CrossingShadowRiver 6, by dutchbuffy2305

Rating: R

Timeline: About ten years after season 5 of AtS; sequel of sorts to Crossing into UnchippedTerritory. You should read that if you want to know everything about how to cross dimensions, and how Buffy and Spike got to be together. If you insist in reading this first, this is the recap: Buffy met evil Spike when she accidentally fell in another dimension. Hijinks ensue. He returns souled Spike to her (I'm not telling how) and they lived happily ever after. I still think you should go read it first, my summary doesn't quite do it justice…

Author's note: Thanks to my dear betas, meko00, ayinhara & mommanerd.

Author's website: http:home.planet.nl/dutchbuffy2305

Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305yahoo.co.uk

Spike hurls himself out of the house, barely making it to the sewer entrance in time, in spite of the overcast and grey day. Once inside he throws himself into a tearing run, not caring where he's going, as long as it's away. Everything in him that is vampire longs to return and spend his anger on Buffy directly. He wants to punch her and kick her, make her bleed, but of course, he can't let himself. They don't fight like that anymore, certainly not now that she's pregnant. When he finds himself in a dead end tunnel, the wall stands in for her and he pummels it until his fists are bleeding. He sinks down on his haunches and covers his face with his palms.

He doesn't cry, he's not sad, just really really pissed off. He knows Buffy didn't mean to do the most hurtful thing she could think of, but it does feel that way. All kinds of smaller and larger slights pop up in his brains, things he thought long forgotten. Buffy can still forget sometimes he's not human, even after ten years, blithely going places in the daylight when he'd have wanted to accompany her. Which is ridiculous, because he shouldn't begrudge her the sun, should he? It's also silly to dredge up these things now. It's just his own hurt feelings, looping into themselves and trying to take him down into even more misery and lack of worth.

No. He's not going to go there. Buffy did this, by herself and for herself, probably even for him, giving him a child that would look like him. It's no reflection on him. He's not even that angry anymore. He should really get over his transdimensional jealousy issues. Buffy meant well, she wanted a kid that was as close as possible to the kid he would have given her if he'd been human, apart from the whole being long dead issue. What would he have preferred, having Harris's eyes stare back at him from his own kid's face? Not likely. He agreed to her getting knocked up by some other bloke, he hadn't thought of denying her that for a single moment. Maybe he would have felt this way about anyone. Agreeing with your head isn't always the same as knowing what it's gonna do to your heart, though, is it? So she'd shown her usual crappy judgment and gone for a human Spike. He knows her; she wouldn't have stopped to think if and how it would affect him. He loves her still, he supposes, he'll never ever stop, and he should be bigger than this. At this moment, he just can't get very enthusiastic about seeing Buffy, which is scary. He went from angry and jealous to resigned and quietly disappointed in no time. What does that say about their love? Maybe they've grown past the first flashy stages of being in love, it's been ten years after all, and this is what middle aged people feel, quiet affection. The sheer thought of quiet affection makes him want to wring her neck though, so that's probably not such an apt description. If they could just have a proper fight, knock each other about a bit to clear the air. Buffy being pregnant means all kinds of things they usually do need to stay bottled up and that's not healthy for either of them. Buffy can't go out and kill, and out of sympathy for her, he's been doing less of that as well.

Spike gets up and starts walking back, trying to find a way out of the maze of tunnels he's in. He's managed to lose his way pretty thoroughly. Maybe he's been running about pell-mell longer than he thought. He doesn't know this part of the London tunnels at all, and he resigns himself to a long walk. It's not that unpleasant. He works his way slowly upwards, trying to guess where he is by smell and sound, and the amount of rock between him and the sky. It's a distraction from his thoughts, which keep twisting and turning and putting him back in front of that brick wall. His anger feels heavy and inert, it doesn't flare up but it's not going anywhere either.

He stops suddenly. Close to him, a train thunders by. His bones rattle with the deep thrumming of wheels and his teeth ache with the shriek of metal on metal. He still doesn't know where he is, but he should soon if he can get to the underground railway.

Out of nowhere, a great big hulking Fyarl tears past him, in so much of a hurry that he doesn't even notice Spike. His big ugly face is twisted in fear and Spike perks up a little. Killing something would be a nice distraction. He hears the pursuing demon long before he can see him and is ready to meet him up. He extends his leg hopefully. A blue floppy eared guy barrels into his leg on schedule and goes arse over tit with a slew of colorful curses. Spike hauls him up by the scruff of his neck and starts punching. It feels good to land his fists on flesh instead of stone, to hear the squish and splat of ichor flying, the grunts when he hits home, when the demon hits back and he feels the pain of physical acknowledgment.

The bluebell demon reacts enthusiastically and they appear to be evenly matched. After a bit, the lack of personal hatred starts to wear on Spike. The demon seems to feel the same way.

