Feedback: Yes please but be very gentle. First fanfic and first slash.
Archive: If you want, but please let me know
Pairing: S/X
Rating: PG - NC 17 (maybe, I've never rated anything before)
Disclaimer: Most characters misrepresented in this tale belong to Joss Whedon,
Mutant Enemy and Neil Gaiman. I'm only taking them out to play, changing their
clothes and then putting them back. There may be some original characters floating
about. They are mine but usually don't admit to it.
Spoilers: Up to Buffy Season 6 sorta but definitely AU
Summary: Spike and Xander get to take a trip and go a bit further than intended.
Crossover eventually with Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere.
Thanks to Firehorse and Cimmer for betas.
'' '' '' '' '' '' '' ''
Xander followed Spike down the circular stairwell. The sign next to the
door had proclaimed that there were 160 steps to the bottom and that they
were only to be used in an emergency. Signs on the gently humming elevators
opposite requested that all who entered abandon hope with a note in small
print requesting that all passengers carry a coin under their tongue. A
glance at each other and two-foot touring had been the easy decision to make.
The stairs spiralled downwards ending in an ordinary looking underground
station access tunnel. Two workmen in hard hats walked through it, talking
structure and strength and completely oblivious to a small but steady
parade walking past, dragging homemade carts or carrying backpacks,
arguing, some fiercely and some resignedly, about death stalking the
Streets of London.
Spike and Xander waited until the above-worlders were out of sight, and
then emerged from the stairwell. They were ignored initially by the
undersiders until it became obvious, via Xander's avidly interested gaze,
that the undersiders were clearly seen. Then they were regarded with
suspicion, but no overt hostility, barring a few hands being placed
defensively on clubs or batons. They merely continued to file past.
Spike pointed out a thin long-nosed man in a faded long brown coat
decorated with a tattered tortoise-shell coloured fur trim, secured at the
waist by a fraying piece of rope. He was chivvying a small group of woman
and children along with rapid-fire chittering speech. "Hurry, hurry, hurry.
Not to be found with your hearts ripped out. No. No, by the Golden. Not at
all. Hurry, hurry."
Spike raised his brows at the 'hearts ripped out comment' and whispered
to Xander, "Rat speaker."
"Like Dru's 'brown mouse girl'."
"Yeah." Spike stepped forward into the man's path, "S'cuse us mate."
The man stooped and cocked his head to one side. He should have been a tall
man, taller than Xander, but he held himself hunched in, shoulders curved
and bowed with his hands held curled against his chest. The hands made
small circular paddling movements as he spoke.
"Yes! Yes!" he chittered "What! What!" his small eyes travelled
from Spike
to Xander and back again. His nose twitched as it travelled back to Spike
and he frowned. The paddling movements of his hands became more pronounced.
"Well, we're intendin' t' head over t' the Streets o' London but you all
seem t' be headed away: rapidly. Couldn't help overhearing comments
featuring death and heats ripped out, I figured mebbe you could give us a
heads' up."
"Information does not come cheap" A pleased and acquisitive expression
passed over the rat-like face. "Trade, what have you to trade?"
"Information for goods?" Xander wanted to be very clear on that point.
"Yes, yes: not for favours, not for promises; unable to collect if you
are
dead, yes?"
Spike pulled out a bar of chocolate from the pack. As one, all the children
clustered around the Rat Speaker's leg, small but similar-looking noses all
twitching eagerly. Backwards and forwards the Speaker and Spike bargained.
At one point Spike looked ready to walk away, bargain incomplete and the
faces of the children fell. Finally a deal was reached, both parties
satisfied with the result. In exchange for the chocolate bar and the small
complimentary sewing kit Spike and Xander gained information and two small,
homemade, kerosene powered lanterns to replace Xander's non-functioning torch.
Spike and the Speaker spat on the ground and the goods were exchanged.
"Seven dead, all beautiful, male and female, bodies left at seven
crossroads on the Streets of London. One a week for seven weeks, not one
yet for this week, you understand." He ran his eye over the women and
children, lips moving, counting them once and then again. "Each had their
heart ripped out and a rose on their breast and not a drop of blood left
inside them. A sorcerer maybe, the patrols mutter, possibly a boggart, or
a even a grandstanding young vampire, out to make a name. Phah." The Rat
Speaker spat violently in disgust. "No idea any of them, I say."
A look of anger crossed the Rat Speaker's face. " Nothing! Nothing the
Baron has done has stopped it. Nothing! Nothing the Baron does will stop
it. Oh, the rats, they know. Death, death, an ancient deathless death
stalking the streets. Silent and murderous. Will not be my wives or
children." The Speaker gave a little tremble and licked his lips, pursing
them as if tasting something nasty. "Ritual magic, it has the taste of,
so
rumour whispers. You plan to go on, then? Into the evening there?"
