arms, was the same one that took great pleasure in torturing innocents with his namesake.

I gently touched his chest, rubbing my fingers against the soft cotton that hugged his body and smiled to myself when I remembered whose clothes he was wearing. I wondered if he would see the irony in him wearing those same pair of boxers and tee-shirt that I had slept in that night at Methos'—eight years before.

Maybe, maybe not, but I knew Methos would get a kick out of it.

Stilling my hand, I closed the distance between us and tucked my head underneath his chin. His arms tightened their hold as his fingers curled around the material of my nightshirt. Who would've ever thought that Spike was a cuddler? I asked myself as I reveled in our closeness.

It had been so long since I let myself be held. Before Methos managed to break through that barrier I had built around my heart, the last time I was held like Spike was holding me now, I had been with Riley Finn.

Shuddering uncontrollably, I snuggled even closer to Spike, sighing out loud as he sleepily rubbed my back. Even after all these years, I couldn’t seem to let go of the guilt and rage I felt whenever I remembered that last year I spent in Sunnydale.

It was the whole reason why I had been living an emotionally suppressed life.

Even though a decade has passed since I left Sunnydale, I haven't been able to let go of it. And although it wasn't Riley's fault per say...I know that in my mind...in my heart, I've found myself still blaming him. Or is it that I've been blaming the effect he had on me? Granted, I was a teenager desperately trying to live a normal life despite my calling, but when I got involved with Riley, I let myself get distracted. I forgot the important things...my calling, my friends...my family even...just for a few hormonally induced good times.

I didn't love him. I wanted to...desperately. But I didn't.

And I lost everything because of him. Maybe that's being a bit melodramatic, but I can't help but ask myself if things could have been different. If I had been more prepared, more serious about my slaying, would Adam have been able to kill me? It's a legitimate question. Back then, I blew off more research sessions than I participated in. Time spent with Riley always seemed to take a front seat to my other obligations. I took Giles' help and loyalty for granted. I let my friendships with Xander and Willow drift away...I blew up on Angel...letting all that anger and rage at him abandoning me completely overpower whatever sense I had.

God, what a mess I made out of my life back then. And the worst part about it was how insignificant Riley actually was to me in the big picture of things. To know that here was a man I had spent over six months so engrossed with that I let everything else slip by the wayside, and I didn't even think about him until Whistler pointed out the strange squares that littered the ground some ten thousand feet below us while we were flying to New York City—a day after I had died.

I remembered looking at the squares and thinking, 'Cornfield..." and suddenly my stomach heaved and I barely managed to grab a sick bag before I lost my lunch.

It was then that I realized in all the bustle to get me out of the morgue and out of town...in between the tears I had shed over leaving my life and my loved ones...the mental good-byes I whispered in the air to my mother, Angel, Giles, Willow, Xander, Anya—even Spike—that I had totally and completely forgotten about Riley—the man I was supposed to be in love with. And then I recalled everything I did and said with an alarming, painful accuracy...on how I latched on to Riley almost as if he were the only lifeline I had to keep myself from drowning. And I guess, before we got together, that's what I had been doing—drowning. In my own pain and loneliness.

For a few scant moments in time during my senior year, I finally felt as if I wasn't alone. It shouldn't have been a big deal—you know, if I had been like Willow before I had been called. That way, I don't think I would've felt that isolation as heavily as I did. But because I had been on the fast track of popularity, much like Cordelia was in Sunnydale, I had always been surrounded by people who at least on the outside, were much like me. When I was called, whatever solidarity I had found among my so-called friends, disappeared with the burning of the gym.

Pike was the only one out of everyone I knew in LA, that I could actually call a true friend.

Sunnydale was different though. There, on the Hellmouth of all places, I had found what I had been looking for most of my life—the truest and the best friends a person could have. Time and time again, Willow and Xander put their lives on the line for me. Risked their futures, their selves...even their souls for my battle. And it was funny how much alike Pike, Willow and Xander really were. Rebels, independent thinkers and loyal almost to a fault...all three of them had the mental fortitude to go against the grain and fight for what was right.

But none of them had superhuman strength, accelerated healing, could sense vampires a block away, had prophetic dreams or were the Chosen One.

Just me.

That is, until I died and Kendra was called. But even with Kendra around—I was still alone. She spent her whole life preparing to fight vampires. She was the Council's prodigy. I was the Council's mistake. Everything was so cut and dry with her. She would've never crossed over any of the lines that I had, because she had always been a slayer even before she was the slayer.

