There's no tail-wagging and tongue-lapping. The dog gives a disgruntled little wuff at the sound of his name and then lies down, which suits Spike fine. He gives an almost imperceptible little nod at the animal, not breaking eye contact.

That's right, doggy, you lie there nice and quiet, and I'll sit here, nice and calm, and we'll all understand one another. Spike wipes his hand casually on his jeans.

"Yeh, I reckoned as much. Don't want to bother him when he's working. Good point-- that wall wasn't made by humans, so it stands to reason it wouldn't only affect humans. What the hell do you suppose possessed them to make a thing like that?"

Spike knows very well the wall doesn't only affect humans. He slouches comfortably on the bench, fishes in his coat pocket, and withdraws a spicy beef jerky stick, offering it to Finch.

He's feeling pensive now, thinking about the wall, and the way it made him feel. This segues into other thoughts- why any of them are here, how they will get out of here, whether he's going to wind up the only person on a ghost ship, just him and Siri, eternally drifting through the silent void of space.

"Bit worried about her, really," this is soft, maybe too soft for a middle-aged chap like Finch to fully discern, and devoid of the veneer of cocky cheer he's been affecting.