'Tell me when you've had enough
And I will carry you through,
Cause if two flames go out
They stay the same.'
"Follow You Down" ~ Lights
Night falls faster than either of them expect. One plus side of that? Ed can track headlights through the pitch black.
He's careful to keep them parallel to the road but completely masked by the trees. Anyone looking in with a flashlight won't catch them, especially with the slivered, crescent moon.
"Tha'ss the second time they've driven past," says Spike. His choked breathing is the loudest sound. Even forest animals are quiet for the night, which is a huge relief considering Ed knows he heard a pack of wolves in the distance at one point, until they wandered away. "They're definitely driving the van."
It's cold, cold enough to see their breaths, and yet Ed is the only one shivering now. He tries not to dwell on that. They've walked for hours. Long enough for the moon to wane and morning to feel closer.
For a while, Spike's symptoms were predictable: increased heart rate, shivering, sweats, like a particularly violent bout of the flu...but now they don't match anything Ed can think of. The tech is pale to the point of vampiric, nauseous, ridden with bubbles of pain through the larger muscles in his body. His breathing is so shallow that sometimes Ed can hear the individual pop of fluid crackling when he exhales. Even Ed, with a severe concussion, started to feel the stirrings of hunger two hours ago and ate some of the bread. Spike, however, won't touch a thing.
Ed tries not to dwell on that either.
"Come on." He jostles Spike, to keep him talking in their hushed murmur. He picks up their discussion from earlier. "If Greg is Superman, what does that make me?"
Spike huffs, laughing, and it bounces off Ed's ribs. "You've got the angry vigilante down pat. You're definitely Bruce Wayne in his later years. Once you've adopted a bunch of problem children."
Ed smiles. "Not a stretch with you lot running around and giving me heart attacks every five minutes."
"I mean, you love the cool toys, you dress mostly in black, have a gaggle of loyal friends you can boss around, and you only smile on special occasions..."
"Hey now." Ed playfully nudges him, careful to do it far away from his diaphragm or anything important for breathing. "I smile all the time. I'm a shining example of good work life balance, including knowing when to crack a joke."
"Uh-huh. Sure."
"Are you just sassing me because we're off the clock?"
"Gotta get my shots in some time."
Ed's smile grows, when he spies the glint in Spike's eye. Messing with Spike seems to be keeping him alert, and it has the added benefit of being endless fun for Ed. "If I was Bruce Wayne and you were The Flash, that means I could fire you right now."
Spike looks scandalized. "You're confusing two comic books cities. Barry Allen works as a forensic scientist for Central City and Bruce Wayne is Gotham. Get your characters straight."
"Yeah, but he could fire him from the Justice League."
Spike goes to reply, probably with a long winded explanation to match his equally betrayed face, when his abdomen does a funny ripple under Ed's hands. It feels almost like seaweed against Ed's skin, the undulation of water on a pliable surface and for a brief moment, Ed has no idea what's happening or what this singularly bizarre sensation means. Then Spike's knees fold without a second's notice, all in one puppet-snipped-from-its-strings motion. Ed barely catches him on the descent.
"Hey, Spike, where does it—"
Spike falls onto his hands, retching. It's violent, almost as if his body is attacking him from the inside out.
"…Hurt." Ed spreads his fingers over Spike's chest, bracing him from behind so his arms don't give out. His other strokes Spike's forehead in a feeble attempt at comfort.
Spike goes limp and Ed flips him over, cradled in his left arm. Spike is mercifully awake, but even in the gloom, Ed sees that his lips are the wrong colour. Too dark, too blue for that milky face. Blood stains his teeth, the colour of reddened coffee grounds.
Like both feet on the tarmac after a flight, Ed's brain finally steadies and it clicks. He grimaces. "Spike. These aren't drug symptoms at all—I think you've been poisoned."
"Shouldn't I be dead?" Spike wheezes.
"Not all poisons are fatal," Ed points out. "I'm sorry, Spike, but these fit a rat poison case we had once, in my early years."
Spike's own brain catches up. "It might explain the muscle spasms."
But not the breathing problems, Ed thinks, worried all over again. He can't think of any poison that fits this MO.
Spike is drained from this latest vomiting episode. His nose bleeds sluggishly, the pressure bursting a blood vessel or two, and his eyes roam, listless. The pain, however, keeps Spike too alert, enough that it's a hand squeezed around Ed's heart. He almost longs for the drunken behaviour ketamine or a drug would elicit, just so Spike wouldn't remember it.
They walk for a few more hours. Ed sees things more clearly, the sun rising far off.
Spike sounds weary, and even then only when Ed can get him to talk. His chatter dwindles into nothing. It's somehow more nerve wracking than the rambling.
"That's rude. Don't leave a guy hanging," Ed prompts. It's been a while since Spike's complaining about a lack of power lines and theories as to where in Ontario they are. "This is gripping stuff. Spike?"