So, I still felt that pang of alone-ness.

Then Dru killed Kendra, and Faith was called.

Faith.

You know, she ended up helping Angel, Cordy and Wes out in LA for a good four, five years before she finally died. She turned her life around and made her amends. I'm so glad that she did that. She deserved that family-type surroundings that Angel was able to provide. She deserved to be understood and loved regardless of her mistakes.

Faith was me...just a couple of different twists in my fate and we would've been nearly identical. Although she had been spotted by the Council earlier than me...she still spent her most formative years living her life in the real world with all its trappings. Unlike me, her mother had some problems and took them out on Faith. I'm almost positive that she had been not only physically abused but sexually as well. Her reactions to life reminded me of a cornered cat—she just came out scratching—determined to live despite it all and do whatever it took to survive.

If my parents had died early on in my calling or if Pike hadn't been around when Merrick had been killed...if I hadn't had Giles, Xander, Willow and Angel to back me up in Sunnydale...I could very well see myself as angry and bitter as Faith had been.

That's why we clicked in some ways. She recognized that same reckless anger in me that had been in her. And because she didn't have the strong foundation of family and friends that I had, she gave in to that darkness whereas I didn't.

But with her and Angel by my side, I wasn't alone.

That's why her betrayal hurt so much. Together, we were sisters. Apart, well that was pretty obvious. And then right on top of that, Angel told me he was leaving me...just like my father, Pike and Faith...and once again, I was alone.

That feeling of solidarity and togetherness had just disappeared...poof...there went my life.

I remember when Angel told me he wanted me to have a normal life. God, he was so clueless back then. Me? A normal life. When I first heard those words, I thought, 'Is he brain dead? I'm a slayer, not some prom queen preparing to go to college to get my M.R.S. degree!'

But by the time I had started college, I was bound and determined to find that elusive normal life that Angel so wanted me to have. And after a few bumps, I thought I had...in Riley.

It wasn't our love that kept us together or our devotion to one another...at least not on my part. It was that need of mine to latch on to something—anything—normal in my abnormal existence. He was human, he could go out in the sun, and he could take me out on dates...out to dinner...all of it...normal.

In turn, I buried all my misgivings and sadness so deep down into my heart, that the only way I could catch them was if I looked into the mirror at just the right angle to see my haunted eyes staring back at me. It was then—with those quick glimpses into my soul that I really saw what I had become...nearly anorexic—physically as well as emotionally. Almost as if I didn't deserve the comfort of both soul food and real food.

So, it was no wonder that I kept my distance from men after I learned of my immortality. How could I trust myself to make the right decision? I had allowed myself to become so wrapped up in Riley, that I let down my friends, my watcher, my Angel, my mother and finally my own self, when in the end, he hadn't really meant a damn thing to me.

Methos has told me repeatedly that he thinks I overreacted. And maybe he is right. But how could I trust myself to make the right decision when it comes to an intimate relationship when the two times I had fallen in love with all my heart, I let that love nearly destroy my world? Literally and figuratively. So, for the last ten years, I've avoided mixing physical and emotional intimacy. I've kept them separate, almost as if they were in their own little boxes in my heart...this one for my friends—the few souls alive that I could always count on to help me, love me and protect me. The other one held the lovers...those poor souls that believed that if they managed to somehow get into my bed, that they had paved a way to my heart.

But for all my plans and maneuverings, I had never expected someone from my former life to blow it all to hell.

And that's what Spike did. As I lay there in bed with his cool arms wrapped tightly around me—my head resting on his chest—I couldn't help but wonder if the last ten years of forced—what? —emotional celibacy for lack of a better term really had been worth it.

It just felt so right to be with him.

Sniffling softly, I gently rubbed my wet face on Spike's shirt and found myself sighing when I felt his chest rumble as he purred softly. "Spike, you're weird," I whispered, unable to stop the grin from curling my lips.

"You're weirder, pet," he said as he rolled over onto his back, pulling me with him.

Shocked, I opened my eyes to see a pair of dark blue orbs watching me carefully. "You're up!"

His eyebrow arched at the obvious question, humor dancing in his eyes. Suddenly, he looked serious as he lifted a finger up and tipped my chin to face him. "What's wrong, love? Why are you crying?" He asked as he let go of my chin and wiped the remaining wetness off my face.

