"Nosebleeds?"
Greg would laugh if he weren't nearly hysterical with alarm.
The doctor in her cap and gown nods, studying the two burly men who refuse to leave the viewing window. "I'll be honest, officers…I've been at this job eighteen years. And I've never seen someone come out of a bombing unscathed like Constable Scarlatti has."
Ed catches Greg's eye. "A miracle?"
"Sure." She smiles, a tiny one. "That word fits quite well here, in my personal view."
Like the finale of a grand opera, Greg sits in the chair Ed's been trying to get him to rest in since this whole debacle began. The tests have taken hours. Supper has come and gone while they waited here.
Ed deflates too, leaning his palms on the window ledge.
The three gaze at Spike for a moment, still awake, staring up at the ceiling from his hospital bed.
He's still faintly covered in grime, though they wiped the worst of it off for all the CT scans and MRIs and a host of blood tests Greg can't even remember the names of, topped off by a local ultrasound.
"He's fine," says the doctor again. "All tests came back clean, though he is majorly dehydrated, almost like…" She frowns, pensive. "But he lost no blood that we could find. Not even a broken bone. No bleeding or fluid on his brain, though he has a concussion."
"How can he have a concussion without any marks on him?" Ed asks.
He's got a point, one Greg hasn't thought about.
"We don't see shock wave concussions very often," the doctor admits. "It's caused by the rolling wave from a blast, hitting directly on his skull. The brain inside is jostled, for lack of a more sophisticated word, and hits the inside of the cranial wall."
Greg looks at twin fields of gauze they're applying to Spike. "And his hands?"
This sobers her, which in turn makes Greg tense.
"He did some digging," she says. Her attempt at neutral wording doesn't work and Ed swears softly. "The skin broke from repeated scratching at a hard surface, probably the concrete.
"It's good news, though. No internal bleeding in his organs. The worst physical damage is that concussion and all the gyprock he inhaled."
That particular problem Greg and Ed didn't need a doctor to notice.
Spike suffered three coughing fits in succession over only a twenty minute period when all this started. His lungs are raw. Hence the blood and nosebleeds.
"We're keeping him overnight for observation," she finishes. "But he should be able to go home in the morning."
"And the lack of response?" Greg asks.
She sighs. Her eyes are sagging, lined. "We can't be sure it isn't the concussion, but…"
Ed turns. "Doc?"
"In my professional opinion, it's a psychological issue."
Both men shake her hand, relieved beyond words there isn't more damage, and then the door closes. Neither says a word. Just watch Spike breathe and those eyes still lost somewhere they don't understand.
Greg almost blurts, "I should have been there today."
But that's not right. Every single member of this team-family was exactly where they were supposed to be.
"Jules called earlier," says Ed in a quiet murmur Greg barely hears. "She's on standby in case you and she have to decide…"
Greg nods. He doesn't trust himself to speak.
"The team has agreed to back off for tonight." Ed sinks into the neighbouring chair. "Winnie is staying with Leah. Marina said something about cooking for them."
They watch a nurse come in, leading Spike to the bathroom where—hopefully—they'll get the evidence of this hellish day off him.
He really can hear and understand. That fact hits home when Spike does exactly what the woman tells him, eyes glazed but lucid. She doesn't make any physical contact with him. The staff have figured out that much. She hands him two bags to tape over his hands.
"I should go help." Greg wavers to his feet. He's forced to lean heavily on the cane. "He'll let me touch him."
"Greg—"
Ed shoots up but keeps his distance at the agonized fire in Greg's eyes.
"Why won't he talk, Eddie? It's like he's not here at all!"
"I don't know." Ed fights tears. "I don't know, okay? This isn't a gunman or a jumper or something I can fix."
"But we have to," Greg whispers. "We can't lose him, Ed."
Ed is not a tactile person, the opposite of Greg. So it throws Greg off kilter when the man wraps him in a strong, melting hug. Greg embraces him back with the arm not keeping himself upright.
"We won't," Ed breathes into his shoulder. "Spike is just lost. It's our job to find him."
"Where is he, Eddie?" Greg moans out the abject horror of this day. Lets his friend carry his weight for a second. "Where is our boy?"
"I don't know." Ed's hands shake around Greg's back. "I don't know and I can't do this job if he doesn't come back."
The words, even more than the hug, are a blinding declaration of how peeled open Ed is right now. Greg loses his breath.
Then he's holding Ed's weight and they tremble, alone, in the viewing room until Greg runs out of tears.
By the time Greg regains his composure and Ed isn't pastier than a bed sheet, Spike has already showered and walks out in one of Ed's massive hoodies—it comes down past Spike's hands—and sweats. It's a relief to see no trace of ash on his body.
Greg meets Spike and the nurse at the door. He helps tear the bags off his hands. "There he is! Feel better, Spike?"
Spike doesn't answer, of course. His eyes are fixed ahead, but not on where they're going.
"Didn't even have to touch him," says the nurse. She grins. "He showered on his own. Pulled the curtain and everything."
Well, that's something. Now if only Spike's eyes would come back to the present. His gaze is empty, absent. He refuses to speak or respond to questions. It's like a trance.
The nurse tries to steer him to the bed and that's where they hit their first snag.
"Spike?" Greg ambles around to face him head on. "Don't you want to sit down?"