"How about a pint, mate?" he offers suddenly between pants. "Don't really have anything against you. Fucking Fyarl's gone by now, anyway."

Sounds like his kind of fellow, this blue guy. Besides, if he can lead Spike to a pub he'd get a clue as to where he is.

His new friend, name of Bert, takes his arm and they stroll along slowly to their destination. Spike offers him a fag, but Bert declines.

"The missus don't like me smoking anymore," he confides in Spike.

Spike grunts in sympathy. He's been banned from smoking around the house for months now.

"Bloody Fyarl bastard," Bert goes on morosely. "Been making eyes at the missus for weeks, and this morning I come home and find them snogging on the stairs. Lemme tell you, that can only mean one thing. Women."

"Same here," Spike says. "My missus is with spawn, and this morning I find out it's from the guy I hate most in the whole world."

"Thought you vampires couldn't spawn?" Bert says.

"Nah, she's human," Spike admits. "Wanted kids, which is only natural, so I said I was okay with it. Kinda liked the idea, actually. Turns out she found some fellow in an alternate reality, who was really me only human."

"Erm? " Bert says. "Isn't that better than just any bloke? Shows she loves you, don't it?"

"Yeah? No. I don't know. Pisses me off no end, for some reason. We had a run in years ago about the same thing. She'd been sleeping with another alternate reality version of me, thought I was dead. Didn't like that either."

"Haven't a clue what you're talking about, mate." Bert says frankly. "I'll buy you a pint anyway. Here it is."

A dusty emergency door opens up to a cozy brick-lined cave, lit by candles and gas-lamp. Hunched shapes sit around in the murky gloom, talking softly. The telly is on, showing a steeplechase.

"Give us two of your best, Gertie," Bert says to the strapping barmaid of indeterminate origin behind the tap. Some human in there, Spike reckons, bit of Fyarl and maybe Brachen.

The beer goes down a treat. Demons really know how to brew, without all these annoying EU regulations that are destroying real British beer. Spike smacks his lips and sighs. He swivels on his seat to take in the rest of the clientele. He wants to remember this pub, because it would be nice to consort with humans a bit less than he has in the last ten years. They can be nice, humans can, but in the long end, their petty concerns start to grate on you. They seem incapable of taking the long view.

Bert and Spike become very good friends over many, many pints. At a certain point Spike feels it's time for something a little stronger and springs for a bottle of JD.  Bert reciprocates and things get a bit hazy after that.

When the haze clears, he finds himself in a human night club, bopping up and down on some neo-punk rock, without Bert, and without a clue how he got there or what he's doing. How much time has passed? He staggers off to the exit and props up his unsteady self against the outside wall. When the cold night air hits him, his stomach rebels and he vomits up a mixture of beer and old blood. He rests his aching pounding head against the cool bricks for a moment. After a few minutes he starts to feel better.

Spike hauls his reluctant carcass up to the roof, lies down on his back and stares at the stars. They stare back with reproof in their twinkly little eyes. Buffy must be worried by now, he should get back. He really should. He lies there with his hands under his head and doesn't feel like confronting her yet. A faint wind wafts the scents and sounds of the wild night to him, and he feels like a hound that's been released from a kennel into the crisp frosty air, after months of fug and too much closeness. He's still a vampire and he's gonna hunt and have some fun tonight. The moon is round, demon dogs are baying and it's time to join the Hunt.

The clatter of hobnailed boots alerts him and he spots a group of game-faced vamps traveling the rooftops. His guts stir with the promise of violence and he takes off after them, a stake at the ready. This is very close to being exciting, even if it's only a pack of recently made vampires. The little group, two tall lanky boy Goths and one short plump scarlet haired female, get wind of his pursuit and pick up the pace. They know London's rooftops well and he has a hard time keeping up with them. He's out of practice. Florence roofs have a completely different rhythm and a couple of times he almost falls. He finds them again on top of the BBC Broadcasting House, huddled around a fire, chanting some gobbledygook and waving wands. Great. They're trying a magic ritual.

Another vamp tears across his path in a flaming hurry, and when he detects a slayerly tingle to his left, he pulls up to let the girl pass to follow her prey. It She isn't one he knows personally, but the Slayer Academy is so full of girls these days that he's stopped trying to keep up.

The unknown slayer halts too, at what she probably imagines to be out of sensory range, and conceals herself behind a chimney. Spike sighs. Lost the scent of her prey and has glommed onto him, eh? He decides to set her right and turns back towards her. A last look at the vamp congregation confirms they're still at their nefarious thing, which he's not taking that seriously, but if the slayer makes him lose his prey, she'll get a snootful.

"Oi!" he shouts. "Slayer!"

