Minor reference to the Grid's interview with Sergio. Which was massively cute and made me squee and oh goodness that man is just adorable. Also, I hope you don't hate me for this. It's quite possible someone might. (Let me just note really quick that Spike is my favorite. Forever. There is nothing I don't love about him, except maybe the fact that I can't marry him due to the fact that he is (a) so much older than I am and (b) fictional. Sad sad sad.)

There's something wrong with this, but I can't exactly pinpoint it. It's driving me insane. But I'm dying to post something, so here we go. (please don't hate me.)

When Spike started shooting off orders, she was on top of them. There was a shield and water, ready and waiting for him when he got back from dropping off the bomb. He looked up, smiling, grateful, and reached out for her. His lips found her cheek and everyone watched, silent, not doing a thing.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Lewis was silent on the coms, his shoulders stiff and tense. A phone was pressed to his ear, and everyone knew what that meant. He was saying goodbye. Some of them – Greg, Wordy, Sam, Ed, even Lew – accepted this. No matter how much they didn't like it, they knew that this was the end. Jules and Spike, though, put that to the back of their minds. It couldn't end, not like this.

"Spike," Boss tried, half-heartedly. He knew – everyone knew – nobody could convince him to take a step back.

Spike grabbed the water and the shields and lugged them across the ground. Jules ran out to help him, ease the burden a bit, but he dropped the equipment, caught her in the chest, and pushed. She stumbled backwards and Sam was there, behind her, keeping her steady. He started advancing on Spike, ready to shove back, but she threw out her hands to stop him, and he stayed.

"I'm comin', Lew!" Spike's voice echoed around the campus. Lewis looked up and over his shoulder, fear evident in his face. He shook his head vigorously, the back and forth motion making tears dot the gravel beneath him.

"Stay back, Spike. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay."

"Don't give up on me, buddy," he shouted back, in range. He avoided the buried mines and set the shields down, careful. Jules watched, ready to help if needed. Sam had her elbow in his hand, holding her back; the rest of the team was standing at a safe distance. They had given up. She didn't have the energy to snap at them, not right now. All of her focus was set on her two teammates, one moving slowly, the other still as the dead.

"I'm just going to slip this under your foot, here," Spike was explaining, his voice clear over the coms. "I'm going to drop the water down at the same time as you step off, okay? And then we'll both walk out of here, we'll both go home. Are you ready?"

"Spike," Lewis said. "Spike, go back to the car."

He looked up. Even from far away, she could see the expression on his face. Disgust, as if the mere thought of leaving his best friend behind physically sickened him. It probably did, too, and that was the worst part.

"What did I just say?" His words were more forceful than necessary. "We're gonna go get a burger after this, okay? We'll go to BQM and get a Hawaiian burger and sweet potato fries. And you can hit on that waitress. The one with the red hair. You like her, don't you? I see the way you look at her."

He was concentrating, his words strained as he tried to calm himself. "Okay. You ready, buddy?"

"Spike," Greg shouted. "Spike, get back here."

"Listen to the Boss."

He ignored them both, continued babbling.

"Michelangelo." Next to Greg, the vein in Ed's forehead was pulsing, trying to force its way out of the skin. "Michelangelo Scarlatti, you're putting your life at risk too, here. This isn't in the handbook –"

"Three."

"Spike."

"Two."

"Spike!"

"One."

There was a hot blast of air as the land mine was activated, spraying the water far into the air. Jules was screaming, but it was drowned out by Greg's shouts and the echo of the explosion and she really really didn't want to think about the remains lying at her feet, because she couldn't tell if it was metal or plastic or –

/

The worst part about the funeral was that there were two. One was bearable; it would take time, but she could get through it with the help of her team. But losing two friends made her forget how to breathe.

She almost didn't go. She didn't deserve to, because she had had a hand in this. She had helped him kill both himself and his best friend, even if it wasn't supposed to go that way. She couldn't think about what would've happened if it had gone differently, if the weight transfer had been successful, because it hurt just to say their names. If she started going into what if's, she might not survive.

The caskets were elegant, carved to perfection, and she caught herself thinking that death shouldn't be this beautiful. But she had learned that it wasn't all black and white – the gray regions took up much of everything. This particular moment fell somewhere in between because it was an accident, really; neither of them had deserved to die. One fell saving his team, the other saving his best friend.

She wanted to leave at several points during the service. First, when she first saw their parents, side by side, wearing black; then, when Wordy walked up and put his arms around her; when the man started talking, making assumptions about the two of them, even though he had never had the enormous honor of meeting them; and, finally, when the gears started turning and the two bodies (if even) were lowered into the ground.

She dropped a rose into each of the graves after whispering an apology into the petals. Her chest ached, felt like it was being ripped open right under the soft fabric of her dress. Sam saw her before she saw him; when she did, though, she turned her back and slipped away, taking off her shoes to run through the dew damp grass, blinded by tears.

She took more time than was probably necessary. Greg called a few times, asking if she was planning on coming back; all she said, every time, was "Not yet." When he asked how she was doing, like clockwork, she pushed the phone back into its cradle, not bothering to answer.

One night, she woke up to the buzz of the cell phone on her side table. She smiled into her pillow and reached out, expecting another hilarious, drunken, midnight call from Spike about how watermelons really aren't fair representations of women's breast sizes and that bears are unfairly represented by the Constitution of the United States, along with a detailed plan to overthrow the American government and replace its highest positions with caterpillar-giraffe hybrids.

