She skids to a halt as she takes in the destruction—the splintered door, the wrecked furniture, the gouges in the walls.
Her face drains of color.
BUFFY
(quiet, scared)
Oh no… no, no—
BUFFY
Dawn!
She bolts for the stairs.
---
**INT. DAWN’S BEDROOM – CONTINUOUS**
Buffy bursts into the room.
BUFFY
Dawn!
Dawn sits on her bed, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders.
Spike stands beside the bed, arms crossed, body angled slightly in front of her without even realizing it.
Buffy stops short when she sees them.
For half a second, she just stares—Spike soaked, bruised, still very much *there*.
BUFFY
(soft, urgent)
Dawn.
Dawn looks up—and breaks.
BUFFY
crosses the room in two strides and pulls Dawn into her arms.
BUFFY
Oh my gosh—are you hurt? Did he touch you? Are you—
DAWN
No. No, I’m okay.
(voice wobbles)
I was scared, but I’m okay.
Buffy holds her tighter, eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard as the adrenaline catches up.
BUFFY
I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.
Dawn shakes her head fiercely.
DAWN
It’s not your fault.
She pulls back just enough to look at Buffy.
DAWN
The demon came for you. Spike showed up. He didn’t even hesitate.
Buffy looks up then—really looks at Spike.
BUFFY
You… stayed?
Spike shrugs, uncomfortable with the weight in her voice.
SPIKE
Wasn’t leavin’ her.
A beat.
BUFFY
Thank you.
It’s simple. Earnest.
Spike nods once. That’s all he lets himself do.
BUFFY turns back to Dawn, brushing hair out of her face.
BUFFY
What happened, sweetie?
Dawn swallows.
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DAWN
The door just—exploded. I didn’t know what to do.
(quiet)
I thought I was gonna die.
Buffy’s hand tightens around Dawn’s.
BUFFY
You didn’t. You did everything right. You screamed, you ran, you survived.
Dawn glances sideways at Spike.
DAWN
He told me I did good.
Spike clears his throat, suddenly very interested in the far wall.
SPIKE
Well. You did.
Buffy watches the exchange—files it away.
BUFFY
I’m here now.
Dawn nods, but her fingers still clutch the blanket.
Spike notices.
SPIKE
I’ll be downstairs.
Beat.
SPIKE
Unless you want me here.
Dawn answers instantly.
DAWN
Stay.
Spike doesn’t argue.
He shifts slightly, settling against the wall near the door—arms crossed, silent, vigilant.
Buffy sits on the bed beside Dawn, pulling her close again.
BUFFY
Nothing else is coming tonight. I promise.
Spike’s voice comes quietly from the wall.
SPIKE
And if it does—it won’t get past me.
Buffy meets his eyes.
No sarcasm. No challenge.
Just fact.
BUFFY
Okay.
They sit there like that—Dawn between them, safe for now.
Spike doesn’t move.
He doesn’t need to.
Buffy tries to lead Spike out of Dawn's room, he looks back.
"Let her sleep." Buffy said, but he snarled, low and protective. Still, he let himself walk through the house.
"What did it want." He asked of the Demon
"Don't know. Now he's way too dead to answer that question. Wish I knew who hired him." Buffy said, Spike's jaw ticked.
"I'm not saying it's your fault, you did the right thing." Buffy said and Spike's expression changed completely.
"You praising me?" He asked and could hardly believe it. Buffy looked like she might take it back.
"You did the right thing." She said again, soberly.
ch 21
Someone was at the front door, Spike sat up and his eyes became vicious, his one hand out protectively in front of Dawn
"Buffy?" Dawn called out, and the door opened - no smashing.
"Oh. Yep, it's me, and I brought dinner. Deep fried chicken parts. Hope you're hungry!" Buffy was the one that walked into the foyer of the Summers house, night. The front door opens and Buffy comes in, holding a paper bucket under her arm. She tosses her keys on the side table.
Then Buffy.
She didn’t knock this time either. Just opened the door quietly and stepped inside, carrying two mugs. One blood. One coffee. She looked like she hadn’t slept much more than he had—hair pulled back in a messy knot, shadows under her eyes, but her shoulders were set in that familiar stubborn line.
She set the mugs on the nightstand without a word. Sat on the very edge of the mattress, facing him.
“That’s all I’m asking.”
She reached out then. Slow. Gave him time to pull away.
He didn’t.
Something broke in his chest. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a quiet snap. Like a lock finally giving way.
He turned his face into her hand. Just a fraction. Enough to feel the warmth of her palm.
She didn’t answer right away.
He waited.
They sat on the edge of the bed—side by side, not touching, but close enough that the space between them felt alive.
Outside, the night kept moving.
Inside, for the first time in weeks, the silence didn’t feel like waiting for disaster.
It felt like waiting for dawn.
The door closed behind her.
He sat there in the dark for a long time after.
Fingers touching the place her hand had been.
Not quite a memory.
But close.
Closer than anything else had been since the tower.
"You promised her. And you kept it. Even when keeping it meant falling.”
He looked away. Jaw working.
“I don’t remember the promise,” he muttered. “Just the falling. The pain. The… need to get her down.”
Then, quieter: "You used to call me Slayer. Like it was an insult. Like it was a challenge."
"I don't remember anything!" The shout burst out before he could cage it. Dawn flinched. He hated himself for it instantly. He dragged both hands through his hair, hard enough to hurt. He took a step back. Another. Until his shoulders hit the wall. He slid down it slowly, knees finally giving out, but he kept his chin up. Wouldn't let them see him broken. Not completely. Each step deliberate. No stagger. No weakness.
Spike stayed upstairs. Paced the small bedroom like a caged animal who’d forgotten why the bars mattered. Five steps wall to wall. Turn. Five back. The carpet muffled his boots, but every creak of the floorboards felt like a confession.
"Alright, you try it. You tell me this is palatable, go on." He dared, half in jest, recognising that the girls were not about to try and drink pig's blood.
"Well, you used to put stuff in it. Said it would make it better."
"Oh?" Spike looks at his cup again, wonders what could mask the taste somewhat. Hrn, maybe that would work... ?
When he fights, Spike realises, it turns out there's more he retains than just a habit of smoking and sarcasm, he discovers that while he has no memory of his past, the knowledge of how to perform these actions remains intact. This small continuity amidst his amnesia brings him a sense of reassurance and curiosity about what else he retains. Spike can fight!
"Whose room is this?"
"It was, my mom's"
