'Think you're on this road alone,
Looking for a truth untold.
Many times you've been close to breaking,
Giving up and letting go—
Something inside says it's not over.'
"The Face" ~ RyanDan
Ed regains his strength in surges, and he's experiencing one now. His vision sharpens, pain receding in the presence of new stimulus and the prospect of freedom.
He walks as fast as he can for the back room. It too is old fashioned, with a wash basin and a pump faucet. There's evidence of mice and rodents in the chew marks on the table.
A canvas backpack hangs beside the wood stove. Ed snatches it, stuffing his kidnappers' bananas and loaves of fresher bread inside, as much as will fit. He starts to grab four water bottles sitting on the table…when he sees a tiny hole in each one of the lids.
Shaken by such a close call, Ed digs around until he finds some water bottles that are still sealed, lids untampered with.
He also grabs an apple peeling knife but can't find more of their guns, no matter how much he roots through the cabinets.
Time to go. Ed feels the instinct as sure as he breathes.
The plan is simple, for being such a tactician.
Locate Spike. Get so far away from here they'll never find us. Preferably somewhere with a phone to call for help.
If he can't do step one…he'll…well…
Ed puts a hand to his chest. He can't even imagine that scenario, leaving Spike behind. It's logical, sure. Getting help and reinforcements actually increases the likelihood of finding Spike.
But it's wrong. Morally, he can't do it.
There's a back door off the kitchen and Ed chooses this route instead of the front door, just in case.
Stepping foot onto the grass after who knows how long inside that hovel makes Ed sigh. It's a cathartic sound, maybe a little tremor filled, and he feels like he's breathing properly for the first time in ages.
The air is filled with wafts of pine. A bird twitters somewhere off to his left, a chickadee.
Running, slightly hunched, Ed rounds the shop-out-of-time only to see more anachronous buildings. There's a whole set of them. Even an outhouse!
The largest one is at the center, a factory of some sort.
Ed keeps his rifle trained forward. A douse of something hot flashes down his neck, a rush of familiarity and comfort to be doing something he would be anyway, if this were a regular day.
He does a quick search through the factory floor, only to come up empty. Not a soul around.
It's almost…too quiet.
Upon discovering an open basement door, Ed's eyes widen.
Two black boots sit on the bottom step. There's a bizarre stickiness around the latch too, webbing almost.
Tape. It's our standard issue roll of medical tape. He was here!
But the tiny storage room is empty. Did they take him? Did he escape long ago? Did they…maybe they decided to…
Ed's sniper breathing falters in a staccato rush.
"No," he says out loud.
His mind won't even entertain it. He will not look for a patch of dug up earth on this property, no matter how logical it is.
Ed's hopes, however, begin to dwindle. He scours the entire building and cannot find even a trace. He doesn't call out, opting for stealth rather than the wider net of his voice.
His eyes are just beginning to betray him, burning, too shiny, when he starts up the dirt, service road and sees a foot sticking out of the bushes.
It's not wearing any shoes. Nor is it moving.
Ed's rifle is up before his next heartbeat, for there may be other people in on this kidnapping scheme and he doesn't want to find out the hard way, ambushed while caught in his head. He makes lots of noise, to tip the person off that if they are going to attack him, he won't go down easy and he knows they're there.
Upon closer inspection, what Ed sees is strange enough to make him lower the barrel. It's the sock—stitched with tiny lightning bolts and speech bubbles. He squints. One of the little red bubbles contains giant, rounded letters that say The Flash!
His whole face crumples in a split second. Just like that.
He throws the rifle strap over his shoulder so he can use both arms and sprint to that geeky comic sock.
"Spike!" Ed doesn't care if anyone hears him now. "Spike!"
Crashing to his knees, he parts the tall grass.
And there, eyes closed, propped up against an oak tree, is one very pale and bloody-lipped Michelangelo Scarlatti.
His breaths whistle, reedy sounding. The other leg is flung out to the side, impossible to see through its disappearing act in the underbrush, like Spike fell down. Ed bows his head for just a moment, bowled over by relief so strong that it makes him physically dizzy while he pants out mindless words of thanks. Then Spike gives a soft groan.
