This Finch chap is rubbing the dog's head as if his life depends on it. Very comforting, petting a dog. Spike watches the soft white hands as they stroke and knead the fur around the base of the animal's skull, the soft alert ears.

The dog accepts this rubbing and kneading patiently, although it shifts now and then where it's sitting, tongue lolling. Occasionally it tries to turn and lick Finch's hands.

Finch's heartrate is still up. His breathing's still shallow, and his voice has the giddy almost-laugh in it Spike's all-too-familiar with. In short, he's probably at the end of his tether.

When Dru gets like this, he wraps his arms round her and holds her close, rocking her a bit, spinning yarns for her or asking her about the exploits of her chums, the stars. That's obviously not an option here, and the bloke's already turned down the offer of chocolate, so Spike runs through options in his mind.

"How's the dog holding up? I mean, what with the change of scenery."