"Nothing," I said as I laid my head down on his chest. "Just thinking."

He snorted as he shook his head. "Brooding's more like it. I know the signs, Slayer. Been a regular brooder myself for the past ten years."

Again, he surprised me. Spike a brooder? Damn, that chip and the blood-oath did more than just take away Spike's bite, it changed him. I opened my mouth to answer him and ended up yawning instead. After the second yawn, I tried again. "It's just been a long time since someone's held me. It feels nice."

"It sure does, pet," he whispered.

I lifted my head to see his eyes closed and his face once again lax. Weird doesn't describe it, I thought to myself as I marveled at how quickly he fell back to sleep. Damn, he must be tired, and then I remembered him telling me how he flew via cargo planes from California to Paris.

I guess I'd be tired too, I added silently as I thought about the last time I flew from Seacouver to Paris. I chuckled to myself when I remembered how pissed off Methos had been when he found it that we had been bumped from first class to business class.

Both Mac and I spent the better part of the flight trying to placate the ancient Immortal, but Methos wouldn't have any part of it—seemingly reveling in his righteous indignation.

Oh Methos, I thought to myself. What am I going to do with you? He was not going to be a happy puppy once he found out that Spike spent the night in my bed. Even if Spike and I hadn't made love, the idea that I allowed the vampire to occupy a place that Methos had wanted for over eight years would not sit well with the Old Man.

I had never made any overt promises, but it had been implied. Ever since that night I had spent at his apartment, the physical attraction and desire were there. But, he long ago realized I hadn't been ready for that type of relationship, no matter how much he or I wanted one another. So, we kept our friendship platonic with a strange edge of intimacy that can only come from two people who want to have sex, but don't for whatever reasons.

Methos just scares me. No matter how enticing his 5000 years of experience are ...no matter how much his mind fascinates me...no matter how much he has irritated the hell out of me...I just can't—not right now. He's too new...and even though he has been a constant presence in my life for the past eight years...spent more time with me than Angel, Spike or Riley...knows me as well or even better than Willow, Xander and Pike...he's still new. He'll always be a part of the Immortal package. Maybe that’s what it is, if I let Methos in, then I would have to let go of my old self and unfortunately, I haven't been ready to do that.

But with Spike, I don't have to let go. I have been and always will be 'Slayer' first to him...Buffy next and Immortal last. And I like that, because that's how I look at myself.

With Methos, my Immortality has always come first to him—the other parts of myself were just incidental.

Why couldn’t things ever be easy with me?

I lifted my head and glanced over Spike and checked the time. It was barely dawn and I had just spent the last hour brooding. I could give Angel and Duncan a run for their money.

Yawning, I closed my eyes and pressed my cheek against his hard, silent chest. As I laid there, I took a deep breath through my nose, inhaling his scent and felt myself going back to a time when I had been this close to Spike before. That strange sweet and spicy essence tinted with just a bit of copper and cigarette smoke...God, I remembered how incredibly aroused I had been during that one night while Spike and I were under Willow's spell and we were in love.

Even through all the bickering, I never felt as alive as I had right at that moment. With Angel, it was pure love...it filled me until I felt like there was nothing left of myself. But that one night, when I thought I was in love with Spike...passion.

Smiling slightly, I felt myself slip back into a slumber with dreams filled of a more innocent time in my life...when humans were good, demons were bad and Spike was going to be my husband.

Even if he was a demon.

At first I thought I was dreaming.

I mean, really. I spent five years exclusively fighting all the baddies that go bump in the night. How many dreams do you think I've had that included the standard, low-level vampire growl quickly followed by a loud, indignant roar.

Thousands.

Hell, maybe even millions.

But in none of these dreams have those two things been followed by Spike's familiar British twang as he yelled at me: "Bloody hell, Slayer, is your whole life like this?"

Needless to say, my eyes shot open and before my mind could even begin to comprehend what the hell was going on, I was out of bed with my sword up and ready to fight.

Fortunately for the poor guy who broke into my apartment, Spike had already taken care of it. Almost immediately, I spotted the game-faced vampire pinning the mortal to my bedroom wall with one arm across the guy's throat while swinging what looked like a tranquilizer gun onto the bed.

The mortal, mid-thirties...non descript dress, his face was red—his eyes were bugging out as he stared at Spike's demon face—obviously terrified—which seemed to tickle Spike even more.

