'How long have I been in this storm,
So overwhelmed by the ocean's shapeless form?
Water's getting harder to tread
With these waves crashing over my head.'
"Storm" ~ Lifehouse
With no way to mark the passing of time—even the window, dirty and out of place as it is, doesn't help at all because it's always the same brightness level—water bottles become the scratch on the prison wall.
It takes the third water bottle tossed down for Spike to realize something's not right.
He's just finished layering seven pieces of tape on either side of the door, building it up so that it seals a little more every time they open and close it to throw him water, when the room tilts. For a fraction of a second.
In the dim lighting, Spike can almost believe he imagined it.
The clench in his stomach he cannot.
It's violent but small, a quiver of the gut. The closest he can compare it to is the time he and Lew got food poisoning in Jamaica.
But this isn't quite the same. Food poisoning is a slimy, slithery snake inside one's body.
This is blocky, all jagged lines and sharp points. He's not even sure it can be called nausea. It's just…wrong.
By the time Spike makes it down the stairs, his legs have joined the quiver.
He curls up and takes another sip of the water, hoping to quell the sensation. It's probably a stomach bug from too many naps on this cold floor.
He also wants to finish the bottle. He quickly learned that they won't replace the water unless he completely empties one and sets the empty bottle at the top of the stairs.
Which means they're too scared to go down to him, to get too close. Especially after last time. Tattoo still sports a black eye the scant times he's peeked inside.
It is absurd, in Spike's mind, that he hasn't escaped yet. He bets that Ed is already out, running around with the team, looking all over the horrid woods of Toronto for him. Beating up Tattoo and Ponytail.
Come on, Scarlatti. You can do this.
Spike isn't sure how it happens.
One minute he closes his eyes, dreaming of that beautiful image of Ed dropkicking Ponytail into Alberta's area code.
The next, he opens them and the men's voices outside are quiet. With the window not much help to tell the time, he senses he fell asleep for a while. At least they've come and emptied the latrine bucket.
The wrong feeling is all over his body now, a white fire of wind and ash. It's not only queasy but painful. Spike groans, levering himself with difficulty to all fours.
He nearly tips over again.
There's the nausea.
He hurls into the bucket again and again, hungry stomach clenching, barely anything coming up.
He leans his forehead on the wall once the spell abates, so dizzy it's paralyzing. "Ed, 'm sorry. S'rry 'm not…buff as you."
Spike closes his eyes but that's worse. They pop open again. Grief is a pretzel twist inside his heart, wrung out and dry and broken and scared and…
So scared.
He keeps talking, the most comfort he's had since he got here. "Can' escape like you. Can't talk someone out of anything. Can't…" Spike winces. "Move."
The ground rushes up to meet Spike and he doesn't lift a finger to stop it.
Chasing him into the black is a cruel laugh. "That's the whole idea, officer."
It's not the weirdest sight the SRU has ever seen—and that's saying something—but it's up there. Greg, walking in with a fresh cup of coffee, stops dead:
Jules, hair out of its signature ponytail and mouth lax with sleep, is curled up in the briefing room. On the table, where a blanket has been tucked around her shoulders and fuzzy socks-clad feet by someone else's hand. Dead to the world.
Sam jogs up to Greg's side, carrying a folder. Something in his eyes goes incredibly soft when he too spots Jules. "Finally. I've been trying to get her to sleep for hours now."
Greg side-eyes Sam's damp hair and the sunshine yellow hoodie that doesn't fit quite right. "Finally," he echoes. A teasing glint lights up on his face. "We've been trying to get you to shower for days now."
"I wasn't that bad."
Greg's brow quirks. "We were about to fumigate the locker room."
Sam shoves him off, light, but with a real smile. Also the first of its kind in too many hours.
Heaven knows none of them have really slept or cared for themselves since this all started. Case in point being Wordy, behind the desk with Winnie, nodding off into his palm while she types.
The SRU is quiet, for once. Team Two is out on shift and the others have been convinced to take a break. Jules shuffles in her sleep, one arm poking out of the blanket to slide underneath her head.
"No news?" Sam asks in a low tone. "It's been two days. Almost to the hour."