At their nods he shrugged, "More fool you then." A few motions of
his
hands and head gathered his wives and children again and then, without a
glance backward they proceeded down the tunnel and away from the two men.
Xander watched them go, unconsciously, worriedly swinging his pipe a
little from side to side. "That's a frightened man. You think it's really
real."
"Yeah. Folks Below tend t' be pretty a phlegmatic lot, livin' cheek by
jowl
with things you'd hafta be born on a Hellmouth to appreciate. Rat Speakers
ain't the heroic sort but if one is scared an' runnin' then we maybe wanna
be a bit cautious ourselves. They always know, 'parently, when the fan is
gonna be hit."
"Rats and sinking ships?"
"Somethin' like that." He looked up the tunnel where the ragged refugees
and oblivious tunnel workmen had disappeared. If they followed the workmen
it'd be easy enough to emerge in Above.
Xander followed his gaze, reading Spike's mind. "Hey, can't be any worse
than the Master, Angelus on a roll, or.. or ...." He thought a moment then
threw his shoulders back and puffed out his chest. "Hey, we've survived
Buff and Dawnie at the sales. How much worse can it be?"
"I remember you standin' 'tween them an' the shoes." Spike ran an
affectionate hand down the side of Xanders face. "Too brave for your own
good pet. Leastways we're only passin' through th' streets. Not gonna be
there long enough for trouble." His tone was a promise as he entwined cool
fingers with Xander's and began to pull him further down the tunnel.
The tunnel gradually changed from tiles to corrugated metal to stone ending
in a rough-cut wooden door. They pushed it open and emerged into the
fog-filled evening of a narrow refuse-filled London alley; an old London
alley. They stepped onto cobbles, wet and slick as if it had just stopped
raining, with old tenement housing looming on either side. A rat, perched
precariously on top of a pile of rubbish, started as the door opened and
then slid back, unafraid and observant into one of the many shadows.
Spike looked up the alley, head tilted slightly to one side, tasting the
air. "Stay close, pet." He could smell rain and refuse and overlaying
it
all was the scent of humans, the familiar, seductive city-close press of
humanity, a sweet/acid sweat smell underlined with that hint of...oddness
that said underside. Nothing else.
"O' course, in my situation, the more non-human the better," he muttered.
Spike shook off the angry introspection that thoughts of the Initiative
always bought and consulted the map. "This should be Old Whitechapel. Out
of the alley, right turn and we follow the signpost at the crossroad near
the Head of the Black Horse. Mebbe even stop for a pint."
Fog drifted in from the alley opening, back-lit by faint soft lights. Spike
stepped out of the alley first, still scenting the air and looking for any
hint of a threat. Perceiving none he nodded and Xander stepped alongside.
A row of tall, ornate and surprisingly sturdy looking wrought iron
gaslights preceded them up the street providing a soft yellow glow at
regular intervals. The lights illuminated a street that was a mish-mash of
periods and styles. The alley of mean and cheap tenement housing gave way
to a row of faded-looking Victorian terrace houses. Opposite stood a wattle
and daub hut with vegetable garden and goat. Further up the street a
columned Roman temple loomed out of the dark, flickering rush-lights
painting shadow pictures on its statues while the dark turreted Gothic
mansion next to the temple seemed to suck all light into itself.
Xander paused under one of the street lights and frowned up at it; there
was something odd about it. For all its over-fussy decorativeness, it was,
to a builder's eye, sturdy and extremely well braced; possibly weight
bearing, in fact. Feeling disturbed by that thought he turned a slow 360
degrees looking up and down and across the rooftops of the assortment of
dwellings, trying to see what the shadows held, not sure what he was
looking for but wanting to be ready when he did. "Were they all from
London?" A wave of his hand indicated the varied cityscape. In the lights
behind the curtains of the Gothic Mansion he could see shadows moving and
could easily imagine eyes peering down on them.
"One time or another, mostly. Some o' 'em, like that-" Spike waved
at the
mansion, "were maybe just an idea in somebody's mind. C'mon, much as I'm
enjoyin' the view and, my boy, in the gaslight is a beautiful thing," He
paused waiting for the inevitable blush, "I'd rather not be out 'ere if
there's 'ancient deathless death' stalkin' th' streets."
A sudden soft whump of air and wings over their heads sent Spike and
Xander ducking and they jumped back to the edge of the light's glow, as a
sleek black and gold figure landed lightly on the crosspiece of the
lamp-post. Black wings extended fully, arching high over its head, and one
arm reached out, pointing at the pair.
TBC...