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Notes: Without further ado (or editing, or betaing), chapter 6 of The Magic Number, which is a Spander contribution fic for the lovely caeru_ and _swallow.
The Magic Number part 6
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.
