::.. Witlingville ..::

The conclusion of The Magic Number, a contribution fic begun a long time ago for _caeru and _swallow, long may they rock for contributing to tsunami relief. A story is a nice treat, but bandages, potable water, and rebuilding funds are the stuff that makes the world go round. Thanks, you guys.

The Magic Number

Part 12

The really irritating thing about being the Slayer being multiply mortgaged and deep in the red was that it meant basic cable. Basic cable meant no dogs. It meant Passions only came on once a day, and there was no entertainingly irrational Chinese-language channel. It meant that when the knock came on the front door at half past two in the morning, they were slumped in front of another women's weeper, this time with Mercedes Ruehl. Spike straightened up in a hurry, reaching for the remote. Harris gave the front door a dreamy, hopeful look.

"Stay here." Visitors at two am was not a good thing, he reflected, muting the set and wondering where his shoes were. Visitors at two am could in fact be a very bad thing. So far, he hadn't actually entertained the notion of Glory showing up here, looking for another opportunity to peel the apple. Or core it, this time. He hadn't actually thought much about her at all in the last couple of days.

He found himself wishing he weren't quite so drunk. And that Harris weren't quite so stoned.

Harris, the stoner in question, was rising slowly from his chair as if Spike hadn't said anything. The expression on his face was snookered but clear: They're back.

"Sit down," Spike whispered sharply, shoving Harris back into his chair. "Don't move unless I tell you, you got that?"

Staring hard into Harris's bovine brown eyes got him nowhere. With a growl, he started for the door. There was a hand axe on the table behind the sofa, and he picked it up as he passed. Nice heft, but he knew he was kidding himself. If the god was on the front porch, they were both screwed.

"Who's it?" he barked, one hand on the doorknob. There was a brief pause, while he tried to smell through the door. Nothing, except maybe a faint odor of cologne.

"Spike," said a voice, low and insinuating. "You're so...cautious."

Spike flipped the lock and opened the door a crack, keeping the chain on and the axe ready. The porch light was dim--a bulb had gone out and nobody'd replaced it--but it was indeed Gildersleeve standing there. Bolivar Gildersleeve, the Pincushion himself, the busiest half-man in Sunnydale's underworld. The garter snake, the impresario, the snappy dresser with a heart of carbon. The wheeler and dealer. The bloke with both ears always pressed firmly to the rail.

"Gildersleeve." Spike said it civilly enough, glancing around to make sure there wasn't anyone else cluttering up the place. "What do you want?"

"Heard you were watering the Slayer's houseplants." Gildersleeve grinned, and popped a few pins over his eyebrows in a suggestive way. "Well done you, if I may be so bold."

"Well done me," Spike repeated tonelessly. He had the axe in his left hand, behind the door. "I'm not looking to share, if that's what you're after."

"By no means. By no means, Spike. In fact, just the opposite. I came across an offer I thought might interest you." Gildersleeve hesitated, wetted his top lip with the tip of his blue-black tongue, and gestured minutely at the door. "May I come in?"

Spike pulled his head back inside and saw that Harris was making a slow approach, relying on the furniture for support. Frowning, he looked back to Gildersleeve. "Gave at the office."

He was swinging the door closed when Gildersleeve said smoothly, "It's about the chip."

Spike caught the door. Then he opened it again, and looked at Gildersleeve.

Gildersleeve smiled. When Spike brought the head of the axe into view, he didn't look concerned.

"May I come in?" he asked again.

There was a pause. Behind Spike, there was a muffled thump and a short intake of breath.

"Yeah," Spike said slowly, wondering what he was doing. "Yeah, all right."

He opened the door wider, and Gildersleeve slipped in like a shadow across the threshold.

"A lovely house." Gildersleeve was sitting on the edge of the lounger, a glass of white wine balanced on his knee, looking around with an expression of effete distaste. "Arts and Crafts, I think. Somewhere...underneath."

Spike sprawled a little wider on the couch, his boots up on the coffee table, the whiskey propped on his belly. Harris was on the floor by the far armchair, staring openly at Gildersleeve with a kind of dazed, slow-witted alarm.

