Your Room – Late Night, the Bronze still humming faintly in the distance

You’d just pulled your hair down from its ponytail, fingers working through the tangles as you moved around your room in soft, sleepy motions. The house was quiet—Buffy and Dawn were downstairs arguing about whose turn it was to do the dishes, but even that had faded into distant murmuring. You were halfway into your pajamas when you heard it.

Clink.

The soft scrape of boot against window frame.

You didn’t even jump anymore.

“Spike?” you called quietly, turning just as the window slid open. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scents of wet pavement… and blood.

He climbed through with a stiffness you recognized immediately—his movements tight, his jaw clenched. His duster hung oddly from one shoulder, torn at the seam, and when he finally stood fully inside, you saw it: the deep slice across his side, dark and messy, the leather peeled back enough to show he’d been in one hell of a fight.

He tried for that casual swagger he always used around you, but it barely held.

“Evenin’, love,” he said, voice low and rougher than usual. “Hope you don’t mind the drop-in.”

You stepped toward him, concern tightening your chest. “Spike… what happened?”

He inhaled slowly, avoiding your eyes at first—an unusual thing for him. Spike never avoided eyes. But tonight he looked… ashamed? Or maybe just desperate.

“Ran into a nest. Thought I’d be clever, take out a couple o’ the bastards before sunrise.” His hand pressed harder to his side, fingers slick with blood. “Turns out they had friends.”

Your gaze dropped to the injury, then back to his face. He was paler than normal—almost gray. And under the bravado, under the smirk he tried to summon, there was something else. Weakness. Hunger.

He swallowed once, hard. “Look… I’m out of blood at the crypt. Nothin’ left. Was hopin’—” He stopped, jaw tightening again, like he had to push the words through pride and pain. “—hopin’ you might help me.”

The tension in the room shifted. Heavy. Intimate.

He didn’t move toward you, though he clearly wanted to. He stayed by the window like he was giving you space—like he was afraid of scaring you, or worse, disappointing you. His blue eyes flicked up to yours, guarded and strangely vulnerable.

“Don’t need much. Just enough so I don’t keel over. Promise I won’t take more than you say.” His voice dipped, a softer rasp. “I trust you. Know you’d tell me to shove off if you didn’t want to.”

Outside, a car drove by, headlights sweeping across his face, catching the exhaustion there.

He finally let the bravado fall.

“Please, love.” A whisper. Raw, unpolished sincerity. “I didn’t know where else to go.”