The Magic Number

by
Witling

Part Thirteen

He came back in a while later and found Harris curled in a lump on the sofa, the telly flickering a monster movie over his closed eyelids. His side moved gently up and down, and his fingers twitched. He's like a dog, Red had said—or almost said, before she'd caught herself. Harris-as-dog was in some ways a more tolerable bloke than regular Harris, but just now, watching him sleep, Spike felt unaccountably sorry for him. It made no sense. It was perfect luck, Harris falling into his hands just when he was useful, just when the offer was made. It was the perfect opportunity.

Spike hadn't learnt much along the way, but he had learned to be wary of perfect opportunities.

Sitting on the arm of the sofa, staring down at Harris's fluttering eyelids and three-day stubble, he tried to see the holes in Gildersleeve's argument. Hand over Harris and lose the chip: win. Hand over Harris and don't lose the chip: no great loss. That was the logic, at least. Hard to fault it. But for some reason it didn't feel right.

"Someone ought to just bash you over the head and be done with it," he said softly. Harris didn't move, so Spike pulled the blanket up over him, turned off the television, and fell asleep in the chair.

The morning mail arrived with a thump like a dead smelt hitting the porch. Spike opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. After a minute he tested some of the farther reaches of his mouth, and hastily retracted his tongue. He had a bad feeling he was still drunk—but not drunk enough. It required an immense harnessing of energies to prop himself up on his elbows.

The sofa was empty, but he could hear Harris in the kitchen, doing nothing much. Through the slats of the dining room blinds, he could see thin shafts of daylight. Another day of watering the Slayer's houseplants lay ahead of him. The prospect was bleak, until he remembered the previous night's visit, and the offer. The bloody chip. He could get rid of the bloody chip, without anyone messing around in his skull.

He closed his eyes again and thought about it—really thought about it, what life had been like before the chip. He'd been free. Flat broke a lot of the time, hungry and cold for some parts, living mainly by his own wits and Dru's on-again, off-again psychic fancies. Had his teeth bashed in more than once, and spent a couple of unpleasant days trapped in sewers and cellars. But that didn't matter—he'd been free. Life had been…fun. He'd gone where he wanted, done what he wanted. No leash, no newspaper across the nose when he didn't do what he was told. He'd been a wild beast, and in retrospect, it had been heaven.

Last night's whiskey rolled turgidly in his belly as he got to his feet. His temples throbbed, and the back of his throat felt raw. Empty cigarette packets were scattered around the room, he noticed. He'd smoked a lot last night, out in the back yard. Staring at the stars. No reason not to smoke another one now, though. Fumbling a cigarette out of the foil, he staggered to the door.

The mail was mostly bills, marked "Urgent" like they all were these days. There was a parcel too, though. Something small, sent priority rate, red white and blue. It was sitting in the sunshine a foot or two from the door, and he had to reach out and hook it fast with his right hand so as not to catch on fire.

It was from LA. From Dawn. Addressed to both of them in her blocky, childish handwriting—they didn't teach children to write anymore. It was all instant message and cell phones. Frowning, he dumped the rest of the mail onto the floor beneath the mail table, and ripped the strip off the heavy envelope. There was a piece of card in at the top, with his name on it. He read:

Dear Spike,

This is for Xander's birthday (Thurs 23rd.) Maybe if you show him the date he'll remember? I wanted to get you something too, but Buffy wouldn't let me buy cigarettes. :( So far no Glory. When we got Xander's present I got some crop pants and flip-flops. LA gets the new stuff sooner than Sunnydale. I can send you a belt buckle if you want. (Looks like a skull.) Miss you a lot, please tell Xander happy birthday and we'll be home soon. OK, running to mail now.

Love,
Dawn.

He read it twice, then paused for a lengthy drag on his cigarette. He had the strong sense that he already knew what he'd find inside the envelope. Reaching inside seemed a mere formality. He did it anyway.

The shirt was brand-new, pre-faded and soft the way they made them these days. The numbers on the front were dark blue, almost the same color as the tag in the back of the neck. Twenty-three. Harris's lucky number.

Spike shook the shirt out, draped it over the mail table, and sat on the back of the sofa. For a while he just looked at it. It didn't do anything special. It was just a shirt.

I came across an offer I thought might interest you. Gildersleeve, with his pointy little face and his wet little tongue. They're scientists. They need research subjects.

The look on Harris's face when he was balled up in the sheets in Joyce's old bedroom, when he first came back. Looking at Spike, his face showed something like recognition. Thinking about it now, Spike wondered if it might have been memory, struggling to cohere. The poor battered brain struggling to follow its breadcrumb trail back to some kind of a beginning.

