Ask anybody in Rome, and they'd all agree: Ilona Costa Bianchi was not the kind of woman that men crossed without consequences. Her beautiful, fashionably attired exterior and engaging, gregarious manner blinded many casual observers to the steel and ice that lay beneath, but her employees knew the truth. She suffered neither fools, setbacks, or petty annoyances lightly. And one of the things that annoyed her most, aside from poorly tailored suits, was being kept from her Wednesday appointment. The nervous underling currently before her was guilty on both counts.

He watched her flip idly through the folder she held, swallowing hard at the look in her eyes when she closed it and glanced up at him. “I... uh... that is, the department... I-I mean Mr Sandusky thought-”

She cut him off with an upraised hand. “This news, it is most unsettling, and I will deal with it. You are to say nothing, understand?” He was nodding frantically before she finished. “Now, then- if you have nothing further, I am late for my cosina brocere.”

Ilona watched the boy practically fall over his feet in his hurry to get away. An amusing young pup, although one in decided need of a few fashion lessons if he intended to go much further up the corporate ladder. She turned to lay the folder on her desk, then grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “No further interruptions,” she instructed Dominique, breezing past the secretary without waiting for an acknowledgment Her instructions were always followed, particularly with regard to her Wednesday afternoons.

Her car and driver were waiting, just as they always were, and no directions were needed to tell Julian where they were going. He'd been with her for seven years now, and could probably find his way blindfolded to just about any destination in Rome. And since her Wednesday appointment meant that he had the afternoon off, he was almost as eager as she to get underway.

Like many of Wolfram & Hart's CEOs, Ilona spent most of her evenings in the luxurious penthouse suite above the office, but she was unique in that she also maintained a separate apartment, where most of her personal items were stored. Her mother's Rococo clock and grandfather's collection of antique daggers were there, as were the pictures and paintings of her family. She was from an a distinguished line of powerful people that had settled in Rome during the Renaissance and begun their service to Wolfram & Hart shortly thereafter. Her lover liked to tease her about her piazza and the shiny new opulence that mingled with more old-world elegance, but Ilona adored it. Besides, it came in quite handy for her little Wednesday breaks, since her lover refused to set foot in the buildings of Wolfram & Hart. And hotels were such a tacky American thing for something like this.

The car pulled up to the curb and Julian hurried around to open her door. Ilona turned her cell phone off and left it, along with her purse, sitting on the floor of the car. “Six o'clock,” she reminded Julian. Not that she needed to after following the same routine almost every Wednesday for nearly four years, but there was a routine they'd fallen into, and mentioning the pick-up time was part of it. Julian nodded and touched his hat, watching respectfully as she headed into the building, her steps quickening as she disappeared behind the door.

She checked her wristwatch while she waited for the elevator, frowning as she saw that the incompetent cub at her office had made her almost fifteen minutes late. While she couldn't deny the importance and value of the information he'd provided, she could wish that he'd been just a little earlier in bringing it to her. She mulled over the new details, thinking about the next step on the ride up to the tenth floor, but when she stepped off to see her lover leaning against the wall by her door, she put it all aside.

“You're late,” he complained.

“Something came up,” she retorted. “And I knew you'd wait.”

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her close, one arm sliding around her waist. “Did you, now? Maybe I should remind you of why I usually don't have to.”

The light brush of his lips on her throat made her sigh as a shiver slid down her spine. “Perhaps you'll need to spend the afternoon making sure I don't forget, no? After all, I'm not the fastest of learners.”

His chuckle vibrated against her skin. “Can't quite get away with that act with me, Ilona. But I'm more than willing to put in the time you think you need. I've got my own reputation to uphold, have to make sure you're fully satisfied.”

“Since when has the great Immortal failed to leave his lovers any other way besides limp and thoroughly debauched?” she purred, twining fingers through his hair, pressing him tighter against her neck.

He nipped her skin gently, then pushed her back. “Never, of course. And you're certainly not going to be the first!” With a laugh, Methos swatted her ass, took the keys from her fingers and opened the door, then picked her up and carried her inside, kicking it closed behind him.

Several very pleasurable hours later, Ilona was lying curled up against her lover's side in the wreck they'd made of the sheets. They were taking a break for the moment, although she knew they would end up coupling at least twice more before she left to go back to the office. She nuzzled his chest, smiling when he groaned softly and reached up to stroke her hair. “So what was it that kept me waiting?”

“There was a problem in Los Angeles,” she told him. “The Black Thorn... they were attacked.”

“The Black Thorn?” His hand paused for a moment, and she nudged it with her head to start the soothing motion again. “Who'd be stupid enough to try and take them out?”

“Who else? The great vampire hero.” She laughed. “Perhaps he was misled as to the power they hold, or maybe he was looking to commit suicide without actually falling on his own stake. Either way, there was only one end to the fight. A shame that his friends all followed him, though. Particularly the other vampire.” Ilona sighed, wishing the blond vampire hadn't been quite so eager to leave Rome. He'd been one she wouldn't have minded getting to know a little- or a lot- better.

