Headful of Ghosts, pt 13
Aug. 31st, 2005 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wesleysgirlAfter Spike gets Angel settled in bed again, he goes to check on Harris, still holding the bottle of whiskey he's been drinking from for the past half hour. From the doorway, he says, "Harris."
The man sleeping on the bed doesn't move.
Great, Spike thinks. Just my luck for the bloke to expire. Although on the other hand it would be one less thing to worry about.
"Harris!" Louder this time.
A muffled snort, and Harris blinks and rolls over. Winces. Sits up. "Jesus, Spike. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Was just checking to make sure you weren't dead," Spike explains.
"Well, I'm not." Harris groans and swings his feet onto the floor, sheet puddled in his lap. "Any chance you could get me something to wear?"
Spike considers it. "Suppose if I want you to leave I'll have to," he says grudgingly.
There's boxes of clothes in one of the closets on this floor -- Spike found them one day when he was bored and looking for something to do. He backtracks and finds them, choosing a few things that might fit and taking them to Harris.
"Here," he says, dumping the clothes onto the end of the bed and taking another swig from the bottle.
"Oh, good, give me some of that," Harris says, gesturing.
"Your funeral," Spike says, handing it over.
"If I wanted to kill myself, I'd find a less painful way than alcohol poisoning." Harris tips the bottle up, swallows, and hands it back.
Spike stands there.
"I'm not going to get dressed in front of you," Harris says.
"Please," Spike says, snorting. "I've already seen it, in case you've forgotten."
Harris frowns. "So not the point. Out."
"Fine." Spike goes out into the hallway, but doesn't shut the door. He smirks when Harris doesn't bother to come all the way across the room to close it and listens as the man gets dressed.
"Can I have some more?" Harris asks, appearing in the doorway wearing clothes and looking at the bottle hopefully. His hand must hurt like hell, but he's not complaining.
"Sure," Spike says. He hands the bottle over. "But I should go. You saw what happened last time when I left Angel on his own."
"Twice," Harris says. He drinks more and doesn't give the bottle back. "And since when do you care what happens to him?"
"I don't," Spike says, grabbing the whiskey back, ignoring Harris' startled 'Hey!'
"Then why are you here? Why don't you just go off and do... whatever you'd do?"
"He gives really good blow jobs," Spike says, and grins at the look on Harris' face. "What, you'd don't think I'd stick around just because I enjoy his company, do you?" He swigs from the bottle, lets his arm drop down at his side, and looks at the floor. Carpet's in rough shape. "Can't just leave him," he says quietly. "Bloody soul."
"Yeah. Having a conscience is a bitch." Xander pats Spike's arm.
"You just want my whiskey," Spike says, looking up at him suspiciously.
"Yup," Xander says, cheerful. "Hand it over and I promise I won't tell anyone about the part where you feel too guilty to leave Angel."
Spike holds out the bottle again without hesitation. "That's blackmail," he says with some admiration.
"Uh-huh. Whatever works." Xander drinks some more, then sits down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. "Well, come on. If we sit here, you'll be able to hear him if he gets up, right?"
The offer is so unexpected that Spike just stands there for a few seconds, gaping. Then he shuts his mouth and crouches down, taking the bottle and drinking from it before passing it back. "Sure you should be drinking this much?" he asks. "Not that I care, mind."
"Drinking this much is the only thing keeping me from screaming," Xander says, gingerly resting his bandaged hand on his thigh. "Trust me, I'm a much better conversationalist when I'm not screaming."
"No arguments there," Spike says.
The man sleeping on the bed doesn't move.
Great, Spike thinks. Just my luck for the bloke to expire. Although on the other hand it would be one less thing to worry about.
"Harris!" Louder this time.
A muffled snort, and Harris blinks and rolls over. Winces. Sits up. "Jesus, Spike. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Was just checking to make sure you weren't dead," Spike explains.
"Well, I'm not." Harris groans and swings his feet onto the floor, sheet puddled in his lap. "Any chance you could get me something to wear?"
Spike considers it. "Suppose if I want you to leave I'll have to," he says grudgingly.
There's boxes of clothes in one of the closets on this floor -- Spike found them one day when he was bored and looking for something to do. He backtracks and finds them, choosing a few things that might fit and taking them to Harris.
"Here," he says, dumping the clothes onto the end of the bed and taking another swig from the bottle.
"Oh, good, give me some of that," Harris says, gesturing.
"Your funeral," Spike says, handing it over.
"If I wanted to kill myself, I'd find a less painful way than alcohol poisoning." Harris tips the bottle up, swallows, and hands it back.
Spike stands there.
"I'm not going to get dressed in front of you," Harris says.
"Please," Spike says, snorting. "I've already seen it, in case you've forgotten."
Harris frowns. "So not the point. Out."
"Fine." Spike goes out into the hallway, but doesn't shut the door. He smirks when Harris doesn't bother to come all the way across the room to close it and listens as the man gets dressed.
"Can I have some more?" Harris asks, appearing in the doorway wearing clothes and looking at the bottle hopefully. His hand must hurt like hell, but he's not complaining.
"Sure," Spike says. He hands the bottle over. "But I should go. You saw what happened last time when I left Angel on his own."
"Twice," Harris says. He drinks more and doesn't give the bottle back. "And since when do you care what happens to him?"
"I don't," Spike says, grabbing the whiskey back, ignoring Harris' startled 'Hey!'
"Then why are you here? Why don't you just go off and do... whatever you'd do?"
"He gives really good blow jobs," Spike says, and grins at the look on Harris' face. "What, you'd don't think I'd stick around just because I enjoy his company, do you?" He swigs from the bottle, lets his arm drop down at his side, and looks at the floor. Carpet's in rough shape. "Can't just leave him," he says quietly. "Bloody soul."
"Yeah. Having a conscience is a bitch." Xander pats Spike's arm.
"You just want my whiskey," Spike says, looking up at him suspiciously.
"Yup," Xander says, cheerful. "Hand it over and I promise I won't tell anyone about the part where you feel too guilty to leave Angel."
Spike holds out the bottle again without hesitation. "That's blackmail," he says with some admiration.
"Uh-huh. Whatever works." Xander drinks some more, then sits down on the floor, leaning back against the wall. "Well, come on. If we sit here, you'll be able to hear him if he gets up, right?"
The offer is so unexpected that Spike just stands there for a few seconds, gaping. Then he shuts his mouth and crouches down, taking the bottle and drinking from it before passing it back. "Sure you should be drinking this much?" he asks. "Not that I care, mind."
"Drinking this much is the only thing keeping me from screaming," Xander says, gingerly resting his bandaged hand on his thigh. "Trust me, I'm a much better conversationalist when I'm not screaming."
"No arguments there," Spike says.