Ed doesn't waste any time, hands scrambling over Spike's ribs—nothing broken—and trying to find the injury. Other than the bruises and swelling bloody patches along his face, there doesn't seem to be any. This doesn't bode well, that perhaps the problem is something he can't see and therefore probably can't treat with basic survival first aid. They both desperately need a hospital, no matter what their conditions are.
He lifts the shirt to check for internal—
"No!" Spike comes awake in a flurry of motion. "No, don', please!"
He swats Ed's hands away and curls in on himself all in one go, protecting himself with a horrid kind of fine tuned practice. There's a flinch in there too that cuts straight to Ed's galloping heart.
"Spike—"
"No!" Spike's eyes are furious. "Don' want!"
Ed puts both hands up and leans away, even though his instincts scream at him to stay as close as possible. "Okay, easy."
He makes a shushing sound in the back of his mouth and Spike unclenches, just a bit.
"Please," Spike's begging in his slurred way. "Please, Kyle, no."
"Spike, it's me. It's Ed. Just us, buddy. I'm not going to hurt you and I'll shoot anyone who does." Ed's palpitating pulse calms. Just the thought, the words themselves, are an offense, the mere suggestion that he would use violence on Spike unfathomable. "I would never hurt you."
Spike doesn't say anything further, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Ed forces himself to be patient, to wait out the mistrust, for he has no idea how Spike has been brutalized since they got here. He deserves to feel in control.
Then...
"Ed?" Spike asks in a teeny-tiny, barely there voice. It's soaked with longing, a hope that's been shattered over and over again.
Ed's whole body shivers. It's a gut reaction scraped from the deepest, arcane nether regions of his soul.
He reaches out before he can stop himself, palm on top of Spike's hair. He strokes it front to back, then starts again. It's primal, the demand to respond to that child's plea.
Ed could no more resist it than lasso the moon.
"I'm right here," he whispers. Even dirty, Spike's hair is silky soft. Ed savours the feel of him, warm, alive, under his hand. "I'm right here, Spike, and I'm not leaving this place without you."
Spike blinks and for the first time since Ed arrived, his eyes focus properly to zip around the trees as if to make sense of how he got here. He gasps a little, massaging his sternum.
Ed zeroes in on the motion. "Does your chest hurt?"
"Ed?" Spike says again, like he didn't hear this question at all. "You're miles away."
Ed shakes in earnest now, the war between steely rage and tenderness waging inside his body. That one statement is a bullet, shooting Ed straight between his ribs and galvanizing him to life all in one, a jump scare and a debilitating fury.
"Squirt." Ed cups Spike's cheek with a quivering hand, mindful of all the blood. "I think they just drove you around for a while to make it seem like we were separated. I've been on the same property as you, fifty feet away, the whole time."
Spike's face doesn't change for a beat and Ed has no idea what he might be thinking at all. Then a light bulb comes on. "Go' out, Ed."
"Yeah, bud, you got out." Ed smiles and it makes him heady. His tensed muscles uncoil. "Good job."
"Esc'ped the second time," Spike insists. He looks proud with Ed's praise. "They never saw the…the tape."
Ed snickers. He gently probes Spike's chest while nodding. "Can't outsmart the great Scarlatti, huh? I saw that nice shiner you gave our tattooed friend."
Spike shrugs, modest to the bitter end. "Got out. Tha'ss what matters. Was trying to find the paint van an' hot wire it but I think it's hidden…"
Suddenly, he winces and sucks in a hissed breath between his teeth.
Ed spares himself a moment of guilt for causing the reaction before he continues his examination. "Having trouble breathing?"
"Yeah. F-feels heavy."
"Where does it hurt?"
Spike swallows and Ed spies the cracked lips. "Everywhere. Even my skin hurts."
Ed pauses in retrieving a water bottle, frowning. He's assumed up to this point that Spike is drugged or concussed, which would make sense if he tried to escape and they wanted to subdue his efforts. But that doesn't sound right.
Spike flinches when a muscle in his arm cramps up, then one his foot.
"You're dehydrated." Ed brings the bottle to his lips. "Here."
Spike's eyes go huge. "No! Can't make me drink!"
He tugs away from Ed and Ed lets him, startled by the reaction. Spike has the most expressive face of their whole team, let alone the SRU.
