Sunnydale Side Up - St. Louis Side Down

by
Lisa Y. Drexel

Chapter One   Chapter Two   Chapter Three   Chapter Four   Chapter Five
Chapter Six   Chapter Seven   Chapter Eight

Chapter One

~~~1~~~

For being nearly 200 years old, I was and still am a bloody fool. I let her go. I didn’t follow. I just watched as the love of my demon and souled-vampire life pack her bags, with tears staining her red, swollen face—her psyche screaming in pain as the reality of leaving me sunk into her soul. I could feel her mourning not only me, but the one before—whom she never gave a proper good-bye to in her heart.

Now, she could cry for the loss of both of us.

Oh bloody wonderful for her.

I’m sure she’s just thrilled at the prospect. But then, I wouldn’t know, because I haven’t dared tweaked our link, for fear that just feeling her would send me running back to her and leaving the other one that’s here behind to her fate.

I’m a coward.

I can still see her face as she stepped to the front door, the cab honking its horn—feeling as if I just stepped into a ill-fated romance movie as I clung to her desperately, finally forgoing whatever pride I’ve had by crying in her arms.

She was biting her lips, studying me, almost as if she was memorizing everything about me. I found myself smiling through my tears, thinking to myself how much this young woman has changed me—made me so much more than I was before. Hell, I even could laugh and cry at the same time.

A feat worth godhood.

She chuckled softly, cupping my face with her warm hands, tears rolling down her face, and tiptoed to kiss me. Her lips, warm and soft, caressed mine as she used our link for the last time, Be happy. Go to her or I’ll bloody stake you myself!

And she laughed.

And I laughed as well as I yanked her into my arms, holding her tightly against me, memorizing the beat of her heart and that wonderful scent of coconuts and almonds, that was all hers, as my fangs gently scraped her neck and I was able to take one last sip of her delicious blood—unique as her.

So long, Michelle. Be good and keep that bloody head of yours...I love you.

The cab driver honked again and I felt Mike growl softly in my chest.

"I gotta go." Her dark gray eyes met mine. "I love you."

Then she quickly disentangled herself from me and carefully slipped out the door into the afternoon light—leaving me in the darkness—more alone than I ever had been in 200 years.

The bloody bitch.

And I couldn’t even hate her.

Everything she did, she did out of love.

The fucking bitch.

~~2~~

For three straight days, I did nothing other than drink. I didn’t leave. I didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t bother with the door and my various visitors. Oh, I could tell who they were by their heartbeats or lack thereof.

First came Willow.

Had it only been two days before that I saved her from those fledgling demon-vamps in the park? It seemed like centuries ago.

Her heart was beating somewhat faster than normal, but it always seemed to do that in my presence. She may intellectually and emotionally trust me, but instinctually, she knew she was still a human and a possible food source. But I still recognized it.

I didn’t bothering answering.

There was nothing she could say to me to make me feel better. And I knew that’s why she had come to see me. Of all the Sunnydale clan, Willow was the one Mike was closest to. Although the hacker didn’t know of her pre-immortal status, it still didn’t dissuade Mike from feeling responsible for the girl. That, plus the fact that Mike really liked Willow and thought the girl was a wonderful person sure didn’t hurt their relationship.

I was sure that Willow knew of Mike’s departure.

After the hacker, came my sire.

He was nuts if he thought I’d ever let him inside my home.

Even souled, I still hated the asshole, just on pure principle.

I let him knock.

Then the phone rang.

In a drunken fit, I threw it across the living room, barely missing that horrid, huge picture window Mike had insisted on keeping in front room, despite my aversion to sunlight. It cost a bloody fortune to install those blasted remote controlled blinds.

Instead, I made a nice hole in the wall, where later, I would enlarge it with my foot in a fit of drunken anger.

Then I ran out of blood wine.

For three days I had been without Mike’s elixir and that awful bloodlust that Vachon had so accurately described that last night he had been in Sunnydale, arose with a veracity that frankly, scared the hell out of me.

It was then I realized that there were drawbacks to my existence now compared to then. As a demon-vamp, I could go easily a week without blood. Hell, for years after Prague, Dru barely consumed two bloody pints a week. Sure, she was weak. But she never went mad with want. Her eyes never turned blood red with hunger.

I finally broke out of my self-imposed asylum and called Vachon.

I had never been so relieved in my life to find out that Mike, even in her present emotional state, had enough sense to make Wolf’s Bane her first stop once she arrived in St. Louis. According to the Spaniard, she died of blood loss that first night—just to guarantee that I had enough of her blood in a few days—to save me from hunting once again.

As soon as he told me that the shipment was due to arrive later that night, I hung up, growling in relief.

Luckily for the delivery boy he was a vampire.

Or he would’ve been my first live meal in almost a year.

The Slayer would’ve been pissed.

And unfortunately, so would’ve I.

With that thought, I got drunk again.

This one last for nearly a week.

And yet during this whole time, it didn’t once occur to me to follow her back to St. Louis. Somewhere inside, I had accepted that my home was in Sunnydale and that my life was with the Slayer and her friends.

At least for now.

~~3~~

It was the Slayer that finally broke through my drunken prison walls.

Literally.

I nearly killed her before I realized who it was.

Instead, I railed on her for breaking down my front door, all the while cursing humans and their ability to enter anywhere uninvited.

She quickly pointed out, as she straddled my chest with a steak poised above my heart, that I didn’t need an invitation anymore either and to just shut the fuck up.

"You’re pathetic!"

"Fuck you! Who the hell are you to tell me that? Where the hell were you this summer after you sent Angel to Hell, eh? The way I bloody see it," I grabbed the stake and yanked it out of her hand, "at least I didn’t fucking run away!"

I stood up, dumping her back on her butt.

It would’ve been grand exit line if I hadn’t fallen back against the wall in a drunken stupor.

She started giggling.

And before I realized it, I was chuckling softly.

"Are we having a moment?" she asked as she stood up, rubbing her behind.

I shrugged as a smirk curled the corner of my mouth. I finally nodded. "Yeah, I guess we are."

As she looked around the living room, I could see her mentally counting the empty wine bottles that littered the once pristine room. Clean, because believe it or not, I like it that way. Mike sure as hell wasn’t a good housekeeper. Sometimes I swore I spent more time cleaning up after her than making love to her.

And this was a well known and much laughed about fact about us. The ultimate Odd Couple of Immortal Beings.

Buffy sighed as she turned and disappeared into the kitchen. I heard cabinet doors being flung open and slamming shut. The suspense was killing me.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

"Trash bags."

I frowned. "Under the sink. Why?"

She pulled out the box and walked past me back into the living room.

"Why do you think?"

She tore a black bag out of the box and began picking up the empty bottles and carefully placing them into it. "Does he want these back? Or do you recycle?"

Shaking my head, as if that would somehow sober me up, I frowned. "What?"

She pursed her lips as she stood impatiently in front of me, leaning on one leg. She held the bottle up and read the label. "Does LaCroix want these bottles back? Or is there some sort of vampire recycling center you take these to in LA? What? I’m sure you don’t throw them away—not with this label."

It finally got through my cloudy brain what she was talking about. "He picks the empties up when he delivers the next shipment." I picked up a bottle, and sniffed it. Mike’s essence flowed through my senses. My fangs dropped and eyes yellowed in response. "Here!" I tossed the bottle at Buffy and hurried to the kitchen for another bottle. I searched through the dozen or so bottles and found one of the few that had no wine in it. Yanking the cork out with my teeth, I drank deeply, feeling the bloodlust dwindle.

I didn’t realize she followed me until closed the refrigerator door to see her standing behind it.

"Are you okay?"

I started chuckling at the sheer stupidity of the question. What the hell did she think? "No."

She leaned against the wall, watching me. "That bloodlust—is it because you’re drinking so much or is it because you don’t have Mike’s blood?"

I shut my eyes, hoping to hide from her perceptiveness.

It didn’t work.

"Both." I opened them and watched her as her forehead crinkled in thought.

"It’s stronger now, isn’t it?"

I nodded.

"How much stronger?"

I shut my eyes again, feeling it rise once again. "A lot stronger. I guess it’s the price one pays for his soul."

I felt the air stir as she walked around me towards the sink. I heard her open a couple of drawers, then stop. Curious, I finally I had to see what she was up to.

Once again, my slayer shocked the hell out of me.

In her hand, she held a pearing knife, touching the tip as if to test its sharpness. She finally looked up at me, her green eyes suddenly darker and more serious than I ever seen them before.

"When the Master ‘killed’ me, something changed with me. If you and Dru came while he still lived, you probably would’ve beaten me. I don’t know what changed or how it happened, but I became stronger—even more of a Slayer than I was before. "

"Where are you going with this?" I asked, feeling the Beast rise to a new, more insistent level. I grabbed the bottle of blood and drank half of it within a minute. She just watched me, silent and non-judgmental.

It suddenly occurred to me that I knew exactly where she was going with this and I didn’t like it one bit.

"Get out. Don’t even think about it. Don’t pass go, don’t collect a hundred dollars—just get the fuck out of here before I do something that neither of us would like."

She flinched—obviously surprised at the harshness of my words and the meaning behind them. I cared and she didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Well, neither did I.

Finally she nodded, placing the knife back down on the counter behind her and left the room. "Buffy!"

I heard her stop. Suddenly incredibly sober, I gave her a small smile. "Thanks though."

"Option’s still there, Spike. If it’ll keep you from enjoying all those ‘happy meals with legs’ out there, then it’s worth it. And if my blood is anything like an Immortal’s, then it can only help you. Why not? I’ll just stop donating to Red Cross."

I shook my head; wanting nothing more than to take her up on the offer, but knowing that her death would be imminent if I did.

At least for now. I was too high strung.

And she had no idea of how powerful her blood was to me now—even more than it was before when I was just a mere demon-vamp.

Blood was blood back then.

Now blood was like a banquet—each person was unique and delicious—and it made a glorious meal for us Souled-Ones. Therein lied the problem. That was why there were Enforcer’s and demands for conforming Souled-One’s actions. The bloodlust, that was merely a tinkle in a demon-vamp’s need for evil and darkness, was all-consuming in us.

And with Mike’s absence, I was finally experiencing what drove many a vampire crazy with need.

Oh, hell.

I suddenly realized she was waiting for me to speak. "I’ll keep you in mind, alright?"

Feeling satisfied, she nodded. She reached the front door, hand on the knob and turned back to me. "Can you help me patrol tomorrow? Angel’s gone to LA for a couple of weeks, and it’s been pretty busy. With Faith gone, I need the help."

I chuckled softly. "I think I can be sober enough for you. What time?"

"How about I meet you here, since it’s on the way, about 5:30. Will you be up?"

I nodded yes. "I’m usually awake by mid-afternoon."

"Cool, then I’ll see ya tomorrow."

"Till tomorrow, Buffy."

I saw her grin as she disappeared out the door.

I smiled to myself as I began to clean up the house.

Chapter Two

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Hell is a place much like St. Louis"
Seen on a bumper sticker on an 1980 rusty Honda Civic in St. Louis on a hot August day
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~1~~

At first I thought I was going to be all right.

I really did.

I wasn’t breaking down or anything. I was just doing what had to be done. Once I left Sunnydale, the tears dried, and a will that I had almost forgotten in the past few years, re-asserted itself—enabling me to make it to the airplane dry-eyed.

Then, once I landed in St. Louis, still amazingly dry-eyed—three actual hours later, but five hours because I was traveling east, I leased a Nissan Pathfinder and drove straight to Wolf’s Bane.

Everything was fine and dandy until I died.

And then, it was like whatever hold I had on my emotions—disappeared—just poof! I woke up in LaCroix’s quarter’s with Natalie Knight, LaCroix youngest childe and the city’s coroner, sitting next to me, watching the whole Immortal process with mute fascination that only a scientist of the 20th century could possess.

I barely managed to mumble a thank you, before scrambling out of the nightclub like I had a pack of demon-vamps on my tail. Not five minutes later, I screeched the tires and skidded to a stop in front of my flat.

Up until that evening, Vachon had been staying there and paying half the rent and the utilities, while I forked over the other half.

It’s weird how I knew somehow I was going to need that place again.

Yawning, I reached over and grabbed my duffel bag and purse and trudged up the steps that led to my apartment. Before I had a chance to stick the key into the lock, Vachon opened it, grinning, as he stepped back and let me in.

"Is there more in the car?"

I nodded as I threw him the keys and dropped my purse and bag on the floor. I stumbled to the kitchen and got myself a huge glass of ice water.

By the time he returned, I was sitting at the kitchen table, sprawled out on the wooden chair smoking a cigarette.

"I didn’t know you smoked."

"I didn’t. This is my first pack since I was eighteen." I picked up the red and white box and studied the label. Marlboro. Spike’s brand.

God, I’m pathetic.

"You miss him?"

I chuckled without humor. "Understatement."

He disappeared behind me and I heard the refrigerator door open and the sound of cork popping out. Seconds later, I heard him punching numbers into the microwave and starting it. Two minutes later he was sitting in front of me, drinking blood out of one of my mugs—a Hallmark mug at that—with Sylvia plastered on it, bemoaning about friendship, and the chuckles started slipping out.

"What?"

At the sound of his voice—filled with irritation and indignance, I lost it. Suddenly everything—the whole crazy last couple of days came crashing down on me and all I could do is laugh. From the Three Stooges of demons that had decided that Slayer blood was their link to remaining earthbound for all time—to me telling Spike that he loved Buffy—to dying at Wolf’s Bane, just to ensure that the second lover I’ve left in as many years didn’t go on a bloodlust hunt—to finally sitting in my kitchen with a five-hundred year old vampire drinking microwaved-heated blood out of a fucking cartoon-drawn Hallmark coffee mug.

Life was just too fucking weird.

And every time I looked up at him, he just looked more pissed. And I couldn’t help it—I laughed harder. It wasn’t until I found myself on the floor with a very pissed off vampire suckling on my neck, did I realize that maybe I pushed him a bit too far.

Not even a minute later, he stood up, looking thoroughly embarrassed as he grabbed my arm and pulled me and my chair upright.

"Sorry. At least now I know what the hell was so fucking funny! Damn Mike, you’ve got the weirdest sense of humor!"

I watched him as he calmly lifted the mug up to his lips as if he was sipping on a hot cup of coffee. So normal looking.

Was this going to be my life? Either surrounded by vampires or 5000 year-old-Immortals where normal was this instead of getting up every morning at 6:30am to be at work by 8:00am?

What a wonderful day.

"I know. It’ll probably cost me my head one day."

"So you died tonight?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I told her to do it that way. I was holding up then and I have no idea what it’s going to be like tomorrow. I already feel that black wave of depression—just waiting to pounce on me and drown the life right out of me."

He snorted. "Are you sure it’s not here already?"

I rolled my eyes.

I looked around the kitchen and noticed that nothing had changed. He left everything as it had been when Spike and I lived here.

Maybe I should just get a new place.

"Did you find a place to stay?"

He nodded. "Wolf’s Bane. LaCroix’s got my old rooms still open." It was his turn to roll his eyes. "I actually think the General wants me there. If you would’ve told me four years ago this was going to happen, I would’ve called you crazy."

I shrugged. "He trusts you."

"Yeah, pretty weird."

I yawned, my eyes watering as my body screamed exhaustion. Finally the last couple of days of no sleep were getting to me. Maybe, if I was real lucky, I could sleep this depression away.

God, that sounded good.

He stood up and I turned, watching him go to the sink and rinse out the mug. He turned around and faced me. "You’re tired. You haven’t slept more than six hours in two days. Get to bed."

I chuckled. "Damn vampires. Give ‘em a bit of your blood and suddenly they know when you had your last orgasm."

"This morning, Mike. Go to bed."

I stood up shakily and turned to him. "Yes Mommy," and gave him my cheekiest grin.

I left, but not before I heard him mumbling about human women and being on the rag.

Before I shut my bedroom door, I stuck my head out, facing the kitchen. "Well, fuck you, too!"

~~2~~

For three months following my father’s murder and Morden’s disappearance, I began having nightmares. It was before Adam and I had consummated our relationship. We were still riding that weird fence that we had built that shakily stood in between the mentor and/or lover side. I knew I loved him. And I knew that at least the Adam part of Methos loved me.

Me and him just weren’t sure about the rest of his self.

The nightmares slowly disappeared by the time he dumped me off at the convent. And the night he had picked me up from there, we made love for the first time.

I hadn’t had a nightmare since.

That is, until my first night back in St. Louis.

After I shut the door on Vachon, I stripped, dropping my clothes as I made my way to bed and sunk down into bed, I felt my chest tighten and those absent tears finally reappeared. As I hugged my pillow, sobbing into its softness; I finally slipped off into an uneasy sleep.

My nightmare returned.

I screamed as I shot up in bed. My heart was racing as I flipped over onto my back and turned on the beside lamp.

My whole body was soaked with set, my hair stuck to my neck and back, tickling my skin. Gathering it in one hand, I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a hair scrunchie and stopped, staring at the clock in exhaustion.

It was only 4:00am. I’d had a whole three hours of sleep.

Groaning, I tied my hair back and fell back on my pillows.

There would be no more sleeping that night.

~~3~~

The next two weeks were not much better.

Actually, if I were really honest with myself, they were much worse.

The nightmares seemed to come no matter what time it was, leaving me drained and exhausted. So, after the third day, I called a local liquor store that delivered and ordered a case of Jack Daniel’s.

Fuck the beer.

I wanted oblivion.

And so there went my life. I drank. I cried. I ate when I remembered to. And I dreamt.

It wasn’t until Vachon broke into my apartment to find me zoning out in the middle of the living room floor surrounded by trash-built walls, did I realize how far I had fallen—

—into my prison.

The walls were made out of empty pizza cartons, take-out containers of all sorts, empty Jack Daniel bottles and empty packs of Marlboro and over-filled ashtrays.

He literally had to wade through the trash to reach me. Without speaking, he lifted me up and flung me over his shoulder, muttering something about caring too much and carried me to the bathroom. Once there, he set me down on top of the commode in the bathroom.

From there, he stripped me and dumped me into the tub filled with hot water.

"Clean up," he snapped, disgust lacing his voice as he disappeared out through the door.

It wasn’t until he was gone, did it occur to me to protest. But by then, the hot, steamy water was just the balm I needed for my soul.

Once again, I cried, but this time they were tears of cleansing.

~~4~~

A half hour later, clad in my dark purple terry-cloth bathrobe and slippers, I leaned against my bedroom door, trying to work up the courage to go out and face Vachon.

I didn’t want to.

I was so embarrassed.

How did it get this bad?

I hadn’t been this depressed since I was mortal—right after I was diagnosed with Fibromyalgia. And even then, I didn’t hide in trash prison of my own making.

"Shit," I whispered as I opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

The first thing I noticed as I was walking by the living room was that he cleaned up the trash and once again my furniture was in its rightful place. I had everything pushed against the walls, leaving the center in theory, open for my work-outs.

The work-outs that I never did.

I took another deep breath and started walking towards the kitchen. As I stepped into the room, my eyes met Vachon’s and I blushed. I slipped into the chair across from him and played with the place mat. Anything not to look at him.

The coffee maker sputtered loudly, signaling that it was finished and I watched Vachon stand up from the kitchen table and walk over to it.

After pouring me a cup of coffee and grabbing a bottle of Wolf’s Bane House special out of the refrigerator, he came back and sat across from me, sliding the mug across the wooden table.

"When’s the last time you ate?"

I sat back with my eyes closed, thinking. When was it? This morning? Or last night? I opened my eyes and shrugged. "I don’t remember."

I heard him growl and my head shot back up in time to see his eyes flash gold in annoyance. "Do you want to lose your head? Is this place blessed or have you invented a new religion to make it holy ground?"

I flinched. "I wasn’t thinking."

"Obviously. About you or anyone else. You just sat here for two weeks and wallowed."

My head snapped up and I glared at him. "Give me a fucking break! What’s two weeks in an immortal lifetime?"

He nodded as he sipped his bloodwine. "Yeah, you’re right Mike. It would be fine if other people weren’t depending on you or loved you. You’re not answering your phone. You’re not answering the door. You had no idea that another headhunter was in town looking for you and I had to scare him away before he could get you.

"No idea at all. Because you were depressed. Remember Spike? Guess what? He’s out of your blood and scared to death that he’s going to drain the first live body that comes in his range. He’s never had to deal with this before. Demon-vamps don’t have this bloodlust like we do."

I felt my stomach drop. How could’ve I forgotten? I winced, feeling my face redden in embarrassment.

"Shit, I forgot. Alright, I get dressed and we’ll go down to Wolf’s Bane tonight, okay?"

He nodded. "But first we’re going to get something to eat. It’s still early, how about Italian? You love Italian."

I grinned sheepishly. "Talayna’s okay? Will the garlic be too much?"

"Just bring your portable toothbrush and toothpaste and we’ll be fine."

I stood up and took one last sip of my coffee. Vachon stood up and walked over to me. He lifted his hand and pressed it gently against my face. I shivered, immediately thinking of Spike and his cool hands. Vachon’s sighed. "We’re going to talk about this. You need to get this out of your system. You need a friend and it’s your lucky day, because here I am."

I pressed my warm hand on top of his cool one and smiled back at him. "You’ve got yourself a deal."

