The Magic Number

by
Witling

Part Five

It became a routine before Spike had a chance to realize it was happening, much less defend himself. The witches left for study, the Slayer took Dawn to school and then went off to her own classes, or to beat the stuffing out of whatever the Watcher set up for her. Spike stayed home with the puppy and watched Reading Rainbow. It got so he knew what the glossy soap magazines in the supermarket line-up were talking about.

Harris was calm around him now, didn't even look up sometimes when Spike walked into a room. Slayer still kept tabs though, and Spike could feel her eyes burning little holes in him whenever the three of them were in the same room. Made for some good fun. "Six-letter word for 'useless,'" he'd muse aloud, then let his eyes light on Harris and scribble madly. Harris giving him one of those uncomprehending glances, the Slayer seething. When the phone rang, startling Harris into momentary idiocy: "Get that, would you?" Veins pulsing in Buffy's neck. Good times, as Harris himself might once have said.

Alone all day with the git, Spike had free run of the remote, a steady supply of Weetabix, and an increasing ability to understand the complex, subtle patterns of Harris's moods. He was learning to read the weather, as it were. Harris had good days and bad days. Bad days, he sometimes didn't come downstairs until past noon, and when he did, he was skittish, dark-eyed, lost in some private inner world. He looked smaller somehow, and had a tendency to creep. Like someone who'd just come from the wrong end of a beating. Didn't meet your eyes, didn't respond to much, was generally boring. Spike didn't interfere, just watched his program or read his book or worked on getting the Slayer's diary unlocked. Best thing seemed to be to ignore him, and after a while he usually got his bearings and perked up.

Good days were more interesting. Red and Glinda had started teaching him sign language, which wasn't going very well, but which seemed to have helped him twig to the fact that he could communicate if he tried. He seemed more alert, more anticipatory, more present somehow. When there was broad humor on the telly, Spike often looked over to see him watching with a little smile curling his lips. Alternately, when there was shouting or firearms, he got up and left. Spike spent an interesting afternoon flipping back and forth between I Love Lucy and The Wild Bunch, seeing how many times he could get Harris to smile, start to leave, smile, start to leave. Six, it turned out. Then the girls came home and the slate was wiped.

He got better at knowing when Harris wanted things. For all that he was a mute, shellshocked imbecile, he was fairly self-sufficient. There wasn't much guesswork for Spike, because there wasn't much for him to do. Harris fetched his own cereal in the mornings, got a glass of water when he wanted one, and that was about it until Dawn came home and made macaroni. It didn't occur to Spike that Harris might want anything else until he noticed the eyes watching him dunk Weetabix in his blood. Not what you'd call a hungry look, but...interested. Spike paused, considered, then held the mug out.

"Have a go, then." Mainly he was curious--how many taboos were gone, exactly?

More than he'd thought, it turned out. Harris took the mug, sniffed it, then sipped experimentally. Spike watched in silence. The expression on Harris's face was contemplative, internal, like a wine taster judging a glass. He took another sip and ruminated over the Weetabix. Then he turned back to the television, the mug held carefully in his big fist like an expensive item on temporary loan. Within ten minutes, he'd finished it off.

"Didn't say you could have it all," Spike muttered, partly to cover his discombobulation. Harris flicked a glance at him--the I've heard you glance, Spike thought of it now--and went back to the telly.

In a spirit of pioneering discovery, Spike started trying out new menu items. Red had been right--Harris wasn't much interested in food, didn't seem to taste it, but he was agreeable enough when you put something down and told him to try it. Didn't matter if it was wallpaper paste or a bit of soap. Ice cubes didn't go over well--the cold got through, apparently--although the wounded look Harris gave him after spitting them out was worth the price of admission. It took some coaxing to get him back to the table for a wary go at one of those little oatmeal sachets the girls all took for breakfast. Trust was restored. Plus, Spike had a new hobby.

It kept him busy for a few nights, drinking in his crypt and thinking up new possibilities--club soda, raw potato, dirt--and at the same time it taught him to read Harris's responses quickly and accurately. In the kitchen one evening, hanging about waiting for the Watcher to come over and be fleeced a little more, he saw Harris eyeing the cupboard over his head. Without thinking, or altering the sneer he was wearing for the Slayer's benefit, he reached up and opened it, fumbling for the crackers up there. Awkward moment--Red was just reaching up for them too. Spike snatched his hand back, and she jumped. Then she smiled.

