The Magic Number

by
Witling

Part Fifteen

"Spike. I knew you'd come to your senses." Gildersleeve was sitting on a slat-backed chair, wearing a dove-grey suit and drinking a martini. As always, he was the very image of the dapper gentleman, and it was only thanks to the benefit of long association that Spike noticed the pins near the base of his neck were bristling a little. Gildersleeve was nervous. That was interesting.

It was also unsurprising, because the three other men around the table made Spike nervous, too. In fact, there was nobody else in the Lamb tonight—even the barkeep had left a bottle out and taken himself off. The place was a tomb. No music, nothing. Just the four of them sitting around the table at the back of the room, and the white sheet folded neatly on the tabletop between them. There were things under the sheet—little things, hard things. Things that looked like surgical instruments, if Spike was any judge. And he was. He swallowed.

"You always know everything, don't you, Pin?" He did his best swagger up to the table, hooked a chair with his toe, and sat down in it. The three men were all looking at him. Their expressions were, if anything, assessing. Beyond that, they didn't seem to have expressions.

"That I do," Gildersleeve said genially, setting his drink down and picking up the whiskey bottle beside him. "That I do. Our barman has disappeared, I'm afraid—but can I pour you a drink myself?"

Spike nodded, letting his legs fall open and his hands fall into his lap. None of the three men had drinks in front of them, he noticed. Just the white sheet, hiding whatever it was hiding.

"I can't help but notice," Gildersleeve went on, pouring a generous amount into Spike's glass, "that you're here alone."

"That's right." Spike accepted the glass Gildersleeve passed him, while the three men watched expressionlessly. "I want a little more information before I make my decision."

"Make your decision?" Gildersleeve tipped his head, as if Spike had said something very droll. "But surely your decision is already made."

Spike frowned. "No, it's bloody not. I want the chip done first, then we'll talk about Harris."

"Harris." That came from one of the three men. The technologists, Gildersleeve had called them. His voice was low and dry, practically crumbling, as if he didn't use it very often. At the sound of it, Gildersleeve jumped a little, and the tip of his tongue emerged to wet his lips.

Spike turned to look at the man. He was tall—they were all tall. Thin, with pale skin and pale blue eyes. It was hard to look at his eyes for very long. They seemed both blank and endless, like the glass eyes of a stuffed, mounted animal. He had short red hair—they all had short red hair. His fingernails were very clean. His lips were girlish and soft-looking.

"Yeah," Spike said. "Harris. The bloke you want for…whatever is it."

Without blinking, the man turned his head and looked at Gildersleeve. Under the weight of his gaze, Gildersleeve shrank inside his suit. The pins at the base of his throat popped wildly. "I told him only what was necessary," he said.

The man said nothing. He stared at Gildersleeve for a few more seconds, then turned and locked eyes with the two other men at the table. There was silence while they stared at each other. Gildersleeve swallowed, and his throat clicked.

"It doesn't matter," the man said at last, breaking his colleagues' gazes and turning back to Spike. Gildersleeve exhaled, and Spike straightened up to meet the man's eyes. "We can erase what you know."

"Erase this," Spike said, tipping his glass. "I'm here to get the chip fried, and then we'll talk."

"Spike—" Gildersleeve said, and there was a craven, almost apologetic tone to his voice that made Spike tense.

"What is this chip?" the man asked, the faintest sign of a frown creasing his smooth brow. "And where is the other one?"

"The human," one of the other men said.

"There should be two," the third one added.

"I know," Gildersleeve said, setting his glass down and trying to smile. "There are, there will be—Spike, where did you leave the boy?"

"What the hell is going on?" Spike shoved his glass away and stood up. The three men looked at him without concern. "I'm here to do a deal, get the chip zapped and you get Harris, do whatever you want with him, I don't bloody care." He could hear the anxiety in his own voice, raising his tone. "Sounds like that's not the deal after all, is it?"

"Spike—" Gildersleeve was trying to smile, with unpleasant results. "Calm down, it's just a misunderstanding—"

"It's a bloody double-cross," Spike said, ignoring any irony. He reached down and flipped the sheet open, then stopped short. Inside gleamed an array of hypodermic syringes, filled with clear fluid, primed to different levels.

"The crossing is easier if the subject is sedated," one of the men said mildly.

"Lacking sedation, subjects run a high risk of myocardial infarction or mental disturbance."

"The levels of sedation necessary for a human are simple to calculate. For a vampire, they are more challenging."

Spike raised his eyes and stared at Gildersleeve. Gildersleeve wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Fuck you," Spike said. Then he turned and ran.

He was halfway across the floor when one of the men grabbed him from behind. He turned, threw a punch, and the chip fired. His brain exploded into glass and razor wire. Yelling, he punched again, and again the pain burst in from both ends—against his knuckles, and deep in his skull. Dimly, he could hear Gildersleeve shouting something about sedation. There were feet all around his face, well-polished black shoes. He felt a sting in the side of his neck, and jerked away from it. His vision started to spin.

Then there was a breath of cool air across his face, as if someone good had leaned down and seen him, taken pity on him, given him a second chance. It was just the door opening. He could see it, foggily, in the corner of his eye. Someone was leaving—no, someone was coming in. Another sting in his neck. He was in game face, snarling and writhing, and there were heavy knees in his chest.