Spike lurches to the side. Ed doesn't realize he's lightheaded until his knees buckle again. His eyes roll up into his skull.
Ed falls to his knees. "Spike? Spike!"
Spike's eyes flutter open after a few taps to his cheek. He looks up at Ed with a squint. "Everything hurts, Ed."
"I know, son. I know it does."
It's not a professional tone and not even remotely a professional title of address, but right now this doesn't feel like work. Right now Ed isn't Spike's team leader. He's a fellow human, a friend, one who loves this kid very much.
Every minute they spend lost in the woods, both deteriorating with each step, is another pound added to Ed's shoulder. Shame is a ten ton lodestone breaking his back, making him more and more aware of how inadequate he is to save them from this situation. They're running out of options. Ed silently panics about all of this while rubbing the side of Spike's neck with his thumb.
"I…'m sorry."
Ed startles and refocuses. "For what, bud?"
Spike does a sort of reverse cough, suction sound. Ed vaguely notes his feet are bleeding, completely shredded. "Can' get up. You gotta go."
"Go?" Ed feels genuinely in the dark. Where is there to go in such a place? They're already sort of lost, something both know and neither will admit. "What are you talking about?"
"Leave me here. Go for help, find somebody."
Ed is speechless, gawking.
"Please, Ed." Spike grips his arm. "Go. I'll slow you down. 'M gonna get us killed and...and one of us deserves to live through this."
That's the nail in the coffin, the final tally on a board filled with the marks of Ed's failure.
Ed doesn't hesitate to swing Spike up into a bridal carry and start walking, determined to do something, anything to make this better. His rifle bounces against the backpack.
Normally he'd do a fireman hold, but the prospect of not being able to see Spike's face is wretched. He can't bring himself to be separated, even in that miniscule way. It would also put too much pressure on Spike's already agonized stomach.
If it were Jules, she never would allow the concession of help. She'd already have punched her way out of Ed's arms, swearing up a storm. Any of the other guys would be too heavy.
Spike is hollow boned, comparatively. Always the lightest male on weighing day at the SRU, Spike is the only one besides Leah demoted to Jules' weight category.
He's touchy about it sometimes. Ed prepares himself for the protest and squirms to get down.
But Spike just looks around from the new vantage and rubs at his chest. "Ed—"
"Now you listen here, Scarlatti." Ed too feels lightheaded but he pushes through it. The frustration helps wake him up. "If you think I'm going to toss you away in the forest after I survived being locked in a cell for hours just for the express purpose of finding you, you're an idiot."
"I'ss not good strategy."
"I don't care," says Ed, and means it with every ounce of his being. "Because I'm not a tactician tonight. I'm your friend. And I'll never get a good night's sleep for the rest of my life if I abandon you here."
Spike is quiet, though it's a thinking kind of quiet, populated by frowns and troubled eyes. His muscles continue to spasm under Ed's hands. The sheer amount of pain he must be in is staggering and yet he doesn't make a sound.
There's a junction of veins at the back of Spike's knees, and Ed can feel his tachy heartbeat even through the fabric.
Skip…thudthudthud…stop…skip…thudthud…
Then—"Tonight? It's morning, Ed."
Ed nearly falls over at the rush of affection, buzzing clear through to his feet. He thinks he might be giddy with relief. "Trust you to focus on the most technical and unemotional part of that sentence."
"I'ss true."
"Yeah, sure. Now shut up so I can focus." Ed marvels that he's having the exact same sort of discussion with Spike that he had with Not-Greg. He could use Greg right about now. He'd know the right thing to say, if not to make this all better, then at least to make them feel less alone.
Spike's lips curve up in a shy smile. He patiently takes a thin breath just to say, "You've got the monopoly on Bruces."
Ed is concussed. Dehydrated. Probably bleeding somewhere along the inside of his cranium, with blood sugar so low he shakes at a stand still. He can't make heads or tails of that at all, so sue him.
Spike must see his confusion. "On the drug bust, with the bomb, when I called you that. Now we joke all th-the time that you're Bruce Willis."
"Behind my back?" Ed fights an amused expression, going for something stern.
"Uh." Spike blinks. "Maybe? Sorry."
Ed squeezes him closer. "I'm teasing you. It's a compliment. I love Die Hard, but only if I get that tech whiz on my side for the movie instead of against me."
Spike winces, thumbing his shoulder this time. "Deal."
He starts to say something else but isn't that odd? Ed sees that Spike's lips are moving…however, everything is a tidal wave of white noise. He's never experienced anything quite like it.
Ed is, admittedly, kind of fascinated by the spectacle.
Until Spike's eyes widen. His mouth moves sharply and that can't be good. This shape, even without sound, Ed knows. Spike's done it lots of time on calls when they're at a distance from each other. The wide, long, and single syllable vowel is topped off by a quick consonant, barely a flick of the tongue.
Oh. Ha. That's my name.