Her fingers brushing the plastic casing of her phone shocked her back into reality. She sat up, hyperventilating with nausea, and struggled to free herself from the blankets. She fell to the floor, finally, crying, unnatural noises of despair rising into the air around her, encasing her in grief.

Much too long into her time off, Boss came by. He said it was just to check up on her, the unspoken truth sat hung them: he was making sure she was still breathing. He lied about how it wasn't her fault, repeated overused clichés about sorrow and moving on, and held her close to him as she cried. He was a wayward father figure, lost in his own mistakes. He did make her feel better, though, if it was only just a few stiches mending the hole in her heart.

She came to visit one day, just to ease herself back into the life of being an SRU officer. Sam kept an unusual amount of distance, as though she would snap if he came too close. Wordy made it clear that he had an open arm policy, and to think of him as the Free Hugs guy. "No such thing as too many hugs," he said. She could see the sadness in him, too.

Ed, though, was the worst. His lip was curled, his blue eyes hard and cold, as if the mere sight of her sickened him. The first look they exchanged shocked Jules and she froze, bracing herself against the desk. He blamed her. He blamed her for giving Spike false hope, the confidence it took to get himself killed.

Trials were in the process. That was hard. Wordy kept his thumbnail in his mouth and his elbow in his hand, closed off to the decision. Sam seemed indifferent. Greg pretended that everything was okay, that they weren't replacing two members of their team. He rattled on and on about his favorites, as if he was watching reality tv instead of living his life. Ed was right on the shooting range, screaming into the ears of potentials, trying to break them down.

Wordy told her, later, as he was driving her home, that Ed was taking it really hard. He explained exactly what his friend was doing – he was denying it. He was trying to destroy the souls of the ones who might fill the empty chairs, because, somewhere deep inside, he was still clinging to the hope that they were coming back, that he would wake up one day and realize that this had all been a twisted nightmare.

He didn't drop her at home. Not for the night, at least. Wordy accompanied her inside, oversaw that she packed a bag, and brought her home with him for the night. She slept on the couch, but the laughter and love that filled the home long after the family had gone to bed made the ghosts fade, just a little.

Sam tried not to look too fazed when they walked in together the next morning. He nodded his hello, still skirting the line she had drawn at the funeral. They weren't alone until the end of that day, after choosing Leah Kearns and Rafik Rousseau, two of the handful that hadn't broken down crying at Ed's pressure, as their new team members.

He was sitting at the table, feet propped up, reading a newspaper. She watched him for a moment, taking in the glazed-over look in his eye. He was thinking. Once she built up the nerve, she slipped into the room, taking to the walls until he saw her. When he did, she said, "Hey."

"Hey." He stood up, leaving the paper on the table, and crossed the distance between them, as if he was eager to paint over the black tape. "How are you?"

"Better." She trained her eyes on the front of his coat, biting her lips together, unexplained tears already clouding her eyes.

"Look," he said, and she shook her head.

"I didn't mean to avoid you," she whispered. "I just… I'm having a really hard time with this. Losing both of them…" She took a deep breath. "It's just hard. Really hard."

"I know," he said, and touched her elbow tentatively. "I'm part of the team, too, remember?" He smoothed his thumb across her cheek, a quick brush of his finger against his skin. "The pain of losing someone doesn't get any easier; hiding it, though. I do that well."

She started to cry. She covered her face, so embarrassed – she wasn't supposed to break down. This wasn't in her personality, showing weakness. This was what other, lesser girls did. But she was sobbing nevertheless, Sam pulling her closer, trying to offer any kind of comfort he could.

"Ed hates me," she whimpered into the front of his uniform. "And I understand why, because I hate myself, too. I hate myself so much. I helped him when he was trying to do something that wouldn't have worked anyway. I was behind him in taking both of their lives."

He let her cry in silence for a few minutes, then said, "I talked to Wordy the other day. He said Ed's biggest regret was not helping Spike and Lewis out, not being brave like you. He gave up too early, wasn't enough of a friend to two people that meant so much to him. He's beating himself up inside. If he's giving off any kind of vibe…" Jules pulled out of his arms so she could look him in the face.

"He doesn't mean it." She sniffled and pushed the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the flow of tears. "Yeah."

"I'm always here, too," he whispered to her. She couldn't help smiling a little bit, because he was constantly reminding her why she had fallen in love with him in the first place. "If you ever need anything…"

"Jules." Ed's voice surprised them both, and they turned, in unison, to face the door. All he said was "I'm sorry" before reaching out and pulling her into a tight hug. She had never been this close to him before, and she got choked up all over again.

"I just," she hiccupped, and Ed said, "Shh, shh, shh," and rocked her in slight, back-and-forth movements. This soothed her a little, let her catch her breath, and she inhaled his scent, familiar and foreign, comfortable and edgy. She had never thought of him particularly as a father, even though she knew he had Clark; Wordy or Greg had always been the one she had turned to when she needed a fatherly influence. But Ed radiated something different – trust, stability. She knew he would hold her up when she was down, just like he was now.

"You're gonna be okay," he said, fingers coasting gently over her hair. "I promise."

She believed him.