Greg sighs. "Nothing. I've tried calling Director Hartford back, but…the number doesn't work. Not a trace of him. CSIS won't return my calls either, probably because Spike is usually our liaison with them."
They both sober, all trace of humour gone, at just his name. At the reminder of how they're all scrambling without his presence.
Just yesterday, Team Three hadn't been able to stop a virus that corrupted a mall's security camera and their ATM robber got away. Sam, leader of said team, wears the sorrow of that on his face.
Not even the crime, though that stings too, but this hole in their perfect circle. They're a rickety table sans one of its legs, unsteady and shaking.
"I miss them."
Greg looks at Sam head on, surprised to hear the admission, though they're all feeling it. Sam doesn't usually wear his heart on his sleeve, doesn't share what he's feeling.
Doesn't like admitting pain.
"Me too," says Greg, noting that Sam's eyes are already far away again. The young man shifts, sleeves riding up past his wrists. The whole garment looks too small.
Closer up, the hoodie doesn't smell right either. It's not Sam's usual cologne and salty sweat smell. It's earthier, mixed with tomatoes, almost like—
It's Greg's turn to melt, once he remembers. His eyes burn. "Taking a page out of Spike's book, are we?"
Sam shrugs. "I figure he steals enough of my clothing that I ought to return the favour. I still can't find his secret stash to get mine back. So, you know, I just grabbed one of his since it's getting colder."
"Uh huh…" Greg doesn't buy it for a second. "Sure."
Sam shifts again, showing his too-few years. On another, less well trained man, it might look self-conscious. "Yellow is Spike's favourite colour."
I know. By God, do I know.
"That's why I bought him that sweater," Greg murmurs. "Before his father died."
"Really? I had no idea."
Greg smiles, though nothing about this is remotely funny. "His father hated it. Hated yellow and hated that Spike refused to wear demur, muted colours like he'd raised him to."
Sam rubs the jogging fleece between his fingers. A knowing look enters his eye. "You bought this just so Spike would wear it to the hospital every time he visited, so his father had to see it."
"That's a nice theory," says Greg, airy. "Too bad we'll never know."
Sam's lips resume their cheeky grin. "Too bad indeed."
Greg savours the smell of Spike, the evidence of he and Ed everywhere in these halls. From the flowers on Winnie's desk, to the gloves Ed loses everywhere—including the foot of the briefing table, next to Jules' knees—to the kitschy fridge magnets Spike has started leaving on lockers to prank colleagues.
It's all home. It's theirs. The four members of this family present own it, embrace it like Sam in the hoodie.
And for a fragile moment, stillness rules the SRU. Not peace, but a lack of fretting.
The squeak of sneakers on linoleum has Greg turning to see Dean springing his way in, backpack on one shoulder and Sadie drooling on the other.
Sam's smile grows even wider when he spots them. "Hey! Thanks again for picking her up, man."
"Not a problem." Dean drops his bag. Sadie pat-pats his cheek with the pudgy fingers previously in her mouth, leaving a wet spot. "Her daycare is on the way here from the Academy so it's no hassle."
"Get in here." Sam makes grabby hands at his daughter.
Sadie squeals. "Daddy!"
She falls into her father's arms and pats his cheek too. Her fingers go back into her mouth after, sucked on with vigour. Sam takes the hint and roots around in a diaper bag behind the dispatch desk for a sandwich.
"Yeah." Greg opens his arm. "Get in here."
Dean rolls his eyes but obliges. He tucks himself under Greg's shoulder and submits to the kiss along his forehead.
Sam bounces Sadie. "What do we say to Dean?"
"Acks, Dee!"
Dean laughs. "Close enough. You're welcome, Sadie. Though I think 'Dee' is your nickname, not mine."
"I don't know." Greg smirks at his son. "Dee has a nice ring to it."
"Dee!" Sadie chirps again. Her bubbly mood is infectious and Dean pretends to grumble.
Jules, attuned to the sounds of her baby in that mysterious way of mothers everywhere, wakes the moment she hears Sadie. Rubbing at her eyes, she swings her legs to the floor.
"It's supper time for all of us," she rasps, smiling when Sadie takes a huge bite of the jam sandwich and Sam has to pull it back out through much wrestling and sticky fingers.