~~~~~~~~~~~
The cemetery—The Hellmouth’s single’s only club
~~~~~~~~~~~

The following night

As I leaned against the headstone, smoking a cigarette, I asked myself for the hundredth time that day, why I was there. Every time I tried to nudge the thought of a relationship with the blond lioness in front of me, my whole being screamed in terror—fear of getting hurt once again—of being left, once again—knowing that she was going to die and relatively soon in comparison to my immortal life...

All of it combined left my insides in knots.

Not a nice way to feel—especially for someone who, less than a year before, was a soulless demon.

Shaking my head, I watched the slayer hop up on top of a headstone and began swinging her legs back and forth. It hit me then, how contrary she was. Such an old soul with such a young heart. At that very moment, she reminded me a young child sitting on a chair much too high for such a small body. I smiled at the thought, wondering how she would react if I told her what I was thinking.

Then I heard her clear her throat. I glanced upwards—our eyes meeting—and I just knew she was getting ready to say something I didn’t want to hear.

"You still miss her, don’t you?" Buffy asked me quietly as she twirled her stake in the air.

I chuckled softly, thinking of how right I was, as I felt that all-to-familiar stab in my heart that came every time I thought of Mike. What could I say to her? Would she understand that my feelings for Mike had nothing to do with my feelings for her? And why should it matter? It’s not as if the Slayer and I were somehow magically a couple just because Mike left. There were hoops to jump through; trust to be established; feelings to be confirmed.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, not answering her.

It was easier that way. I didn’t have to choose between being angry or amused. Just ignore the question, and it may go away. Besides, I had no idea what to say.

"Spike?"

I lifted my head and opened my eyes. "What?"

"Do you still miss her?"

I heard myself growl as I flicked my cigarette. "I heard you the first time."

"And?"

For a moment, I said nothing—shocked that she wouldn’t let it go. I wanted to yell, scream on the top of my vampiric lungs that, of course I bloody miss her—you idiot! She was in my bleeding' head for over six months! I clamped down on that impetuous part of myself and found myself nearly sighing. Everyday, I’m becoming more and more like my worst nightmare—Brood-Boy—a.k.a. Angelus.

I lit another cigarette instead and watched Buffy as she jumped off the headstone and begin to pace in front of me.

My slayer was becoming impatient as she cleared her throat pointedly—stopping in mid-step, obviously waiting for a response.

Almost immediately, I felt my fangs drop and knew that my eyes were the yellow of a hunter. "What do you think, Buffy? That somehow once I sobered up, that aching hole in my soul that once was Mike would magically heal itself? Why in the hell do you think I was hitting the bottle in the first place?"

She was on the move once again, pacing in front of me. "Well you don’t have to get nasty about it," she stopped and stared at her hands, twisting them. "I just thought you might want to talk about it," she whispered so softly that only another vampire could hear her.

I almost sighed. "I’m sorry. I’m still a bit ragged at the edges, pet. A two-week drunken binge will do that to you."

She nodded and gave me a small smile. It soon disappeared as I watched her lean against the headstone. "Then why don’t you call her then? Or go back to St. Louis. Anyone—"

I had to grin. She never gives up.

"Anxious to get rid of me, pet?"

Her mouth snapped shut as her eyes widened as she started to shake her head in denial. Unfortunately for me, she caught herself. That would’ve been ammunition nearly worth the torture she was putting me through.

In its stead, she rolled her eyes at me. "It’s just that you’re in such a foul mood—"

"I can’t." I paused, watching her freeze with a puzzled look on her face. "I can’t go back to her," I added softly, praying to those lousy gods that she would just bloody drop it.

Of course, she didn’t.

"Why not?"

I heard myself groan as I leaned back—resting my head on the stone behind me—desperately trying to compose myself.

And then I did it. I finally sighed.

Maybe that’s it, I thought to myself. Maybe Brood-boy wasn’t the master of sighs until after he became involved with Slayer.

Oh bloody wonderful. What the hell am I getting myself into?

Once again, the Beast rose as I silently cursed my lack of control. It was never this hard with Mike, I thought to myself, as I felt the bloodlust rise with my anger. But then you never got this pissed off at Mike, either, the wise part of myself whispered in my mind. "Drop it, Slayer," I said, using that dangerous, don’t-mess-with-me-tone, I had perfected as a master demon-vamp. "You might not like the answer."

It had the desired effect.

Her eyes met mine and for a brief second, I swore I saw tears, then her expression hardened as she whipped around and began circling the perimeter, in her lioness-mode, protecting her pups.

Which in a sense she was. If you considered Sunnydale her litter.

And what a beautiful lioness she was. Her blond hair, free and unencumbered, flounced with every step she made. Her body—so unlike Mike’s—was lean, muscular and yet, at the same time, very feminine—like Mike’s. She was wearing one of those Lycra tee-shirts that clung to her breasts as if it were a bra itself and unfortunately, for any male in her vicinity, only came to her midriff—leaving her tan stomach open to our lusting gaze. Not to mention that wisp of a skirt she was wearing. Gods, was she trying to kill me?

Ashamed, I closed my eyes and pictured Mike standing naked in front of me, her breasts—full and pert and her nipples hard and rose colored, her wide hips, long legs and small waist—her softness, so different from my lean, hard body. Sometimes, when we would make love, I felt like I sinking into her femininity, as her soft limbs wrapped tightly about me—enveloping me. Shifting uncomfortably, I found myself grinning at my body’s reaction to my memory. A part of me wanted to yell at Mike and say, ‘see, I still want you—I love you…’

But even before I finished that thought, I knew that it didn’t matter. Mike never doubted my love for her. She just knew I loved someone else in addition to her. And that someone being a very short-lived Slayer guaranteed that Mike would remain out of reach until Buffy died—regardless if I did something about it or not. In Mike’s mind, the point was mute. I could nearly die of blue ball syndrome and she would still stay away until Buffy died.

Then I heard the slayer sigh.

It was a sigh of helplessness and longing. Of anger and frustration. It was the same sigh I made inwardly for months while sitting in that blasted wheelchair watching Angelus paw all over Dru while I was secretly falling for the Slayer—the young woman that was unknowingly fighting my battles with my sire as well as her own.

I flicked my cigarette and stood up, and nearly flew in front of her. Standing there, seeing her bowed head and hearing her sniffles—knowing that I was the cause of those tears, finally broke through that childish temper tantrum that I had been throwing for nearly two weeks. I reached over and caressed her wet face, my hand stopping on her chin. Slowly, I lifted her face as my head dipped down and somewhere in the middle, our lips met.

At first, the kiss was tentative and gentle—all the things that first kisses are between two people who are already in love—but have yet to consummate those feelings. As I nibbled on her bottom lip, a tiny sigh escaped her lips, this one of arousal, as she reached up to touch my face.

Her hand was hot and I heard myself groan as I wrapped my arms around her waist and pulled her small body tight against mine. Her heat called to me—it was unlike anything I had ever felt before. I thought I was accustomed to humans—after nine months with Mike, but Buffy was different.

She was blazing with life and heat. Her heartbeat nearly drowned out all the other sounds around us—enticing me—calling me…

Her mouth opened and her tongue met mine in a lover’s dance. I didn’t even feel my fangs drop until she purposely knicked her tongue on one and her powerful Slayer’s blood tantalized my senses.

The smell of vanilla and spring flowers surrounded me and I heard a loud growl and somewhere in my mind, I realized it was mine.

Somehow I managed to pull away from her. My arms still wrapped tightly around her; I looked down to see flushed face watching mine with a huge smile gracing her lips.

Inwardly, I took inventory and when I realized I didn’t want to drain her, I sighed out loud once again.

Buffy was right.

Her blood was strong enough to keep the bloodlust at bay.

Ah hell, I had no more excuses.

~~2~~

We kissed once more. This time I crushed my lips to hers, opening my mouth—almost as if I was trying to take her inside of me. She responded in kind and then it hit me—she felt the same about me. I may’ve known that before, but this was the first time I felt it.

She really loved me.

I gently broke the kiss, watching Buffy take deep breaths and found myself smiling. Puts a whole new meaning on the saying, ‘he left her breathless,’ I joked to myself.

And then it hit me; I instantly felt a pang of pain, knowing that Mike would’ve loved that joke. Guilt surged through me and I found myself dropping my arms from her waist and groaning.

"Bloody hell—as if my life isn’t complicated enough," I muttered as I began to pace this time. Anger at myself, at Buffy and Mike all rose with such a veracity, I suddenly wanted to hunt for the first time since the demon had left me. "Damnit Buffy, talk to me." I stopped, closing my eyes against the anger. How can I do this? To Mike? To her? Or myself. "I never thought I would suffer from too much love," I whispered, more to myself than to Buffy.

"Don’t do this to yourself, Spike."

My eyes shot open and met hers. Seriousness and love seemed to radiate out from them. "Talk to me, pet." I asked her once again.

She bit down on her bottom lip as a myriad of emotions crossed her face. Everything from surprise, to lust, arousal, want, need and even caring, until she seemed to finally settle on being resigned.

It was almost as if she plunged a stake in my heart.

Resigned to what? Loving me? Of me loving her back? What was she thinking?

I didn’t have to wait long to get my answer.

"What do you want me to say, Spike? That I’ve wanted you to do this for a while now?" She spat out, her body suddenly tense and rigid. "Or that although I hate to see you so sad, that I’m kinda glad that Mike’s gone? Or that I’m a stupid, selfish bitch for falling for another vampire—as if the first relationship wasn’t disastrous enough? Is that enough for you? And what about you? Any great quips of wisdom getting ready to fly out of that mouth of yours? Hmm?" Angrily, she threw the stake and it hit a tree, impaling it. "Well?"

I stood there—glancing from the tree to her and arched an eyebrow. "You weren’t thinking of me when you did that, pet, were you?"

She threw her arms up in exasperation as a smile slowly appeared on her lips. "You are so—so infuriating!" She yelled out as she marched over to the tree and tugged on the stake, yanking it out of the poor tree. "So, Spike, what’s the deal?"

I chuckled softly as I plopped back down on the ground and pulled my legs up to rest my arms on my knees. "Great thoughts, Buffy?" I shook my head. "I’ve spent the past two weeks drowning out any and all thoughts and you expect this brain to function?"

Her face fell.

"What do you want to know, luv? That I enjoyed the kiss?"

"It’d be a start."

I nodded in agreement. "Yes, it would be." I paused for a moment as I watched her trying not to look anxious. "Hell yes, I enjoyed it! I’ve been dying to kiss you like that—to hold you in my bloody arms for over a year now! Surprised?"

Her mouth dropped open in shock as a beautiful shade of pink covered her skin.

"Well, so was I." I laughed, hearing that familiar touch of mania in my voice that had been an almost constant since the night before Mike left. "I was happy with Mike. I love her. She’s a part of me. She made me who I am today. My feelings about her haven’t changed since I had fallen in love with her. So, you can imagine my surprise, when out of the fucking blue, she tells me that quote: ‘You’re in love with Buffy. I have to go.’"

Staring up at the sky and avoiding the slayer’s eye, I lit a cigarette. "Here’s the kicker. Apparently, she’s known this for six months. She stumbled upon it while I was drinking from her. I had buried those feelings for you—because I was demon—because I had no bloody soul—because of Dru—because I was in a bloody wheelchair...because I’m known as the Slayer of the Slayers.

"She keeps this tidbit a secret until you almost died two weeks ago. The guilt came crashing down on her and she couldn’t stay silent—because by then, she knew you felt the same about me.

"Good ole Mike.

"So here I am, in love with two women and I fucking hate it! So, is that enough ‘honesty’ for you, Slayer? Because, if it’s not, I’m sure I could dump a whole bunch more shit on you. All you gotta do is ask."

For nearly five minutes, neither of us said anything. I sat there, staring up into the dark sky, not even noticing the few stars I could actually see, as I smoked. She, on the other hand, turned her back from me, digging her toe into the dirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her turn and looked back down and saw that she had been crying. Another piece of my heart cracked.

She squatted down in front of me and reached for my hand. As we touched, she spoke. "I’m sorry."

I brushed the tears off her cheek and snorted. "Ain’t your fault, luv. It’s those bloody gods that watch over immortal beings fault. The same ones I’ve been cursing since I found myself in a wheelchair."

She grinned. "I wonder whose my patron god? He hasn’t been doing too hot of job either."

Chapter Four

