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The Magic Number part 7
After about ten minutes, he had to admit that the situation was maybe a bit worse than he'd thought. Harris sat at the table where Spike had put him, staring down at the bowl of cereal in front of him as if it held the key to the ages. Spike had carefully fitted the spoon into his hot, dry hand, and he was still holding it. Hadn't used it, didn't seem inclined to. The cornflakes were past soggy.
"Look," Spike said, sitting across from him in a backwards-turned chair, his forearms propped to look casual. "Nummy cornflakes, full of vitamins. Your favourite, remember?"
Harris just sat there, tuned to some other station. There was a sense of absentia about him that hadn't been there before. Even when he'd been unresponsive, ignoring them, he'd still been at home. Pootling around in his own inner world, maybe, but he'd come if you called him. Now he'd just...gone.
Spike took a quick swig off the bottle and rubbed his lips. "Come on, Harris. Stop being such a bloody pathetic...look, you punched me, all right? Can't go punching people and expect them not to do a thing about it, can you?" Nervously, he flicked the cereal box with his fingertips. "Not like I bit you or anything. Still got the chip, remember?"
Except Harris probably didn't remember the chip, because he didn't remember much of anything. Too easy to forget that, because after all he looked the same, he was the same approximate shape and size as the irritating wanker he'd once been. Inside, now, he was a stranger. A stranger who couldn't talk or write or eat a bowl of cornflakes without help.
"What you need," Spike said, standing up decisively, if a little unsteadily, "is a proper meal. Cornflakes, that's bloody ridiculous. Need...some kind of proper, um, three veg. Meat and three. Fix you right up." He started for the freezer, trying foggily to remember what Americans actually ate. The Slayer just ordered pizzas all the time, maybe that was the thing to do. But pizza wasn't healthy, Dawn had printed out the nutritional table for Domino's and left it on the kitchen table during one of those sisterly cold wars, and it looked like a lingering death. Besides, if he used the money they'd left for pizza, he wouldn't be able to buy blood and booze with it.
"Salisbury steak. Wonderful." It looked revolting on the box, like someone had thrown up on it. He ripped it open and chucked it into the microwave. "Look at this, cooking for you. I'd call that pretty bloody nice of me, wouldn't you?"
He wasn't really expecting responses anymore, and he wasn't disappointed.
The dish came out warped and plasticky, filmed with grease. Probably should have read the directions on the side. He gave it a doubtful look, then turned it all out onto a plate and exchanged it for the bowl of cornflakes. "There you go. Tuck in."
Harris just sat there. After a minute Spike fished a fork out of the dish drainer and eased it into Harris's fist in place of the cereal spoon. He stood back and waited.
Nothing.
"Shit." Where were his cigarettes?
He stalked off the living room and found them, then came back smoking anxiously. Harris hadn't moved. On the wall behind him, the calendar loomed. Shit.
"Look, I get it, I was a bit rough and I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Totally out of line, really. Don't know what I was thinking. I'm very sorry."
Harris sat staring at the plate, steam rising into his face. Spike chewed off a thumbnail, spat it aside, then hauled a chair over next to him and straddled it. Leaned in confidentially.
"See, the thing is, I wasn't serious before, about Red not coming back. Or about her being mad at you. She's just gone for a week, she had to go do something very important and she said, she specifically said, to take good care of you and I'm doing that, aren't I?" He waved his cigarette at the plate of brown meat and grey vegetables. "Nice dinner, better than the Slayer makes, right?" It smelled like carrion; he was having to remember not to breathe. "They're all coming back, not to worry, just try...just have a bite--" He reached out in frustration and took hold of Harris's hand. Lifted it, shovelled a little of some kind of vegetable onto the fork, and raised it to Harris's mouth. "Eat that, will you?"
Harris opened his mouth mechanically, let Spike tip the fork in, and chewed. After a few seconds, he swallowed. Totally automatic, no expression on his face.
"Great, great job." His nervousness on the increase, Spike went for a second mouthful. "And that." Harris repeated without variation, his gaze hovering loosely somewhere around the middle of the table, his free hand in his lap. "Fantastic. Have you back watching Teletubbies in no time. Now you go ahead, keep doing that." Spike let go of Harris's hand, which sank immediately back down onto his knee and stayed there. "Fuck."
They sat in silence. Spike studied Harris's profile for any change. Nothing but a drop of gravy on his lip. Absently, Spike reached out and thumbed it away.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing," he said, dragging hard on his cigarette and reaching for Harris's fork hand again. "I'm not having my balls cut off and fed to me by those women on your account." With renewed energy, he forked up a mouthful of the meat. "Have a go at that, will you?"
Obediently, Harris ate it. And the next bite, and the next, and the next. Spike kept feeding him, one eye on the calendar, half his brain making rapid calculations. Seven days. No problem. He hoped.