Embarrassments like that aside, it was all going okay until Glory turned up and nearly killed Tara in the park. The Slayer stopped things from going too wrong, but Tara came out of it with a badly broken arm and a real scare, and Red got a new, haunted look. Rough luck, Spike reflected. Lost her girlhood chum to something totally random, some blip of the Hellmouth that turned him into a mental mushroom, and then there's Glory, having a go at her girlfriend as well. Being a Scooby wasn't the smoothest ride in the world, he was realizing.

Besides, he didn't much mind Tara.

Still, he wasn't prepared for the summit Buffy called two days later, in the living room at Revello Drive. She came and got him specially. It was the weekend, he was off duty.

"I'm charging double for this," he said, traipsing after her through the cemetery. "Just so you know."

"You're drunk," she observed, following no logic he could see. Of course he was drunk.

"Sharp as a tack, you are," he muttered, then tripped over a headstone.

The meeting was short, tense, and stunning. The witches were going away--there was some library on the east coast they needed to use, some spell they thought might send Glory back where she'd come from. The Watcher had taken a plane that morning. They'd be gone a week.

The east coast of where? Spike considered asking, but didn't. There was bigger news. The Slayer was leaving. Taking Dawn with her. Period.

Spike sat in silence, the room tipping slightly with the weight of the words.

"It's safer in LA," Buffy said. "Angel has the hotel, he has a team--"

"A team?" Spike broke in, his mouth unfreezing. "What, do they play cricket or something?"

"It's safer," Buffy snapped, rounding on him eagerly, as if she couldn't wait to fight over this. "I don't know whether you noticed, but Tara almost died--"

"That's the stupidest idea I've ever heard," he half-shouted, a bit slurrily. "LA's not home, she should stay at home--"

"I've already decided."

"Oh right, you're going to let the poof take care of her? Poof doesn't know her, doesn't give a damn about her--"

"I've decided, Spike."

"Doesn't give a damn about you either, if you think he's still in love with you you're an idiot--"

He knew he'd scored some kind of a point, because she punched him in the face. He hit the newel post going down, nice solid clunk in the back of the head, and by the time he got up again, there was general confusion. Dawn was crying, Red and Buffy were arguing, Tara was on the couch with a ruptured look on her face, her cast cradled in her lap. Harris had disappeared completely.

For a few seconds, Spike felt the savage urge to leap into it feet first, tell the little bitch just how stupid she was, say everything he saw coming down the pike for her. Then Dawn's tears registered fully, and he slumped back down onto the stair, rested his elbows on his knees, and wiped the blood off his chin. The whisky he'd been drinking--not bad stuff, on the Watcher's tab--was sour in his belly.

After a minute or so the shouting got to him and he stood up, hauling on the banister to do it. Felt a million years old all of a sudden.

They stopped yelling and looked at him, and he flicked blood onto the carpet and said, "Fine. We'll go to LA. But I'm not staying in the poof's hotel."

Both of them stared at him open-mouthed, as if he'd just dropped his trousers. Then a complex series of expressions went over Red's face, and she said, "Spike--"

He waited. After a second he raised his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Well, it's just--" She broke off and looked at the Slayer, which sent a chill down his spine.

"Yeah?"

"You're not coming to LA," Buffy said flatly. "We need you here."

He frowned. "What, you need me to bring in the paper?"

"We need you to stay with Xander," she said, and then had the grace to look abashed.

He stood there a second in silence. Things weren't clicking right.

"What--here?" he asked stupidly, all his fire momentarily squashed by bewilderment.

"We can't take him with us," Red said quickly. "It isn't safe for somebody like...like him."

"It's a library," he said in disbelief.

"Sort of. Not really. 'Library' is sort of a metaphor, it's more like a--"

He waited.

"Marketplace," she finished, with a glance at Tara.

"So take him to the bloody market. I'm not staying here and feeding him grapes while you lot are all off on vacation."

"It's not a--" Buffy started, but Red cut in.

"We can't take him," she said. "Spike, he can't talk, he doesn't remember anything, we couldn't take him where we're going."

"So--so stick him in the bloody hotel and let one of the team look after him."

"I'm not moving him," Buffy said. "And I'm not leaving him here alone. He's staying put, Spike. And so are you."

"I don't bloody think so."

"Or I can stake you and we'll figure out a plan C. I'm good with that."

Dawn gave a muffled sob and they all looked at her.

"I hate you," she said, staring at Buffy with wet red eyes, one hand shaking at her mouth. Buffy flinched.

"Dawn, you don't--"

"I hate you." That was steeped in all the bitter heart's venom a fifteen year-old girl could offer. Spike felt momentarily impressed.