~~~~~~~
The Potholes of Life
~~~~~~~

~~1~~

The following day

It was the phone that woke me up. I opened my blurry eyes and glanced at the clock and saw that it was ten am and groaned. Last night had been a late evening as well as an emotional draining one. Vachon and I had a great time at first. We started out at Talayna’s for a good ole St. Louis Italian meal for me. I had already decided that I would postpone my bi-monthly blood draining until the next day, so I could eat all the garlic I wanted.

Which I did.

I must confess I missed the Hill, a neighborhood in St. Louis, where decades before a huge influx of Italian immigrants had settled and opened their restaurants. Their influence on St. Louis’ cuisine is felt everywhere, from St. Louis Style pizza with provel cheese to toasted ravioli. Nobody makes good white sauce rich with parmesan cheese and garlic, butter, cream and all those other fattening goodies that I lusted after when I was still mortal, like those immigrants and their decedents.

So obviously, the opportunity to pig was just too much.

And it helped that I hadn’t had a decent meal since I left Sunnydale.

So, while I chowed down on pasta con pesci, a Caesar salad, cheese garlic bread and spumoni, Vachon nursed a glass of red wine, sitting as far away from me across the table as possible without it looking obvious. We talked, laughed—and plain joked around until I was finished eating.

Once stuffed to the gills, I hurried to the bathroom with my purse in tow and proceeded to brush my teeth and use mouthwash. I even did it twice and popped a couple of breath mints afterwards, so I wouldn’t clear out Wolf’s Bane, much less Vachon.

Then we went to Wolf’s Bane.

I shouldn’t really blame Nick and Natalie. It’s not their fault that their present case is getting all the media attention that it was or that the pressure to find the perp who was raping and murdering women was escalating daily.

And they couldn’t know about me.

Because I rarely talked about it. It’s not like Immortals can go to a psychologist or shrink and say, ‘Hey Doc, you see I have this problem with trusting men because, it’s like this: one raped and stabbed me multiple times and I died. But, physically, I’m all better now.’

Since Sean Burns death, Immortals have no where to go but to each other. And I never could talk about this with Adam. Even before I found out he was one of the Horsemen, I just didn’t feel comfortable with it. And afterwards, I didn’t want to add to the guilt he was already carrying. Which incidentally, was why I was going back to school to become a psychologist in the first place. There was a great huge hole left after Sean’s death and maybe, if I was lucky, I could help fill it.

Anyway, I stayed silent and tried to work it out on my own. And, considering I fell in love with Adam and had a physical relationship with him as well as with Spike, I thought it was a dead issue.

That is, until we were talking to Nick and Natalie.

I even prostrated myself at LaCroix’s feet, groveling for my old job back. I knew he would say yes, but I also knew he wanted me to beg. So I did. I have no pride in that area of my life, besides if makes a 2000-year-old vampire happy to see a 33-year old Immortal woman beg, then who am I to deny him?

No big thing.

After leaving LaCroix’s office, I went searching for Vachon and found him sitting in a back booth with Nick and Natalie. After procuring a large glass of OJ for myself, I went and joined them. Imagine my surprise to hear them talking about a serial murderer running loose in the streets of St. Louis.

It was especially eerie when I heard his M.O.

All the woman that had died—five so far, fit my description.

Late twenties, early thirties, long, blond hair, dark gray eyes and light complexion.

They all were single and lived by themselves. No physical signs of forced entry into their homes. Each one was stabbed multiple times with a hunting knife and each one, like me, was raped.

And as I sat there, feeling my the sweat break out on my forehead, and my hands beginning to shake, I couldn’t help but think that Spike was right—those blasted gods that watch over Immortal beings had me on their shit list.

I so did not want to deal with this now.

And the worst thing about it, was I thought he had been caught. After me, the murders stopped. I chuckled to myself. And here I thought my tip saved lives...

No, this was not a pleasant memory.

I didn’t say anything until Nick mentioned the murders from three years ago. And then suddenly I couldn’t stop myself. He was looking over at Vachon and I and telling us that the present M.O. matched two murders nearly three years before.

That’s when I broke my silence. "Three," I whispered.

"What? That’s what I said. Three years ago." The blond detective asked me, leaning over the table.

"Three murders. Three people. Three women," I said, playing with a cardboard coaster sporting the Busch beer logo. "I thought my tip got him caught—because it stopped at me."

Vachon grabbed my hand, stopping my nervous fiddling. "Mike, what are you talking about?"

Suddenly it hit me—they didn’t know.

"That was my First Death. It was two and half years ago. He was dressed as an UPS guy. He had a box with my name on it and everything. When I signing that clipboard thing, he kicked the door open, causing me to fall back on to my bookcase. I managed to get up and was reaching for my lamp to hit him with it, when he knocked me out.

"I woke up on my bed, naked with him sucking—," I stopped, shuddering at the memory. All of a sudden, it all flashed back in my mind. Me, opening the door, thinking it was Adam only to discover it was an UPS guy with a package for me. I remember glancing at the clock and thinking to myself that it was really late for a delivery—well past six PM. But I let it go and began signing the board and suddenly I pushed back—my head hit the bookcase. I turned, scared to death and pissed off that I was never going to meet Adam, and I reached for a lamp, but he had knocked me out before I could lift it.

When I woke up, I was naked on the bed. And so was he. I remember shivering despite the heat. My mind was so foggy from the hit on my head, but he was so pale and cold. God, he was so cold. It felt like an icicle slicing into me as slid his penis in and out of me.

And then I saw the knife.

And before I could scream, he stabbed me in my chest. And then again. And again. And then I died.

I shook my head, realizing I had finally done that Immortal thing of reliving the past and looked up to see the three vampires watching me intently. I took a deep breath and sighed. They weren’t going to like this, but I had to ask. I looked over at Natalie. "Any missing blood?"

"Why?" Nick asked. "Do you think it was one of us?"

I shook my head. "I don’t think so—it was early evening—about 6:30, maybe 7:00 PM. But, my apartment was dark, because I didn’t want any peeping toms to get their jollies. And Spike used travel and stay awake during the day—so maybe that doesn’t matter. I don’t know. " I bit my lip, staring at Vachon. "Maybe it’s a demon-vamp. That would explain the lack of bite marks, the cold body, the dead eyes."

I turned back to Nick. "Demon-vamps don’t have some of the restrictions you do. Spike used to travel in a car during the day with his windows spray painted black. And I know demon-vamps get off on murder and death—they don’t need the blood like you guys do. They don’t have a bloodlust like you guys do—they have an evil-lust—for lack of a better word. In that need for evil, blood is included for both sustenance and because it’s fun—but, unless they’re out hunting to feed, they don't need blood like you guys do."

"We couldn’t account for at least a pint of blood at each murder," Natalie pursed her lips in thought. "But these women were raped. That isn’t possible with us."

Vachon shook his head. "With us. Not with them. They have more control. They can drink from a human without killing them. They can have sex with humans without draining them."

Nick groaned to himself. "This puts a whole new light on it. If it is one of them, he’s not breaking the Code so we can’t call the Enforcers. And I would rather keep the Slayer where she’s at."

"So would I," I added softly, not quite ready to deal with Buffy or Spike yet. "How ‘bout I help? If anything, it’ll mess with his mind—if he saw me alive. He’s the only ‘normal’ out there that knows that I died."

Nick sipped his bloodwine and glanced up at Natalie. Mike could see something pass between them and then Nick nodded as he turned his eyes back to me. "We’ll get back to you about that. One thing, where did you live then?"

"Dogtown. Right on the cusp of Maplewood. It’s was the city’s jurisdiction though."

"Fits the profile," muttered Natalie as she stood up.

Nick followed, leaving Vachon and I alone.

It was then he asked me about my First Death.

So, I told him over a pack of Marlboro’s for me and a bottle of LaCroix’s house special for him.

Like I said, it was an emotionally draining evening. Too many bad memories and past loves remembered.

Shaking my head, I grabbed the receiver and groaned a hello.

"Mike? It’s Joe."

I yawned again as I sat up in bed and reached for a cigarette. "Hi Joe. What’s up?" I lit it, making a face at the taste. Oh great, a cigarette hangover, I mentally groaned.

He chuckled. "Did I wake you? I thought it was late enough..."

"Don’t worry about it. I’m still on a vampire schedule."

"Are you alright? I just feel bad, with your father not here anymore and the Old Man gone. Someone has to worry about you."

I shut my eyes against the pain. "I’m hanging in there. I wish things could’ve been different, but," I shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished.

He sighed. "I wish you hadn’t left Sunnydale. It’s safer there."

"I didn’t have a choice, Joe. She deserves happiness. And he was the one that could do that for her. Consider it my gift to the Fight Against Evil."

"As long as it doesn’t cost you your head," he muttered and instantly my radar went up. Something was up. This wasn’t an Uncle-Joe-checking-up-on-his-surrogate-niece phone call. No, this was more of a subtle, but obvious watch-your-ass-Mike phone call.

"What up, Joe?"

I heard him swallow and take a deep breath. "I’m reinstating you as a part-time researcher. You need to check your bulletins. And your mail."

My heart began pounding. Someone was after me. "Has there been any reports of vampire attacks on Immortals here?" I asked, remembering the Immortal that Vachon drained a few nights before.

"Yes," he answered carefully. "But apparently the Immortal had never had a run-in with a vampire and his encounter spooked him. The last I heard, he was in Houston."

Oh just wonderful, I thought. A different head-hunter.

"Well, darling, I got to go. Mac’s coming over to the bar and helping me paint."

"Paint? But Joe, you just repainted Le Blues Bar six months ago."

Joe laughed. "I forgot to tell you? Man, I’m sorry. Hon, we’re back in Seacouver. We have been for a week."

"That means I can visit you without having to update my passport. I’m glad. It’s kinda lonely in the States without you and Mac."

"Thanks Darling. You take care, okay?"

"Yeah, I will. And thanks. I’ll drop you a line and fill you in."

"Sounds good. Bye Mike."

"Bye Joe," I said and slowly hung the phone up. "Great," I said out loud in the empty bedroom. "When it rains, it pours."

I pulled myself out of bed and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee and start my day.

Chapter Five

