AN: I know this fandom is small but I hope not inactive! I've absolutely fallen in love with the show's writing, which is a subversion of expectation while still delivering the reward of a character's layers that we hope for. It's brilliant.

Also, yes. I know the Stanley Cup is not during this time of year. Let's pretend, shall we?

Part of a series, but not necessary to read the others first. Set in chronological order, so this one is set shortly after the end of the show.

The first time it happened, Spike thought he'd hallucinated the whole thing.

End of shift, everyone laughing (uneventful shift), talk of the weekend's big playoff game and Sam's open invitation for anyone to come over and watch it on their big screen.

As usual, Spike was the last one out. He sat on the bench in front of his locker, texting Winnie while simultaneously shoving his foot in the left sneaker on the floor.

She'd been on vacation in Jamaica for the past week with some college friends. He relished her updates, that she thought about him even in sunny paradise. They'd been taking things very slow, careful steps, but the fact she missed him nailed home that this relationship might work.

So he didn't notice the bird wing-light pressure on his scalp at first.

He felt it suddenly when a set of fingers caught in his hair, a tangled spot along his crown. The touch couldn't even be described as gentle. It could have been a breath of wind caused by someone's passing or his head brushing something.

It was barely there. A ghost of someone's hand.

Not the last one out, then.

He glanced up and his gut swooped.

Ed stood over him, the man's hand already retracted, also texting. He thumbed at his lip and the angle cast a shadow over the already dark undersides of his eyes.

Spike's wide eyes clouded. "Ed? You okay?"

Ed jerked to attention, as though Spike had the audacity to startle him.

"Fine. Why?" Then Ed scowled at himself and didn't give Spike a chance to answer. "It's Friday, Spike. Get out of here."

Spike did exactly that. He drove to Sam and Jules' house to watch the puck drop.

But he did it all without seeing, without fully being a part of it. Still caught up in seriously trying to tell if he imagined the blink-or-it's-gone sensation.

"Y'know…I get that we're Canadian and some of you grew up in the Prairies—but even I think this is too cold for a barbecue."

Nobody seemed to agree with Greg's sentiment, least of all the children, frolicking around with Sadie in her stroller on the Wordsworth family's back lawn.

The team snickered at Greg, his nose red and bald head hidden by a toque.

"Seriously," he insisted, clapping Wordy's back on the way by his manning of the grill. He climbed down the deck steps. "It's November, people."

"Early November," Ed corrected.

Sam handed Greg a bottle of non-alcoholic beer and tapped his own against it. "Best time for a barbecue."

"No snow," Spike added, though he buried his own cold nose in the collar of his windbreaker. He had his hands buried in his jeans, numb from the crisp air. Greg threw him a wry look like he could see straight through that.

Only Jules, in a thin, long sleeved shirt and sandals, didn't seem to feel the cold. She hugged Greg. "Look who showed up! Nice to have you, boss."

Greg rolled his eyes over Jules' shoulder to another round of laughter at his expense. "What do I have to do to get you all to stop calling me boss?"

"Yeah." Ed put the hand not holding Izzy on his hip. "That's my title."

"Mmm." Leah made a rocking motion with her hand. "Pretty sure you're just Ed."

A chatter of Sophie and Shelley's laughter had the team covering their own.

"Not just Ed," said Leah. Backtracking. "You're our boss, of course. And a great one at that. Just that you're also…"

Sophie walked over to kiss her husband on the cheek. "Ed. Boss is Greg's title."

Spike held a hand out to her. "Finally, someone gets it."

Izzy wanted in on the love and gave her father's ear a slobbery kiss. Ed chuckled but they didn't buy it, especially when the man melted and pecked her nose.

He set her down. "Go show Sam how to punt that ball."

"Ba!" she crowed. She wobbled on her pudgy legs, covered in pink leggings underneath a marshmallow coat. A giraffe hat sat atop her crown of fuzz.

Spike expected an eye roll and something about how hockey was the superior sport, but Sam's eyes lit up. He crouched down, slapping his knees to get the toddler's attention. "It'll be nice to play with a baby that can actually walk."

She spotted him. Cue grabby hands. "Sam!"

Jules canted her head while the others laughed. "She's better at our names than some of the HR guys."