It doesn't disappoint now, filled alarm and terror.
Ed looks from the water bottle to Spike. "So they did dose you through the water."
Spike nods, a quick one-two.
Struck with an idea, Ed puts that water bottle back and gets another one. He holds it out to Spike, who blanches further. "I think they used a syringe to inject the drug. Spike, these ones aren't altered, probably our kidnappers' own stock. See how there are no holes at the top? You probably didn't notice it with the basement so dark, as it's impossible to feel the difference without seeing the bottle."
Spike has a lightning brain, even compromised. He calms enough to consider Ed's words and turn the bottle around in dexterous fingers.
"The seal isn't broken," he says, hesitant. "And there aren't any holes."
"Yep. I wouldn't lie to you." Ed keeps his hands where Spike can see them. He doesn't force the water on him, wanting to be the one safe thing Spike has right now. "Your choice. But I think you should drink or we're not going to make the hike back to civilization."
Spike must see the truth of that because he takes a few sips. Ed watches a vein flutter in his neck, completely unbridled and syncopated. It's odd to see on the normally healthy young man, usually rife with energy.
I guess we can add irregular heartbeat to the growing list.
There's an old memory pinging at the back of Ed's mind, like he should be able to put the pieces together, but he can't. Spike's condition is a giant question mark. He makes a note to double check for a head wound.
"Are you okay?" Spike asks.
Ed must wait too long to reply, admittedly zoned out, because in the next breath Spike's hands are fisted in his sweater.
"Ed?"
"I'm fine. Hey." Ed clasps one of the hands over his chest. "Hey, easy. I've got a concussion and a nasty gash but this really nice SRU techie patched me up."
He peppers his words with a fond smile and Spike relaxes.
"Worst call ever. Worst day ever."
Shaking his head, Ed's brows go up. "Spike, I don't think that gambler-with-a-gun call was even real, and they probably made it up just to get us alone."
"I know, but it still sucks."
"Can't argue with that logic. You ready?" Ed asks, keeping his voice low. Like another old friend, having a job to do and someone to watch out for sets his head on straight even more, a comforting coat tucked around his frame.
Spike nods. "Let's get out of here."
Ed props his shoulder underneath Spike's arm and counts to give some warning, a reverse echo of his earlier count down to ram open the tailor shop door. "On three: one…two…three!"
Together, they stumble to their feet. Spike sways a moment before Ed adjusts his grip so his right is holding Spike's arm in place and his left is around Spike's waist.
He notices Spike's pants slip down an inch or so, the belt far too loose. Spike hitches them back up and cinches his belt to the last hole. Ed's ears ring with heightened blood pressure and the regret of not garroting both men to death.
They starved him. Bastards.
Spike follows his eyes and gives a wry smile. "Nothing like being kidnapped to lose the weight."
"You don't have any to lose." Ed's voice is millimeters close to being a snarl. "There's a reason rookies call you our beanpole whiz kid."
The forest floor is going to be torture on Spike's feet but Ed doesn't want to risk it, going back for the tech's boots. They begin moving at a snail's pace, picking up speed thanks to Ed's tracking of the clearest route through the brush.
"Nice socks, by the way."
Spike laughs, more of a wheeze with how much effort he's clearly putting into taking each breath. "They're from Dean's comic sock collection. Don't tell him I stole a pair."
"Your secret is safe with me. The Flash?"
"My favourite superhero." Spike has to stop talking when his chest hitches.
"I can see why. He's just like you."
Spike makes a face, straining for breath. "Care to el-elaborate?"
Ed grins. He bodily lifts Spike's tipsy frame over a dead log, riddled with thorns. "Fast. He's a scientist who loves the gadgets. Works with the police department….adopted into a family by an older cop."
Spike goes fire hydrant red and refuses both to look at Ed and grace him with an answer.
Ed's enjoying himself now. "He's also lanky as hell—you could use that guy for a lightning rod."
Spike rolls his eyes.
Something strikes Ed for the first time. "Why did you leave your boots behind?"
"Oh." Spike digs in his pocket and produces a mash of boot laces. "I m-made a garrote but didn't end up needing it. Go figure."
Ed doesn't stop laughing about that one for nearly ten minutes.