I guess even blackmailed vampires need to get their kicks somehow.

I couldn't help but chuckle as I dropped my sword and walked over to the pair. "I don't know you, do I?" I asked as I stared into the man's round, brown eyes.

He tried shaking his head as his forehead broke out in a sweat. Sighing, I looked over at Spike. "I think he needs to breathe, Spike."

Spike actually laughed, dropping his arm across the man's chest as the intruder tried catching his breath.

"Better now?" Spike asked, flicking his tongue over his fangs.

The mortal whimpered as his head bobbed up and down.

"Who are you?" I asked again as I checked his coat pockets and pulled out a cellphone and a nine millimeter handgun. "Guns...I hate guns."

"Hurt like a bitch, don't they love?"

"Yeah, they sure do," I answered, remembering a particularly distasteful time when I had been shot nearly a dozen times in one of my favorite shirts.

I cried when I had to pitch it.

"Well, no crosses or holy water," Spike said. "So I don't think he knew about me. Be a love, and see if he has a wallet?"

I nodded again and just as I was about to dig through the mortal's back pant's pocket, I felt the presence of another Immortal. "Shit!" I cursed, shaking my head. "Watch him and don't come out unless I give the okay, all right?" I walked over to the bedroom door and stopped at the threshold, looking at Spike.

"What's going on?"

"Company," I said just as someone began pounding on the front door.

Spike's eyes widened. "I'm beginning to think that a nice crypt would've been safer," he said, smirking at the mortal.

"Spike...you and your crypts," I muttered as I left the bedroom.

I hadn't even reached the living room when I heard a key slip into the lock. "Beth? It's me, Ben!" I heard Methos call out on the other side of the door.

Methos.

Could this morning get any worse? I asked myself. Just what I needed to make my day a happy Buffy day—Methos.

Sighing, I yanked open the front door just as he was turning the knob, causing him to stumble inside.

"Jesus Christ, woman, you could've said something!" He said as soon as he got his bearings. "You've got big troubles coming. Probably a good time to pack up and go somewhere—like Baha Baha maybe."

Yawning, I nodded my head towards my bedroom. "Would it have anything to do with strange mortals breaking into my home sporting tranquilizer guns?"

"Bloody fucking hell, they've started already?" He yelled. He turned and began jogging towards the room.

"Ben—wait!"

And of course, the doofus didn't listen to me and ran straight into the bedroom. I shook my head as I heard Methos' startled voice. Not rattled, because I don't think anything shakes Methos' foundation. But startled, yes. "Oh...fancy meeting you here."

"'Allo mate...come to help us with our little problem?"

I walked into the bedroom just in time to see Methos clock the mortal over the head with the hilt of his sword. "There, that'll keep him out of our way for a while," he said as he watched the man crumble to the floor. He glanced over at Spike, then to me and snickered softly as he grabbed my hand. "They look better on me, love," he said, squeezing it gently and dropping it as he left the bedroom.

Just as I was turning, I'm sure, a hundred different shades of red, I heard the ancient Immortal begin opening my kitchen cabinets. "Better get dressed you two," he called out as I heard him turn the water on at the sink and begin filling what I figured was the coffee pot. "And pack a bag! It's time for you to go hide for awhile!"

It was then I wondered if my life could get anymore complicated.

I should've known better than to ask.

Chapter Six
Watcher, Watcher Go Away
by
Lisa Y. Drexel

I stared down at the crumbled body that lay at my feet and silently groaned. I should've figured that any time spent with the slayer would be filled with danger and life-threatening situations. Wasn't it that way ten years ago?

And here I was dreaming about shagging the bint...

"—Get some rope and tie him up?" Buffy said, stepping into my view.

"What's that, love?" I asked as I shook my head in a vain attempt to clear my thoughts.

Unfortunately, I was too late—my cock was already swelling.

Bloody hell.

"—I've got some rope in the other room. We can tie him and stick him in the back room so he doesn't bother us when he wakes up," she said, her hand on the doorknob, still staring down at the body. At least she hadn't taken notice to my present state of being. Ever try willing your cock down? It's impossible, let me tell you.

"Damn, all I wanted was one day without any hassles," she mumbled to herself as she closed the bedroom door behind her, leaving me alone with the intruder.

"Just one day, you stupid pillock," I growled at the unconscious man.

Of course, he said nothing.

