AN: I love this dumpster fire of a story. It made laugh. It made me legit cry. I am content. Hope you enjoyed the ride as much as I did.
'And I know you claim
That you're alright
But fix your eyes on me
I guess I'm all you have
And I swear you'll see the dawn again.
Relate to my youth
Well, I'm still in awe of you
Discover some new truth
That was always wrapped around you.'
"Guiding Light" ~ Mumford and Sons
The end of that second week at work, without Spike, Greg came home to a house bursting with life.
Well…
Life and "Mr. Blue Sky."
The Electric Light Orchestra song blared in his ears when he opened the door in happy, obnoxious rhythms. Wires were strewn over the table and flour was positively everywhere and Dean somehow sang over it all.
Terribly, mind you. But with confidence, which counted more in Greg's book.
Favouring caution over speed, Greg shuffled into the kitchen. A black box hid among the carnage.
He gasped. "Is that my WiFi router?!"
Spike appeared around the corner. Greg did a double take to see him in a shower cap.
Spike called over the music, "Oh no, boss, I popped that open hours ago and fixed it. Your internet speed is much faster now."
For the first time, Greg questioned leaving a bored tech prodigy in his home. He was like a zoo animal who needed constant stimulation.
And if he didn't get it—he'd make it himself.
Dean followed a moment after, face covered in flour. It was in the dips of his curls and his eyelashes and dimples framing his lips.
Spike had only a slight dusting across his shirt in the shape of hand prints. He wore gloves, gripping a pair of wire cutters.
"Dean is helping me practice defusing the new A217 model bomb for my re-qualifying test!" Spike yelled.
Greg eyed a plastic sandwich baggie attached to all the wires, blasted to high heaven with flour strewn around it. Their 'bomb.' "You failed, I take it?"
"Of course not. I just threw some in Dean's face because it was fun."
Greg flashed a quick look at Dean, to see how he felt about all this. He'd been an only child his whole life; Greg worried the novelty of having a constant companion might wear off.
But Dean shoved Spike and honest-to-God giggled.
Not in his entire life had Greg experienced a moment of such intense happiness. With that, he knew they might be okay and that whatever came next, they'd get through it.
Greg pointed at the shower cap. "Does that protect your stitches?"
Spike frowned. "Yeah…why?"
"You know my job is assessing threats, including those against my family."
Dean paused now too, blinking. It left little white spider web lines along his cheeks. The sight of their young eyes, gazing wonderingly at him, made Greg wanted to grab them both and hug them until he couldn't breathe.
Instead, he moved towards the table.
"Can't let that slide," said Greg.
Spike realized what he was doing a second too late. "No—!"
Greg's first handful of flour smacked Spike square in the nose. It rained over them in a white haze to the gorgeous sound of Dean's shrieking laughter.
Spike tried to glare at Dean but could barely keep a straight face between sneezes. "You think that's funny?"
"Yeah, I—Spike, no! We have to gang up on Dad!"
Spike didn't listen to him, rubbing flour all over his hair. Greg snatched up the flour bag before Spike could and ignored the squawked protests to barricade himself behind the open fridge door.
"Not fair, boss! You can't hog the ammunition!"
Greg was so focused on Spike that he didn't see Dean creeping up behind him. His shirt was yanked away from his neck and filled with two handfuls of flour.
Spike high-fived Dean. "Nice!"
"Alright." Greg dusted himself off. "That's it. You're going down."
The boys shot each other a look and then it was a free-for-all to see who could steal the most flour from Greg's bag and chuck it at each other. Greg watched his kitchen become a war zone.
Strange, then, that he couldn't stop grinning.
Shots were thrown without precision—except for that one-in-a-million handful straight to Spike's mouth. He spit it out, promising retribution on Greg in the form of flour in his shoes. Greg fought him off with a slipper.
The doorbell chose that horrid minute to ring. The boys froze and Greg decided, as the only functioning adult in this situation, to do the sensible thing.
He opened it.
Nothing said reality check like a beautiful woman in a red cocktail dress. Especially when said woman had been away for the past month.
For some reason, the sight only made Greg grin wider.
"I know I'm early for our date, but I just…" Marina's eyes landed on the powder carnage.
Her eyes took in all three, covered head-to-sock in flour: Spike on his knees with a pillow for a shield, Dean hoarding the flour bag prize to his chest, Greg beaming.
Her jaw dropped. A few heartbeats of stunned silence reigned. Greg figured if she could get past this craziness, they might really have a future together.
Then Spike said, as only he could—
"Just keeping the peace."
Marina laughed until she cried.
The second time the doorbell rang, the next day, Jules stood on the steps. She and Greg did a double take at each other.
Jules circled a hand. "I…just…uh…"
Spike smiled from his spot at the table. "I invited her, boss."
Greg turned to him. "Oh, really? Didn't care to share that with me?"
"Nope."
It was a Saturday and Greg dutifully ushered her in, offering tea. Jules was stiff but polite. "I'm good, boss."
Greg sat down across from her, next to Spike, and pinned her with a long look. "Are we?"
"I shouldn't have yelled at you, that night in the hospital," said Jules.
Spike looked between them. He knew something had gone down, had seen it in the way the pair interacted when he visited the team that week. It had been a happy reunion—minus Sam's tearful and completely unnecessary apology—but the two were frosty.
