Angel's eyes flashed with a strange light, and he gasped, the sudden intake of unneeded breath filling his lungs just as his soul, newly restored, filled his devil-fettered body. He did not know where he was. He did not know where he was, but someone was standing before him, holding a sword. After a moment, it occurred to him that he was holding another. He recognized the person before him. He'd recognize her anywhere.

"Buffy?" he asked. "What's going on?"

The expression on her face seemed strange to him – out of place. He couldn't remember anything since... That Night. Something had happened to him. He remembered staggering out into the night, but after that, nothing.

"Where are we? I... I don't remember."

Buffy looked wary at first, but after a moment, the wariness faded, and she lowered her sword. "Angel?" she asked.

He smelled blood. He looked at her. "You're hurt," he said." She looked down at her wound, and then he embraced her tightly. "Oh, Buffy... God. I feel like I haven't seen you in months.

She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh, and hugged him back.

He didn't recognize the room he was in. There was something cold behind him. Something he did not want to turn around to see.

She looked at it, and as she saw it, the light in her eyes died a little. Silent tears flowed down her perfect cheeks. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away.

"What's happening?" Angel asked.

Buffy looked him in the eyes. "Shh," she whispered, "Don't worry about it."

Warmth. Her lips against his. Her arms around him. Love moved him, and he felt his heart expand. He loved her more in that moment than ever.

She looked deeply into his eyes. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you," he whispered back.

She touched his lips with her fingertips. Her touch was fire.

"Close your eyes," she said, nodding reassuringly when he gave her a questioning look.

He did.

She pulled away, and he could sense her grief.

And then she shoved her sword into his chest.

Shock and pain immediately went to war with the terrible, dragging pain and bewilderment that had nothing to do with his wound. He looked down at the sword sticking out of his chest, and then met her eyes one last time. He reached out for her. "Buffy..."

And then coldness swept over him. Swept over him and swallowed him. It swallowed him, and he was falling. Falling.

Falling into Hell.

----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea
An Angel Crossover Fanfic
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 3: To Strive With Gods

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this. I also don't own 'The Becoming, Part II.'

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Angel started suddenly out of sleep, and for a moment, Hell still seemed to be all around him. It faded slowly, but for a moment, he thought he saw an afterimage of Her face.

Buffy's face.

Hell faded, and he shuddered. His room swam into view around him.

This was the third day in a row that he'd had this dream, and every time the same. It was a memory that he tried not to think about much. A hundred years of torment in Hell had a tendency to do that to a man. A hundred years in Hell, though in the real world, only months had passed.

There was something else. Something that tugged at the edge of his memory.

There was a flash of pain, and he clutched at his head. He knew this feeling. He had felt it once before – just a little over a month earlier. When he and Cordelia had kissed for the last time.

The vision washed over Angel, and his eyes went wide.

When it had passed, he knew what he had to do.

-----------------------

"You can't tell him, Joe," Methos said. He sat in a comfortable chair in Joe's apartment, with Joe sitting across from him.

Joe grimaced. "He's going to find out anyways. You know that Hamer was a friend of his."

"Hamer was a headhunter. He got what was coming to him. You know that saying about living by the sword?"

"Quoting the Bible, old man?"

Methos shrugged. "Wisdom isn't a localized phenomenon."

Joe wasn't sure what to say to that. He pulled out a pair of photographs. "Have you seen these?" he asked.

Methos looked at the pictures. One showed a very beautiful young woman with blue-streaked hair and skin with a ruggedly handsome man in some sort of back alley. She looked fearful. He looked grimly determined. In the next shot, the woman was gone, and the man stood facing another man that Methos recognized as Robert Hamer. Hamer had his sword out and ready.

"What of them?" Methos asked.

"The man in the photo is Wesley Wyndham Pryce," Joe says. "He works at a law firm called Wolfram and Hart."

Methos stiffened visibly at that.

"You know of it?"

Methos nodded. "They've had quite the reputation over the years."

"Well, according to Hamer's watcher, he's the one who killed Hamer. Shot him several times, and then hacked off his head with his own sword."

Methos frowned.

"Pryce isn't an immortal, Adam," Joe said.

"The girl?" Methos asked.

"Winifred Burkle. Also in the employ of Wolfram and Hart."

"Is she Immortal?"

Joe shrugged. "She's not on record. If she is, she's a newborn."

"Pryce obviously knows about us," Methos said.

Joe nodded. "He's a former Watcher."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"He was with the English division." At Methos's blank look, he went on, "They're almost a separate entity these days, call themselves 'The Council of Watchers,' or 'The Council' for short. Rumour has it they take a somewhat broader view of our mandate as watchers, and keep an eye on various cults and psychos on the behalf of the British government."

"Why haven't I heard of them?" Methos asked.

"When was the last time you took your attention away from hiding your own existence under the guise of 'researching the Methos myth?'"

"Point taken."

Methos fell silent. Joe watched him for a moment.