Sighing, I walked back to my clothes and grabbed my jeans. It wasn't until I had them up over my hips and had to carefully pull the zipper over my straining hard-on that a whole new set of curses directed at the mortal fly through my mind. "Bloody asshole...I might have finally gotten in her bleeding' pants if you hadn't decided to show up. Well, you and that pillock, Ben."

After tugging off the tee-shirt and slipping on my over shirt, I sat down on the bed and groaned at the thought of that other Immortal. Who the hell was he? And, more importantly, who was he to Buffy to not only have a key, but for her to have his underclothes? "Isn't there a law or something?" I whispered as I pulled out a cigarette and lit it.

Groaning, I rubbed my hand across my face and was startled to note that somewhere during the scuffle, I had slipped into my true face and it hadn't gone back.

My stomach tightened, and it was then I realized that when Ben had knocked the mortal out, he had caused the chap to bleed.

"Bloody wonderful," I whispered, falling back onto the bed. "Starving with all this blood and nothing to eat. I hate you, Peaches."

The bedroom door swung open as Buffy walked in, arms laden with ropes. She knelt down beside the mortal and pulled the unconscious man into a sitting position. Quickly, she secured the man and hoisted the body up over her shoulder and disappeared out of the room.

A minute later, she returned and stopped when she spotted the blood staining her carpet. "Damn," she whispered and turned around to look over at me. Her eyebrow shot up and suddenly her eyes twinkled in realization. "You're hungry, aren't you?"

"What gave you that idea, pet?" I asked through my fangs.

She shrugged as she gave me a small smug smile. "Just lucky, I guess," she said as she sauntered over to the bed and fell down beside me. Rolling over onto her stomach, she propped herself up by her arms and looked down at me, still grinning. "So, how hungry are you?"

I didn't even bother with a verbal response; instead, I just arched my eyebrow at her as I blew out a lung full of smoke.

She batted her eyes at me as she turned around and sat up. "As much as I would love to offer you my neck right now, I can't. Not with Ben in the other room." She sighed dramatically as she pushed herself off the bed and went over to her dresser, yanking drawers open and pulling out pieces of clothing. "Sooo instead, I'll bleed a vein for you...after I get dressed. Is that okay?" She asked, turning around with an armload of clothing hugged tightly to her chest.

Frowning, I studied her eyes for any deception and found myself shocked at the seriousness I saw there, despite the smile she was wearing. "You're serious?"

She rolled her eyes at me and shifted her weight to her other leg. "Well, duh. It's not going to kill me, and, from I what I hear, I pack a wallop, so it might hold you for a while." She suddenly paused as she tilted her head to the side as she opened her mouth and just as quickly, snapped it closed.

"What pet?"

Her head dropped as she watched her toe lightly trace circles on the carpeting. "It's stupid. I'm almost embarassed to ask, but it would kinda fill in some blanks—answer some questions that I never got to ask."

"Shoot. Go ahead, ask away," I told her as watched her face turn about a dozen different shades of red.

"So, is it true? About my blood? Is it that...tasty? I mean, you did get a taste last night and you didn't say anything. And well, the last a vamp did that, I nearly died again for the thousandth time and he was riding a high that, well I kinda wondered what the hell he'd been eating before me. I finally found him two days later and staked him right off. But, I never asked him, ya know? And then there was that time that I forced Angel to drink from me and well, he was supervamp for about a day—"

"Buffy?" I called out to her, interrupting a ramble that could put Willow under the table.

"—and then he left, and well you...what, Spike?"

Although I understood her nervousness, it still tickled me to no end. Blood or even the talk of blood was nearly the equivalent to foreplay for a vampire, and she knew that. Even if her and Peaches avoided that subject like the black plague, the Slayer wasn't stupid—especially if Angel responded as joyfully to her as I had a feeling he did. Soul or not, her blood could burn the most callous of us all—and if it happened to be someone who was in love with her as well. Let's just say happies were had by both parties—even if it did put her in the hospital for a couple of hours.

Unable to prevent the grin that I knew was curling my lips, I quickly swung my legs around and hopped off the bed. After taking those two additional steps that placed me right in front of her, I slipped my finger under her chin and pushed it gently upwards, forcing her to look at me. Once our eyes met, I bent my head and kissed her softly on the lips. "Exquisite, love. Exquisite."