~~~~~~~~
Did you see that bright blue light?
~~~~~~~~

Sunnydale, CA

Spike’s house

One month later

As I listened to her breathing, gentled by sleep, I tightened my hold on her small and warm body and reveled in her softness. After hours of making love, Buffy finally slipped into a deep slumber; her head resting on my chest, her arms draped over my cool body and, I must admit, it felt bloody wonderful. For the first time since Mike had left, I felt as if that hole that she left in my heart and soul could actually be filled by this young woman in my arms.

And it shocked me.

Because, despite my feelings for Buffy and hers for me, I really couldn’t see feeling this way with anyone other than Mike. And ironically, I only felt a tinge of guilt for being this happy. This was what Mike wanted and, ironically I knew, that if I hadn’t pursued the Slayer, Mike would’ve staked me herself for causing her as much pain as I well knew she was feeling.

I had my sources.

Willow, although reluctantly, would fill me in when I cornered her. Nervously, she would stutter Mike’s whereabouts and how she was doing—which only confirmed what I already knew in my soul. Although the link was nearly dead—it wasn’t totally. Once I pulled myself out of the bottle, I realized that even across all those miles, we were feeding each other our emotions. It was a good thing that Buffy and Vachon literally dragged both our perspective asses out of our funks, or Mike and I would be wallowing in the affects of a mental circle fuck for an eternity. I would feel bad—she would pick up on it and add it to her already bad feelings and then I would pick up on double-depression—which only added to my double-depression....

See a pattern?

But this link thing is so new to everyone. Vachon said that he had never experienced a tie as strong as mine was with Mike—even with his own children. Outright telepathy wasn’t known in any of the circles we traveled in, so Mike and I were left winging it.

Although Richie Ryan did tell me one thing of interest that might explain why we are so connected. We were talking about how anyone would know if Methos lost his head since he had basically disappeared, and Richie said that Mac would know. He then went on to tell me about how a couple years ago, his mentor, Duncan MacLeod and Methos, were fighting two other Immortals and both Mac and Methos beheaded their opponents at the same time. The result was a totally unheard of phenomena: a double-Quickening. According to what Richie could drag out of the reluctant Scot, not only did the two Immortals share their opponents Quickenings—but they also shared one another’s. Now, apparently, MacLeod can now ‘read’ Methos’ signature as well as Methos reading Mac’s. Also, they felt when the other took a head. The effects were totally dependent on the distance between the two—the closer one was to the other—the stronger the effect.

If I were thinking metaphysically, I would say they shared the Immortal equivalent of one another’s soul. Using that theory with Mike and I, her Quickening not only gave me my soul, but it also gave me a bit of hers.

Which, in my roundabout way, leads me back to Buffy. After discovering that her blood tamed the bloodlust in me, she insisted that I feed from her. Although just the mere suggestion gave me raging hard on that I had a bitch of time getting down, I was still a bit reluctant. After all, didn’t I just go through this? And what about Buffy? Or Mike? Would Buffy mind sharing my heart with someone else, even though she wasn’t physically there? So I asked her.

Her reaction stunned me. It just reminded me all over again, how old her soul was. She rolled her eyes at me and chuckled. "Your point?"

I stood there, feeling my spine straighten as I scowled at her. "I just thought it might bother you that you would still feel her. It would be a reminder that I love someone else as well!" I lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke in her face, watching her face redden.

Boy, I just love being a shit.

"Like I could forget it anyway!" Her fingers deftly yanked the cigarette out of my mouth and she dropped it on the grass, stomping it.

"Hey!" I snapped as I watched my only cigarette experience the wrath of one brassed-off Slayer. "That was my last one!"

She closed her eyes and groaned. "Quit then." She looked up and met my eyes, her demeanor suddenly completely serious. "I wouldn’t be here—with you—discussing this—if it wasn’t for her." She moved to stand in front of me, lifting her hands to my cheeks. Her warmth filled me with a longing so deep, I wondered if it would ever be sated. "All that matters to me is that I love you and that you love me. Who else we love isn’t a factor as long we don’t bring them into our bed."

That was it.

She won that one. Before she could even manage a squeal, I had her in arms, crushing my lips to hers, holding her tight enough that if she were human, she may’ve broken and told her with my mouth and tongue, and my hardness that pressed against her sex, how much I loved her and wanted her.

Needless to say, not much more slaying was done that night. We ran through Sunnydale to my house like a couple of horny teenagers, which in her case she is, and by the time I had shut the door, she had already kicked off her shoes and was pulling off her socks. Not even letting her finish, I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder and carried her to the bedroom.

We made love the rest of the night into the day. Each time was wonderful. And when I drank from her, it was intense. Although instinctively I knew that whatever Buffy and I shared wouldn’t go as deep as the link between Mike and I, it was still mind-blowing. Our minds did mesh and for a short while, we were one. So now a piece of Mike is in Buffy.

I wonder if Mike is getting anything out of this?

Only on the Hellmouth.

I looked back down at my sleeping Slayer and smiled. I even said a small prayer to those gods that I had been cursing for over a year now.

They finally allowed me some peace.

As I felt dawn approach, I drifted into sleep, surrounded by the Slayer’s scent and essence, and reveled in the feeling.

Bloody hell, I really do love her.