"Still think we shouldn't tell MacLeod?" Joe asked.

"Now more than ever," Methos replied.

"What are you going to do?"

Methos rose from his chair and smiled disarmingly. "I'm going to take a little look around the City of Angels."

"Watch your back, old man," Joe said.

"Don't I always?"

-----------------------

Wesley and Winifred walked arm in arm down the sunny street, she leaning ever so slightly against him as they went. Fred was glad of the contact. It made her feel more human. It was morning, and the post-dawn sun beamed down warmly upon them. Birds sang on the power lines, and the noise of traffic filled the air.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Wesley asked.

Fred nodded. She was ready. "I have to go back to work some time," she said.

They had eaten a full breakfast at a diner some two blocks away. He'd had porridge and tea. She'd had pancakes with coffee. She could still faintly taste the maple syrup. She smiled brightly. She had not felt that buzzing pressure on her mind since that night at the casino, and although she'd asked what it had been, Wesley had only replied that he would tell her all about it later.

But he hadn't told her yet.

Still, it was a beautiful morning. It was warm, she wasn't hungry, and she was walking by the side of her love. It was a good morning.

She could see the Wolfram and Hart tower in the distance.

----------------------

'WELCOME BACK!' the sign read, and as she walked into the lobby, the jubilant voices of Lorne, Charles, Harmony, and about a dozen other coworkers rang out in greeting, "WELCOME BACK, FRED!" they called.

"'bout time you came back here, Fred," Spike said, beaming a grin of his own. Angel stood off to the side, smiling the first genuine smile Fred had seen on his face in a long time. At Fred's side, Wesley smiled, and many lines of care were banished forever.

She felt warm, but this time it had nothing to do with the temperature. She smiled winsomely, and she was happy.

"I don't know what to say, y'all!" she said.

"Well I sure do," Lorne said. "Let's PARTY!"

Everyone cheered, and the party began.

It lasted three hours, from nine until noon, and though it took up time normally devoted to the workday, nobody much cared. For the Fang Gang, their friend had been dead, and was alive again, and this was their chance to celebrate. For the others, it was a chance to gain favour in the eyes of their bosses, but also an opportunity for paid break time. For Harmony, it was just an excuse to party.

It was two hours into it that Fred suddenly felt that strange buzzing pressure. A moment later, Hamilton, the liason to the Senior Partners, walked into the room, impeccably dressed as always, and also as always, his every polite movement suggestive of carefully controlled violence.

Angel smoothly stepped forward. "Hamilton. I've been meaning to discuss a few things with you..." Angel trailed off.

Hamilton ignored him, moving smoothly past the ensouled vampire to stand directly in front of Fred. He gave her a considering look. "Miss Burkle," he said, "How lovely to see you again. We were beginning to wonder if you really were gone for good. That would have been truly unfortunate."

"I can't tell you how it feels to know that Hell is concerned for the well-being of little old me."

Wesley stepped forward protectively, putting an arm around Fred. She felt reassured by his presence.

Hamilton smiled. "The Senior Partners were deeply concerned when they learned what had happened to you. I'm glad to see that you've gotten a handle on the... Illyria situation."

Fred felt something twist inside her, and there was a strange pressure against her awareness. For a moment, she could hear Illyria's thoughts, raging there in the back of her mind. 'Has he been planning this the whole time? Him and the Wolf, Ram, and Hart? I will not be caged. I WILL NOT! I shall take back my shell, and then I shall tear this servant of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart limb from limb for his impertinence! I shall make a trophy of his spine, and feast upon his heart's blood!' Illyria's thoughts became muted, and she could no longer make them out. They became like the buzzing of a swarm of bees, and then faded away completely.

Fred shuddered.

"Fred? Are you all right?" Wes asked.

Fred nodded absently. "I'm fine," she said distantly.

Wesley frowned, and looked at Hamilton suspiciously.

"Good day, Miss Burkle," Hamilton said pleasantly. He moved off towards Angel, and was soon drawn into conversation with the vampire.

But from time to time for the next hour or so that the party lasted, Fred felt as though she were being watched, and when she looked up, Hamilton's eyes were upon her, glittering blackly.

-------------------------

It was several hours later that Angel called the Fang Gang (plus Spike) for a meeting in his office.

"We have a problem, people," he said as the last of them, Lorne, shut the door and moved to take a seat.

"Spike?" Gunn asked.

"Hey!" said Spike, playing at being offended.

"Another problem," Angel said.

The others smiled.

"Ever since Cordelia went into that coma, we've been flying blind. No guidance. No visions. No nothing. We've been at the mercy of the Senior Partners, stuck in the gullet of this beast called Wolfram and Hart, and all we've done so far is get digested."

"Surely we've managed to do at least some good..." Wesley began.