Her eyes widened as the implications of what I said sunk in, and just when I didn't think she could blush any deeper, she did. It took every bit of restraint I had not to sweep her in my arms once the sweet, musky scent of her arousal filled my senses. Instead, I bent my head down to her mouth and ran my tongue across her lips. Sighing softly, her mouth opened and we kissed—tongues engaged in an ageless dance, as we both conveyed our desires to one another—with a promise that more would soon come.

When I felt something soft fall on my feet, I regretfully broke the kiss and stepped back. Looking down, I saw the clothes that she had been holding and grinned at her—noting with a bit of smugness, that my kiss had left her dazed. I knelt down, quickly gathered her things and stood up—handing them back to her.

She took them back and suddenly shook her head as if the action would somehow clear her thoughts. "Well," she whispered as she gave me a half-smile. "That was fun. Damn! I want more," she said, her voice taking on a child-like quality. "But," she sighed. "Duty calls once again...so, it'll work?"

"What?" I asked, inwardly kicking myself when I realized I too, was feeling a bit off. There goes the last bit of my reputation—the dashing lady-killer knocked on his ass by a bloody kiss, I thought to myself.

"The blood—my blood. In a few minutes. In a glass."

"Oh, yeah," I said, smiling despite my embarrassment. Damn, if a kiss does that to me... I forced myself to stop those thoughts before I ended up whacking off in the bathroom. "It'll work love," I told her, forcing my voice to remain steady.

"Oh, yeah," I said, smiling despite my embarassment. Damn, if a kiss does that to me... I forced myself to stop those thoughts before I ended up whacking off in the bathroom. "It'll work love," I told her, forcing my voice to remain steady.

"Cool!" she said, barely able to hide her own glee as she bounced out of the room into the bathroom.

"Cool, she says," I muttered, picturing a thousand different ways I would have preferred acquiring her blood instead of her bleeding into a glass for me. Just the thought of finally drinking from her was enough to almost make me come in my pants. It had been so long since I had drunk from a human for anything other than just plain hunger. Matter-of-fact, Willow had been the last person I fed from that I even knew as more than a passing acquaintance. And like the slayer now, Willow had offered her blood willingly, but I had been nearly dying from an especially vicious fight with a Chaos Demon on the Hellmouth.

In a panic, Willow had sliced her arm and waved it in front of my nearly unconscious face. My demon had latched onto her arm and held her for bloody life. It had taken Xander, Giles and Anya to pull her out of my steel grip.

I still have nightmares about killing her.

It isn't too surprising that I never fed from anyone I cared about since.

"Bloody fool," I whispered to myself as I reached the bedroom door. "Brood-boy junior strikes again," I said, shaking my head at myself. I had only been awake for an hour and already I was wondering what the hell I was doing in Paris, chasing after her. She had a life...people she cared about...people that weren't me. Bloody hell, one of those said people was standing in the kitchen right now, and I was wearing his fucking boxers. Did I really belong here...chasing after a half-realized dream of a broken vampire?

As I walked down the hallway to the kitchen, I took a deep, unneeded breath and readied myself to face the owner of the boxers.

Fucking asshole.

Have I mentioned how detrimental being horny always has been to my mental state of being?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hate uncomfortable silences. I always have. When I was still the 'Big Bad,' I used to fill in those long, painful pauses with equally long painful, bloody threats or deeds.

It occurred to me as I felt Ben's eyes studying me, that I missed those times. What the hell was I saying? I've always missed those times. But it's like missing loving Dru. I remembered how I felt about her. I remembered the passion, the love...the devotion, but I don't feel those things anymore. At least not about her. That was how I feel about the 'Big Bad.' During the day, sometimes, I'd dream about the killing and the chaos that had followed, and even then, it doesn't feel right. It just felt...off.

Satan below, I hated Peaches. You know, this was all his fault. Yeah, yeah, I know that if I wanted to get technical about it, my whole bloody unlife was his fault. But that wasn't what I was talking about. It was the last thirteen years I was bitching about. From the moment I set foot in Sunnyhell that first time to me going to Paris in search of the slayer like some lovelorn sick, Nancy-Boy. That was his fault.

I would've never been in this position if it hadn't been for him. Between the blood-oath, him kicking me out of his bed for two mortals, to being chipless but still unable to kill...to falling in love with the slayer. It was all his fault. Bloody hell, it was his fault I lost Dru to begin with!