There was a sound by the door to the kitchen—he turned and saw Harris standing there, still slowly gumming some cornflakes. Spike got off the back of the sofa, picked up the shirt, and held it out.

"Bit got you something." He watched closely, and for a moment he was sure he saw that same stir of memory in Harris's face. His jaw stopped moving and his eyes widened. He looked afraid. Then he blinked, and seemed plainly confused—what was he looking at? What had be just been thinking?

"It's for your birthday," Spike said. "You don't know what the hell a birthday is anymore, do you?"

Harris didn't move, so Spike walked over and pressed the shirt into his unresisting hands. Big, bashed-up hands. Mining, Red had said. Well, hard work never killed a man, did it? It was good for you, it built character.

Biting his thumbnail viciously, Spike said, "Put it on."

Harris didn't do anything, so Spike made the monkeyish gestures he'd made before when he wanted Harris to get his shirt off for the bath. This time Harris seemed to understand. He obligingly pulled the shirt on over his head. He had it backwards, so Spike had to stop him and swivel it round the right way. Together, they got his arms through the short sleeves. He stood there in his sweats and the T-shirt, his hair standing up in grey and black licks, looking down at his own belly and touching it gently as if in awe of the material.

"Looks all right," Spike said. He felt sick. He was hung over, that was all. He needed a drink. "She sent a letter too, but you can't read, so too bad."

Harris blinked at him. He didn't understand words, but he got tone. His expression was wary and slightly hurt.

"Don't look at me like that," Spike snapped. "Go—go…I don't know. Go eat paste or something."

Turning on his heel, he stomped away and up the stairs to Joyce's room, where he closed the door and locked it and lay down on the bed trying to think. Trying not to think.

He was playing cards with Glinda, Angelus, and the Pin. His cards were all crap, and he was almost out of kittens. The one he had left was a little grey-and-black number, a runt, and he was strangely attached to it. He had it in the breast pocket of the duster, against his chest. He was hoping nobody else knew it was there.

"You have to take care of yourself," Glinda said, laying down two for two back. "That's the only way to get by in the world."

"And find the easy way out," Gildersleeve added. He had kittens piled up to his wrists.

"For once." Angelus gave Spike a sideways smile. "You never like the easy way, do you?"

"Not if it's paved with poofs." Spike kept his eyes on his cards. The kitten was getting restless, moving around in his pocket. He suddenly remembered that he hadn't fed it in a week. It was probably starving to death. "Be right back."

"He can't do that!" Gildersleeve said, as Spike left the table and hurried to the toilets.

He let the kitten out on the filthy tile floor and watched it stagger in a circle, loopy with hunger and confinement. He could try it on blood, he realized—just a few drops. But that might turn it, and he didn't want a vampire kitten. Not the kind of thing he was into. He needed proper kitten food, but he was in the men's room at Willie's, and Pilar's market was half a mile away. Someone was coming in. Hastily, he grabbed the kitten and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"What's that, boy?" Angelus came through the door with his trousers already unzipped, his dick in his hand. "You show me yours, I'll show you mine."

"Seen yours," Spike said. "Mine's better."

Angelus laughed and went to piss. While his back was turned, Spike beat a hasty retreat out through the bar, pressing through the crowds, until he was walking alone down the yellow center line of Revello Drive. His boots clicked rhythmically. He was going there to kill the Slayer. He had to hurry, to get it done before Dawn came home, because he didn't want her to find out and be upset.

There was a tapping sound, rhythmic and muted. Slowly, he sat up and tested his temples with his fingers. His brain felt swollen and grumpy in his skull. He hadn't eaten in a while, he realized. Had to take advantage of the free blood bar while he still had it.

The tapping continued. It was coming from the door, he realized. With a low groan, he rolled off the bed and staggered over.

Harris was sitting just outside on the carpet, pressed to the wall as if he were trying to osmose through it and into the bedroom. Still wearing the T-shirt. He blinked up at Spike, his hand raised in tapping position.

"What the fuck?" Spike rubbed his eyes. "What d'you want?"

In silence, Harris raised his other hand and offered Spike an envelope. On the outside, it said Spike. Spike stared at it.

"What's that?"

Harris just held it up. Slowly, Spike took it and opened it. There was a small slip of paper inside. On it was written, in an elegant black hand, Tonight, at sundown. The Slaughtered Lamb. No other chance. Beneath that, a single swooping G.

"This from the Pin?" Spike asked, shifting his gaze to Harris. Harris watched attentively, but said nothing. "Bloke that was here last night? With the—" He flared his fingers by his face, to indicate the pins. Harris's eyes narrowed in concentration—after a moment, his lips quirked in a smile and he nodded.