"Dawn, this is the best we can do, it's the only way we can keep--"

Buffy didn't get to finish; Dawn was already trampling up the stairs, then slamming the door to her bedroom.

They all stood listening to the faint sounds of gut-wrenching tears through the ceiling.

"I'll go up," Tara said, and slipped out.

Spike turned to the Slayer, who looked like she'd just seen a puppy hit by a bus. "You," he said, "are the stoniest little harpy I've ever had the opportunity to kill but haven't. Yet."

Her face firmed up. "Yes or no, Spike."

He looked at Red.

"It's the best thing," she said. "It's only for a week. Or until Glory's history. That could be sooner, right?"

He looked back at the Slayer. No optimism there.

"We need you here," Red said gently.

Which was a nice way of saying that they didn't need him in LA. That anything he could do, Angel could do better.

"Please, Spike."

Upstairs, Tara hushed Dawn in almost inaudible tones. Something folded in Spike's belly. Felt old and familiar, the usual phantom punch of a woman in tears. God, he was a pathetic wanker.

"A week," he said, and walked out without another look at the Slayer.

Harris was on the top step of the front porch, huddled against the railing. He looked up when Spike stalked past, his eyes going straight to the blood on Spike's face.

"Fuck you," Spike snapped, and stomped out into the night.

Part Six

There was nothing in the agreement about having to be sober, so when he reeled up under his blanket at eleven the next morning and Buffy gave him a freezing glare, he flipped her off and pushed right past her.

"Here if you need me," he said to no one in particular, dropping onto the couch and passing out.

Then someone was shaking him. His mouth tasted like shit, there was glass in his head, and he sat up too fast. Almost clipped Dawn in the chin with his forehead.

"What--sorry, niblet." A wave of pain sluiced through his temples. "You off, then?"

She had her coat and her monkey backpack on. Her eyes were red, her face was puffy and pink. Like a peony, he thought irrelevantly. Dru always liked girls who wept nicely.

"I don't want to," she whispered, the tears starting up again. Inwardly, he groaned.

"Well..." Dammit, the Slayer was standing in the foyer with her own coat on, staring at the doorknob, pretending not to hear. "Look, you'll be fine. Short trip, see the sights, home before you know it."

"I'm scared, Spike." Her fingers were in his coat, twisting the sleeve. He raised his hand, hesitated, glanced over at the Slayer, and finally just patted her clumsily on the shoulder, like a trained bear.

"You'll be fine. Angel's...he won't let anyone hurt you."

"But he doesn't know me, I've never even met him--"

God, little pitchers. "Look, I was drunk last night, I said some stupid things. He used to be the biggest bad in Europe, and now he's all...souly and noble and God, hypocritical, but the point is, nothing gets past him. He's the best, Dawn."

She stared at him, still clinging to his coat, her eyes filmed with wet. So much fear in there. He had a sudden urge to hug her, and stomped on it.

"You'll be fine. I'll come visit when the witches get back, right?"

"Dawn," Buffy said gently, from the foyer.

"What about Xander?" Dawn wiped her eyes, and he noticed she'd bitten her nails down. "What if Glory comes here looking for us and she finds Xander--"

"Spike will take care of Xander," Buffy said, still in that tired, gentle voice. "Come on, Dawnie. We have to go."

"You'll take care of him, right?" Dawn asked, easing back from her knees to the balls of her feet. She was leaving, he realized. Not that he hadn't known she would.

"Sure." He barely knew who she was talking about, or what he was agreeing to. "Don't worry, we'll be fine."

"We're late," Buffy said, and Dawn stood up, then swooped down unexpectedly and wrapped Spike in a bony, awkward, fifteen-year-old hug. He lay paralyzed, unreciprocating. She smelled like the bargain coconut hair conditioner they bought now, part of the general effort to make ends meet.

"Come visit soon," she whispered, muffled, into his neck. He opened his mouth to say, Sure, but she'd already straightened up and pushed her hair back and started for the door. Buffy opened it and let her out without comment. Then she turned and looked at Spike. He waited for the blast.

"Thank you." Her fingers fidgeted on the doorknob, and he had the sense she was teetering along a high wire, gratitude on one side and dire, righteous warning on the other. Well, he didn't owe her any favors.

"One week," he said. "That's all you get."

"That's all we asked for," she said, and shut the door quietly behind her for once.

Red gave him a brief, bizarre tour of his duties while Glinda waited in the cab outside.