Predictably, though it somehow still surprised Spike, Greg found a way to get him semi-alone by the deck. Then again, maybe everyone else was just in on the ruse.

"How're things with Winnie?"

"How is Dean enjoying the Academy?" Spike shot back.

Greg indulged him, even more shocking. "Quite a lot, since I'm not teaching any of his classes. Just wait 'til he enrolls in more advanced stuff with me. Then you'll be getting the angry phone calls."

Spike smiled into his coffee. "I'm already getting the angry phone calls."

"Wait." Greg's eyes widened. "You are? He only ever tells me how great it is to have his freedom and to be learning 'cool stuff.' Or so he puts it."

Spike shook his head. "I think he wants to make sure you're worry-free."

"Too late," Greg muttered.

"It's nothing big." Spike hoped he came off reassuring. "Just that your son is…well, he's the youngest in the dorm, boss. Some of the older kids feel they can push him around and take the better bunk. Stuff like that."

Greg drew up to his full height and even though that wasn't as tall as some on the team, he still managed to cow Spike whenever he did it. Fury crackled in his eyes.

Spike held up his hands, even the paper cup. "Crisis averted, boss. Stop freaking out. I went over there to give them a piece of my mind but Clark beat me to it. Literally."

Here, Ed inserted himself. He spoke around a mouthful of burger, fresh off the grill. "Literally?"

Spike nodded, smile widening. "I came just in time to see him punch a senior student halfway down the hall. Dean was yelling for him to stop but I think he was vaguely grateful. Either way, no more phone calls about bullies."

Greg sighed in relief and Ed's brows shot up.

"Those self defense lessons came in handy after all," he said. "Also, how did Clark get all the way over there? He doesn't have a car."

"Oh." Spike took a sip of coffee to get away from the two men's keen eyes. "I thought you knew. I drive Clark to visit Dean and vice versa every Friday."

Ed nearly spit out his burger. As it was, Greg was the one flushed and slack jawed. The two old friends exchanged incredulous looks.

"And when were you planning on telling us this?" Ed demanded.

Spike shrugged. "You never asked."

Greg spluttered but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "Secrets between brothers, huh?"

Spike had no idea what he meant, having grown up an only child, but he held his cup aloft. "Let it be known—Scarlatti ain't no snitch. Besides, I thought they'd both told you already."

Ed huffed, which set Greg off again. He clapped Ed on the back, calming some of the mulish set in his eyes. Then Greg ruffled Spike's hair for good measure, a rough and messy gesture that only made Greg grin wider when Spike slapped his hand.

He was so distracted in shoving Greg away that he didn't notice the tug on his shirt at first. It was a wobbly touch, a pressure that could be ignored as the wind.

However, the high-pitched "Mutad, 'Ike?" could not.

Spike glanced down to see Izzy waver on her fleece clad legs. Twin pigtails poked out of her hat where the giraffe's 'horns' would be. Her eyes were dead set on Spike.

Having rarely been the intent fixation of a toddler, he found himself startled for a moment. In the background, he registered stifled chuckles (Greg and Wordy) and a coo (Jules).

"Uh. Hey, lil' lady." His palm dwarfed her head when he passed over it. Her blond ringlets felt like a fuzzy peach. "What's up?"

Izzy held up a cut-in-half hot dog in her free hand, the one not clenched in Spike's sweater. It was barren of any topping. Then she pointed to a bottle on the picnic table next to them.

"Mutad."

Spike's brow cleared, though he was puzzled that she had not gone to her father for help, standing right there. "Ah. You want some mustard on it?"

She nodded sagely. "Pwease, Miss'r Fiss-it."

Here, Spike looked to Ed for help.

It was Ed's turn to laugh, however much he too tried to cover it up. "She wondered where I go everyday and what our job is. We've been discussing how everyone on the team has a special set of skills. You're—"

"Fiss-it 'Ike!"

Spike raised a wry brow. "So I've been demoted to handyman, huh? Mister Fix-It?"

"I can't very well explain to an eighteen month old what you actually do!"

"Why not? Sure you can." And Spike meant it. Patronizing kids was never acceptable in his book. He reached over Izzy's head for the mustard and set down his coffee in one smooth switch. "Izzy, don't listen to Papa. I defuse bombs for a living."

The adults all groaned but this only set Greg off more. Sam was grinning too.