“Other vampire? I thought he just had a couple of humans working with him.” Methos didn't stop petting her, but she could hear a note of tension enter his voice.

“Afraid of more competition for your new ragazza's heart?” she teased lightly. A scowl was her only answer, so she smiled and patted him lightly. “You really should offer her your bed again. Perhaps now she has ceased to mourn, she will be more open to exploring that which you can give her, no?”

He shook his head. “She's still mourning, probably will for the rest of her life. I've tried to talk to her, get her to see that this incredible, wonderful man she remembers would've wanted her to move on, but she won't hear of it.”

“She might've considered it if she'd seen these. The vampires, they generally are not the ones I would choose, but with her... but they are gone now. Such a pity, too. Angelus was too serious for me, but Spike seemed like-”

“Spike?!” He sat up suddenly, both hands grabbing her arms as he held her out and looked into her eyes. “What did you say about Spike?”

She stared at him, shocked by the strange interest he seemed to be showing in the blond vampire. “You knew these vampires, then?

“We've run across each other on a few occasions. There was this one time, back in 1913...” A brief smile played over his lips before he shook his head, as though pulling himself away from the memory. “Never mind. How did you hear about Spike?”

“He was quite charming. A little upset about his coat, what with the bomb destroying it, but that was fixed easily enough. You really didn't have to trick them like that, you know- they weren't used to-”

“Ilona!” Methos gave her a little shake, his hands tightening as he struggled to keep his temper under control. “You're not making any sense.”

“A few months ago, when you were playing your little game with Angelus over the-”

“Capo's head, yeah. But what does that have to do with Spike?”

She gave him a curious look, then said slowly, as though speaking to a child, “He came to Rome with Angelus, to get the head.”

The brunet frowned, trying to reconcile Ilona's mention of Spike with the Slayer that had curled up in his arms and cried over her lost vampire almost every night since he'd met her. “But he's dead,” he stated flatly. “She said she saw... that there was no way he could've survived. And she wouldn't lie to me.”

Ilona's eyes widened. “Spike was the Slayer's vampire?” She'd heard countless tales of the girl who had given her love too late to a vampire that died to save the world, but never had the name of the lost lover been mentioned. And now that same lover had gone into battle against the Black Thorn, a fight that he never could've won, so he was gone once more. “Poverina.“

Methos relaxed his grip, slowly rubbing her arms. “A good reason never to fall in love, isn't it?”

“Absolutely.” Ilona slid a hand up his chest, curling it around his neck. Sliding into his lap, she breathed, “And a life without lovers is not to be thought of.” She pulled him down for a kiss, and as he eased her back onto the bed, both forgot about the Slayer and her vampire, losing themselves in the languid embrace of long time lovers as easily as they always did.

It was her first dance, and everybody else was already out on the floor. She'd been so excited about this, eager to show off the beautiful dress her mother had surprised her with and the new necklace and earrings that were left on her bed, but now that she looked out at the dancing couples, she felt the thrill draining away. They all looked so comfortable, so natural and normal, each face alight with a pure joy that she didn't think she'd ever known. Xander and Willow smiled at her and beckoned her onto the floor to join them and their partners, but she shook her head. "I can't," she whispered.

"Be a shame for you to miss out on the whole dance, luv. Got all dolled up for it, must wanna take your turn out there, yeah?" His voice shivered down her spine, but she didn't dare look over her shoulder at him. Bad things always happened when she looked back.

"I- I'm not ready. I don't know the steps. I haven't practiced. I-" His snort cut off her litany of reasons for holding back.

Cool air washed over the side of her neck as he leaned forward, a hand sliding up her arm so lightly that she almost missed the caress. "That's a load of crap, Slayer. Anyone knows the dance, it's you. Made up your own steps, picked your own partners… hell, even changed the music, didn't you?"

Did she really do all that? "Only because you said I could,” she argued. "I was willing to compromise, if you remember.” A strong arm slipped around her waist, and she sighed as she was pulled back against a lean body. Her eyes drifted closed and she rested her head on his shoulder. "Dance with me, Spike."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. "All we've ever done, innit?"

"It's what we're good at," she replied with a smile, tilting her head to offer the bare expanse of her throat up for his gaze, the heat from the blue eyes almost burning her as they swept over her skin.

Lips ghosted briefly over her pulse point before he straightened and stepped back. "Can't dance with you anymore, pet. Got a different piper callin' my tune."

She turned to look and the pain in his eyes nearly undid her. He looked as though he'd seen all the suffering of the world, like it all rode on his shoulders. "Spike, wait-" She stretched her hand out to him, and before her eyes he began to burn, flames eating away at his skin until he crumbled to ash.

Pain sizzled across her hand and she jerked it back, then stared in horrified fascination at the blood that ran freely from the numerous cuts there. "It's Summers blood," Dawn said, and Buffy jerked her head to the side to see her sister standing in a sickeningly familiar gown, blood dripping slowly out from under the hem. "Just like mine."

