CrossingShadowRiver 12, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Timeline: About ten years after season 5 of AtS; sequel of sorts to Crossing into UnchippedTerritory.
Author's note: Special wave to monanotlisa and gamilla, for Wesley. As ever, thanks to my dear betas, meko00, ayinhara, LadyAnne & mommanerd.
Author's website: http:home.planet.nl/dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, to
Spike crouches across the street from Council House, covered in a borrowed blanket of a putrescent purple. The building is a symbol of the resurgence of Council Power, led by the improbable American director W. Rosenberg. King Charles would be hard put to despise the architecture, rigidly formed to classic strictures, but nevertheless it exudes modernism and efficiency.
Spike waits patiently, high above the crowds behind his chimney stack. There isn't much of interest to see and his thoughts continually drift back to Buffy, her face so flat and empty of feeling, kneeling above her thin corded hands. He endlessly checks and rechecks the details in his memory, to see if there's a clue he's missed, a signal from her he's overlooked. He closes his eyes to do the same for the scent picture. The overtones carry the alien scent of the other Spike, a completely new and unknown odor, the same briny rotting kelp smell that hung in the stairway of the house. If you take away sight, that smell signature is not the same as the one he remembers from the alternate Spike he met ten years ago. It must some kind of leprosy or curse that makes him so weird and off. Positively feeble-minded, in fact. Of course he thought the other Spike was a mindless idiot before, too, but there's a whole different vibe to his present idiocy; his thought processes seem of another order altogether.
Now Buffy's scent. Spike frowns blindly. That's odd. It's all Buffy he smells, fairly ripe unwashed Buffy, not a trace of shampoo or toothpaste. A definite clue, because Buffy is a typical modern day American woman, overly fond of washing and deodorizing, in Spike's opinion. If she'd foregone that strict regimen, there must be duress. He knew it. Buffy wouldn't just consent to a public display of brutal sex, he knew something was off. Spike sags with his forehead against the strangely sootless chimney-post. No, he wasn't sure something was up with Buffy. He hoped there was, but he wasn't sure until now. Buffy truly is a prisoner, and he'll save her and kill the interloper.
He snuck out of Dawn's flat early this morning when it was till dark, not having slept much at all. Nightmare images of Buffy kept replaying behind his eyelids when he tried to sleep, and even worse, they were mixed up with lustful dreams of Dawn. Enough to make any sensible man prefer to be awake, and get the hell away.
Spike wishes he could think of a way to sneak into his house – although it only belongs to Buffy according to the laws of magic - without a human helper. He's probably going to need Dawn, more's the pity. There's still some hope that Willow will be able to come up with something useful to bypass the magic law that says only Buffy can invite him in, because clearly Buffy won't be able to help him.
He's responsible for Buffy now, and it's different from when there just were the two of them, when Buffy carried her own weight. Spike is abruptly aware that eternal youth, and the insouciance that goes with it, are something else that he's given up by getting the soul and living with Buffy. She's growing older in that way human beings have, with fits and starts, yielding to the natural rhythms of her body, which tell her it's time to settle down and breed, and he must follow. Spike doesn't want to be evil again, or not that often, but the thought of returning to the heady free space of vampire existence is tempting. He could skip from Slayer to Slayer, finding a new one when the old one grows sedate and broody, and so avoid the deeply unnatural rituals of adulthood. He sighs. Of course he won't.
When the morning influx of people into the grand building has ceased, Spike slips down from his high vantage point and crosses the street. His blanket and umbrella provoke no special attention; this corner of the city is used to strange visitors. Spike hesitates and then steps over the threshold of the Council building. No alarm bells start ringing, no guards with crosses and stakes rush forward. Willow and her people may suspect him of multiple murders, but they haven't warded their offices against him. Yet. He stuffs the blanket in his briefcase.
He makes a beeline for the school wing. The entrance hall gleams confidently with the superiority of real marble, and it's only after several corridors have imperceptibly lowered the standard for wall- adornment that the visitor descends into vomit green lino and shiny ochre paint, obviously undisturbed by the hands of any kind of designer for decades. This is the Council Academy for Equal Opportunity Advancement, also known as the Slayer School.