Her heart rate triples from behind the smoke stack, but she doesn't show herself. Thinks she's hiding, the stupid bint. It's a shame they're letting these inexperienced little tarts go out hunting alone these days. Wouldn't ever happen in his classes, that's for sure.

"Come on, love! If you're looking for that skanky vamp just passed me, dread locks, yea high, he's gone off. I'm William the Bloody and you don't want to be fighting me. And if you think you can muscle in on my kill you've got to be joking."

He's closer now. The not so little slayer is quivering and sweating in her hidey hole. God, she's stupid. If he still was a real vamp, he'd have her totally cornered.

She cannons into him at the last possible moment. His eyes confirm what he already knew from his other senses, that he doesn't know her. She's a tall, athletically built girl, a bit like an Asian Cordelia. She tries to punch him out, and he leans back an inch to avoid her sloppy strike. He sighs again.

"Listen up, you little fool, I'm Spike, who you ought to know about if you'd been paying attention in class. I'm with Buffy Summers, the oldest Slayer. I suppose you do know her name?"

The girl bares her teeth at him and tries to get behind his defense. Her moves are ludicrous, telegraphed so far in advance he could read a book while waiting for them. Spike loses his patience after a minute of this and tackles her to the roof. He sits on her hips, holding her hands in one of his and pockets her stake.

The girl bucks and heaves and grunts with anger. "The word's out on you," she spits out. "Everybody knows you're killing again, and Buffy left you."

Spike's so surprised he drops his guard and the little slayer flips them over and sits on him in her turn. He catches her flailing hands again. She's persistent, though, and keeps grinding and twisting on him, with the predictable result of making him hard. Spike ignores this minor side-effect.

"Who's saying this? I don't believe Buffy's told anybody anything, that's not her style at all. Who, then? Willow?"

"Director Rosenberg is out of town. Deputy Smyth has given out the bulletin."

Spike doesn't know Smyth, but he'd better make some phone calls before this escalates any further. The girl is still working herself against him, and she has to have noticed what she's rubbing up against. Spike's bemused, but it is starting to get to his attention.

"Lay off, girlie. 'S not a good thing to taunt a vampire. Some might take you up on it."

"Come on then," she pants. "You must be gagging for it, if Buffy kicked you out. All the girls say you're the best fuck ever."

What the hell? The little tarts are gabbing about him already? Buffy must have been on the phone to Willow the minute he hit the streets. The girl manages to wrest one hand loose, but instead of going for her stake, she zips open her fleece hoodie, revealing a tiny low cut top. Her breasts are utterly brilliant, best he's ever seen, but it's still annoying rather than alluring.

"I know you want to touch them."

Her voice tries to be low and seductive. She's clearly expecting to be taken up on her offer immediately, and sounds commanding rather than entreating. Spike can't stop himself from checking out the amazing breasts again, and she gasps in triumph and arousal. She gropes for his cock through the thick denim and in spite of himself, he finds this to be getting rather interesting. Hot young slayer hips swivel on him, hard muscled thighs grip his in sharp contrast to the softly gleaming flesh of her bosom. He thinks for a fleeting moment of paying Buffy back in the same coin, but it lasts no longer than that.

A quick anonymous fuck is no longer his style, especially as there can be no kill after and the chit would blab about it to all her buddies. He's not that mad at Buffy, and there's clearly been enough talk about him already. He yanks her off with a brutal twist of her arm and pulls her squealing, protesting form upright.

"Now, Miss-too-young-to-know-better, off with you. Either you go quietly and don't follow me, or I'll throw you off this roof. It won't kill you, but it will immobilize you for a couple of painful weeks, right?"

She nods sulkily. He gives her a slap on her tight curvy bum to send her off and thinks belatedly that he shouldn't have. It'll only encourage her. Never mind. She slopes off as she promised, but he waits until she's completely out of range before going after the vampires again. Now he really needs to kill something quick to get his mind off fucking.

The sodding idiots don't even hear him coming. He lands boots first in the silly fire, putting it out, grabs the biggest wand and rakes it through the stunned fledglings in a big sweeping arc. They squeal and panic, effectively presenting him with their chests one by one as they run around like mindless chickens. He rips off a few heads after his stake dusts accidentally and it's over all too soon.

After thoroughly destroying the magical implements Spike gets on his way to an out-of-use underground station to crash, sore and bleeding, but content. He scores fags and a few bottles of whiskey so he can drink himself into oblivion again. Even ripping off those vampires' heads with his bare hands hasn't been enough to take his mind off Buffy and what she's been telling Willow, or even the annoying little Slayer who jiggled her breasts at him. This can only lead to trouble; he urgently needs to be drunk again, preferably unconscious. Thinking can wait.

He tips the bottle to his mouth while he's walking along. A shriek pierces the air and he splutters and coughs as the liquid goes down wrong.

"Spike! I found you!"

"Dawn?"

TBC