CrossingShadowRiver 1
The first thing Buffy does when she gets back from her stay with Willow is raid the fridge. That's what she calls it, her stay with Willow, even in her own mind. She wanted to go and wake Spike up but the fridge caught her eye and she couldn't say no to the insistent cravings. She needs to reacquaint herself with all the tastes she's missed: sweet, sharp, sour, even plain clean water. Fruit, ice cream, bread, anything. Of course, maybe being pregnant has something to do with it, too.
She sits down at the big kitchen table, glad to be home after the long hot trip, and gorges on her finds. Her hands trace the polished wood of the table, she kicks out her shoes and lets her bare feet roam over the smooth tiles of the kitchen floor. Everything's still here, unchanged, exactly like she left it. Very comforting. It's silly to expect some shadow from that blighted world to have traveled home with her.
The only thing she needs to make this picture perfect is Spike. She wishes she could tell him everything that happened. He's her best friend after all, they share all their adventures, their whole lives, but she knows that what she did is not something she can let him know about. It would only hurt him, when she's done this to make them both happy. Their child will be like Spike and look like him, there won't be any sperm donors tracking down their children, or the other way around, she isn't quite clear on that.
She has a big juicy pear in one hand and a chunk of cacciatore in the other, taking alternating bites, when Spike comes in and embraces her from behind. She lets her head fall back against his solid familiar body.
"God, Spike, I'm so glad to be back…"
He nuzzles her neck and cups her breasts, giving them an exploratory squeeze. Would he notice that they're bigger? She doesn't really know if they are, they just feel swollen and supersensitive, like giant melon breasts, although the mirror and her bras deny this feeling. She leans back into him, excited and gratified to feel his hardness against her back.
"That glad to be back? London was hell? Willow and Tara starved you?" Spike says, teasing her, seeking her nipple.
She turns around and gets on her knees on the chair to kiss him, food stilly filling her hands.
"None of the above, just really happy to see you. And Tara was away, remember, or I would have gained twenty pounds from her cooking."
Spike glows at her, his pale ivory skin and light hair clearly visible even in the cool darkness of the kitchen. His hair is platinum again, his eyes seem dark blue and he's wearing an unbuttoned white shirt with rolled up sleeves over blue jeans. How beautiful he looks, how perfect and healthy and just right. She puts the food on the table without looking behind her. She can't wait to touch him, opens his shirt and roams her hand over his taut belly. She loves the feel of his skin, slightly cooler than hers, and soft, so soft and smooth. As skin should be. Not that she's comparing, of course.
"Spike, you look good enough to eat…"
"Before or after you finish the pear and the salami?"
Spike gestures at the remains of the other things she's been guzzling, a piece of cheese, chocolate, half a liter of milk.
"In between?" Buffy says. "And you could eat me too?"
Spike crushes her body against his and possessively sniffs the crease of skin behind her ear. He licks and bites her neck softly, and then comes back up to look at her speculatively. "Can it be, love, that there is another reason for this attack of the munchies?"
Buffy lifts her shirt and sticks out her stomach, "Can't you tell?"
His hand hovers over her belly, not touching it yet as if he doesn't dare. "Really? Are you…really?"
"It doesn't take that much, Spike…" Buffy says airily.
Spike grips her lightly about her waist. His thumbs press on the sensitive skin below her hipbones, stroking lightly. His touch makes her dizzy with longing. He's so different from a human man, not only to the eye but in everything. His sheer presence makes her tingle, a combination of scent and sound and tactile information. Her hands glide up his arms, such good arms to have, solid and smooth, muscled but not bulky. He's lean, but his flesh covers just enough of his bones that they never protrude. His elbows are dimpled. She loves him.
"Come, baby," Buffy says longingly as he keeps staring at her flat belly without speaking. "Let's go to bed and you can stare at Spike Junior from up close."
She gets up from her chair and tugs Spike along by the hand.
"Spike Junior," he says dazedly. "You already know it's a boy?"
"No, silly. Way too early for that. It was just a figure of speech. Now come here and let me take off those jeans."
They make it to the bed, as they do nowadays. Buffy moans as her back hits the softness of the mattress. The cool smooth sheets are heaven. She's gonna stay in bed for a week.
The moment her head hits the pillow Buffy catches sight of something green on her balcony. "Sweetie, did you water my plants? Did they survive?"
Spike lifts an eyelid. "Huh? Yeah, sure, watered them daily. I promised, didn't I?"
"You're my hero."
Buffy dashes outside to check out her basil, dill and coriander plants. Who'd have thought she'd ever be the kind of person plants could survive? She crushes a basil leaf between her finger to inhale the rich fresh smell, then rakes through the lavender, the rosemary and the thyme. All the plants look good, except that the basil has little brown spots on its leaves. It's probably nothing.