"She's not ready to know that yet," a low voice purred. Buffy turned to see a tall, dark figure clad in leather and satin come prowling out of the shadows. He walked over to her, then kicked his feet through the ashes on the floor, scattering them into a wind that swirled up around him. "Nice to see he made something of himself, isn't it?"

"You," she breathed, lowering her bloody hand. She gripped the stake tightly, praying that her hold wasn't too slick to drive it home.

Angelus smiled "Hello, lover."

Her own scream woke her up, the sound echoing in her ears long after it faded away. Buffy bolted upright in bed, panting as she struggled to get her bearing back. Spike… dancing… burning... God, why couldn't she stop dreaming about him?

A brief glance at the calendar on her bedside table was all it took to remind her why: yesterday he'd been gone for a year. She hadn't done anything to mark the occasion, but then there was no grave for her to visit, no cemetery to keep her vigil in the way Spike had done for her when she was gone. She just had her memories and the increasingly awkward reactions from her friends anytime she mentioned him. It seemed only Buffy and Dawn really wanted to remember the bleached blond, snarky vampire that had saved the world… but maybe that was how it should be. They were the ones he'd really considered family, after all.

She slid out of bed and headed into the bathroom to start getting ready for the day. As she stepped into the shower, she wondered what Spike would think of her life now. What would he say about Adam, and her new life in Italy? Probably something scathing, with plenty of British insults thrown in for good measure, she decided, chuckling at the thought of his outrage if he knew she was considered one of the glitterati now.

Yeah, it was a good bet that Spike would hate seeing her on Adam's arm, but she'd needed someone and Adam had been there for her. She knew he was usually the love 'em and leave 'em type, had heard warning after warning at almost every club they went to, and was practical enough to admit that she might well have ended up another notch in his bedpost if she'd actually been stupid enough to go to bed with him when he first asked her. Buffy often thought he'd offered out of a sense of obligation, some kind of belief that he'd be insulting her if he didn't try to seduce her, because when she'd said no, he'd actually seemed relieved. And he was right- they were much better as friends, and God only knew she'd needed those.

Somehow it was easier to talk about Spike to someone who'd never known him. Dawn was so busy with all of her new friends that Buffy didn't want to bring her down, Willow was off studying magic, and Xander wasn't even an option. While he'd lost someone as well, he'd never liked Spike, absolutely hated the thought of her and Spike, and was also wandering around Africa gathering Slayers. So that left Adam.

He was a lot like Spike, actually- both were incredibly handsome, arrogant, handsome, sexy as hell men who were absolutely certain of their appeal and place in the world. They were pretty damn tactile, too, and she wondered if Spike would've enjoyed cuddling in front of a movie as much as Adam did. From the times she'd woken up wrapped around him and the way he'd looked at her when she curled in his lap during Willow's spell, she was pretty sure the answer was yes. Granted, Adam didn't love her, wouldn't let a god torture him to keep her little sister safe or seek out a soul for her, but that was okay. Those were Spike things, and she kinda wanted to keep it that way.

Rinsing off, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around herself. After knocking on Dawn's door to get her up, she went back to her room and started getting dressed. Looking at her calendar again, she sighed. It just didn't seem right not to do something. If Dawn didn't have any plans today maybe they could go out to lunch, have a few glasses of wine and spend some time remembering their vampire.

Ever since Ilona told him about the two vampires that had died in Los Angeles, Methos hadn't been able to stop thinking about them. Or more to the point, thinking about what, if anything, he should tell the Slayer about them. Angel was irrelevant, always had been so far as he was concerned. A word or two in the right minion's ear here, a little extra string pulling there, and he was kept busy and out of Methos's sight. Besides, while news of her first love's death might sadden the Slayer, it wouldn't destroy her.

Saying anything about Spike, however, very well could. When he had first met her, the Slayer had been mourning the loss of her vampire for months with no relief. He'd seen the sorrow deep in her eyes, recognized the way the grief was eating away at her heart and soul even if it had left her beautiful surface unmarked, and her pain had called out to his own. He'd decided to give her whatever solace he could, if only so he could see what she looked like when her smile was real. Over pasta at Luna's the next night, he told her about his own lost love and his failed quest to save her. She was the first person besides Duncan and Amanda that he'd shared the story with, and her quiet sympathy soothed an ache that he hadn't even realized was there.

Dinner led to a night out dancing, and before he realized it, Methos was spending almost every free night at the Slayer's apartment, the two of them curled up on the sofa watching TV and talking in low voices as they tried to find their balance again. He knew that Rome was abuzz with talk about them, knew that the little boy that followed the Slayer around had created some great romantic story for them, but didn't really care. Let her be known as The Immortal's newest flame- if nothing else, it would add to her legend and perhaps afford her a little extra protection from some of the city's darker denizens.