"What's the matter with him?" Gildersleeve asked, without much interest. The wine glass indicated Harris, who blinked muzzily.

"Retarded," Spike said. "What's the offer?"

"Ah. You aren't known for your patience, are you?" Gildersleeve took a deliberate, prolonged sip of his wine, wincing slightly as it went down. Then he lowered the glass to his knee again and dabbed at his lips with the tips of his fingers. "The offer is to disable the chip in situ. That means 'in place.'"

"I know what it means."

"It means not having your head cut open. It means not risking death or..." Gildersleeve nodded at Harris. "Disability."

"Lovely offer. Who's making it?"

"My clients wish to remain anonymous. I can tell you, however--"

"'Clients'? Makes you sound like a pimp."

"I can tell you, however," Gildersleeve repeated, not deigning to notice the slight, "that they are renowned technologists. I don't doubt their credentials in the slightest." He leaned forward, glanced in both directions, and half-whispered, half-mouthed, "They do work for Wolfram & Hart."

"That's nice," Spike said. "Not your head, though, is it?" He took a swig of whiskey, and watched Gildersleeve try the wine again. "What's the price?"

"That," Gildersleeve said, with real pleasure, "is the best part. The price is something you are uniquely well positioned to offer at this point in time. In fact, I wouldn't have come to you if it hadn't been such a perfect trade."

Spike waited, saying nothing.

"They're scientists," Gildersleeve said smoothly. "They do research. They need research subjects. Sometimes these subjects are hard to come by."

"I'm not bloody putting myself up for research," Spike snapped. "That's how I got this thing in the first place."

"Not you," Gildersleeve chided. "Of course not you, yourself. I would never suggest such a thing. They need a human subject."

The room was quiet. Harris scratched his nose.

"Under normal circumstances--that is to say, before you found yourself in this unusual, ah, housekeeping role, it would have been difficult for you to procure such a subject. Ironically, the chip prevents you from harming humans, so you could scarcely have overpowered one--"

"I can overpower a bloody human," Spike said, ignoring the fact that it was a lie.

"But now, you have the perfect window of opportunity. The Slayer is away, you have access to a human whom you can easily coerce--"

"What's in it for them?"

Gildersleeve paused. "Who?"

"These...technologists. What do they get out of this?"

"I would have thought that was obvious. They need a subject--"

"Yeah, and why are they so keen on that, exactly? What's the research project?"

Gildersleeve raised his glass and sipped genteelly. "It really isn't my business to ask."

"But you know."

"Now how would I know something like that?"

"Because you always do." Spike sat up and leaned forward, his hand around the neck of the bottle. "Just like you knew I was here in the first place. Like you knew I had...access...to him." He jerked his head toward Harris, without looking at him.

Gildersleeve's nictitating membranes slid down halfway. "That's right, I always do know."

"So what is it?"

"What makes you ask?" Gildersleeve's head dropped to one side, its angle inquiring. "Why do you care what happens to a retarded human boy? Perhaps you're a little..." He broke off and inhaled significantly, his tongue flickering again.

"A little what?" Spike asked. His tone hung in the air, along with the smell of booze, sleeping drugs, and probably sex.

Gildersleeve shrugged. "Perhaps it isn't just the chip that prevents you from harming humans now. Perhaps it's become a habit?"

"I just don't like making deals with every little puff adder that shows up on my doorstep."

"But this puff adder," Gildersleeve replied, unoffended, "has something you want. Very much."

Spike let that sit for a couple of seconds. Finally, he sat back in the couch and took another swig from the bottle. He glanced at Xander. "He's been kicked around a lot already, is all," he said. "Didn't use to be such a waste."

"If you're attached to him," Gildersleeve said, "you can put your mind at rest. The research is painless. No vivisection, I can guarantee that."

"Yeah?" Spike fingered the bottle, studying Harris's profile. "What is it, then?"

