The three men had shown up at the new Watcher's Council headquarters, with Spike and Gunn supporting Wes' sagging frame in the doorway. Andrew had answered the door and fainted dead away. Xander was never sure if it was just the sight of the three or the streaks of dried blood or both.
Xander himself had just returned from Africa, lean and hard and tanned, with his long, loose hair and his eyepatch - looking like a marauding pirate; the girls calling him "Captain Jack." He had dashed to catch Andrew, pushing him onto a sofa before grabbing Wes' arm. As soon as the weight had been taken from them, both Spike and Gunn had slumped to opposite sides of the doorframe in a picture of utter exhaustion and defeat. Xander settled Wes next to Andrew, then helped the others, also putting Gunn on the sofa before easing Spike into a wing chair. Expressionless, Spike had squeezed his hand, once, lightly, before closing his eyes and turning his face to the rich oxblood leather of the chair.
A thunder of footsteps on the wide staircase heralded the arrival of the Slayer posse, and Xander found himself standing partially in front of the chair that held Spike, hovering almost protectively. Giles fell to his knees before Wes, checking him for injuries, and Xander managed to catch Buffy before she could fling herself onto Spike.
"There's something wrong with him," he told her in a low, urgent voice.
Buffy's eyes widened, and she slowed her approach. She reached down to brush her fingers lightly over the shoulder of his duster. "Are you OK?" she whispered.
Spike didn't move or react at all, and she turned to look at Xander. He stared down at her hand. It was covered in a red and black dust: dried blood and ash.
They had all done what they normally did - Scoobies and Slayers alike. They gathered up the wounded and began to set things to rights. Somehow, Xander had wound up with charge of Spike; Giles and Dawn had taken Wes, and Buffy and Willow led Gunn to the kitchen. A revived Andrew set about making tea and coffee and bemoaned the fact that they didn't have any blood on hand as they no longer had a resident vampire. Xander, after easing a compliant and silent Spike out of his clothes and into his suite's shower, neatly solved that problem by dispassionately slicing his own forearm over a coffee mug, closing the cut with three butterfly tapes once the mug was full. His look dared anyone to comment before he turned and disappeared up the stairs.
He found Spike exactly where he'd left him, under the steaming water, not moving. With a sigh, Xander popped the detachable showerhead off the wall and proceeded to wash Spike like the world's tallest, skinniest dog. He wrapped the still form is his own terry cloth robe, sat him down on his bed and handed him the mug. Spike drank, then heaved a shuddering sigh before handing it back. He didn't look up at the knock on the door.
"I brought you some clothes for him...Andrew's. They should fit." Buffy looked uncharacteristically nervous, shifting from one foot to the other in the hall.
"Thanks," Xander said. "What did Gunn say?"
"Nothing yet. He's got a stab wound in his chest - it's about half healed. Wes is catatonic."
Xander glanced back at Spike. "Yeah, it seems to be going around. I'll bring him down in a minute."
She nodded and he closed the door softly after trading her the mug for the proffered clothing.
Stepping back to the bed, he shook out the black jeans and tee shirt. "Black and black; your reputation precedes you." He sighed at Spike's lack of response and reached for the robe's tie. He stopped moving as Spike lifted a hand to brush his finger along the tape holding the cut on Xander's arm together. Xander's eye met Spike's flat, blue ones. Spike blinked slowly.
"You're welcome," he said. "Now get dressed."