Had the vampires been told of the Slayer who now spent her evenings with their old rival? Was that what had brought them both hurrying across the globe, instead of the minion that he'd expected to come retrieve the head? He chuckled at the memory of the little trick he'd played, wishing he could have seen Angel's face when he opened the bag and found the bomb. It really hadn't been very sporting of him, but he couldn't resist the chance to take the vampire down a few pegs. Needling him had always been an amusing way to pass some time, the affronted rage that the young demon always affected whenever his plans went awry almost as satisfying for Methos as getting under Duncan's skin. Almost.

“Adam? Come see what we bought!” He smiled at the happy voice that called for him, getting to his feet and going out into the living room. The Slayer and her sister sat on the couch, surrounded by bags from all types of stores.

“I hope you left some things in the stores, dolcezza. Rome depends on the tourists being able to shop for much of its revenue, you know,” he teased in a low voice.

Dawn threw a small pillow at his head, which he caught easily. “Just for that, we shouldn't show you anything,” the teenager threatened.

“Promise?” He laughed and dodged the next missile that came flying at him.

Buffy shook her head. “Knock it off, you two. And Adam, come on. You've got to see what I bought at Dolce!”

Methos took a seat in the chair near the couch and watched the two girls as they pulled clothes out of the shopping bags, laughing and chattering away about their newest finds. They practically glowed with health and vitality, and in that instant, his mind was made up. He had no idea how it was that the vampire had come back to life, or why he wouldn't have sought out the Slayer he claimed to love as soon as he could, but he knew one thing- he couldn't tell Buffy that her vampire was dead... again. She was just starting to live again, and something like this would set her back to the earliest days of her grief.

“Signor, the director of Wolfram & Hart, she wishes to speak with you.”

Methos nodded grimly, wondering what kind of fresh hell had broken out that Ilona was calling. “I'll be right back,” he promised, catching hold of Buffy's hand and giving it a squeeze.

“Sure thing,” she chirped, smiling brightly at him before she turned back to Dawn and the boots they'd been fussing over.

Heading for his study, he picked the phone up and said, “Yes, Ilona?”

“Caro, so sorry to bother you, but I received a report that you will want to hear about. In Los Angeles, the Wolfram & Hart office has been rebuilt. And the director, he is still Angelus!”

The immortal frowned. “I thought you said he died in the fight against the Black Thorn.”

“This is what I was told, but now here he is, sitting in the new office with his humans by his side. The information, it was faulty, no?” He could almost see her shrug. Ilona always accepted things so easily, with such equanimity- it was one of the things he usually found most charming about her. But there were times he wished that she was a little more curious.

“So he's just back, then? What about-”

“There was no mention of anybody but Angelus or his humans. I think there is only one souled vampire in the world now.” She paused, then offered, “I could ask the mystics to check, if you like.”

“No, that's not necessary. I'm sure if he was there, you'd have heard about it.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Thanks for calling. I'll see you Wednesday?”

She laughed. “But of course!”

Methos laid the handset back down and sank into his office chair. As much as he might like to believe that the information Ilona gave him was complete, he knew she probably wasn't telling him everything. But if Angel was alive, whether he'd died to begin with or not, he had to admit that there was a strong possibility that Spike was back as well. The only question was how deep he wanted to dig before he said anything to Buffy.

A tap on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. “Hey there, grumpy guy. Bad news?”

“No, just unexpected.” He beckoned her inside. “Did you want to go out dancing tonight?”

Hazel eyes lit up as she smiled. “Sounds great! Give me a chance to really show off my new clothes. Gotta remind everybody that The Immortal isn't the only hottie around, huh?”

He chuckled. “As though you're not well aware of the looks you get. Shall we say ten o'clock, perhaps dinner out at Luna's first?”

“Works for me. I'll give 'em a call so they know to have your usual table ready.” Buffy grinned and hurried off to call the restaurant and pick out the right clothes for that evening.

For several seconds after she left, he tried to convince himself he wasn't the one responsible for looking into things with Wolfram & Hart. But Buffy deserved to know, and he had to admit that he was more than a little curious as well. So that left him with only one option, and distasteful as it might be, he really had no choice. With a sigh, he reached for the phone and dialed the number he'd really wanted to avoid calling.

“MacLeod, I need you to look into something for me. Call it a favor, if you will.”

“Ms Morgan will see you now.”

Duncan MacLeod looked up from his copy of Newsweek at the pretty blonde at the receptionist desk. He set the magazine aside and got to his feet. “That's very nice, but I'm waiting for-”

“Yes, I know. She'll take you to him.” The blonde glanced nervously over her shoulder, then gave him what he was sure she thought was a reassuring smile. “Take the elevator up to the 66th floor, and she'll meet you there.”