He doesn't want to make an official appointment with Willow; her secretary might fob him off on one of the supercilious flunkeys or waste his time in other ways. He's planning on getting to Willow's top floor office by way of some connected roofs. It's risky to do this in daylight but the blanket that makes his briefcase bulge will help with that.
Spike hurries through the corridors, satisfied about his timing; all the Slayers, young Potentials and their teachers are in the classrooms by now. He throws a quick look over his shoulder before taking a right into the stairwell and cannons straight into the tall buxom figure of the young Slayer he'd met a few nights ago. At some point in the past few weeks, anyway; he's no longer sure of time. Her face brightens and she stands very close to him.
"Spike! Have you come to look for me?"
Spike winces and changes it halfway into a wink, frantically thinking which way his advantage lies; play along with her, at the risk of being unable to shake her off; or get rid of her and have her turn on him and make trouble.
He decides to do both. "Maybe," he drawls, and looks her up and down. "Maybe not."
She flushes and tosses her hair. Spike puts his hand on her thin shoulder. "So," he says softly. "I'm on a secret mission. Nobody can know I'm here. I have important news for Director Rosenberg, but I have to get to her without anyone seeing me. There may be a traitor in the ranks!"
Is she young and gullible enough to fall for this? Oh yeah, her eyes grow big and she nods along with his words. She flushes and her heart skips and hops. Of course, it could be his physical presence, putting her Slayer system at DefCon 3 automatically.
She grabs his hands. "Come on, I know a way to get there. I used to sneak out that way when I was a kid."
"What's your name?" he breathes into her ear while they race to the third floor hand in hand.
"Meena," she says.
Spike feels like a boy playing truant as they silently weave through the warren of corridors which make up the upper floor of this wing. It used to be like that with Dawn, running off, giddy and giggling together after escaping the scrutiny of the grown-ups, be it Buffy or Giles. The soul has made him one of the adults himself. At moments like this, he regrets it briefly, the loss of that freedom and innocence. Carrying the soul around is sometimes a depressing burden.
Meena gets him up to the roof and helps him with his blanket. She manages to give him a quick kiss before she pulls him out into the drizzle, and Spike could kick himself. Her lips taste of strawberry gloss and she smells of ginger and lime, a fresh sharp scent, as bracing and seductive as taking a dive in the breakers at Blackpool. Sun and yellow sand would lull you into thinking that the sea would be mild too, but instead it tumbled you over, laughing at you, filling your nose with briny foam.
Spike avoids another attempted smooch from Meena and dances away into the next corridor. He's sorry he involved her at all. Better to shake her off, hurt feelings or no, than the sense of entitlement she's bound to get from all this. They traverse a corridor and exit on another roof. Behind the glamorous new façade, Council Hall is made up from several old buildings joined together to form a maze of stairways and halls. Meena knows her way about even better than Spike; three chimney stacks down they take a left and hide behind a small rooftop building of unknown purpose. Meena points his head toward the big windows on the right and Spike recognizes Willows big sunny office behind them.
He burrows deeper into his faintly smoking blanket, feeling like Little Purple Riding Hood sneaking up on grandmother, or however the plot of the long forgotten fairy tale went. He flattens himself against the wall framing the windows and peers in. If Willow's alone he'll tap on the pane and ask to be let in.
The first thing his eye falls on is Bert, leaning forward over Willow's rosewood desk, with his hand stretched out and an ingratiating smile on his face. Willow's white, heavily ringed hand moves into Spike's field of vision and deposits a slew of high denomination Euro bills into Bert's lavender-blue paw. Spike whips his head back and leans against the wall, trying to fit this new oddly shaped fact into the puzzle of last week's happenings. He can safely assume, he feels, that Bert's guest appearance in his life was no coincidence. Bert's most likely the very bloke who slipped him a doctored drink and kept him out of the loop for weeks, isn't he?
Meena waves at him from behind her chimney-stack, probably wondering why he isn't going in yet. Spike looks at her with awakening suspicion. Was she sent to look for him, too, to delay him and seduce him for God knows what purpose?