Yes.

It was their first communication, the first time Harris had actually responded definitively to a question. Without meaning to, Spike felt a silly little surge of pride. Then he frowned, tamping it all back down.

"Shouldn't be opening the door to people," he said gruffly, stuffing the note back in the envelope. "Shouldn't be opening it at all. Since when can you open a door?"

Harris, his eyes trained on Spike's face, seemed baffled. When Spike walked out of the room past him, he scrambled to his feet and hurried to follow. It was irritating. Spike's head hurt. He was hungry.

"If you're running around opening doors now, you could at least bloody make me some breakfast." He grabbed a bag from the fridge, threw it into the microwave, and slammed the door. The kitchen was a mess, full of half-full bowls of sour milk and cereal. Willow's calendar hung on the wall like an accusation, the numbers watching him. They were due back in a couple of days.

"I'm a bloody vampire," he said, staring at the long, explanatory note she'd left on the fridge. "I'm bloody evil.. Why do none of you ever remember that?"

Harris appeared in the doorway, tentative, his eyes big and dark. The shirt made him look like he was wearing a target. A big red bulls-eye with a crosshair over his heart. What was wrong with these people? Why did they keep coming back for more and more punishment? Weren't things bad enough already?

The microwave beeped and Spike pulled the bag out, bit into it, and drank half of it standing over the sink. Blood ran down his chin and neck. It felt savage and good, even while a little voice at the back of his mind told him, You're a zoo animal. Grrr, argh! Tear into that Ziploc bag!

He threw the rest of it into the sink, wiped his mouth, and sat down at the kitchen table, propping his head on his hands.

He could be wild again. Be what he was meant to be. All he had to do was take Harris to the bar tonight. Just take him out, buy him a last beer, and send him on his way. Maybe it wasn't what he thought it was, maybe Gildersleeve was right. Maybe Harris would find a parallel world that worshipped him, supplied him with all the cornflakes and Sunday funnies and midnight handjobs he could stand. Maybe it would be a good thing.

While he was sitting, Harris approached quietly over the linoleum. He walked cautiously, ready to jump back at any moment, but without the same blind fear he'd shown when he'd first come back. Now he was more like a man carefully approaching a wild animal. Or like a wild animal approaching a man.

Spike looked up at him wearily. "What'm I supposed to do?"

Harris sat down at Spike's feet, his arm wrapped his around his knees. Spike considered him.

"This bloody thing." He plucked at the collar of Harris's shirt. "I'm very bloody sick of this."

Without moving his head, Harris rotated his eyes to try to see the spot Spike was plucking at. Spike sighed.

"If I've already done it, it's done, right?" He rested his chin on his hand and stared at the grey in Harris's hair. "No control over it now. I've already sold you up the river. So it doesn't really matter if I do it again."

Harris watched with fascination, as if he were telling a spellbinding tale.

"You've already been and gone, and I've…" Spike paused. "I've still got the chip. What the hell does that mean?"

Either the deal hadn't gone through right, or there was something about time portals he didn't understand. To tell the truth, he'd never understood a single thing about time portals. Never really got how things could happen twice, two needles running the same groove. Maybe the technologists had done the job right on his future self, just not his present self, and since Harris had been dropped off early, they were just crossing paths a little oddly. Maybe none of this had ever been meant to happen. Or maybe the deal was bogus and he'd never get the chip out.

Either way, no great loss to Spike. At least that was the logic.

He was still holding onto the collar of Harris's shirt, he realized. Harris had stopped trying to see what he was picking at, and was sitting patiently, his shirt rucked up around his chin.

"Just between you and me," Spike said, "what was the sex about?"

Harris gazed at him in silence. Out of curiosity, Spike let got of Harris's collar and dropped his hand to the waistband of the sweat pants. Harris looked mildly surprised, but didn't interfere. Maybe the sex was just kneejerk, the basest human drive toward comfort and company. Hard manual labor, Red had said. It had been hurried, impersonal, desperate sex. The kind of sex you could get in prisons and camps. Automatic, practically.

Spike let his knuckles brush Harris's groin, just out of curiosity. Just to see if there was anything else to it. He wasn't expecting much, and for a moment he didn't get anything. Harris seemed to take it as a mistake—his eyes didn't waver or change expression. Spike did it again, then let his palm fall over Harris's dick, pressing gently. Just to make things clear.

Harris's eyelids fell halfway, and his legs dropped open. Under Spike's hand, his cock warmed and moved. His cheeks flushed.