Clamping down on his irritation, he nodded shortly and walked towards the bank of elevators. Methos was going to owe him big for this. As it was, if it weren't for the story of the Slayer and her vampire, he would never have agreed to waste his day dealing with the bureaucracy that was Wolfram & Hart. He hadn't met Buffy, but he figured that anybody capable of the kind of patience that was required to put up with Methos for more than a few hours was all right by him. And she spent night after night around him! Duncan figured that put her close to sainthood, so if finding out about a vampire made her happy, he'd be glad to help.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a stunning brunette waiting for him. From her sleekly styled hair to the tips of her expensive designer shoes, she was carefully and exquisitely put together. And the red lips that were curved in a cool smile told him that she knew exactly what impact she had on a man, and wasn't above using it to get what she wanted. “Mr MacLeod,” she greeted him, her voice a low throaty purr. “May I say how honored we are to have someone of your caliber gracing our office with your presence?”

He sighed. “Let's just get this over with so I can get going, okay?”

“Of course.” She tilted her head towards the large double doors across the open space. “Everybody's waiting, so if you'll just come with me?”

Duncan nodded and followed her over to the doors. They opened onto a large room, unlike any office conference room he'd ever been in. Instead of the beige walls, bland decor, and overly bright fluorescent lighting he'd been expecting, the walls were covered with a deep blood red silk, with iron sconces set at regular intervals. Tall pillar candles cast a dim light and filled the air with a heady scent that he identified almost automatically as a blend of cinnamon and nutmeg, a surprisingly cozy holiday mixture for the clearly Gothic setting in front of him. The long black table was surrounded with high-backed chairs, only the two on either side of one end occupied.

The men that sat in them were obviously human, but there was something about both of them that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. It was almost like the feeling he got when he was in the presence of another immortal, but he knew that was impossible. Wolfram & Hart hadn't employed immortals for centuries, not since the Wars of the Roses. He dismissed the black man with the shaved head as an overt threat, focusing instead on the other, more slender man. There was an almost visible aura of menace that surrounded him, a sense that he could very easily slit someone's throat and watch coldly as they died at his feet. It was the same feeling that he sometimes got around Methos, the knowledge that here was a man equally as capable of watching dispassionately as thousands died as he was of taking great enjoyment in the prolonged torture and extended death of a single person.

“Mr MacLeod,” the dangerous man greeted him in a clipped, lightly accented voice. “We have been asked to ascertain the reason behind your request to meet with-”

“Shove it, Wes,” the black man said, before turning a hard look on Duncan. “Look, let's get to the point. What do you want with the boss, huh?”

“I have some questions about what happened a while ago,” he stated flatly. “And that's all I'm saying until I see him.”

Wesley studied him for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. “Get him,” he said to the woman behind Duncan's shoulder, his eyes never leaving the immortal's face. She sauntered away amid a whisper of silk and perfume, leaving all three men waiting in a silence that grew tenser by the moment.

Duncan was almost ready to call the meeting a loss and walk out, when the door at the opposite end of the room opened, and the vampire walked in. With just the first look, it was easy to see why he had become a legend in both the human and otherworldly realms. He was tall, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, but what caught the eye was the easy assurance and casual arrogance that was visible in every line of his body. Leather and satin were wrapped around him in an outfit that was almost certainly custom tailored, probably at enough cost to feed a small African nation for several years. His eyes were the real tell, though- cold and calculating like a snake's, they held a hint of amusement that made Duncan's stomach tighten. At least the immortals he had faced in The Game were human once, with all of the attendant virtues and weaknesses that humanity carried. This, though... this was a demon wearing the skin of a man, as close to pure evil given human form as anything he'd ever seen, and Duncan both hated and feared him on sight.

Angelus sank into the chair at the head of the table, waving one hand towards the place at the foot. “Have a seat. I heard you were asking about me, and I gotta say, I'm always flattered when people take an interest, but I'm hoping you have a good reason for dragging me out of bed in the middle of the afternoon.”

Duncan sat down slowly, taking a deep breath to try and banish the unusual onslaught of unease that he felt in the vampire's presence. He didn't bother with preliminaries that might extend the time he had to be around him, but launched right into his reason for being there. “I needed to ask you about the night you attacked the Black Thorn, and the rumors that have been circulating since then.”

“And what kind of rumors might those be?” The big man chuckled, leaning back in his chair like some kind of ancient king reclining upon his throne.

“They said you died, that everyone who fought with you died as well.”

“Well, my first question would be to find out who 'they' is, since I know none of my own would've said a word.” Not a glance was spared for his lieutenants, but the threat of Angelus's displeasure crackled in the air around them all the same.

Duncan hesitated for a second. Methos hadn't exactly said to keep him out of it, but what little he knew about his sometime friend's reputation as The Immortal made him think Angelus might not welcome the inquiry. Still, letting an enemy know that you weren't dead had to be a good thing, right? “I have a friend in Rome with, shall we say, a bit of an interest about it.”

Angelus laughed, a rich, rolling sound that filled the room. “The Immortal,” he stated. “Who probably wants to know if I'm going to be paying dear, sweet Buffy a visit anytime soon to try and win her heart away from him, is that right?”

What was he supposed to say to that? Actually, he couldn't care less about you, it's the one she loves that he's asking about. “He likes to know what's going on.”