"Not that much. You don't have enough teeth for that yet," Sam scolds.
"Teef," says Sadie.
"She can say teeth but not my name." Dean shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Can you believe kids these days?"
It's such an Ed Lane thing to say and such an Ed Lane tone to use that everyone lets out a startled laugh before they can censor it. Even Wordy, who wakes as well at the commotion.
He limps over to join the huddle—ruffling Dean's hair—and just like that their family, what's left for now, is present and accounted for.
It doesn't escape Greg's notice that Wordy automatically leaves a gap on his left side for where Ed stands. Nor that the man's eyes got misty when he touched Dean's hair instead of Spike's.
Before Greg can lose himself in the longing for their missing pair, Dean nudges him in the ribs.
"Nobody is buying your 'I need a week of vacation' story, Dad. Like, not a single person."
"That's a shame. I thought I was rather convincing."
Dean rolls his eyes again, somehow a fond gesture. "Everyone and their dog knows you're helping with the search. Travers was just too nice to tell you."
"Old Travers isn't fooling anybody either." Jules snorts. "He's probably just as worried as the rest of us. He trained Spike and I, several years apart."
Dean rubs his hands together. "So, where are we on the case? I hate that I have to go to school, but thanks for keeping me and Clark in the loop anyway."
Greg opens his mouth to reply when the door bursts open and Leah tumbles in. She's rumpled, bright with sweat. Jules immediately starts to attention; Wordy's hand reaches for a gun that isn't there anymore.
"I'm sorry, boss," Leah pants. "I tried to stop them!"
'Them' becomes painful clear when three, suited men follow in Leah's footsteps and enter the room. They're not particularly tall or strange looking. Ordinary, the men could be invisible in a crowd, which is probably the whole point.
They fan out, eyes unreadable and cold.
"Which one of you is Jules Braddock?" asks the lead man, Asian, wearing an ear coil.
Jules stands to her full height. Her eyes crackle. "And who are you?"
"Agent Damien Cho." He flips down a badge. "CSIS, International Relations Division."
"CSIS?" Greg squints. "You stonewalled us when we tried to call. What are you doing here now?"
"You're Greg Parker." Not a question.
Greg tries to read the man's face and finds it a challenge. "I am."
The three men exchange uneasy looks. This face is all wariness and mistrust, like Greg is a lion who might pounce on them. There might even be a touch of awe in there too.
When Cho turns back, he's calm again, eyes sharp on Jules. "You will turn over any and all evidence collected in this investigation and cease your search effort at once. We're taking over from here."
Everyone's jaws drop. Wordy's shaking worsens.
Jules keeps her voice pitched low, probably for Sadie's sake, but her face is a storm. "Excuse me?"
"This is currently no longer your jurisdiction," says Cho.
"Not our jurisdiction?" Jules steps closer, very much in his personal space. "These are two SRU officers who've been taken. Now, you can assist—but we are lead."
"That's not your decision." Cho's voice isn't harsh or cruel. Just…indifferent. It cuts Greg to the quick, much worse than if they were being bullied. "We'll inform you if we find your men."
Dean's brows shoot high. "If? If?"
Greg still has his arm around his son and he squeezes the boy's shoulder. The thought of Spike and Ed's fate nestled in the hands of someone so impersonal, caring about the men as statistics and not as brothers, sons, family…
It's torture.
Mute, dumbfounded, Winnie slides their reports and a flash drive across the desk to the men. Silent tears race down her cheeks.
"Dad! Dad, please." Dean twists in his father's embrace to look up at him, imploring. His eyes are swimming. "Do something!"
Cho answers, while his two colleagues begin carting off boxes and bags of evidence. "He can't. It's out of your hands now."
And just like that, the agents leave like they were never even there. Five minutes, tops.
Greg watches the last box taken away, the lid shifted slightly to reveal something shiny inside. Gold, small, encased in black leather. Bloody thumbprints littering both.
Spike and Ed's badges.
The door closes without one more ounce of fanfare, without a siren or a flashing light. Winnie sobs in an echo of the screaming inside Greg's head.
They're gone.