I felt myself tense up and pushed back the chair in a rush of anger. Ignoring the curious stares of the Immortal, I began to pace restlessly all the while slipping into another deep brood. Thinking about Peaches always seemed to get me—in my gut and my heart like nothing else could. When we finally reconciled after nearly a hundred years of abandonment and anger on my side, guilt and fear on his side, it was really good, for a while. But unfortunately I wasn't what he needed. The slayer was. Just as his demon yearned for his favorite childe, his soul craved the touch and love of humans. And since Buffy was dead, he turned to the only other mortals that had seen him at his worse, supported him—laughed with him and loved him as one of their own: Wesley and Cordelia. I should've seen it coming, but I didn't. I was too wrapped in how good it felt to finally be with my sire after all those years to acknowledge the sadness I occasionally saw in his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking.

I would like to say I was duped. Fooled into letting my defenses down—opening my heart to the one being I had spent most of my unlife trying to please, but I couldn't do it. I could barely be mad. He wasn't Angelus. He was Angel, the souled vampire—a strange mixture of both demon and soul—not the vampire that had ruined my mortal life and brought me across over 200 years before.

See what I mean about silences?

I stopped my pacing and closed my eyes, taking a deep, unneeded breath as I tried to rein in my emotions. Thinking about Peaches wasn't helping my mood any and it sure as hell didn't answer my questions about the Immortal or the unconscious intruder laid out in the other room. Growling softly, I strode over to my seat and fell into it, ready to find out more about this Immortal—this Benjamin Adams that had managed to insinuate himself into my slayer's life.

As my eyes took in his appearance, I realized that any other time, I would've found him intriguing. He was good-looking. More striking than anything. Patrician nose—lips that seemed to easily slip into a sardonic smirk—not unlike my own.

And then our eyes met.

That's when it me.

Up until that moment, I had thought of him as more of nuisance than anything else. Someone that had an in into the slayer's life that I didn't...a life that I hadn't been privy to for the past decade. He was an obstacle—a bother—someone to swat at, much like one would do to an irritating fly that had taken to buzzing around your face. But as our eyes met, for one fleeting second, I saw something that I'd never seen in a human's face before—a strange mixture of evil, good, complacency and a wariness of life that only the oldest of immortal creatures could ever feel.

Whistler's got that look. Peaches is getting it. I think Hell did it for him.

And then as quickly as I saw it and identified it, his eyes cleared, and suddenly I found myself looking into the eyes of a bored intellectual.

Unnerved, I dropped my head and inwardly groaned at the hunger gnawing at my gut. Even with the slayer's promise to 'open a vein' for me, I couldn't ignore its strength. It had been nearly 12 hours since I had really fed, and then it was only enough to curtail the hunger—not even close to appeasing the demon. Granted, the slayer's blood from the night before had seemed to calm things a bit inside. Yet as soon as I took a whiff of that mortal's spilt blood in the bedroom, whatever peace I had found, had been lost.

Growling softly, I stood up and began pacing the room once again—this time allowing my eyes to take in all the small things that the slayer had done to make this place her home. A nice upholstered couch—not too unlike the one her mother had had all those years ago in Sunnydale. Off-white was the color and I knew if I sat down, it would be as comfortable as its counterpart. Smiling slightly, I walked over to the two built-in bookshelves that sat on either side of the fireplace. I was more than a little surprised to see bestseller fictions sitting among the more obscure reference books that I had always associated with the slayer and her friends. My eyes immediately pinpointed a spell book, a few demonology books as well as an old battered watcher's journal. My interest peeked, I pulled it out and flipped it open and was shocked to see it naturally fall open nearly three-fourths of the way through it.

And then I spotted a too-familiar name and instantly knew why.

"'The one with an angelic face has brought another across to join him. A young man, brown hair, eyes blue as the sky and a title as well...'"

"Shit," I whispered, slamming the book shut.

"Problem?" Adams asked, his voice too close to me for him to still be sitting at the table.

I spun around and was shocked to see him standing behind me, watching me as his eyes sparkled in amusement. I blinked a couple of times; inwardly kicking myself for not realizing he had snuck up behind me and finally just shook my head in mock defeat.

"Just a bit peckish, bored and not liking to see my past written up in some wanker's journal, that's all," I said as I moved to slip the book back into its place.

Ben's hand shot out and grabbed the book, but stopped once his fingers touched the leather. "May I?"

I lifted my eyebrow at him and tried staring him down.