He decides he can't let Willow know he observed her with the perfidious Bert and crawls back to Meena.
"Why aren't you going in?" she asks.
"Change of plan," Spike says curtly. "Can you take me to her office via the usual entrance?"
"No problem. You'll have to get past Shirley on your own, though," Meena says doubtfully.
"Leave Shirley to me," Spike says with a wink. Some of his suspicion leaves him when he registers the changes in her skin temperature, heart rate and saliva production the wink generates. Nobody could fake those.
Meena backtracks most of their circuitous route and they're back in the school. As luck would have it, by now classes are changing and Spike is a rock amidst surging waves of Slayers and Potentials, many of whom recognize him and greet him boldly or shyly, according to their natures. Meena has sidled up to him closely, claiming him publicly as her prize, and Spike guesses she's counting on getting plenty of status points from his appearance at her side. The miasma of churning teenage hormones is pretty potent and Spike tries to stand taller to get his nose free of its beckoning depths. He so needs to get some, and not from teenaged tarts or manipulative sisters in law, but from his own beloved Slayer. He's going to kill the bastard, very slowly.
The sea of girls parts with a rush of squeaks and whispers and he realizes he's been growling with bared teeth and clenched fists.
"Thanks, Meena," he says and escapes her needy gaze by throwing himself into an undertow of girls going down and to the left. They vanish behind olive green classroom doors and Spike doubles back to the now empty stairwell. He crosses over to the main building via a short stretch of roof and lands on glossily buffed oak parquet. He turns the corner to brave the lair of Shirley, Willow's guardian dragon.
She sits behind her modest desk, incased in steel beneath her flowered silk frock, of a cut made familiar by several generations of Windsors. She's built on a more massive scale than that diminutive family, and is made even more imposing by the stiff shiny waves of an old-fashioned permed hairdo; copied from a certain former PM, Spike suspects.
"Shirley!" he beams. "How's my best girl?"
He bends over her desk to look deep into her eyes, avoiding the sight of her crepey décolleté, and kisses her plump shiny hands, which are bigger than his and laden with enough carbunculous rings to serve as knuckledusters.
Spike prolongs the smile he's aiming at her suspicious eyes, still holding on to her hands, hoping that enough time has passed for Bert to leave.
"Could you possibly get me five minutes with Ms. Rosenberg, Shirl? I need a quick word with her, and I just know you can swing it…"
Shirley's hand creeps up to pat her lacquered waves. "I couldn't, Spike, not even for you."
Spike squeezes her other hand. "Pretty please?"
Shirley withdraws her hand reluctantly and plays nervously with a perfectly sharpened no. 2 pencil.
Spike leans forwards onto his fists, making sure his biceps bulge and the veins on his forearms stand out, hoping that she isn't planning on slamming the pencil into his heart. Shirley's gaze skitters over him, landing briefly on his face, his arms and his jeans.
"Alright then, in you go. Make it quick, she's very busy today. She's just come back from her trip."
"Trip where, Shirl?" Spike says, halfway to the door already.
"America, Tennessee somewhere."
The destination conveys no useful information to Spike. He slips inside and coughs to alert the computer-entranced Willow.
"S-Spike…" Willow stammers as she looks up from her computer screen. "Hey, long time no see. Would you mind making an appointment through my secretary, because I'm really, really busy right now…"
Spike becomes aware that he hasn't thought up a good reason to talk to her without alerting her to his suspicions. He'll just start with anger then. He slams his hand on her rosewood desk. "What have you been up to this time, Director Rosenberg? Meddling with the dimensions again?"
Willow reacts more violently than he anticipated. She flushes an unbecoming shade of lilac and pushes her chair back from the desk in an attempt to get away from him. "I don't know what you're talking about, Spike."
She isn't a little girl anymore and stubbornly sticks to silence, no matter how hard he glares. He changes tack.
"You've been spreading rumors about me, haven't you? About me killing again!"
Willow relaxes imperceptibly, so minutely only a vampire could notice it. So that's not it.
"Certainly not. On the contrary, I've taken pains to investigate those obviously unfounded reports."