"Very simple, really. There's no earthly reason for me to tell you this, but I like you, Spike. And so I will." Gildersleeve leaned forward and lowered his voice. "It's a portal."

Spike sat still. He was trying to think, but he had the feeling he'd be doing a better job of it if he could stop drinking. Unfortunately, having Gildersleeve in the room made him want to drink. "A portal," he repeated.

"A portal. They're experimenting with what they call a crosswalk, and I'm sure I don't know what that is, but it appears to involve a great deal of mathematics. They gave me a pamphlet." He sipped his wine. "I couldn't make heads or tails of it."

"Where's it go?"

"It seems to be not so much an issue of where as of when."

"What, it goes back in time?"

"Or forward. And from what I understand, it has a tendency to zigzag between parallel universes." Gildersleeve executed a demonstrative zig with his glass. "Purely theoretical, of course. But they've had good success with cats." He frowned. "I think."

"So..." Spike thumbed the rim of the bottle. "So I give Harris over to these blokes, they zap the chip for me. What about you?"

Gildersleeve touched his chest lightly, his expression clearly reading, Moi?

"Just doing me a favor, are you?" Spike smirked. "Good of you, Pin."

"The satisfaction of helping a fellow demon in need," Gildersleeve said smoothly, "is its own reward."

"They're paying you to get them a subject, you mean."

"An honorarium. I thought of you immediately when I heard of their need, and thought the least I could do was put your need up against theirs." Gildersleeve smiled. "As I said, it's a perfect trade. You lose the chip, Spike. For free. You can even arrange for the boy to be returned to his own place and time. I'm sure my clients won't care--and that way, no one will ever notice." His tone sharpened. "It's an offer you can't refuse."

Spike sat quietly, studying the level of whiskey in the bottle. On the other side of the room, Harris nibbled a cuticle. Gildersleeve took another look around the room, nodding slightly. What at, Spike didn't want to know. All of a sudden, the fact of the Pincushion sitting in Joyce's living room, passing judgment on the state of her carpets, was too annoying for words. Spike heaved to his feet, noticing with some part of his mind that Gildersleeve jumped slightly, but Harris didn't.

"You've said your piece," he said, starting for the door. "Now off you go."

"But the arrangements--"

"Haven't said yes, have I?" Spike opened the door and leaned on it. The air outside was sweet and cool, and suddenly he very much wanted to go for a walk in it. "I'll let you know."

Gildersleeve stood up, set his glass carefully on the table, and straightened his jacket. "I must warn you, the offer is for a limited time only."

"Thanks."

"Frankly, I don't see what you have to lose. If you give them the boy and lose the chip, you win. If you give them the boy and they aren't successful in defusing the apparatus, you're no worse off than when you started." Gildersleeve gave Harris a pitying look, shaking his head like a mournful uncle. "Really, you could look at it as doing him a favor. He's in no shape to take care of himself. He might end up in a universe where men like him are worshipped as kings."

"Men like him." Spike cocked his head. "You mean, blokes that can't get their own meals?"

"Quite. He'd have starved to death by now if not for the help of others. Natural selection, you know."

Spike picked a flake of paint off the edge of the door. "I think I know a thing or two about that, yeah."

Gildersleeve paused, his mouth a perfect O. Then he smiled, recovering neatly. "I wasn't talking about you, of course."

"Of course." Spike smiled back. "I'll find you if I want to."

"Quite." Gildersleeve executed a neat little half-bow, although his expression was slightly troubled now. "Until then."

It was almost admirable, how he could exit with such speed and yet still keep some of his dignity. Spike took a moment to appreciate it, then shut the door on the sight of the Pincushion melting into the shadows. He turned to find Harris watching him hopefully, clearly hoping he was going to open the door again to reveal someone better.

"Sorry," Spike said, flipping the locks on and grabbing his cigarettes off the side table. "That's all the fun there is. I'm going out back for a smoke."

Harris tried to follow him out, of course, but he locked the door behind him and stood in the back yard by himself, smoking and staring up at the stars.

Part 13

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 14

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.

Part 15

"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