"I'm just happy to see everything is still here and still the same. That is so comforting."
She climbs back into bed and puts a sprig of lavender between the pillows.
Spike buries his head between her thighs. "You smell like lamb chops, love. All you need is a honey-balsamic dressing and a good roasting. Ah, here comes the honey already…"
"Gross, Spike."
"I can't believe you still find it gross after having spent ten years with me. Haven't I taught you anything?"
Spike pushes her knees up and slides inside her. Buffy closes her eyes. This is heaven. She's gonna be super lazy tonight and let him do all the work. She wants to be ridden hard and long, and not be the rider for a change. The past month has seem some hard work on her part.
The languid rhythm Spike initiates makes her flash back to another Spike in another place. Will he be okay all alone in his pathetic shack, eating nauseatingly bland fish? But there's no point in thinking that, she's not responsible for the fate of all the Spikes in all the worlds, just this one. She opens her eyes. She blinks furiously so she can see her own gorgeous honey, and not be reminded of someone looking and feeling and smelling different.
That's better. Spike's eyes have lost the momentary surprise and uncertainty they had with the news of he pregnancy and are now focused and glittering, concentrating on what he does best, making her happy. He was totally cooperative when she'd started talking about wanting a baby, although he was a little despondent at not being able to provide one. He said he was okay with adoption, or AI, gay friends of Willow's, whatever other options she could think of.
She stretches out her arms and grips the bars of their curly iron bed, handcrafted by Italian smiths, guaranteed to withstand the most vigorous assault. It's held out so far. Here comes her first orgasm, a nice one to warm her up and to create more of what Spike calls honey, which is one of his less offensive words. She hasn't dared check out his Italian with her girlfriends or the Italian Slayers. She's fairly sure they are of unparalleled obscenity.
While Spike has gone down to fetch her a drink, Buffy leans out over the balcony and looks down on the city below. Night is falling, and lights are pinking on all over town. The Ponte Vecchio is as garishly lit as always, and she breathes in the soft, moist air, courtesy of the river. They've lived here for two years now, and she wouldn't mind staying in Italy for ever. The climate, the food, so much better than London or Syria, and let's not even mention Cleveland. Or, like, post-apocalypse LA.
"Let's go out for dinner tonight, Spike," Buffy says. "I feel like sitting outside and watching the people go past, and walking back up through the gardens."
Spike hands her a glass of wine.
"Spike! I can't drink anymore! What were you thinking?"
Spike looks confused.
"Pregnant women shouldn't drink," Buffy explains. "Everybody knows that."
"Well, gee, Buffy, I wonder how could I have missed out on learning that in my whole long life," Spike says sarcastically.
Spike can be so prickly about stuff like that. It's not as if she knows what nineteenth century people know or didn't know. There's no blame, but he always takes that kind of thing as a slight.
"Never mind. I got books on pregnancy and motherhood in London, so you can polish up your knowledge and be prepared."
"Hmmm."
Spike doesn't sound too enthusiastic.
"You need them, Spike. You've told me so many horror stories on how you were raised!"
"Horror stories? What horror stories? I had a very happy childhood!" Spike protests.
"Yeah, right, you were palmed off on a nurse, who fed you nothing but blancmange, mashed potatoes and gravy. Washing once a week? No heating in your room?"
Spike chuckles in his wine. "Customs of the day, love. Not horrible at all."
"Well, it's a miracle you're not a walking marshmallow man with all that starch," Buffy says. No way is her kid going to be fed any of that stuff.
"Good genes, love," Spike says and pats his taut abdomen with satisfaction.
Buffy opens her mouth to say how happy she is that her kid will have the same genes but she shuts it just in time. That was nearly an oops.
She glides her knuckles over Spike's cheek. "You are okay with the baby, aren't you? You haven't changed your mind? It's early, we could still …"
"No!" Spike says vehemently and nearly crushes her hand with the pressure of his. "I want you to have a child, like any other woman. It wouldn't be fair if you had to miss out on that because I'm a vampire. I said whatever you decided, whomever you decided. Except, you know."
Xander and Angel. Yeah, Buffy knows. She wouldn't have picked them herself, because they look nothing like her or Spike. She could have asked him if he minded a human version of himself, but she hasn't. She kinda thinks she knows the answer.
Spike puts his ears against her flat tanned belly. His hair tickles.
"It just gurgles," he says. "No other heartbeat yet."
Buffy looks at his intent face, his disordered pale hair, and she gets little blurry flashes of imagined futures, she and Spike and a little curly headed child walking hand in hand, birthday cakes with three candles on it, pink ribbons or footballs. Graduation ceremonies. Could life be any more perfect?
TBC