"You know where all the food is--if you run out there's some money in the drawer beneath the toaster. Blood's in the fridge, don't smoke inside, okay?"

"You're leaving me money?" he asked, in total disbelief. He must be drunker than he'd thought. Red gave him a doubtful look, and hurried on.

"He knows how to brush his teeth and wash up and everything, but sometimes you have to remind him. He needs consistency. Routine is good, if there's no routine he starts to get--" She waved her hands vaguely. "He drifts away, kind of. Dinners are in the freezer, you probably have to do that part, he doesn't get the microwave yet. Um..." She drummed her fingertips nervously against her lips, looking around the kitchen. "He sleeps in our room, you can use our bed, there's fresh sheets, and there's a list here on the fridge of things he likes and doesn't like to eat, as far as we can tell because you know, he doesn't really give a lot of feedback, so broccoli's kind of a guess at this point--"

Spike held up a hand, woozily catching up. "You want me to sleep in your bed?"

There was something a little dodgy about the look she gave him, there. Evasive. Nervous. If he didn't know better, he'd think there was something she wasn't telling him. "He can't sleep all by himself, he has nightmares, but he's okay if there's someone in the bed. Not in his bed." She gave that nervous, hiccupping little laugh. "He has his own bed. Just, in the room. Oh, and there's this." She dug in her pocket and produced a little amber vial with a dropper top. "Usually Tara spells him to sleep, but you can't do that, so I made up a sedative. Just until we get back. Three drops in a glass of water before bed, and he'll be fine."

She set the bottle on the counter, and Spike regarded it.

"What's in it?"

"Um...chamomile, extract of lettuce, a few grains of giflarvlia..." She was turning away, patting at her pockets, and he didn't quite catch the last bit. "Just to help him sleep, that's all. He should be fine, but if he gets upset because we're all, well, gone, just give him a drop in a glass of water and he'll be mellow." Her voice sounded all right, but her face looked troubled, almost stricken. Not for the first time, he wondered how humans managed to get by without knowing even half of what they were thinking or feeling. Dumb beasts, even the smart ones.

"All right." He pocketed the vial and stood swaying slightly, surveying her. "So what you're saying is, keep him drugged up until you get back."

She flinched, and he thought, Bingo. "It's only for a week. And it's better than letting him suffer."

"Fine with me."

"I made a calendar," she said, pointing over his shoulder. He turned and looked; there was a piece of paper pinned to the wall under the clock, with big felt-marker dates in boxes. "I already showed it to him, so he knows when we'll be back."

"Sure." God, he was sick of humans. "Got a plane to catch, don't you?"

She fussed with a pile of mail, checked her pockets again, glanced at the clock, then finally bit her lip and said, "You'll be...nice to him, right?"

"Sweet as cream, witch."

"Because if you're not--" Her face hardened slightly, and for just a second there was static at her fingertips, enough that a telephone bill lifted up and clung to them. "I'll find you. And I'll make you really, really sorry."

He took a step back, smiling as easily as he could. "Got that, thanks."

She kept looking at him for a few seconds, long enough for the silence to be uncomfortable and the point to be very bloody made, thank you--then turned away. "We'll check in," she said, heading for the door. "If there's any problem, we'll let you know."

"What kind of problem?" he asked with a frown. "One week, right?"

"I gave Xander some of the sedative last night." She picked up her bag, shouldered it, and opened the door. "He might be a little out of it, but he should get up soon. Don't let him lie in bed all day."

"What kind of problem?" he asked again.

"I'm sure it'll all be fine." She took a last look around the hall, then gave him a little wave. "We'll see you soon."

The door closed. Silence and dust motes descended. He stood in the hallway with his hand in his pocket, fingering the cool glass bottle. Outside, a bird was singing.

"Fuck this," he said finally, to the only audience he had left, his own hangover. "I need a drink."

One drink from the dusty, neglected old liquor cabinet led to two drinks, and two drinks led to three. There wasn't any reason for a houseful of girls to have half a dozen bottles of nice-quality whiskey, but they did. With mingled surprise and pleasure, he realized that this babysitting stint might not be as bad as he'd thought. He hadn't spent a solid week drunk since...Prohibition. Time to make that up.

He sat in front of the television, drinking and smoking and fingering the little glass bottle Red had given him. He wasn't sleeping in Harris's room, that was for sure. He might be babysitting a crippled Scooby while Angel saved the world again, but he still had some standards. He slugged from the whiskey and fell asleep.

When he woke up, the telly was playing a program for imbecile children, and Harris was sitting on the floor at his feet, deeply absorbed.