~~~2~~~

Of course, it had to be a dream. I mean, what else could it be? I never felt anything like this before in my life—and that’s all 200 years worth. Pain, as acute and agonizing as any torture I’d ever suffered, combined with a pleasure—that ran so deep into my soul that I screamed for release. And the images that ran through my head of people and places that I’ve never been to and ever met. And yet, I felt a familiar presence somewhere close. Vachon. I could feel him, off the side, watching over me. Worrying.

It was then I realized I was somehow Mike or I was in her—just like that time I followed the link into her cell and watched Morden tell her and vicariously, me, why he wanted her dead. I felt her soul crying out as another bolt of pleasure-pain stabbed into her body. A thought drifted into her/my mind—so this is what a Quickening feels like...

The pain and pleasure began to lessen and Mike opened her eyes. I realized then, we had been floating in the air—the power of the Quickening so strong that it lifted her body up so it could pound itself into her.

To the side, I glimpsed at a young man’s headless body and felt Mike’s sorrow at how her life had taken another turn into a world she wasn’t quite ready to deal with.

Her/my last thought was Welcome to the Game...

And then it stopped.

~~~3~~~

I don’t know how long I laid there in bed—stiff and still—when Buffy’s frantic voice finally pulled me out of my stupor.

"Buffy, he should be okay," I heard the Watcher’s voice say quietly.

"Giles, he’s been out for over an hour—he’s a vampire for gods sake—where’s that famous healing?"

I felt her body lift up from the bed and I concentrated on moving my mouth.

"...okay."

"What?" I heard her yell. The bed moved again. I could feel her presence—smell the vanilla. It filled my body.

I licked my lips.

"He moved, Giles!"

"Pet, I’m okay." I whispered, this time managing nearly a complete. "Hungry."

"Oh dear, I guess he would be with all he’s gone through," Giles muttered. "The refrigerator, Buffy?"

"Uh yeah, grab a bottle that say’s Spike’s Special on it. It’s one of the ones that has Mike’s blood in it." I felt her warm hand caress my face. "God, you had me so worried. I was sleeping with my head on your chest and suddenly, I was thrown across the room. You wouldn’t believe the fireworks! Luckily, they pretty well stayed with you and whatever was touching you. You were glowing, Spike. Blue light covered your whole body!"

I couldn’t help it. I grinned, quietly chuckling. I tried opening my eyes again and found this time they could focus. The first thing I saw a rumpled slayer clad in a pair of her work-out sweats, anxiously leaning over me. Her face was red and puffy. She had been crying.

"Sorry."

She leaned down and kissed me gently on the lips. "Nothing to be sorry about. We knew that this could happen. Before you ask, I called Wolf’s Bane and found out that Mike and Vachon left St. Louis about a month ago. Apparently a headhunter was after her and Vachon literally whisked her away to give her a chance to shape up." Buffy’s eyes dropped as she fiddled with the bedspread. "Apparently she wasn’t any better shape than you were those first couple of weeks. And the headhunter didn’t give her a chance to get her act together."

Giles walked in with an opened wine bottle in one hand and a wine glass in the other. He handed them to Buffy.

"Well—a—yes—about a month ago, I warned Mike about an Immortal," he said quietly, but caught my look of disbelief. "We owe her. It was the least I could do."

I smiled back at him, grinning, thinking of how Mike managed to obtain such deep loyalty from people, without even trying on her part.

The watcher continued. "I called Joe Dawson tonight and informed him of—of—this," he waved his hand at me, "and then asked him if he knew who it was that Mike faced last night. All Dawson knew it was that it wasn’t the one I knew about, because he was still in St. Louis, while Mike and Vachon were in Toronto," Giles said as he removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Who’s the one that you knew about?" I asked, somewhat surprised that I had the use of my voice again. Gotta love vampiric healing abilities, I thought absently as I glanced over at Buffy and saw a pensive look on her face. What the hell was going on here?

The Englishman shifted restlessly on his feet as he slipped his glasses back on. "Well—um—his name is Abdullah Mughal—"

"That Arab bastard that shot at us?"

Giles swallowed nervously and nodded.

"Oh great. No wonder Vachon took her out of the country."

Giles nodded in agreement, but I could tell there was something more bothering him.

"What else, Watcher?" I asked after I took the bottle from Buffy’s hands and drank straight from it.

Giles glanced at Buffy and she nodded to him. "I’ll do it," she said softly and then turned back to me. "It seems that Mike’s first killer—the one that—"

"Bloody hell, why didn’t I think of that!" I interrupted, suddenly realizing I knew exactly what they were trying to tell me. Obviously I got more from that Quickening than a vicarious lightening strike. "She thinks it’s a bloody vampire that did her in! And he’s at it again?"

Buffy frowned. "How did you know that?"

I chuckled at the smidgen of jealously that laced her voice. "Don’t worry, Pet. I haven’t talked to her in over six weeks. This is from the Quickening," I growled, allowing my annoyance to surface. Not that I didn’t mind knowing everything about Mike, it’s just that the timing sure as hell sucked. "Hell, for all we know, the next I drink from you, you’ll know all Mike’s secrets as well. It’ll be a group mind-fuck. Come one—come all!"

I heard the manic tone in my voice, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was all too fucking incestuous for me. As the volume of the static in my head lessened, I began to remember a lot of little new tidbits of information about her that I somehow gleaned from the Quickening. Details that I sure as hell didn’t want to know now—especially since I wasn’t involved in her life at the present and had no plans to be in the near future. One particular fact kept jumping out at him, egging on that notorious jealous streak that I’ve always battled—demon or not—was why in the hell has Vachon drank from her? I didn’t feel any sexual intimacy between the two, but gods, I heard what it was like after a Quickening. For all I knew, about now those two would be rutting like a couple of dogs during mating season.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Just when I thought I had a handle on all this, and knew where my heart was going to be for the next few years, this intimacy had to be re-ignited. "Bloody hell. Giles, what in Satan’s name can do to prevent this from happening again?"

I saw a flash of insecurity cross Buffy’s face and I winced. I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Don’t worry, Buffy. We’ll get through this."

She nodded, blinking back some fresh tears. "Well, LaCroix said that if you’re willing fly back to St. Louis later tonight, he can walk you through some mind exercises to help you learn how to block the link. Or at least, if given some sort of warning, you could build a barrier of sorts for the coming onslaught. He also said that Mike and Vachon were planning to stay in Toronto for a few more days, so you shouldn’t worry about seeing them."

I nodded slowly, thinking that this was the best solution I had heard yet. I looked up at the Watcher and noticed that he had calmed down a bit. "So Giles, do you think this is the best option?"

"Well—ah—unfortunately, it—it seems to be our only one. Believe me, when you and Mike first told us what had happened, I searched every Watcher’s Journal I had and found nothing that gave us any clue as to what to expect." He began cleaning his glasses again. "And when you and Buffy became involved, I began researching the Immortal Chronicles, but unfortunately Watcher’s of Immortals usually don’t have any personal contact with their assignment..."

I took another sip from the bottle and nodded. "Sounds like I’m going to St. Louis. Can Buffy come with me?"

Buffy grinned at her Watcher, her eyes begging him to say yes. He gave the couple a small smile and nodded yes. "Well, I actually, as far as I’m concerned, yes. Faith is still here for a couple more weeks. And so is Angel. No prophecies. We should be fine. But, what about your mother, Buffy?"

She shrugged. "She’s in New York for a buying trip. I’ll call her and let her know." Buffy grinned at me. "She trusts Spike. I’m sure she’ll say yes."

I snickered quietly, remembering how I had somehow charmed her mother while I was still a demon-vamp and now that I had a soul, she had been totally won over.

I couldn’t help but think that the ironies ran abound in my unlife.

I felt my eyelids dropping and my body was finally succumbing to the exhaustion that I’d been fighting since I woke up. I reached over to my nightstand and opened the drawer and pulled out my wallet. Grabbing my credit card, I handed it to Buffy. "Be a love, darling and make the reservations—after you call your mother. I think it’s time for this Quickening-filled vampire to get some much earned shut-eye." I gave her a quick kiss and fell back onto the bed, my eyes closed before I hit the pillow.

I didn’t even hear them leave.

Chapter Six