And he immediately does—in the visitor's chair.
Greg brushes at Spike's shoulder, trying to get him to move. No luck. Spike won't budge an inch. The nurse and Greg have a silent conversation with their eyes. He shrugs.
"I know when to pick my battles," she says. "Scarlatti, I'll be back with your supper."
Greg is at ease once it's just the three of them. It's an old vestige of their lives before the bombing. A familiar scenario. Just Ed, Greg, and Spike working on a solution to the problem.
Greg can't kneel down anymore, thanks to his bum leg, but Ed does it for him.
"Hey, squirt," says Ed in a voice so affectionate Greg wouldn't recognize it if he wasn't staring at his friend.
It's been so long established that Greg loves Spike like his own that he's missed how much Ed looks out for this kid. How close they've grown during Greg's year away.
"Hey," says Ed again. "We're here. It's Ed and Greg. Whatever you're seeing, Spike, it's not real. I promise, I promise—if you just step out, we'll catch you."
Ed holds up his hand. When Spike doesn't react to it, Ed's palm makes it to the tech's face. He rubs a thumb over Spike's cheekbone.
It strikes Greg that this is the first physical contact the two have had since Ed watched the building cave. The sniper's chest heaves in a fought-off choke of emotion.
A beat later, Greg realizes what he's looking at. He breathes an epithet.
"Whoa!" Ed leans back but doesn't let go of Spike's face. "Whoa…"
Spike whole body erupts in violent shakes, an earthquake from his hands to his feet. They're fast and twitchy. Quivers that jitter the very teeth in Spike's head; Greg can hear their clacking from three feet away.
Ed rises from his knees to a half standing position. His other hand joins the first. "Easy, Spike. Spike? It's okay. Easy."
Spike's eyes are still clouded, but his face contracts, like he's in pain.
Not pain. Distress.
Urgency filters into Ed's posture and Greg watches him work to keep his grip light on Spike's face. He murmurs low, soothing words.
The episode is messy. It's torture to watch, though there's nothing to do but ride it out and be there for Spike.
"Can you slow that breathing down?" Ed coaches Spike, still stroking his cheekbones. "Nice deep breaths?"
Spike doesn't exactly do what Ed asks, but in the next moment, his eyes finally shift.
Right onto Greg.
"Gr'g?"
It's the first word out of Spike's mouth—both Ed and Greg softly cry out before they can censor it. Over five hours of total silence broken by one muddled syllable.
Spike fights Ed's hands trying to peer around them. His huffed, "Ed…Boss…where…" turns into a panic attack.
Greg's own blood pressure skyrockets to see Spike's face drain of colour, eyes woozy, and his lungs wheeze in unsteady rhythms. His coughing starts up again.
"Look at me. Spike, now."
Ed's sharp order does the trick.
Spike does look at Ed. Wide-eyed, a caged animal. A clot of blood fills his mouth and trickles over his chin.
His eyes are slightly down, fixed on the deliberate rise and fall of Ed's chest. After an unbearable few minutes, his breathing starts to match it.
"Boss…?"
"You're at the hospital." Greg's aching tone draws Spike's eyes to him. "You did great. Nobody died today, though quite frankly it's a wonder you didn't."
Greg waits for the slump of relief. The flush of rosy colour to Spike's cheeks. The blurted explanation of how he got out. Maybe one of those knee-jerk hugs for Ed he initiates after tough calls.
Instead, in a gradual fade, Spike's face dissolves. It's so slow, so harsh a transition from that blank face to complete anguish that Greg has a hand on his bowed, wet head before he thinks to move.
Spike's chest is bucking again, only this time it's from grief. Greg hasn't seen him weep like this in years.
Tears jump from his scrunched eyes. The tech's forehead pops with ropy tendons. He slides a hand over his eyes but Ed won't let him pull away.
Neither man has any idea what's hurting Spike. Ed grits his teeth in helplessness. Greg just weeps with him, bending down to plant his lips in Spike's hair.
They stay there while Spike warbles out a long note of pain. Not physical. Greg feels the stab of it inside his own chest.
Ed huddles close to him and croons out words of reassurance, that they're all okay. He's safe. The explosion wasn't his fault. He gets close enough to press against the side of Spike's head.
Together, they hold his tottering weight up.
"Gotta go!" Spike finally chokes out. He tries to stand but he can barely keep from rocking sideways. Greg presses lightly on Spike's shoulder, keeping him in place. "No, please!"
Ed glares at Greg, an instinct borne of Spike's floundering. "I'll risk him keeling over if it calms this down."
Greg doesn't agree but it's a moot point.
Spike stops fighting them and slumps forward, elbows on his knees. His claw-like bandages scrub back and forth through his hair. Blood drips onto the tile. It's all over the bottom half of his face and neck.
He coughs and stutters out apologies even Greg can't decipher.
"Please," he groans. "Please, I'm sorry. Please…"
"Spike," Ed starts. His hand rubs circles on Spike's back. "How did you get out of the rubble?"
Spike shakes his head. "I'm sorry."
"No." Ed frowns. "We're not mad. You have nothing to apologize for. You hear me? What you just endured was appalling and you're allowed to process that however you need."
Spike looks at Ed, really looks at him, and whispers another trio that change Greg's life. "But he's gone."