“Yeah, I just bet he does. Well, you can tell him that we're all just fine, we appreciate the concern, and as long as he keeps Buffy on the other side of the Atlantic, he's welcome to her.”

He nodded. “So all of your people made it, then?”

Angelus's eyes narrowed as he studied the man at the far end of the table. “Actually, we did lose someone,” he said slowly. “My childe didn't survive the fight. He went down swinging, though, so I wouldn't feel too bad for him.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Duncan replied. “My condolences on your loss. And my friend did want me to tell you that if you needed assistance with anything...”

“Oh, I've got all the assistance here I could ever need.” A snap of the fingers summoned the woman back to the vampire's side. She slid gracefully into his lap, one hand stroking his satin-covered chest, practically purring as she rubbed her cheek over his shoulder. Angelus didn't even look at her, just smirked at Duncan and asked, “Care to join us?”

His stomach tightened at the mere thought of the demon's hands on his skin. “Maybe another time.”

“Suit yourself.” One large hand slid up beneath the woman's skirt and she shifted in his lap, uttering a soft groan of pleasure.

Duncan was beginning to wonder if he was supposed to get up and leave, or stay put for the show when the dangerous man spoke. “Charles, why don't you show Mr MacLeod out?”

The black man rose and headed for the door, pausing until Duncan rose and joined him. A long, drawn-out moan sounded behind them just before the doors closed, and they walked in silence towards the elevators. When the doors slid open, Duncan stepped inside, followed closely by his guide. As they began their descent, he asked, “Does that happen at a lot of meetings?”

He shrugged. “Boss has his own way of handlin' stuff. Me, I figure it's a vamp thing, but as long as I don't have to join in, they can do what they want, y'know?”

“Mmm. And the other vampire, the one that died... did he do that kind of thing, too?”

Gunn snorted. “Spike was a hellraiser, that was for sure, but that? Nah, he was a one-woman vamp, had it too bad for his Slayer to really look at anybody else.”

“What about Angelus? I thought he and the Slayer were involved as well.” Methos had told him about the great doomed love affair, although Duncan hadn't seen any sign of that in the vampire that was currently sitting in the conference room fingering his assistant.

“He was- look, can I trust you not to go tattling to your friend? Cause some things went down here that really changed us all, but some people, especially the Slayer, might not understand, and I promised to help my boss stay in one piece.” Duncan nodded and Gunn hit the button that stalled the elevator, then turned to face him. “Angel was trying to help take down this group called the Black Thorn. They were basically hell's guys here on earth, and he figured that while we might not stop 'em all the way, we could at least slow 'em down, make 'em hurt a little. And we were all down with that, figured the more damage we could do, the better.”

He studied the other man for several moments, then asked quietly, “So what went wrong?”

“Don't know if you could call it wrong, just... not really somethin' we figured on. See, Angel had to get into the Circle, get 'em to accept him, and that meant doin' some stuff that was pretty wacked. Stuff that he really couldn't do with his soul.” Gunn waited until he saw comprehension dawn in Duncan's eyes, nodding to confirm the suspicion. “Guess he asked Wes to help him remove it, probably figured we'd all be dead, or else someone would shove it back in, but it didn't really work that way. The fight went down like we planned, and I'm pretty sure that I died just like Spike did, but somehow I woke up back in Wolfram & Hart afterwards. Wes was there, and Angelus, too, and that's when we found out.”

“Found out what?”

“Angelus joined up with the Black Thorn before we made our move. And with everybody else dead, he's it: head honcho, top vamp in charge.” The man sighed and reached for the control panel, setting the car in motion again. “Wes and me, we're just tryin' to make the best of it. So far, he's not that bad, seems more interested in playin' the demons against each other than really makin' trouble for people. Guess if we gotta have a demon in charge of things around here, might as well be him.”

“I see.” Neither man said anything for the remainder of the trip downstairs, each too caught up in their own thoughts to make idle small talk. Just before he stepped off the elevator, Duncan turned to look at the man. “If you decide you want a change for some reason, you can usually leave me a message at Raven's Rest, in New York.” Amanda had offered her new nightclub as a way to communicate, and something about this man told him it might be needed one day.

Gunn offered his hand for a brief, businesslike clasp. “Thanks, man. I'll remember that.” He hit the button to go back up, flashing Duncan a quick grin just before the doors closed between them.

Upstairs in the conference room, Wesley watched impassively as Lilah writhed in Angelus's lap, mewling and moaning while he brought her to a quick climax. When she slumped back against the broad chest, he asked idly, “Are you quite through, then?”

Angelus laughed and eased his hand out from beneath her skirt, pushing her back to her feet and licking his fingers clean. “Need to lighten up and enjoy life a little more, Wes.”

“Indeed,” was the dry response. Icy blue eyes fixed on Lilah, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “Make sure Mr MacLeod has left the building, please.”