~~~~~
As if I had a choice!
~~~~~

Three days later
Toronto, Canada

I never even got a chance to pack. One minute, Vachon and I were walking back from this dojo where he put me through two hours of the most bloodiest, cruelest and grueling swordplay I'd ever had to endure in my short Immortal life, when I felt the presence of an Immortal, and the next moment we were in the air.

At first, I thought he was whisking me away to some church or other Holy ground. He rarely took me flying, but being an ole pro at being a vamp's passenger after six months with Spike, I just leaned into his embrace, and enjoyed what I had thought would be a short ride.

It wasn't until I noticed the arch was under us, not over us, that maybe a short ride wasn't what he had in mind.

I turned my head, our faces nearly touching in the cool wind and cleared my throat.

He smiled down at me. "Yes?" he asked, whispering in my ear. A cool shiver caressed my spine. Damn vampires, I thought to myself. Too damn sexy for anyone's good.

I decided to return the favor and dropped my voice down to a deep sensual whisper and leaned as close as I dared. "Where are we going?"

And then he did something I was totally unprepared for. He kissed me. A soft, sensuous kiss that barely touched my lips and then his mouth moved upwards, licking and nipping into he reached my ear. A cool tongue slipped inside and almost instantly my whole body became liquid. I am sure I would've fallen the 500 feet necessary to reach the ground if he hadn't had such a tight hold around my waist.

The son-of-bitch.

"Chicago."

I'm not sure what threw me the hardest: our destination or the kiss that followed. But, if that had been his plan, it worked, because for the next hour and half, I was literally like putty in his hands. I couldn't have protested if I had wanted to.

Asshole men.

And they say women are manipulative!

Ha! They never had deal with Methos or Vachon!

~~2~~

It was the cold that finally yanked me out my stupor. Icy winds, that only an hour before, I welcomed because they seemed to chill my boiling blood, were now trying to eat my skin away. He must've noticed my discomfort, because suddenly I was no longer facing the wind, but him. Immediately, I stuffed my hands under his coat, searching for that elusive warmth that is irritatingly absent in vampires and ducked my head under his, instinctively longing for skin and was pleasantly surprised to find that his body temperature was at least higher than the air outside and sighed in relief.

I knew we were getting closer to our destination, if the urban sprawl was any indication and with that thought, I felt the anger begin to creep its way into my consciousness once again.

Fuming, I realized he must've somehow whammied me into submission. I thought I was resistor. I was led to believe that all Immortals were resistors, but obviously Vachon had a couple of tricks up his sleeve, because he managed to tame my anger and silence me.

Had I mentioned how much I wanted to take his head for this?

Groaning inwardly, I thought of that nice little speech I had made to Spike right before I left Sunnydale—the one about independence and leaning on myself and how I needed to take care of myself and not allow the men in my life to do it for me—and realized I forgotten to consider one significant point: it was all moot if these said men didn't follow the program.

I bit my bottom lip and sighed. Once again, I was being taken care and to be honest, I hated it. Sure, I was smart enough to know that I had a tiny Cinderella inside of me that was dying to allow every man I came into contact with take over my life. But real life had taught me different.

Real life said nobody stays. Everyone leaves eventually. And when that happens, the only person you can count on is yourself. Reality also taught me that life is a bitch and you better learn how to be the Queen of Bitca's if you're going to keep one step ahead of its plan.

In my case, that meant, no matter how or how many men were going to come to my rescue in my long, Immortal life, there'll be a time, when I will really need it, and there'll be no rescuing. So, I'd better take my hero lessons now and quit playing at being the damsel in distress.

Unfortunately for Vachon, he was going to experience one of my first real vocal attempts at taking control of me.

Ten minutes after I had finally figured out how and in the most bloodiest detail, to dig him a new asshole, we landed on some obscure, warehouse roof.

He gently released me and I stumbled backwards into a wall glaring at him. "Since when did Chicago become a leisurely flight home?"

His brown eyes met mine and I swore I saw some lingering amusement flashing back at me. It just pissed me off more.

He blinked a couple of times. And I growled at him, mentally thinking Spike would be proud of that growl, as I pushed myself off the wall and stomped over to him—ignoring the wobbling of my knees and the pins and needles of my blood recirculating. "Vachon, what the hell is this about and who the fuck do you think you are?"

He didn't even flinch.

Asshole.

Instead, he dug out a set of keys and opened the roof door. He then turned to face me and shrugged.

I felt my blood pressure sky rocket. I know my face must've been bright red. At least my vision was. Everything was tinted in this red sheen of anger. God, at that moment, I wished I was a vampire so I could knock that smug curl of his lips right off his face.

I moved in even closer. We were now nose to nose.

"Tell me! Not even a word or warning or discussion. Or how about that new, 20th century concept of allowing women to take control of their own lives or is that something your 500-year-old senile brain is just too brittle to consider? Tell me! That could've been Mac or Richie...even Adam and you just assume it's a headhunter—"

"Mac and Richie are in Seacouver."

"—and interfere! Remember the rules, Vachon? No fuck—" It suddenly sunk in what he had just said. "What?" My anger dimmed a bit, replaced with curiosity.

"Mac and Richie are in Seacouver and Adam hasn't been seen in almost a year. But, Abdullah Mughal was spotted tonight in St. Louis. I lay my money on Mughal."

I processed what he said and bit my lip nervously.

"Stop that!" He snapped at me.

Just to be spiteful, I made sure to bite a bit harder and was happy to taste my blood on my lips. Fuck you, I mentally chanted as I licked my lips.

His eyes flashed and his arm darted out, grabbing me and yanking me towards him.

My heart raced dizzily I felt his hand grip the back of my head and pull me towards his mouth. Again, our lips met, and I sighed softly as his tongue darted out, lapping up the blood. Once my lip was clean, his fangs sunk into my tongue and he fed, sending my hormones into a tailspin. After nearly a minute, he pulled away and sighed heavily.

"Never taunt a hungry vampire, Mike." He threw the door open and walked through it, flicking on a light switch and then beckoned me to follow him.

Stunned, I stumbled inside and fell back against the door, closing it. Ignoring my arousal and the thousands of implications that could be gleaned from that, I forced my mind to go back to our conversation. Even though I know that he meant well by taking me away from the situation, I still hated the idea that he made this decision without any discussion with me. Granted, it was to save my head. But still, it's what I was—am. Immortal. That's what we do. Fight.

I took a deep breath and finally felt better. "So?"

He leaned back against wall, across the hallway from me and sighed. This was going to be bad, I thought to myself.

"So, contingency plan one was started."

Instantly all the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rose, quickly followed by the angry flush the sped across my skin. "Who's fucking contingency?" I growled out. "Yours? LaCroix's? Surely not Mac's or Richie's—they know—they understand—"

He sighed again. "MacLeod's."

This time it was me doing the blinking, but in disbelief. "What?" I sputtered, as my mind desperately tried wrapping itself around this newest bit of info. "Mac's?"

He met my eyes and nodded once, then pushed himself off the wall. "Coming? I'm hungry, as you well know," he added glancing back at me and smirking when he noticed my embarrassment. "It takes a lot to fly both of us up here and I need to eat now."

I nodded silently, still battling all those conflicting emotions running rabid around my heart and mind. The kiss. The flight. The kiss again. The implications. Why? Mac? Thousands of those fragmented thoughts were spilling out and I was having a damn hard time dealing with them.

It was so much easier when I was just pissed, I thought to myself as I followed him to a freight elevator and watched him push a lighted button sporting the number two on it.

As for Vachon, well he seemed to be having some problems dealing with all this as well. His eyes were now a constant yellow and his fangs had descended nearly ten minutes before. I knew he was pissed at me, but I wondered if it was something else as well.

Minutes later, we were standing in front of a huge metal door with a key code lock at the side. He pushed in a random set of numbers and a loud click followed, eerily echoing through out the hallway.

He pushed the door open and walked inside, and instantly lights flashed on; the setting a low dim.

Confused, I shook my head and followed him inside, instantly searching for a light switch near the doorway. Although I didn't see him flick them on—he could've pulled one of the crafty vamp moves and I missed it.

"It's pressurized," he said pulling off his coat and flinging down onto a nearby chair. I glanced around the room and for a warehouse, it was quite an attractive place. A black leather couch, black rug, the walls painted white. Modern. Sheik. For a moment I couldn't tell if this was a vampire's home or Immortals', but when I noticed the lack of windows, I knew: vampires.

Since I had already been inside LaCroix home in St. Louis, I knew his decorating tastes. LaCroix was a lot homier—for lack of a better word. This warehouse screamed Nick.

"Nick's?" I asked as I took off my own coat and set it on top of Vachon'.

He nodded and turned towards the kitchen, which was really just an area cordoned off by a long counter and stools that stood on the outside, serving as the kitchen table. I watched him as he pulled out a bottle of bloodwine and yanked the cork out with his teeth. Spitting it in the sink, he drank it down in one tip of the bottle. He pulled out two more bottles and set them on the counter. After opening the second bottle, his eyes fell on me.

"We'll stay here until dusk tomorrow. I'm not sure we'll make it—it depends on the weather and how much blood we can carry—but we'll try for Toronto tomorrow. The vampire way.

"No trails. No records. No indications of where you've gone. At Toronto, we'll stay at another of Nick's places. Like this, it's a converted warehouse, and on the second floor, what hasn't been turned to living quarters is a nice area—like a garage—but with no windows—where you can train. That's where we'll practice. Everything. If you can learn how to fight me and manage to at least keep up—you'll have no problems with Immortals. And then, when you're ready, we can go back to St. Louis and all those fucking headhunters can come if they want. And I'll stay out of it. So will everyone else. You're not ready yet. Until then, we stay here."

Hearing the plan and actually under different circumstances, would've loved it, I felt all my anger slip away—replaced with this odd sense embarrassment mixed in with loss. I was embarrassed at my asinine actions that evening and felt a well spring of grief pour through me as I watched my life once again slip out of my hands...Gods, I hated it.

I slid down wall of cabinets as I felt my eyes fill with unwanted tears. How did this happen? I asked myself.

"When did I lose so much control over my life, Javier? When did it become everyone else's—not just mine to have or to lose?"

I looked up at him and saw flicker of compassion in his eyes, but they instantly hardened when he answered. "When you let yourself go for two weeks, knowing full god damn well that every headhunter on Earth was after Adam and by proxy, you. You did this to yourself, Mike. Not us. We—LaCroix, Mac, Nick and I just love you enough to help you until you can help yourself once again. So, get used to it." He popped the cork on the third bottle and deep drink from it. His glance never wavered from mine. "I've lost too many people I care about in the last couple of years to just sit back and let you get killed!" By the time he finished, his eyes were once again yellow and he lifted the bottle to his lips, finishing it off. He gathered the empty bottles and threw them in the trash, under the sink. "There's food in the refrigerator. I suggest you get something to eat and go to bed. I myself, am going to put as much distance between us as possible for the next couple of hours, or you may find yourself drained like those bottles I just pitched."

With that, he walked passed me and turned left, disappearing from sight.

"Son-of-a-bitch," I whispered into the empty room.

Then the tears came.

~~3~~

After the tears stopped flowing and my chest no longer felt as if an elephant had been using it as a rest stop, I pulled myself up and stumbled over to the sink. Not caring about proprieties, I turned the cold water on and proceeded to position my mouth under the spout, and drank.

The cool water felt wonderful as it glided down my parched throat and began to re-hydrate my body.

Once finished, I turned the water off and leaned against the sink, replaying what Vachon said in my mind. Shaking my head, I realized how familiar his 'get your shit together speech' had been to the one Adam had given me nearly three years ago at Mac's dojo. The words were different, but the intent was the same.

And that was what was bothering me: why? Where was that laid-back, devil-may-care Javier Vachon that I had heard so much about?

Well, he sure as hell wasn't with me—and to be honest, hadn't been since I'd known him. Sure, I had seen him slide into that I-don't-care mood so easily, that it must've been his second skin for years. But no, for the most part, the Vachon I knew was quiet, introspective, moody and liked to brood.

And he stayed away from the women.

According to Natalie, that was another characteristic of the post-Divia Vachon. He, apparently, had been quite the lady's man before the attack by LaCroix's daughter. And he loved to hunt. Enjoyed being a vampire. Had none of the moral qualms about it that Nick had. Or that I would probably have if I had ever been turned.

And now, it seemed that what was once enjoyment, now was complacency.

Sighing, I headed out the kitchen to the chair where my coat was and pulled out my nearly empty pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, I found myself back in the kitchen, once again leaning against the sink, as I went over the last couple of days in my mind.

Although it seemed an eternity, it was only three nights ago that Vachon dug me out of my living and pulled me out of my funk. I frowned, suddenly remembering when he tackled me in the kitchen and bit my lip in frustration.

Fleeting thoughts filled my head as I remembered what little I gleaned from his drinking. I nearly choked; hacking up a lung-full of smoke, as a specific thought of his became clear...

Must protect...my childe...must protect... repeating over and over again—almost like a mantra.

My childe.

How the hell did I get to be his childe?

"Shit!" I muttered, dropping the cigarette in the sink. The hell with this! If he drains me—fine, he drains me. I'll survive. I've gotta know.

I stomped out of the kitchen, turning left and stumbled through the darkened hallway in search for the errant vampire.

Even before I could ask where the pressure-sensitive lights were, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and shapes began to form around me. Running my hand lightly across the wall, I stopped when I felt a doorway. I looked down and saw what I hoped was the doorknob and grasped it.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside the moonlit room.

Vachon was standing in front of the window, clad only in a pair of faded Levi's, doing that not-moving thing that vamps are famous for, as he stared out into the Chicago night. As I watched him, I realized for the first time consciously, that he was really very good looking. Grinning inwardly, I remembered Willow bemoaning the fact that all the vampires she knew personally were just too good looking for her own good. We had decided then it had to be because, if you had to choose someone to spend an eternity with you, would you chose someone ugly?

As I studied the vampire, taking note of how the shadows and light danced upon his bare skin, seemingly contouring his well-developed back and shoulder muscles, I realized he just seemed to back up our theory.

If his back looked that good, I could easily imagine his chest would be just as fine—as well as other parts.

Sighing out loud, I shook my head, trying to reign in all those crazy thoughts, inwardly cursing the vampire in question for starting all this personal dialogue about sex. If he hadn't kissed me twice tonight, I wouldn't be thinking of how it would feel to make love to him.

Forcing those thoughts onto the back burner, I lifted my eyes and smiled as I saw his hair. Long, and wavy—sporting that unkempt look that nearly begged every female near him to either run their fingers through it with complete sexual abandonment or have an equally strong desire to create order where there was none.

Me, I fell into the first category. Granted, most of the men I fell in love with preferred the clean cut, less mess look, but that didn't deter the fact that they had a rebel heart. And Vachon just wore his rebellious nature in a bit more obvious place.

But he was still a non-conformist. Just as Spike and Methos were.

Just as Mac and Nick Knight weren't.

Suddenly, he voice broke the silence.

"I wondered how long it would take you," he said softly, his voice taking on a definite strained lilt to it. "I knew once you got over your hissy fit, you'd start asking yourself why. Why is he doing this? If I'm so important to LaCroix, then why didn't the General just send me off to one of his 100 or so households spread through out the world...why is Vachon so insistent on doing this himself? Why does he even care about what happens to one very young Immortal woman, when there are all these beautiful women, mortal and not, just clamoring to be the first to bed him...or bed me, as I should say."

I stood there for a moment, so caught up in the spell he seemed to have woven around me. I shook my head as if to clear my clouded mind and then nodded slowly. "You're right," I whispered, watching his shoulders tense. "It doesn't make any sense. It'd be nice to believe it was because of my dazzling personality, but unfortunately, I know better."

I heard a small chuckle. "Sometimes Mike, you remind of Tracy. That would be something she would say. And then other times, like earlier this week when I found you in your apartment, I would say to myself, not Tracy, Urs. Urs loved being depressed and sometimes, I think you do too."

I tried not to flinch on that observation, knowing he hit too close to home, and concentrated on the two women he mention instead.

Urs and Tracy.

I knew who Tracy was. She had been Nick's partner in Toronto and had died of multiple gunshot wounds the same night that Natalie was brought across. I also remembered from that conversation, that Natalie mentioned that Tracy and Vachon were friends.

Obviously, from what I could see, they were more than just friends.

And Urs. I believe she was one of those vampires that had died the same night Vachon had been so severely wounded. But that was all I knew of her.

"Tracy?"

He turned to face me, his eyes yellow in pain and nodded. "She was Nick's partner in Toronto." His eyes shut quickly, but not before I caught a glimpse of something I hadn't expected: bloodtears. A moment later, he opened them again and deep, dark brown eyes stared back at me. "That little fit you threw," he grinned, obviously noticing my indignation, "was a la Tracy all the way."

I rolled my eyes in response and moved over to the bed, flopping down long ways and turned on my side, facing him. No matter how flippant I had just been, I wanted him to know I was there for him. Even through all my anger earlier, I knew I owed a lot to this 'man' and the least I could do was listen. "Tell me about her, Vachon. And Urs, too," I urged him. He had done so much for me and until tonight, I'd been so self-absorbed and so awe-struck by the powerful Methos and LaCroix, it had never occurred to me that Vachon had been doing this for his own reasons. What glimpses I had of his heart and mind were, with the exception of that slip the other night, always guarded and censored. Somehow, even though we had been sorta room mates—he'd seen me naked and knew my heart, he always managed to keep his heart and soul hidden. And now, I had a chance to not only redeem myself in my eyes but also maybe ease the burden of the one whose been desperately trying to do the same for me for the past two weeks.