"Anybody home?" Spike asked softly, intending to take his hand away in a second or two. But at the sound of his voice, Harris's eyelids lifted and he looked straight into Spike's face. His eyes were clear, unclouded by the narcotic or by fear. He was inside, looking out. And he was smiling.

Spike dropped off the chair onto the linoleum, and this time it wasn't desperate, or impersonal, or even particularly fast.

Part Fourteen

The phone rang, like a scream cutting the post-coital haze. Harris surged to sitting, his eyes huge and panicked, his heart suddenly racing. Spike grabbed his arm.

"It's all right, it's just the phone." He pointed at the phone, and Harris gave it a blank, frightened look. When it rang again he flinched. He was still wearing the red T-shirt, although his sweat pants were balled up under the kitchen table. He had a cornflake stuck to his shoulder.

The phone rang again and Harris started to wheeze, that old bad sound Spike hadn't heard for a while now. With a sigh, Spike got up. It was getting late, he realized, glancing at the clock.

He stretched, scratched the sex-stain on his belly, and reached for the phone, just as the machine cut in.

"Spike—Spike, are you there? It's Willow." At the sound of her voice, Harris's eyes widened and he moved toward the phone, crowding Spike unconsciously into the counter. "Pick up if you're there, okay?"

"That's right," Spike said, reaching for the receiver. "It's Red, very good, your ears still work."

"It's about Xander—we think we know what happened."

Spike's hand froze. Harris glanced at him, then at the machine, then back at him. His expression was pathetically clear: She's here, where is she? Spike frowned.

"Or we know when it happened," she went on. "We think something's going to happen tonight. Something…some kind of distortion, like a portal or something. Spike, if you get this message, it's very important that you don't let Xander out of your sight tonight. We're calling Buffy too—she can send someone from L.A. to help you."

"I don't need anyone from—oh, for the love of Christ." Spike suppressed the urge to smash the phone into the wall, and batted Harris's hand away from the machine.

"We didn't find it before because it hadn't happened yet," Willow said, her voice speeding up as if someone were telling her to get off the line. "It's going to happen tonight, Spike. I can't believe I didn't think of this sooner, I was so stupid—" She broke off, and there was a fast, muffled exchange at her end. "I have to go. We got what we need, we're flying back tonight. If you get this, please call me back. Or call Buffy. Just…just be careful, please. Take care of him. Okay. Bye."

The machine clicked off. Harris poked it with his forefinger.

Spike stood pressed to the kitchen counter, staring at the handmade wall calendar in front of him. All of a sudden, the numbers seemed less like a countdown to freedom, and more like impending doom.

The easy answer, the quick answer, was just to stay put. If he didn't take Harris to the Lamb, the deal was off. The chip stayed in, Harris stayed here. Presumably a houseplant for the rest of his days, but at least not back in whatever hell dimension they wanted to slingshot him into. That was the easy answer.

The thing was, there was just enough afternoon left to think through some of the other possibilities. He wasn't going to just hand Harris over to the bastards, he knew that now. Maybe it meant he was going soft, maybe it meant he was getting toothless in his old age and he valued a quick tickle on a kitchen floor more than he should. Or maybe it was the fact that he'd been a research subject himself recently, and that gave him some perspective. Whatever—the offer on the table didn't appeal to him. But maybe he could finesse the deal a little. Swing things his own way.

If he went to the Lamb and demanded they take care of the chip first, before he handed Harris over—well, now there were possibilities there. Once the chip was out, he'd be wild again. He could handle any humans who came his way, and try his luck with the demons. Harris could sit it out somewhere safe, like the parking lot. Afterward, the Scoobies wouldn't know anything had happened at all—or maybe they would, maybe they'd get wind of the fight and Spike would get the credit for saving Harris from the bogeymen. He liked the sound of that very much. And then, after a while, when he'd finished lapping up the praise and free whiskey, he could slip away into the night and be William the Bloody again. They'd probably mourn him.

He liked the sound of that all very much, the more he thought it over. That was the plan, he decided. There was some risk involved, but all good plans carried risk. And what was the worst that could happen?

This is a very bad idea, said the little voice in his head, the one he always ignored. He ignored it.

"Come on, get your kit on." He helped Harris into a pair of corduroys, then knelt down to put socks and shoes on him. It had been ages since Harris had been shod, he realized. Harris seemed perplexed by the process, and uncomfortable when the shoes were on. He flexed his feet experimentally, a frown on his face.

"Don’t whinge." Spike looked up from where he was tying Harris's shoelace. "Just going for a little walk, is all."