His hazel eyes met mine and didn't waver—not like I expected him to fear me or anything. It just would've been nice...

"How 'bout we make a deal...I give you a glass full of my blood in exchange for you letting me read this?" He asked me as he arched his eyebrow as well.

Blood in exchange for my past?

Immortal's blood in exchange for my past?

Well, when I put it that way, how could I refuse? "Deal," I muttered, releasing my hold on the watcher's journal.

Ben nodded once as he grabbed the book and turned on his heel. After dropping the watcher's journal onto the table, he headed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass. I leaned against the wall and watched as he pulled out a dagger from a hidden ankle holster. He placed the glass in the sink, pushed up the sleeve of his sweater and held his wrist over the glass.

With a long practiced swipe, he cut his skin and began to bleed himself. Almost instantly, I felt my face change as the scent of his blood hit me. So much like the slayer's, but yet I could tell the difference even before I tasted it. Whereas hers possessed the slayer essence as well as the Immortality factor, his was strictly Immortal—but far older than anything I'd ever tasted before.

"How old are you?" The words were out of my mouth before I even thought of stopping them.

His head turned as a small smirk played on his lips. "What did Buffy tell you about me?" He asked as I watched his wound heal in front of me. My eyes quickly shot over to the sink, and I was disheartened to see the glass only half-way full. But before I could even growl, he repeated the action and new river of blood flowed down to the glass.

Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and tried remembering what Buffy had actually said about Adams. 'A mystery within an enigma.' Chuckling softly, I told him.

He laughed and shook his head. "Anything else?"

"That you were really old, and that you had a lot of layers. As well as being really irritating."

"She said that? She knows me pretty well then," Ben said as we both watched the second cut on his wrist heal. With his clean hand, he picked up the glass of blood and set it on the counter before washing his arm off.

My hand shot out and grabbed the glass, feeling my hunger rise to an almost painful level as wave after wave of Ben's tantalizing scent filled my senses. As I lifted the glass to my lips, Ben turned and faced me, watching me curiously.

Deciding to ignore the 'enigma' in front of me, I concentrated on the blood and wasn't disappointed as the first few drops saturated my taste buds.

Life and power exploded in my mouth, and before I realized it, I had downed the whole glass—feeling instantly energized.

It was the most powerful blood I had ever tasted—Buffy's included.

Stunned, I placed the now empty glass onto the counter and licked my lips—almost desperate not to miss any of it. Although my hunger was gone and my demon was satiated, I knew then it was going to be nearly impossible not to ask him for some more in the future. I looked up as my demon-face melted back into its human mask and met Ben's pointed gaze. "How old are you?" I asked again, this time very aware of what I was asking.

"Old...really old. Probably older than anyone you've ever met before—demon included." Ben said as he pushed himself off the counter and walked past me towards the table. "My name is Methos," he said as he sat down at the table. "You can call me that when it's just us three. But in public, I'm Benjamin Adams, okay?"

"Got it," I said as I walked over and sat back down. "Where the hell is she?" I muttered as I glanced down the hallway. I suddenly really needed a cigarette and growled softly as I once again stood up. "I'm going to grab my fags and see what's keeping her," I told Ben—no Methos—I silently corrected myself.

Methos nodded, his nose already stuck in the watcher's journal. "Tell her to hurry up—we haven't got all bloody day!"

I couldn't help but chuckle at the Immortal's irritation at the slayer—it reminded me all too well of my own at various times in my life. It didn't occur to me until much later, how prophetic that observation would be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I found her in the midst of zipping closed a large, travel-sized duffel bag that was sitting on the bed next to the bound and gagged unconscious human. Her head shot up and her lips curled in greeting. "Hey Spike...did you enjoy your bonding moments with Ben?"

I frowned as I stared at the intruder. "How did he get in here? I thought you took him to another room?"

Buffy blushed as her head dipped down, studying her feet. "I felt bad leaving him on the floor. I decided the least I could do is let him stay in here—on the bed. He'll be more comfortable that way," she said softly, obviously embarrassed.

Just when I think there's not much light left in her, she goes and does something like this and proves me wrong all over again.

Even when she tormented me while I had been fixed, I knew she would never stake me as long as I couldn't fight back. She was too human and compassionate to be a cold-blooded killer.

And obviously too human to be a heartless captor as well.

Smirking at her, I picked up my duster and began digging