I wanted to know and I needed to help.

Looking up, I watched him as he glided across the room and sat down beside me. He lifted his hand and caught a few strands of my hair in his fingers. Holding it, almost reverently, he inhaled deeply as his eyes closed and a sad smile crossed his lips.

"Even when I was mortal, I felt drawn to beautiful, blond women. As a vampire, I know it was their light and their essence or innocence that seemed to call out to me...so I guess, it shouldn't have surprised me that I could've fallen so hard, so fast for one mortal girl named Tracy Vetter." He shut his eyes against the memory and mumbled something in Spanish. Smirking, he glanced over at me and shrugged. "She was everything I wasn't."

~~4~~

It was well past dawn by the time both of our immortal bodies gave out.

In the hours that passed, Vachon told me of his life, death, unlife, and finally of his time in Toronto. It was in Toronto where he had lost nearly everything except himself. First, the Inca, his blood brother—whom he fled from for five hundred years—desperately trying to avoid the responsibility fighting evil that their sire bestowed upon them in exchange for eternal life. Nearly six months later, a deadly plague hit the vampire community—killing many of them, including Vachon's best friend and oldest childe, Screed. A carouche with class, that loved Vegas and understood Vachon better than the Spaniard did himself.

Not even two months later, LaCroix biological daughter and ironically, sire, showed up, seeking revenge against her father for his attempt at destroying her. Her vision of his destruction was to kill off everyone that he cared about. She got Urs, Vachon and at least a dozen others before Nick and LaCroix were able to destroy her—this time for good.

And Vachon, in a fit of bloodfever, threw himself upon a stake that Tracy was holding, and nearly killed himself. Tracy, believing he was dead, did the only thing she knew she could for him and that was bury him at the lake in a grave next to Screed's. Luckily, for Vachon, Tracy pulled out the stake, enabling him to heal himself—albeit slowly.

Six months after Tracy laid Vachon to rest, he pulled himself out of the grave, alive. Somehow, the madness that ate at his mind and heart before was gone. But it was quickly replaced by the knowledge that not only was his last childe, Urs, indeed dead, but so was Tracy.

And everyone else he knew was gone.

Toronto's vampire community had left for nicer to the night's children.

After nearly two months of healing, Vachon contacted the one vampire that could help him: Aristotle as was surprised to find that LaCroix had left him a message and a one-way plane ticket to St. Louis. Grateful, Vachon took the flight and ended up rebuilding what little life he had left at Wolf's Bane as LaCroix's right hand man—or vampire.

But it wasn't until nearly a year and a half later, did Vachon finally find some sort of purpose in his life. Even though he wasn't the broken vampire he had been, the emptiness of his existence still haunted him continuously. No children to look after. No mortals to feel responsible for. All those things he had cursed that last year in Toronto, he missed with all his heart in St. Louis.

It all changed for Vachon when LaCroix asked him to keep an eye out on a blond Immortal woman, young by their standards, who somehow reminded him of both Urs and Tracy simultaneously. She touched a part of his heart he thought had died in Toronto and found himself instantly wanting to do more for her than LaCroix had asked. Without too much thought, he found himself mentally adopting her—placing her in the spot that once held three people and with growing determination, decided he was going to do right by her, like he hadn't with Tracy, Urs and Screed. He was going to be there for her and care for her...

Care for me. Be there for me.

By the time he had finished talking, I was curled up on his lap, desperately trying to ease the pain I heard in his voice as he gently played with my hair. It was there, that I finally understood the commitment and love he had for me—to do what Methos couldn't—to stay.

That's how I fell asleep. In his arms, feeling safe as a child would with a parent, as his voice called me to slumber.

~~5~~

If I had to use one word to describe the following month it would have to be: death. And the next one, following closely behind it would be: pain.

And believe me, it was all mine.

I don't know how many times I died that month; I lost count after a hundred. But with each death, I learned something very important—my mortality was very real. I think before that, somewhere inside me, I had allowed it to become something of a fairy tale, told to Immortals so that would become good little participants in this crazy game of survival.

Each time I died, Vachon proved to me that someone, even him, could strip my life right out from underneath me. With that realization, I found my will to live grow even stronger.

I don't think I actually was suicidal as much as self-deluded. And who could blame me? Since my First Death, I had all these powerful, immortal beings around me, protecting me, keeping me safe from harm, so I didn't need to take my mortality seriously. Everyone else was doing that for me.

Even though Methos tried to make the idea of my death a reality, he did other things to guarantee that I wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of being an Immortal. If he really had wanted me to independent and self-assured, then he would've allowed me the freedom to stumble once I left him to go back to St. Louis.

But he didn't. Instead, he asked LaCroix to watch over me. And you can't tell me he didn't know what that would entail. LaCroix, not only being an ancient in his own standing, was a Roman General who has taken his duties seriously and with great forethought. If that meant sticking vampires on me, following my every move at night, and mortal private detectives to pick up the job during the day, he would do so. One thing you can say about LaCroix is that he is thorough and meticulous. Hell, he was part of the people that built roads all over the world 2000 years before asphalt was invented. You can't tell me Methos didn't know what he was doing.

So, for the past three years I had been getting mixed messages. 'Take care of yourself, Mike. Learn to fight, Mike. Choose life, Mike. In the end, there can be only one, Mike. Oh, and by the way, LaCroix here, a vampire—2000 years old, is going to keep an eye out on you while you're in St. Louis. You see, I don't really want to leave the safety of your existence in your own hands. If I can't be there—someone else will be.'

Damn manipulative if you ask me. Well, for a month Vachon had methodically been re-educating me on the facts of life. And in a way, who else better to do so? For 500 years, he played and avoided feeling responsible to other people. What could be seen as a character flaw in most people, was seen as a plus when it came to training his children. He had to teach them how to survive and live without his interference, because he didn't have the personal fortitude to do so himself. So, whatever else could be said about Screed, the carouche, Urs, and Bourbon, apparently they knew how to deal with life on their own. They had to—because Vachon would disappear—sometimes decades at a time—and they would be left alone.

I knew once we landed in Chicago, that I was in for a painful month. Fighting a vampire is a foolish thing to do—even under the best of circumstances, which were mine incidentally. Not only do they have all those supernatural traits; they're vicious creatures. And I'm not. But I also knew that he was right. I knew if I could at least learn how to hold my own with him, then I would have a better chance at fighting an Immortal.

All in all, the training side of our extended vacation was a success. The other side—well, let's put it this way: what other side?

After that night in Chicago, Vachon pulled away from me. Even though I had a feeling it was going to happen, nonetheless when it did, I felt like the Slayer herself had kicked me in the gut. And I know what I'm talking about. Who do you think I trained with for those six months I lived in Sunnydale? Yep, Buffy. And Faith. Out of all three of us, I have to say I came out looking the worst. Every time.

So, what could've been a pleasant adventure, flying from Chicago to Toronto, ended up being an uncomfortable and decidingly unpleasant experience. All the playfulness and intimacy of the previous day, had disappeared into one syllable sentences and a coldness that rivaled the temperature of his body. I knew why he was doing it, but that didn't make any easier to deal with. I have a problem with dealing with distant people. It's always brought out the worst of my insecurities and self-doubt.

And in some weird way, I believe he was punishing me for provoking him into divulging more than he was comfortable with. Especially in the manner in which he did. Vampires are strange creatures. Because of the intimacy of sharing blood and all that goes with it—they hate talking about those same things. It's almost as if they're saying, 'you know my soul, isn't that enough for you? You want my heart with it?'

Of course us normal people are flabbergasted at the whole situation. In my mind, such a strong intimacy should provoke more intimacy. Hell, it did with Spike and I. But in this case, Spike was like all the rest of us normals when it came to blood sharing and he responded like I did. 'Wow, she knows all this and still thinks I'm okay. What the hell do I have to lose?'

But vampires like Vachon are a different matter. For five hundred years, every time he drank from someone, vampire or mortal, he shared a bit of himself to that person. Five hundred years is a long time to be that open. And he, like most vampires like him, start placing more of an importance on the verbal openness than on the mental—because it's what they do the least of.

So, even though intellectually I could understand why he was doing it, emotionally I felt abandoned all over again. And unfortunately, I responded as such.

Not a banner moment in my life.

Yes, I acted like a spoiled child. I did everything from provoking him into arguments, pushing whatever buttons I had found in his nearly impenetrable armor he wore, to finally, our fourteenth day in Canada, walking around the apartment naked just to see if I could get a rise from him.

It didn't work.

Matter-of-fact, it backfired. Instead, he just turned on his heel and flew out the skylight and didn't return until the next evening. Without saying more than two words, he indicated that we needed to train and proceeded to kick the living shit of me. I spent more time on the floor either recovering from some fatal blow or broken limb than I did fighting him. After my three hours of torture was over, I apologized and told him I wouldn't bother him again and when he was ready to talk, that I would be there waiting. Then I left him alone in the training area and scrambled to the bathroom and proceeded to take a two-hour long bath and do some serious healing.

I have to say that once rules were made and lines were drawn, the next two weeks flew by in relative peace. When we weren't training, I was surfing the web on the laptop we picked up once we got to Toronto or watching cable or even sitting outside on top of the roof, enjoying what little daytime I usually saw. Each day, I would examine myself in the mirror and towards the end, even I could see a marked difference in my body tone. I was stronger and healthier than I ever had been before—even in Seacouver where Mac and Methos worked me to the bone. I ate healthier and quit smoking again. But for some odd reason, I couldn't pitch the cigarettes. Every time I held the pack, I would get a warm feeling reminiscent of Spike's mental love messages and realized that at least for awhile, those cigarettes were going to be my security blanket.

So, like many things in my life, I should've been expected that the one night I decided to leave and go to the grocery story without Vachon, that I run into an Immortal.

And all I wanted was some coffee. I felt like I owed myself a treat. A month of living the life of a yogi was beginning to feel tedious and all I could think about was how good a mocha latte would taste right about then. I did everything, from jogging the perimeter of the warehouse, to my kata, to meditating, desperately trying to push the craving out of my mind. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw a mug filled with that wonderful elixir.

Finally, I gave in to my urges and wrote a quick note to Vachon and left it on the refrigerator, telling him I was going to walk to the grocery store. It was one of those huge, 24-hour supermarkets about a mile from Nick's, that I could by both the coffee and the expresso maker—which I was going to need.

Although it was almost April, it was still chilly enough that I could wear my long coat to hide my sword, and not look out of place. As I walked to the store, my good mood only got better. In a way, I felt like a high school kid who snuck out at night and was doing something illicit. Which in a sense, I was. It had been an unwritten rule that I was to go nowhere without Vachon's company because he didn't want me to run into any Immortals before I was ready. But after a month of having a monosyllabic vampire as my only company, I admit, I was going stir crazy.

Once I reached the grocery store, I headed straight to the coffee aisle and picked up the best coffee they had and some Hershey's chocolate. Then I headed over to where the appliances were and was relieved to see an expresso machine standing there—all ready for me to buy. I was on my way to the check out lane, when I remembered we were out of milk and inwardly cursed. With my arms full, I jogged back to the dairy section and stopped dead when I felt the buzz.

"Shit," I muttered, as my eyes scanned the dairy section. Over by the butter, stood a guy, who looked not much older than eighteen, watching me. He was maybe six feet tall, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He was dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater, with a long coat, like mine, hanging on him. His Quickening was somewhat reminded me of Richie's, which meant to me, that this guy was young, but had taken some heads in his short Immortal life. "Great," I said as I walked towards him.

We met halfway. With his hand held out, he began. "My name is Mark Handlan." Although he wasn't smiling, I sensed no malice in him so I shifted the items into one arm and shook his hand.

"Mike Evans. Please to meet you Mark. Uh, I'm not looking for any trouble...I just wanted some coffee—"

"I'm sorry," he interrupted, his blue eyes actually reflecting his sorrow. "But that's what we do."

"We don't have to!" I snapped, barely able to keep my voice down. "We can live and grow stronger to fight another day. Just because we're Immortals, doesn't mean we don't have free will," I whispered back at him, as I moved the coffee and chocolate to one hand. I tried the pounding of my heart and my anger as it surged through my body. I whipped around, and stalked over to the milk and grabbed a half gallon of two percent with my free fingers and without glancing back, hurried out of sight towards the check out lanes.

A coward? Maybe. But why would anyone want to kill anyone else? No matter my race, I never could comprehend that. I knew that if I had no choice, I would fight. But not until I did everything in my power to avoid it.

I managed to check out and leave the grocery story without seeing or feeling his presence again. I was about a block away from the store when I heard some gravel shift behind me. I whipped around, my heart in my throat and nearly sighed out loud when I saw Vachon standing there, glaring at me.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I shut my eyes, taking a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. "I just wanted some coffee," I snapped as I handed him a bag to carry. "How was I suppose to know that I'd run into an Immortal in the dairy section of all things!"

"You did?"

I nodded, nervously chewing on my bottom lip. "Yeah, and he wanted to fight. He didn't seem like a bad guy, just determined."

"Do you think you can take him?"

Closing my eyes, I pictured him standing in front of me with his sword out. Nervously, I nodded once my eyes opened. "But, hopefully, it won't come to that."

"Hopefully."

~~6~~

Once I finished making my mocha latte, I cajoled Vachon into coming up on top of the roof with me. Although he was still quiet, in the last few days he seemed to be making a concerted effort to be more sociable.

"Why didn't you wait for me?" he asked as he sat down on the blanket beside me.

I shrugged, giving him a small smile. "I wanted a mocha latte," I said, repeating what I had said earlier. "And, in a way, it was kinda fun. Sneaking out like a high schooler after curfew." I placed the cup down beside me and leaned back on my hands, searching the sky for the few stars visible in the Toronto night. Suddenly, I felt a cool finger lightly caress my cheek. I turned to face him, surprised to see his face so close to mine.

"You will be the death of me, mi nina," he whispered just before his lips touched mine in a chaste kiss. He then wrapped his arm around me, pulling me onto his lap, his hands around my waist. I closed my eyes and found myself lulled into a wonderful feeling of security hoping that it would never ended.

~~7~~

I remember once asking Adam, Mac and Richie about how they felt when they took their first heads. It was during my first month of training, so I was still filled with questions and this one just kept nagging at me. What was it like to kill? Since I couldn't ask that outright, I chose the next best possible route: their first Quickenings.

We were at Joe's bar, the five us (Joe included) sitting snugly at a four top, drinking while listening to Adam pontificate (he was in the mood to share) about life during Roman times when I suddenly blurted out, "What did it feel like?"

Adam frowned at me for interrupting him and finished off his beer. "What does what feel like, Mike?'

I remember pursing my lips, trying to somehow formulate the question in my drink-laden brain. "What does you're first match feel like? Not the Quickening—but the fight itself." I watched all four of their expressions, knowing that each of them, Joe included had taken a life at one time or another. My eyes finally landed on Richie's face. Suddenly, I had to know what it felt like to him. He was like me. Killing had to be as foreign to him as it was to me. "What did it feel like, Richie?"

I had to know. It was the day after the blow-out between me and Adam, and even though all three of them had proven their point that day: I had to learn to fight to live. I still wasn't comfortable with it. I can remember during training that day, I kept chanting to myself, almost as if it were my own personal mantra: 'I can accept this. I can kill,' over and over again in my head. But, it scared me. More than dying itself. Hell, in my mind, I already did that. My First Death, at the time, I believed was the final one. So death I could face, but killing? I had to know.

Of course this was all before I met Spike and vampires, so I hadn't ended anything's life other than a stray mosquito that wandered into my path. After dusting a few vampires, I couldn't still claim that type of innocence. Each one of those demon-vamps was a potential Spike just waiting for an Immortal's blood to give them a soul and change them.

But looking back at that night at Joe's, while I stood on the rooftop of Nick's home, sword out, facing Mark Handlan, I couldn't help but flash back on what Richie said he remembered when fighting Mako—his first Immortal.

"I was scared. So scared that I thought I was going to piss in my pants. I swear my sword was wavering in the air, because I couldn't keep my arm from shaking from fright. But then, suddenly I had an epiphany."

"What was it?" I had asked and then sipped my beer.

He stared out over across the bar, his eyes distance and said, "That in a way, I was already on borrowed time. That the Richie Ryan that I liked to think of as me, had already died that same night with Tessa. And that this Immortality was just an extension—a gift. A gift I valued and wanted with every breath I took, but a gift nonetheless. So, as long as I fought as hard as I could and was the best swordsman I knew how to be, the rest of it was inconsequential. After all, it was just borrowed time."

And he was right. It was a gift. My life for the past three years was just a gift. A gift that I would die for, but a gift nonetheless.

Chapter Seven