She nodded and headed off to do as he asked, hips swaying in a tantalizing rhythm that held both men's attention until she had left the room. Angelus leaned back in his chair, sliding a hand down to cup and stroke his erection. “Well now, that wasn't very nice. Who am I gonna bend over the table and fuck now?”

Wesley's gaze slid over the prominent bulge beneath the leather. “Perhaps your pet would welcome the attention.”

“Hmm, not a bad idea. I have been kinda neglecting him lately.” Angelus moaned low in his throat and thrust up against his palm. He slowly let his hand fall away as he stretched and rose to his feet, well aware of the way the human's eyes lingered on him. With the sudden strike of a snake, he lashed out, grabbing hold of Wesley's shirt, dragging him around the edge of the table until the lean body was pressed against his own. Bending to claim the man's mouth in a savage kiss filled with thrusting tongues and rubbing hips, he smiled when he drew back and looked into glazed, lust-filled eyes. “Of course, you know you're still getting fucked later, right?'

“Uh-huh.” Angelus laughed at the dazed response, slid a hand down to squeeze Wesley's dick, then turned and headed for his private elevator. He'd let Wesley have his fun bending Lilah over the table, even if he made him pay for it later. For now, though, the prospect of an afternoon playing with his pet was too good to pass up.

The faint chime of the elevator meant that Master was back, but he didn't go running to greet him. Not that it mattered all that much, anyway- Master wasn't about to be pleased if He didn't want to be, no matter how much bowing or scraping was done. So he did what he did best these days: he lay still and waited.

Soon enough, footsteps rang out on the hardwood floors and the door to his room swung open. One foot nudged the most recent bruise on the base of his spine. “Wake up, boy.”

He opened his eyes and rolled over, looking up into the whiskey brown ones above him. There was warmth in them today, amusement and something that might once upon a time have passed for affection. Master was in a good mood, then. Sitting up, he waited for the whistle that brought him up into a kneel, looking up with the carefully blank expression that Master preferred. Master in a good mood was something to be wished for at any cost, because Master in a bad one was unthinkable.

Master slid a hand down to squeeze the bulge in His pants, then asked softly, “Want it, boy?”

He whined in response, the sound high and soft in his throat, and Master laughed. “That's it, boy. Love to hear you beg for my cock.” Master unfastened His pants and reached inside to pull His prick out, slowly stroking it in front of his eyes.

He licked his lips, eager to taste but knowing well enough that he had to wait for permission. When Master extended His hand, brushing fingers across his lips, he eagerly opened for them, sucking and licking the traces of precome from His skin. When they were clean, Master slid them free, then cupped his head and pulled him forward. “Suck me.”

The order was barely out of Master's mouth before lips closed around His cock. He didn't bother with the licking and teasing that he liked to do- Master had said suck, so he slid all the way down until his nose was nestled in dark curls, then slowly retreated. Up and down, in and out, each time taking Master all the way in, sucking with long, leisurely strokes.

Master moaned as the shaft in his mouth twitched. “Yeah, such an eager little cocksucker, aren't you, boy?”

He whimpered around Master's cock, then sped up a bit at the touch on his head. His own dick was aching, wishing for his touch, but he knew better than to even think about it. Sometimes he wanted a punishment and those were the times he touched, closed his hand around himself and stroked until he came, thick white liquid oozing out to coat his shaft. Tonight he wanted to taste Master, hungered for the heavy, bitter taste of Him the way it seemed he always did, so he tried his best to ignore his own need and instead sucked harder.

The faint scrape of teeth made Master groan and thrust forward, and then hands were on his head, holding him still as Master started to fuck his mouth. “Yeah, fuck. That's my boy. Wanna treat, huh? Gonna.... ohhhh, shit, gonna give you.. deeper, little one. Take me all the way down.” He obediently opened his throat, swallowing around Master's cock as it slid down past his tongue.

“Jesus Christ!” Master's hands slid into his hair, holding tight as He thrust harder and faster. He tasted Master's precome as it coated His shaft and moaned his hunger for more. The vibration on the sensitive flesh was enough to make Master swear and slam His hips forward, His cock jerking as He started to shoot in heavy spurts down His slave's throat.

He went still when Master started to come, swallowing around Master's dick until a tug on his hair told him to stop. Pulling back, he carefully began to lick Master clean, his tongue moving in long, brief strokes until the last drop was gone. A hand rumpled his hair briefly. “Good boy. Up on the bed, now. I've got something special for you.”

He placed a kiss on the tip of Master's cock and crawled over to the large, sumptuous bed, crouching at the foot for a second before making the leap up, sure to keep his movements as graceful as possible. Master liked to watch him crawl, said that he looked like a cat when he did it right, and from the soft groan of approval that sounded behind him, he was doing well. The second he touched the sheets, the scent of Master and sex rose up around him, a heady blend of sensuality that thickened with every inch he gained. When he paused in the center and widened his stance, he moaned at the aromas that drifted up to him. Master had spent last night with His humans, the three of them entwined in the sprawling bed, their sounds of pleasure taunting him as he huddled in his lonely corner.

