Familiar Faces

A Buffy/Highlander Crossover.

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor have I ever owned any of the characters in this story. I'm just exercising my imagination with them. I get a lot of fun from this, but no other profits. Please don't sue.

Part 1

New York City, 1977

Ah, the blood of a Slayer. Makes a man all energetic, like. Makes him feel like some more killin'.

Slipping on the black leather coat that still carried the scent of the woman he'd just killed, William the Bloody got off the Subway train. This late at night, the station was nearly deserted. So much for the city that never sleeps, then.

It didn't take the vampire long to completely eradicate the life that was still present at the station. But a few bums were not enough for someone still high on Slayer's blood. Out onto the streets he went. The first few pedestrians were such easy prey he didn't even bother to drink. Why spoil that exquisite taste still lingering in the back of his throat? But then he encountered some actual resistance.

The man looked to be average everything. Loose clothing hid firm muscles, though, and he rolled with the punch like a real pro. He even came up in a fighting stance, ready to defend against the next one. Now that was more like it. But no ordinary man, however well trained, could stand up to a vampire on the roll, so after about five minutes of trading blows and kicks, the fight was over. Amazing the bloke had held out for so long. To honour his valiance, Spike drained him. Funny really, how the Slayer taste even lingered in his mouth while he drank from this one. He left the limp body where it fell, and went home to Drusilla.

After a few minutes the corpse of William's last victim drew a deep breath, got up slowly, and staggered home.

Part 2

Tangiers, 2002

A warm place might be a good place to spend some time hiding from the Watchers, but 'warm' could be overdone. As could 'crowded'. At the moment, the market was both. And Methos' western looks made him a prime target for the various vendors. He escaped into the slightly less hot and decidedly less crowded shade and made his way around the market through the open spaces and buildings behind the stalls. This worked fine, until he nearly tripped over a body. If it hadn't moved and cried out when he accidentally kicked it, he might have mistaken it for a corpse. The man was all but skin over bones, skin even paler than his bleached hair. He'd been invisible in the near-complete darkness because of the black leather coat that was wrapped around him.

"Sure, go ahead, kick a man when he's down. Just like everybody else."

*And* he looked familiar. However the last time he'd seen anybody with this kind of fashion sense, besides Billy Idol, it was some lethal crazy in New York. Yes, that was it. Add a few pounds, and this guy could be the same man. But that was over thirty years ago. Unless he was Immortal, and he didn't feel like it, he'd barely have been in diapers at that time.

The man had barely glanced at him, but he started to speak:

"William The Bloody, Slayer of two Slayers, killer of countless others. Look mate, I'm sorry, okay? Can't bring 'em back now. Not you, not the Slayers, not any of them. I can't. So please BLOODY WELL LEAVE ME ALONE! .... Pretty please?"

Did this living corpse just recognise him? Not that he was talking much sense, but hell, being known was not a good thing. Especially not by someone who had just about admitted to having killed him. The man was still whimpering on, the word 'sorry' featuring heavily in most sentences.

"You haven't changed much, have you?"

That seemed to elicit a reaction. At least, the blond head tilted back in something resembling laughter.

"Nope, not changed a bit. Still the same. Still Spike. Got what I asked for, I did. Got my soul back. Wanted the Slayer to have what she deserved, I asked. Wanted the old me back. Yeah, I got it, I really did. Now there's everybody inside me, talking to me, whispering things, accusing me. Horrible things. .... Sorry."

Now he really looked up at Methos, and his tone seemed to become a bit more rational.

"You're one of them, I know. Just a figment of my imagination. You're not real, just like any of the others. Not real..."

And the monologue degraded again into an endless stream of whimpers. Making a mental note to look into this more closely, the Old Man continued to his original destination.


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