~~~~~~~~~~
Only on the Hellmouth!
~~~~~~~~~~~

Six Months Later
Sunnydale, CA

The trip to St. Louis was actually uneventful and, dare I say, even boring.

Thank the gods.

I had alternating nightmares of Mike and Vachon returning a day early to find Buffy and I naked on Mike's futon—making love or that the serial killer would strike again, forcing Buffy's slayer instincts to the forefront right smack in the middle of Wolf's Bane and her ending up staking patrons indiscriminately.

I know that sounds like a shitty thing to say, but hell, after being alive for over 200 years and experiencing this Slayer's propensity for slayage, (and flashing back to a certain church's organ), I have to say that at least my fears, all though exaggerated, were well founded.

Neither scenario happened. Buffy behaved herself, Mike and Vachon remained in Toronto and I got to learn several mental blocking techniques and tricks from the General.

There was one thing that stayed with me from that trip, though. Even LaCroix was at a loss on how to shut the link down totally—without doing something that would permanently hurt me or Mike. Or worse yet, destroy the link totally. And I didn't want that. No matter how intrusive it was to mine and Buffy's life now, I had an eternity to consider—and I didn't want to spend it without the touch of Mike's mind in my mine.

Too bloody lonely.

So, after two days, we flew back home so Buffy wouldn't miss any school and finally, our lives began to settle down.

A couple days after that, Mike had called. She and Vachon had come back to St. Louis and when she saw the note we had left at her flat, she had come up with a plan. It was then we decided, that if at all possible, she would page me 911 and her cell phone number as a way to give me some warning when she was challenged again.

So, I bought a bloody pager, welcomed myself to the 21st century and went on with my life.

By the end of that first week, we discovered that even a five-minute warning was enough to protect myself and anyone who happened to be near me during a Quickening, when Mike had finally met up with Abdullah Mughal and took the asshole's head.

Unfortunately for both Mike and I, after those first two challenges, many more followed. Morden did a fine a job ensuring that not only Methos had a bulls-eye painted on him, but her as well. That meant that Buffy and I actually became old pro's in dealing with my version of Quickenings—neither of us daring to voice the fear of what would happen if she lost a challenge.

Luckily, we never had to find out.

The months flew by after that. For the first time in three years, there had been no end-of-the-world prophecies in the spring time or master vamps aiming to take over the Hellmouth. Obviously, word got around that Sunnyhell was not only protected by the Slayer and her merry Slayerettes, but also by one souled demon-vamp and one tough Souled-One.

As Xander said one night at the Bronze, it would take someone with very large gonads to stir up trouble here.

Unfortunately, it didn't set my mind at ease. Buffy still went out nightly, slaying vamps and fighting various demons that found the Hellmouth's essence appealing. We had a lamia come and visit. She wanted to raise her dead lover (of a 1000 years) right through the Hellmouth. That was the gang's graduation present.

A month later, a couple of dark mage's came through town and one ended up being a necromancer. He raised a bunch of poor blokes that everyone would've preferred to stay dead.

But like the well-oiled machine that Buffy and company were, they took care of both of those problems with ease.

Let me rephrase that: well, almost with ease.

Brood-boy did get a stake in his gut by one of the mages. Willow had a fit and called upon some powerful magical forces to put both those blokes down.

No one, not even the Watcher or the blond witch, Amy, knew how powerful Willow really was until that moment. I'm sure, once she becomes Immortal, she'll be sought after just because of the magical properties of her Quickening.

If my 'sire' had his way, it wouldn't happen any time soon. Angel watches her like a hawk—daring anything to even think of ending her mortal life. It's ironic in a way. Here are two 200-plus-year-old vampires, both in love with mortal women who are constantly in life-threatening situations, and we're doing everything in our power to defy the odds and keep them alive for just a bit longer.

But unlike Willow, Buffy doesn't have a return ticket. Once she dies, she dies. That's it. Mortal life is so short to begin with—much less a Slayer's life. It drives me batty to watch her leave every night to do her 'sacred' duty. I find myself hoping—actually even praying--that she'll come back to me that night al right. More often than not, I end up following her, which in turn brasses her off to no end. We get into more fights over my fear of her death than anything else.

It's hard for her to understand where I'm coming from. Long ago, she accepted her short life—that's a slayer's destiny. She knows she already outlived the mean age of slayers. And she knows that every night she once again defies the odds when she returns home alive. But I bloody well haven't accepted it. And she can't understand that—especially since prior to my new 'self', I was known as the Slayer's Slayer. But that was the demon. It also was impersonal. I wasn't in love with either of those girls I killed and I sure as hell didn't care how old they were. And now, the two other women who held my heart, like Buffy, are both immortal. Even though they could eventually die—they didn't have a pre-set death sentence hanging over them.

If it wasn't her worse fear, I would bring her across in heartbeat. But she doesn't want to give up the sun or have to kill to live, and now that I'm a Souled-One, I can understand that as well.

Although I don't wallow in my guilt, it's there. Sometimes, when I'm out, I'll see something that will remind me of a life I took in those 200 years and for a moment, the guilt and pain crashes down on me, but I usually manage to shrug it of