"What do you mean, investigate? You've been spying on me as well?"
"I haven't, I mean, I commissioned Dawn to look into it."
Dawn? That hurts more than he'd have expected. He shakes his head to clear away the sense of betrayal.
"Well, you can stop investigating right now, because I haven't been killing people and I don't intend to. But there's this other thing. You helped Buffy, didn't you? Helped her find a human Spike in another dimension? You're the only one who could have done it."
Willow tenses a little again, but Spike thinks she's still not at the peak of anxiety she was when he first uttered his unfocused accusation. He can almost see her brain working and spewing out possible lies. "I didn't… I don't understand. A human Spike?"
That's weird.
"Okay. So you don't know about that. I was so sure it had to be you," he says easily, covering his dismay.
Willow knows perfectly well Buffy could corroborate this story. Why would she deny it? Is she involved with the arrival of the other Spike who's with Buffy now? His head aches when he thinks of all the Spikes involved, and what Willow could conceivably want with them. She is up to something, something worth lying about. And if she knows Buffy can't tattle, she must know that she's held captive by Spike. The implications are stunning.
"Couldn't it be that there's another Spike in this world, here in London, and he's the one who's killing?" he goes on, desperately stepping into a fog of counter-lies and half-truths, hoping he won't fall into an unseen abyss.
Willow looks pensive, leaning her thin fingers elegantly against her flawless jaw. Posing. "I'm not sure. Crossing dimensions isn't that easy. But I do have someone who might help."
She presses a button on her desk phone. "Shirley, could you get me the EWH?"
"What's the EWH?" Spike asks.
"Emergency Wesley Hologram."
At his unbelieving look, Willow's face glows up in a blood red flush. "Sorry. Joke. Very lame joke. Won't use it again."
If she keeps this up his head is going to explode.
"Bloody Hell, Willow, how can you keep using that thing in cold blood, let alone make up horrible names for it? Have you no respect for a fallen warrior? A former Watcher, too?"
"Don't be silly, Spike, it's just a construct. It can't really feel."
The secretary brings in an ornately carved ebony box, holding it firmly away from her creaking bosom. Willow opens it with her little gold key and speaks into it slowly and clearly. "Activate EWH."
Spike growls in frustration. A brownish cloud forms above the box and solidifies into the shape of Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, former Watcher and beloved mate.
"Emergency Wesley Hologram reporting."
Willow flicks Spike a guilty glance.
"How may I be of assistance?"
Spike fights the twisting ache in his guts. He can't believe this is not Wesley, however often Willow explains the magic of it. Spikes' been a ghost locked up in an amulet, and when he'd get out, he damn well knew time was passing and he had emotions and everything. Poor Wes. Damn Willow. Being Head of Council just isn't good for her character, power junkie that she is. They've been letting her get away with things too much. Tara, for example. They all understood so well what she felt and why she did it, but privately he thinks Tara never should have consented to travel away from her home dimension.
Willow explains the problem to Wesley. She's good, Spike has to admit. Concisely and comprehensively stated. Wesley nods and looks thoughtful. Spike turns away. He just can't watch this travesty.
He stares out of the window while Willow and Wesley behind him toss sentences back and forth on standalone dimensions, thin timelines, magic ripple effects across universes and so on. His thoughts inevitably drift away to the sharply graven memory of Buffy and the other Spike, her eyes glassy, vacant with pleasure. Her pregnant body marred by bites and bruises, the sight of his own arse bobbing.
"Spike."
He shivers at the familiar measured voice, but he can't look the thing in the eyes. And then he does, in case it really is Wesley inside, who might feel hurt if his old comrade doesn't acknowledge him. The ghostly form steeples his hands together gravely.
"I will do a divination to discover if there is another Spike and from what timeline he might have come. Willow will inform you of the results."
Spike almost bounces to the door in his eagerness to be away from this place. A last thought strikes him and he turns back to Willow. "Willow, you'll take care of clearing my name within the Council, won't you? Is must be clear that the allegations were untrue."
Willow gives him one of her opaque looks. He's never trusted her when she looks like that, and now he has more reason than ever before. "Of course, Spike," she says.
TBC