"No." Greg worried at his lip with a top tooth. "I deserved it."
"Maybe. But I'm still sorry."
"So am I."
Spike glanced at Jules. "If that's settled…"
Removing a folded sheet of paper from his pocket, Spike set it before her.
She read it and her eyes grew bright. The memory of that two-hour long confession between them on the porch swing still stung, especially in light of this. Greg spied the silent interaction but stayed silent.
Spike addressed Jules head on and with complete deference to her authority in this situation. He pointed to Greg. "Do you trust him?"
Jules nodded. "Of course."
"Do you trust him with me?"
She wavered this time. Spike's gut dropped into his shoes but if she said no, he'd let her make the final call.
"He's not my father," Spike whispered. Memories flashed before his eyes. "He won't be cruel or harsh or watch me nearly drown or shove me in a closet or any of that."
Greg stood from his chair in shock but Spike waved him back down without looking away from Jules.
He tapped the paper. "Do you agree to this?"
Greg ran an unsteady hand down his mouth. "What's going on, Spike? Why have you called us both here?"
"He's made amends," Spike said, still addressing Jules. "And now you both have with each other. Please let me do this."
"You don't really need my permission." Her voice came out more level than Spike expected, given her expression. "It's your decision."
Spike shook his head. "No, it's not. Not after what I told you. You held the other end of the harness that kept me from going over the metaphorical edge that night and if you're going to share the weight, you have to be complicit."
Understanding passed over Greg's face.
"Spike, are you sure?" Greg touched Spike's arm. "You took me off as your medical consent for a good reason. I deserved it. Don't feel like you have to put me back on or take Jules off."
"I'm not," said Spike. "I want you both to share it. Equal decision making rights, should I go brain dead or something."
Greg's and Jules' faces both tensed. Not so flippant about it as he was, though Spike could see Jules start to cave when Greg looked at her.
To others, consent or next of kin was a little thing. A precaution they never had to worry about.
Not at their jobs, not with all the trauma every single member of Team One had suffered through, either from their childhoods, in the field, or both. Every one of them had a slight case of post traumatic stress and decisions like life support or DNR could be thrust upon them at any time.
"Please, Jules." Spike reached across to take her hand. "Will you let him sign it?"
Jules stunned them both by moving out of Spike's grasp.
"Jules? Please, I…"
But then she stood and rounded the table. "Get in here."
Spike rose as well, falling into her arms. They clung to each other in the way only blood brothers could. Arms a brace to keep the other upright, heartbeats thumping together in a synchronous conversation.
"Sign it, boss," Jules gasped out. "We can't do this alone. That's what you're always saying, Spike, right?"
Spike smiled into her shoulder. "You got it."
Greg's pen scratched and then he stood. "I promise, Jules, I won't let anyone hurt him like that again. On my life."
Jules punched Greg's shoulder and then pulled him in. "I know."
The hair never did grow back.
A bullet's razed path would be memorialized in the mangled strip of scar tissue on Spike's head for life.
Hair grew thick around it, hiding the white line, but when Spike's bedhead was especially bad or when the wind blew just right, like now, Greg could see it. The starting nub of its track peeked out before November gusts parted Spike's hair fully on the right side and it glared by the fading evening light.
He'd re-qualified with flying colours, even the psych evaluation, and after two months back, the team had settled.
Still, Greg was edgy when their gunman came out of the restaurant, aiming a rifle at Sam and Spike. So was Ed, on his stomach next to him on the command truck roof; he made an audible sound of displeasure and bared his teeth. Sam shouted for the man to surrender.
Instead, the subject swore and raised his weapon.
Straight at Spike's forehead.
Greg's gut yanked.
He fired off a shot before his lungs could finish exhaling, even though he wasn't technically sierra.
Spike blinked at the body before his feet, the face absolutely blown away. Blood spattered his vest. The tech opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again.
"What?" He scoffed in bewilderment. "Did all three of you shoot him?"
Greg was surprised by that one too and side eyed Ed's smoking rifle.
Sam didn't look the least bit remorseful. "Yes."
Greg chuckled. "This'll be a story for SIU. Staten's going to love it."
Ed tipped his head. He closed one eye to peer through the scope again and grinned at whatever he saw.
Greg spotted it a moment later—Sam wiping some of the blood off Spike.
They were cleared quicker than Greg expected. But when the investigators—and Spike—weren't looking, Staten caught Greg's eye with a knowing gaze and nodded. Even the immovable man softened when he saw Spike.
He has that affect on people. It was like a superpower Spike didn't even realize he possessed.
Pride flared in Greg's chest.
"So." Spike pulled a wool sweater on over his head while walking beside Greg to the locker room. "We're still on for tonight? My place?"
"We sure are."
"Awesome! I'm making homemade linguine."
Greg smiled. "Dean's even bringing Mira, that girl from his English class."
Spike clapped his hands together, eyes mischievous. "Ooohhh. I've got embarrassing sleep-talking stories ready to go. You bring the baby pictures!"
Greg couldn't hold back his laughter. "That's how we're playing Dean's first 'bring the girlfriend home to meet the family' experience?"
"You better believe it!"
It started like this.
FIN
Written in 2019.