"Christ." He reached down and fished for the bottle nearest his armchair. "You poor, pathetic wanker."

For a moment Harris didn't react at all. Then his head swiveled slowly and loosely around and he looked at Spike without much recognition. His eyes were wide, black, opiated. He wasn't concentrating on the show, Spike realized--he was lost in some other, inner world. Stoned out of his gourd.

"Lucky you." Spike poured himself another shot, slugged it, and studied Harris a little more. He was in sweat pants and a T-shirt, his hair sleep-flattened, his feet bare. All his muscles had that lax, melted look that meant he'd probably tip over if you tapped him. He radiated the warmth of bedclothes. "Got to ask Red what her secret ingredient is."

They sat for a while in silence, Harris's eyes back on the television again, watching the light and movement and probably not taking in much more than that. Outside, it was getting dark. Probably six, seven o'clock. About time for a former Spike to start thinking about co-eds, campus walks, public parks. He hit the bottle again.

"So." There was blood in the fridge, Red had said. He couldn't imagine actually standing up and going in there for it, though. The chair was deep and comfy, and there was plenty of booze right here. "How's it feel to be the reject Scooby?"

Harris blinked at the screen, then slowly turned to face Spike. Yes? his face said, distracted and defenseless.

"Noticed anything different yet?" Spike twirled a finger around in a little circle in midair. "Any changes around the homestead?" Now Harris was looking at his finger. Great. "Like, for instance, nobody else being here?"

Harris frowned, still studying Spike's finger. God, fruit was sharper. "Remember how there used to be other people around? Remember Willow?"

Harris blinked, and his eyes slid over to Spike's face, more alert now. Progress. "Well, she's gone. Scarpered. Said to tell you not to wait up, she suddenly remembered she's got a life."

He was pretty sure Harris wasn't getting the finer details, but something was definitely getting through. He was breathing faster, and after a second or two he looked away at the windows, at the darkening sky, then towards the kitchen door.

"Not in there," Spike said, pulling a cigarette out of his packet. Too easy really, and yet. Still worth doing, somehow. "Don't bother, she's gone. So's everyone. They all had better things to do than look after a semi-vegetated--"

He broke off, because Harris was struggling to his feet, off balance but determined. He padded off to the kitchen while Spike lit his cigarette. The light clicked on in there, and there was a pause. Spike watched telly. After a few minutes, the feet came staggering quietly back in.

"Like I said," Spike said, savoring the smoke in his sinuses. "All gone, cleared out. Left you to me, which don't think I'm happy about, I've got better things to do than hang about playing nursemaid to a mental defective." He blew out a column of smoke and ashed carefully into the bottlecap. "There's cornflakes on the counter."

Silence. He gave it a minute, then glanced up. Harris was standing there swaying, breathing heavily, a circle of color high up in each of his cheeks. His eyes were fixed on Spike with radical intensity, not desperate yet but glassy with expectation. Waiting for the yell of Surprise, for everyone to jump out from behind the sofa.

"Not going to happen, mate." Spike turned morosely back to the television. "Believe me, if I could bring them back I would. But you can't really blame them, it's not like you're a rewarding experience."

Harris's breathing hitched up and started to get that wheeze, the same high-pitched bagpipe sound it had when he first reappeared. Spike picked tobacco off his tongue.

"Maybe if you could talk...you know, hold a regular conversation. Like a grown-up. Might have made it a little easier on them. But you're a potted plant. Can't expect a healthy adult woman to spend her whole life taking care of a walking ficus tree, can you?" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Harris cast his eyes nervously up to the ceiling. "Look, I told you, they're gone. You were just up there, you know they're not there. Took a cab this morning, gone off east, who knows when they--"

Harris was taking a few wobbling steps back, turning on his heel, and, oh shit. Who'd have thought a man that stoned could move that fast? He was halfway to the door by the time Spike had hauled himself out of his chair. "Just a minute, hang on--"

Harris knew how to open a lock, apparently. Knew how to turn a doorknob. His hands were clumsy, though, and it took him a few seconds longer than it should have, which gave Spike enough time to catch up and slap his palm against the door. Harris tugged, but it didn't open.

"No point going after them," Spike said, his head reeling a little from the sudden rush. "They're long gone, halfway to Neverland by now." Harris tugged at the doorknob again, and seemed totally bewildered by the fact that the door didn't open. Then he noticed Spike's hand on the door--What did you think I was standing here for?, Spike wondered--and started to pry at it. His fingers were hot. "What are you going to do, run out there in bare feet and chase them down?"