Harris smiled faintly, and Spike looked back down.

"Going to be fine," he muttered, straightening Harris's trouser leg and standing up. "Just do what I say, all right? You got that?" He stared into Harris's eyes, trying to recover the connection. It took a second or two, but then it was there—Harris was in there, staring back at him. Impressed with his seriousness. The foot stopped flexing, the smile disappeared. Harris's eyes moved between Spike's eyes and his lips, waiting for an intelligible command.

"Come with me," Spike said, grabbing his duster off the coat rack and opening the front door. It was just dark enough for him to go out. The air smelled fresh and green, and he realized he hadn't been outside in a long time.

Harris looked doubtful, but followed him without much fuss. On the front porch, Spike fumbled the keys and took a minute to get the door locked.

You'll take care of him, right? Dawn's voice, muffled in his shoulder. Her smell of cheap conditioner and exhaustion. He'd given her his word.

"Come on," he said, jamming the keys into his pocket, and starting down the steps. Harris hesitated half a second, then followed.

The Lamb was on the other side of town, sandwiched in between a drycleaner and a pawnshop. The front was unremarkable, barely recognizable as a bar. Heavy amber plastic covered the windows on the inside, filmed with dust and final home to hundreds of dead flies. On the sidewalk outside, cigarette butts and bottle caps littered the sidewalk. There was no sign, no doorman. If you wanted to walk into a place that looked like that, you did. And you took whatever they gave you.

Spike didn't particularly want to walk in now, but he'd come this far and he was damned if he was going back. Half a block away, he turned and took hold of Harris's arm.

"Listen very carefully." Again, he made hard eye contact. Harris didn't notice—he was stumbling along, staring at the businesses, the street, the cars, as if it were all brand new to him. His mouth was open slightly. Spike snapped his fingers. "Oy. Harris. Look at me."

Harris blinked and looked at him, vaguely at first, then with definite recognition. Spike waited for the whole sphere of Harris's attention to cohere behind his eyes. When it was there, he went on. "You're staying outside. Outside. Here. You got that?" He pointed at the sidewalk under their feet. Harris looked down, clearly expecting to see something there. "For fuck's sake."

In frustration, he half-dragged Harris across the street to a sickly little park with a couple of half-grown trees. There was a bench, with a lumpen shape asleep on it. Spike planted a foot in the middle of the shape and shoved. A bearded, weatherbeaten face emerged from the folds of what looked like a dark blanket.

"Feck off, you."

"No," Spike said, flashing fang. "That would be your part."

The man scowled, then grudgingly sat up, opened his arms, and revealed a seven-foot wingspan of leathery black skin. His belly and legs were small and covered in fine black hair. He smelled strongly of shoe polish.

"Fecking vampires," he said, and flew away, raising a small whirlwind of fast food wrappers behind him.

"You sit here," Spike said, shoving Harris down onto the bench. "Don't move. You understand?"

Harris was still staring up, following the flight of the bat-man. His face showed amazement and delight.

"Hey." Spike shook his shoulder. "You stay here."

Harris's eyes came down fast, and met Spike's. He was home again, present. He nodded. Yes.

"You don't move."

Yes.

"Okay." Spike straightened up and faced the Lamb, studying the front window for signs of movement. He saw none. "Okay. I'm going in to talk to some blokes. I'll be back soon. Wait here. You got that?"

Harris paused, looked over his shoulder, and caught sight of the Lamb. When he turned back to look at Spike, his expression was troubled. His eyes seemed clouded, distracted by whatever was going on in his head.

"It's going to be fine." Spike patted Harris's shoulder. "Just wait here and don't move. If anyone comes up to you—" Well, Harris couldn't exactly yell for help. "Just wait here."

Faintly, Harris nodded.

"Okay," Spike said. He squared his shoulders, but didn't take the first step just yet. "Right, then."

He wanted a kiss, but that was stupid and poncy and anyway, Harris didn't kiss. Good thing, too—they were already getting poofy enough. Still, Spike couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. It was a good plan, he reminded himself. When the chip was gone and he was himself again, he'd feel incredible. He'd take care of everything. All he had to do was go in there and start the ball rolling.

He almost jumped when something touched his fingers. It was Harris, of course. Reaching up and taking hold of Spike's hand in his big battered paw. Just holding it, that was all. They stared at each other for a few seconds. Harris's eyes were calm and clear and direct. I trust you, they said. It's going to be okay.

"Right, then." Spike gently disengaged his hand, smiled as well as he could, and started for the Lamb. Just before he opened the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. Harris was watching over the back of the bench. His face was white in the darkness, and he looked very far away.