Master's hand stroked his back, fingertips trailing lightly over his skin. He leaned into the soft strokes, mewling softly as they moved down his spine. A gentle shove rocked him forward and he lowered his head, easing down to the bed on his elbows and spreading his knees further apart, opening up for Master as automatically and naturally as a child seeking its mother's breast.

The snick of a bottle cap being flipped open was followed shortly by a slick finger brushing over his hole. It didn't enter, just stroked and teased, sending little tingles through him. He bit his lip and struggled to keep from tensing up, waiting as calmly as he could until finally... “Who are you?”

The question sent heat sliding through his veins. It was a familiar game, this give and take, and he answered eagerly, “Boy.”

The finger eased inside him, slowly penetrating until it stilled and Master continued. “And who am I?”

“Master.” He breathed the word as something sacred, then moaned as a fingernail scraped over the nub deep inside him.

“And who do you belong to?”

“Master.” This time he was rewarded with another finger, both moving in and out in a twisting motion, opening him up in a mocking parody of considerate lovemaking.

Both fingers retreated briefly, then slid back inside, coated with more lube, moving slickly in and out of him. “What do you exist for?”

He moaned as a third finger brushed the outside, making his nerves sizzle. “To please Master.”

It slid in as well, leaving him feeling packed full. Master fucked him slowly for a few seconds, then asked, “What are you?”

“Master's bitch.”

Master grunted and worked the next finger inside. Four massive fingers spread him open, spitting him like an animal over the fire. He whined, but Master never strayed from His purpose, rocking His thumb against the smooth patch of skin behind his balls. “What will you offer Master, hmmm?”

He gasped, clenching the sheet in his hands at the promise in that slow movement of Master's thumb. “Everything!”

The nozzle of the bottle nudged his stretched entrance and there was cold as Master squirted more gel to ease His way. His fingers shifted as He tucked His thumb into His palm and the slave screamed at the stretch when Master pushed forward. It felt like he was going to tear open when the thick, meaty heel of Master's hand pressed into his body, opening him father than he'd ever known. A nudge forward and he felt himself close around Master's wrist, holding Master's whole hand deep inside him.

“So beautiful, boy. You should see yourself, with my hand all the way inside you,” Master purred. His fingers moved in the briefest of flutters, but it sent a shock wave through him that made him moan as his cock filled and slapped against his stomach in a dizzying rush. “Do you deserve to come, boy?”

He whimpered, and Master moved His fingers again. That hand could tear him apart from the inside if it wanted, rip him open in the most primal and violent of ways, and the sheer potential power of it was making him weak. “I-if Master wishes.”

“Beg me.” The dark command was barely out of Master's mouth before the cry ripped free.

“Please, Master!”

Master curled His hand slowly into a fist, wringing another long groan out of his mouth. “Give me a show, boy. Fuck yourself on my fist, show Master how badly you need it.”

He lunged clumsily forward, then shoved back, moaning at the way his insides seemed to rearrange themselves around Master's fist. His hands clutched the sheet as he sought a rhythm, tried to fall into the routine his body knew by heart, but it was elusive, held just out of his reach. A broken moan filled the air, followed by a whimpered, “Please, Master...”

A twist of Master's wrist and knuckles grazed the sweet spot inside. His eyes flew open, staring unseeing at the headboard, dazed with the onslaught of pleasure. The rush proved to be the encouragement he needed and soon he was rocking back and forth, driving Master's fist into him over and over again until his cock was painfully hard, precome leaking in a steady drizzle that dampened the sheet beneath him.

“Fuck, that's hot,” Master breathed. “You're a slut, aren't you, boy? So hungry to have something up inside you that you'll take anything.”

“Yes, Master,” he mewled, throwing his head back as he moved faster. He was dangerously close to breaking a basic rule, fighting the need to come with all his might.

Master watched intently and suddenly pressed down hard against his prostate. “Come, boy.”

He wailed as his cock jerked at the command and then he was coming in hard pulses that soaked the bed, shooting again and again until he ran dry. But still Master's fist worked him, sending him spiraling into a second, third and fourth orgasm, merciless in the way He milked him. When at last Master eased His hand free, he was shaking, his body wracked with shudders of pleasure, the onslaught having hit him especially hard after his long denial.

He seemed to float somewhere above himself, only vaguely aware of being moved, shifted and rolled until he lay on his back. Master loomed over him when some sense of reality returned, His dark eyes hot and glittering as they stared down at him. “Who do you want to own you?” He demanded. “Who fucks you?”

His eyes fluttered open and his lips curved in a tiny smile. “You, Master,” he whispered, reaching up to pull the dark head down towards his own. He'd pay for his boldness later, he knew, pay in blood and screams, but for now Master kissed him, tongue sliding into his mouth just before His cock slid inside and Master began to fuck him, every stroke reminding him of where he belonged, breaking him all over again until he could do nothing but cling to the strong body and beg for more.