Izzy lit up. "B'ms!"

Spike made an explosion sound and used his hands for emphasis. "We don't want those. Bombs bad."

"Uh-huh." Izzy nodded along. "Bad bobs."

"Look at that," Wordy piped up from the grill. "She's practically an EOD already."

Spike rolled his eyes but played along. "I'll be out of a job pretty soon."

Izzy giggled at his antics even if she didn't know what they meant. Out of the corner of his eye, Spike watched a funny look pass over Greg's face, one he couldn't read. A slight lilting around the corner of his eyes and a downturn of his lips that warred with the tightening of his cheeks.

Spike shook himself. "Better get this hot dog some mustard. Stat."

"Stat!" Izzy parroted, deciding she very much liked this new word. She forfeited her hot dog to Spike for 'fixing.' "Stat, stat, stat!"

Greg moved out of the way so Spike could sit on the second-from-the-grass step of the deck. Izzy, in her drunken little stagger, followed Spike by shifting her hand from his sweater to his sleeve.

When she removed it completely, Spike thought maybe she'd finally clued in that this was a 'Papa job.' But then her sticky fingers closed around his on the bottle. Two hands around his one.

Spike paused, hot dog in one hand, mustard and child's grip in the other. "What's up, Iz? Change your mind?"

She shook her head. "Mutad!"

"Yes, this is mustard. Very good."

Ed and Greg threw each other another fond glance. Spike found himself fighting with a sudden bout of shyness, though he couldn't say why, especially as he hadn't dealt with one in years. He forced himself to keep his eyes up, no blushing.

It clicked. "You want to do it yourself?"

Izzy chirped and babbled off something too fast for Spike to catch. But she looked excited. Score one.

"Okay. Here. You squeeze and I'll hold the hot dog. How does that sound?"

Izzy agreed to these terms with a nod. Spike shook the mustard bottle a few times to get it ready and then handed it to Izzy. She had to hold it in both palms and even then it threatened to slip. It was nearly as tall as her head.

She seemed fascinated by the nozzle at the end. She closed one eye to squint inside.

Sam, naturally, caught the danger first. His eyes widened. "Careful—!"

Too late.

With a gurgle, a giant glob erupted right onto Izzy's face, thankfully missing her eye. She blinked, not sure what to make of this shocking development and the cold liquid over her forehead. Yellow dripped down the bridge of her nose.

Then she looked to Spike. "Fiss it?"

"Sure, honey, I can fix it." Spike reached over…

SPLAT!

A more generous spray dotted all across Spike's temples and into his hair. Like Izzy, all he could do for a moment was blink, his long lashes creating more mustard lines across his cheeks.

The adults roared. Spike released his scrunched up nose and couldn't help joining in.

"Well, at least we know she's got your sense of aim. Right, Ed?" Spike glanced to his right. But where Ed had been standing seconds before was now empty. "Ed?"

Spike looked wildly around but the older sniper was gone. This seemed odd, that he would leave his child right after she'd made a mess of herself.

Sophie whisked onto the scene. She didn't looked miffed at all. "Don't worry, Spike. This is practically a Lane family tradition. Clark did the very same thing at his first team barbecue. Except his was a bottle of mayonnaise."

"Ooo. Ouch." Spike grimaced while helping Sophie wipe the toddler off. "That stuff stinks."

"Stin's," Izzy agreed.

"Yeah." Spike grinned at her. "Now we match! But I think all this mustard would taste better on your hot dog."

He squeezed some out for her and she stuck the whole dog in her mouth to another round of snickers. Leah handed Spike a wet towel. He gratefully rubbed the mustard off, feeling its speckles along his scar.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he caught Greg sliding open the porch door. The faint outline of another man revealed Ed, hands braced on the kitchen counter and head bowed.

Sophie tweaked her daughter's nose. "What do we say, Izzy?"

The girl opened her mouth to reveal half-chewed meat and the tiny nubs of her teeth. "Tank-oo!"

"You're welcome." Spike tried to muster a smile. He swallowed and his voice came out floaty, absent. "So very welcome…"

AN: The incident with Izzy is actually based on a real experience. Only it was ketchup a toddler sprayed in my face! Good times. Also, are you really a Canadian if you don't have a fall/winter barbecue every year? What a strange ritual we northern humans enjoy.