Angel shook his head, and Wesley trailed off. "We've made compromises. We've allowed little things to slip. We've fallen off the path." He held up a small glass ball. "Involvere," he said. It pulsed brightly, and a wave of energy spread out across the room. "A glamour," he said, in response to the questioning looks of his friends. "So far as anyone outside this room trying to listen in is concerned, I'm just giving you a generic pep-talk."

"Aren't you?" Spike said.

Angel glared, and Spike looked particularly satisfied.

"It started a little over a month ago. With a kiss."

Wes looked truly surprised. "Cordelia?" he asked.

Angel nodded. "Gave me her visions. I'd thought it was a one-shot deal. Just to put me on the path, show me where the real powers were. I thought wrong. I had another vision last night."

"So fill us in," Gunn said. "What did you see?"

"I saw us. Me, Spike, Gunn, and Illyria. In an alleyway. Fighting for our lives against a horde of demons. And a dragon."

"And Illyria?" Fred asked.

Angel nodded. "Wesley was dead. Lorne was gone – I don't know if he was dead or not. You were dead. Illyria was working with us. Gunn," he looked at Gunn, "You were dying. Covered in blood. It was raining. We were all dying. There were too many. And then I saw a symbol. A circle with black thorns."

He met each of their gazes in turn. "The Circle of the Black Thorn is the hand of the Senior Partners on the earth. The Senior Partners aren't on this plane of existence. The Circle is. They're the ones that make sure that the well oiled machine that is the Apocalypse keeps running smoothly."

The others stared at him in shock.

"I've been trying to gain access to the Circle ever since..." he glanced at Fred. "You died. I thought I would use that. I couldn't let that be just another random horrible thing in a random, horrible world. I tried to make them think I was responsible. Join them. And then, once I knew who they were, I would kill them all. When you came back, as happy as I am to have you back, it derailed those plans."

Fred swallowed heavily, and nodded. Wesley looked more than a little bit offended. Lorne, Spike, and Gunn only nodded.

"What do you think the Powers were trying to tell you with this vision?" Gunn asked.

"I think they were showing me a possible future. I think something goes wrong, and we all die. We have to prevent that from happening."

"So what do we do?" Lorne said. "I don't know about you, Angel-cakes, but I'm not much of a fighter. I'm on your team, but if it comes down to it, I don't know how much good I'll be against a horde of angry demons."

Angel smiled faintly. "I know."

"Well, what do we do?" Lorne asked again.

"What we always do," Angel said. "We save the day."

Spike grinned. "Got anything specific in mind?"

Angel returned his grin. "As it happens, I do."

---------------------

As she left the meeting to return to her lab, Fred's whole body trembled with barely contained excitement mixed with fear. If Angel's plan worked, it would change everything. If it failed... if it failed, well, they'd all be dead, so they wouldn't care what else happened. Or at least, she hoped they wouldn't care.

She could feel that Illyria within her was also pleased, even as she was shocked by the sheer audacity of the plan.

Fred walked into her lab, and found it curiously deserted.

She frowned.

Marcus Hamilton was waiting for her.

"Miss Burkle," he said.

She jumped in surprise, let out a little scream, and whirled to face him. "Oh! Hamilton! I didn't see you!"

"That's because I didn't want you to," he said patiently.

"Oh," she said, her mannerisms like nothing so much as a fluttering bird, "I suppose that would make sense. You know, not being seen when you make an effort to stay out of sight..."

"I'm assuming that Mr. Wyndham Pryce has explained things to you," he said.

She blinked.

"I'm proposing a truce between us. I am the Liason to the Senior Partners – you work for them in your own way. There's no reason for me to claim your head, and no reason for you to make a pathetic attempt to claim mine."

Fred was confused, and it showed. What in the world was he talking about?

Hamilton studied her face for a few moments, and then smiled. "Ah, I see. So he HASN'T told you. Very interesting. And as much as I'd love to fill you in on all the sordid details of your new existence..." He reached out and touched her cheek. "Business before pleasure. Good day, Miss Burkle."

He turned and walked away, leaving Fred standing, dumbfounded, in the middle of her deserted lab.

--------------------

And a few miles away, at the Los Angeles International Airport, Methos stepped off the plane that had carried him from Seacouver. He turned up the collar of his trench coat, and went to pick up his luggage.

Not for the first time, he wondered why in the world he had chosen to come here.

It was stupid.

He was putting himself in danger.

And yet... he knew that if Mac found out about the death of Robert Hamer at the hands of a Watcher, former or not, he'd be down here in a second to fight for truth, justice, and various other important sounding nouns. And would inevitably get himself killed.

MacLeod was a friend, and he didn't have many of those. Still, that wouldn't have mattered twenty years ago. Although he did not like to think about such things, it occurred to him that perhaps he had been changed by MacLeod's friendship than even he suspected.

So here he was.

After collecting his luggage, he walked out of the air-conditioned airport, and into the blazing heat of a summer day in Los Angeles.

Methos cursed, and took off his overcoat.

Damned Southern California weather.

END CHAPTER 3

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Author's notes:

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.