Harris kept prying, and Spike realized that yes, that was exactly what he was going to do. For a moment, Spike considered the option of just letting him go. Might be entertaining to see how far he got before a vamp took him down or the loony bin picked him up. If he hadn't made that half-hearted promise to Dawn... And if he could be sure that the witches wouldn't barbecue him the minute they got back.

"Right, that's enough." He used his free hand to bat Harris's fingers away, which made no impression. Harris just kept right on prying, and it sort of tickled and it was sort of annoying and you sort of almost had to admire the git. His single-mindedness, at least. "Come on, you're not doing any good here."

Harris dropped his hands suddenly, and Spike relaxed. "Okay, then. Come and watch--" Harris was walking away, heading for the kitchen. "Oh, good, heat me up a cuppa while you're in there, will you?"

He went back to collect his whiskey from the carpet beside the armchair, and as he was standing up and preparing to swig, he heard the back door open. He froze. "Oh, shit."

Then he was jogging through the house, the bottle still in his hand, and oh yes, the back door was wide open, warm evening air was drifting in, the curtains were lifting in the breeze, and Harris was gone. Excellent.

"You're supposed to be stoned," Spike muttered, poking his head out to test for flammability. Nothing caught, so he stepped out into the dusk. Harris was at the back fence, fumbling with the gate. "Oy! Halfwit!"

No response. Spike set the bottle carefully down on the top step and vaulted down to the lawn. Felt good to stretch his legs, walking fast over the grass. Harris didn't even seem to notice him, still trying to figure out how to make the latch give, and just getting it as Spike caught up with him. He started to open the gate and Spike took the last few steps at a run, miscalculated slightly, and crashed into him from behind.

"Listen, you can't--"

Harris swung around and clubbed him in the face, the gut, the chest. Bang bang bang, big fists and it actually hurt. He tried to stagger back and couldn't get his footing. Harris kept punching, driving him back, and he couldn't get his bearings, he was too surprised, it wasn't supposed to go like this. Then his ear exploded in red heat against Harris's knuckles and he felt his face break open, the killing surge that always offered. He had Harris pinned against the fence, had his teeth against the artery, before he knew what he was doing.

They stood there a second, time reassembling around them. Harris's breath came in high, tight wheezes.

If he took it an inch farther the chip would blow his head off. Still. There was some satisfaction in just this, the hot smell of prey, the drumming of fear. He could smell the narcotic, now, whatever it was. Smelled...spicy.

"Wanker." He gave Harris's shoulders a final shove, then stepped back and wiped his mouth. He wasn't bleeding. It had just been a few punches, probably just panic, he should have expected it, creeping up behind like that. "You're lucky I'm in a good mood."

Something was wrong, though. Harris wasn't moving, wasn't trying for the gate again. His heart wasn't slowing down. Spike paused and studied him. He was pressed against the wood, shaking all over, his eyes locked on Spike's face. Looked like he was having one of those, what did they call them, breaks. Looked absolutely, totally blotto with fear.

"Oh, Christ." Game face. He dropped it, smoothed it over, forced a smile. "Look, it's fine, I'm not mad. You're a git, I expect it." Don't pee, he wanted to add, but it probably wouldn't do any good anyway. "Come on, then." He took a step back, trying to lead. Harris didn't move. "Can't stay out here all night, can you?"

Harris dropped his eyes and stayed where he was, head down, eyes averted. Submissive pose, right. Training. Right. Spike sighed and put a hand out. Harris didn't move.

"Come on."

Nothing. Spike hesitated, then reached further and took gentle hold of the collar of Harris's shirt. No response. "Come on, let's go in." He gave it a little shake, then tugged. Harris leaned forward obediently, almost to the tipping point, and finally took a step forward. "Good, right, let's go."

If he let go of Harris's shirt, he found, that was it. Full stop, no more progress. He had to literally pull the man inside, pausing briefly to collect his whiskey and to take a quick look around from the vantage point of the porch. No neighbors' lights on. Nobody seemed to have noticed. Good.

"Come on inside," he said, ushering them both in with worried, housewifely gestures. Inside, Red's calendar was front and center, right beneath the clock. Seven days and they'd be back, and Harris had to be operational. "No problem." Witches could do terrible things to you. That one bloke in Vienna, who'd had his cock covered in mold... "No problem."

Harris stood silent, his hands at his sides, his eyes cast down. Everything about him saying Gone for the duration.

"I'll get you some cornflakes," Spike said, and hurried off to the cupboard.