He saw red hair, a calm pale face leaning over him, the clear plastic safety cap of a hypodermic syringe fixed between its lips. A look of concentration. Everything swooned. He couldn't move his arms or legs, and the pain in his head kept coming. Wave after wave. He saw a hand come around behind the pale face, and take hold of its chin. The hand was big and battered. It yanked. There was a grunt and a snapping sound.

No, Spike tried to say, but his mouth wouldn't work. This was how they got Harris, this must be the point in the loop where it all happened over again. I told you not to move.

Smashed down on the filthy barroom floor, he watched through descending layers of gauze while skinny, big-handed Harris beat a red-headed man until blood came out of his ears. There was still one more, though. Watch out, he tried to say, slipping down the slope into darkness. I didn't mean for it to go like this. I didn't mean it.

Something dropped to the floor beside his head—a syringe, he saw faintly. It glittered in the light from the doorway. Watching it, he thought, How beautiful.

"I can't believe you didn't get my message." Willow was sitting on the very edge of the armchair, as if she were afraid there might be something contagious in it. Which there might—he hadn't dusted in…ever. "It was still daylight here—where were you?"

"Told you," he said. "I was asleep. I'm a vampire, remember? Sleep during the day?"

"You could have checked before you went out." Her tone was grousing, not recriminatory. "Maybe we should get you a cell phone."

"Maybe we should sod off."

"It's just a suggestion. With the chip, you're kind of at a disadvantage on the human side of things. To wit:" She waved a hand at him, encompassing all his bruises, the nasty neck punctures, all that. He grunted, nursing his beer. "Not that we want you to have an advantage, because that, after all, is why we have the Slayer in the first place, but still…" She took a sip of her beer, paused to let the taste settle, and sighed. "I'm sorry you got hurt."

"S'okay."

"I'm still mad that you took Xander to a demon bar, though."

"I know."

"Good."

They sat together in silence for a while. Even now, two days after the whole mess, Spike's left eye was still swollen almost shut. But he could see Harris sitting at the base of the sarcophagus, wearing his lucky red 23 T-shirt, fiddling with his flash cards. Pathetic. Or sort of comforting, depending on your point of view.

"We should get back," Willow said finally, setting her mostly-full beer down gingerly on the floor beside her chair. "Now that Glory's gone, Buffy and Dawn are on their way home, and we still have to clean up the mess you guys left." There was a little recrimination in her tone now, which was nice. "You could have at least done some dishes."

"'m not a maid," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back into his own chair.

"Shockingly, neither are Tara and I." She stood up, walked over to Harris, and held out a hand. "Come on, Xander. Let's go."

He gave her an absent look, shuffled his cards into a pack, and stood up. There were still bruises on his knuckles, and some skin off. Red was looking at them too, Spike realized.

"I really can't thank you enough," she said, not looking at him, but still at Harris's hands. "For saving him, I mean." She touched Harris's knuckle lightly, as if it might break apart under her fingers. "Are you sure you want to stay here? I mean, maybe, just until you're feeling better…?"

"Nah." He swigged from his beer. "I'm a vampire, pet. Be better by morning, probably."

"Is there anything you need? Some more blood, maybe? Or, um, cigarettes?"

He shook his head. She sighed. "Okay. Well, I'll tell Dawn to give you a day or two before she comes over."

He nodded. He wasn't sure he wanted to see Dawn right now. It was a little odd just being around Red, who kept thanking him for saving Harris's life. They all did. Even Rupert had taken off his glasses and held out his hand to be shaken. They all thought Spike was the hero in this, and that's what he'd wanted them to think all along, but it had turned out to feel like utter crap.

Red was still standing there, not saying anything, and after a moment he looked at her. She was blushing a little, he noticed. He frowned.

"So, one thing I didn't mention before was that I changed the sheets on our bed."

Oh shit.

"Maybe I'll just wait outside for a minute or two," she said, looking not precisely at Spike or Harris, but somewhere in between them. Then she exited, stage left. The crypt door closed behind her. Harris looked confused.

Spike groaned, bringing Harris's attention to him. It was a less blank attention than it had been even a few days before. There was a sharpness to it, and the distinct impression that even if he didn't talk, he understood more of what was being said to him. He'd started taking a lot more interest in the flash cards, and in the signs Glinda tried out on him. There was something to be said, Spike thought, for beating your worst fears to death with your bare hands. It seemed to be good therapy.

"Look," Spike said, pressing the bridge of his nose, "I know I owe you one already, but I'd really appreciate it if you could not fucking mention any of the sloppy stuff to them. Or to me, come to think of it. I was drunk, I don't know what I—"

Harris walked across the crypt toward him, his steps surer and more purposeful than they used to be. Spike sat up, a little wary.

"No offense," he said quickly. "It wasn't bad or anything—"

Harris leaned down, took the beer bottle out of Spike's hand and set it aside with a wrinkled nose, then leaned further down and brushed his lips across Spike's. It wasn't a proper kiss, it was something else. A meeting of some kind. An assurance. Spike sat still and let Harris's mouth touch his, repeatedly and gently. Finally Harris seemed satisfied. He stood up, patted his pocket for his flash cards, and headed for the door.

"Thank you," Spike said, quietly.

Harris turned back and smiled. Then he let himself out.

The End