'"Be kind to yourself,"
I know it's hard to hear it when that anger in your spirit
Is pointed like an arrow at your chest,
When the voices in your mind are anything but kind.'
"Be Kind to Yourself" ~ Andrew Peterson
There's a messy tangle of noise, so the only reason they hear the calmly spoken voice is because Greg and Scott jump in unison towards it and everyone turns to look.
The distraction is enough for Sam to get a hold of himself, pushing Hartford roughly away. Hartford stumbles.
"Spike!" Greg grasps him by the elbow. "You took the oxygen out."
Dean darts into his room and returns with the rolling tank, flushed and anxious. He's clutched Spike's bandaged hand at some point in both of his own, refusing to let go. Lightfoot thanks him quietly and slides the cannula back into Spike's nose.
"You're not supposed to be walking or out of your room," says Greg.
"It was getting too noisy to sleep." Spike throws a look at Sam.
Jules catches the tech when he starts to sway. "At least sit down."
Spike does so on wobbly feet. Since Greg can't support his weight anymore, Sam rushes over to brace his friend around the back so the pressure can't reopen stitches along the arches of his feet.
"Good to see you, Commander," says Spike.
Holleran's tough expression curves into something affectionate at the words. "Likewise, Michelangelo. You okay?"
"I'm great."
Sam huffs. "I've heard that one before."
Spike takes Lazlo's spot in the hard backed waiting room chair. Then he suddenly does a double take at Cho. "I remember you."
Cho's smile is weak. "You turned me down every single time I came to your door."
Greg gasps, gaze widening. "I knew you looked familiar! You're the one who kept sending Spike recruitment bribes for CSIS!"
Jules' eyes darken. There used to be a rolling stable of people trying to lure Spike to switch careers and work for them instead—money, condos, airfare, you name it and someone probably tried to use it as incentive. The team came to hate the sight of a suited figure with a guest pass and a too saccharine smile wandering into the SRU. Especially when said smile landed on Spike, like he was a particularly good specimen.
"Recruitment bribes?" Holleran asks with narrowed eyes.
Spike shakes his head, eyes sparking with amusement. "Fruit baskets and new toys, mostly. I have to thank you for that robot I never sent back."
"For all the good it did. You're something else, Scarlatti." Cho shakes his hand. "And in a way I'm glad you never came to work for us. Something tells me these people need you more. They're crazy."
"Told you," Dean mutters. Seating himself as close as possible to Spike, his grip has tightened enough that his knuckles are white.
"So." Spike gestures to the laptop with raised eyebrows at Lazlo. "May I, sir?"
Lazlo glances at Cho. "He's won't mess this up? He's good?"
All the Canadians in the room light up with wicked grins. It's a familiar question when they're out on a case. They've been asked that of Spike more times than Jules can recount.
Greg answers the same way he always does. "He's the best. Watch the magic happen."
And Spike snorts, with the same half-hearted irritation he expresses every time. "It's not magic, Greg."
"It's logical paradigms and commands in logic gate based lines of code and script." Greg rolls his hand. Even Jules can tell he got that terminology wrong, most likely on purpose just to tease Spike. "Yeah, yeah."
Spike smiles but it fades quickly. He looks straight at Lazlo. "I lost Ed once. You can be damned sure I won't do it a second time."
Lazlo immediately hands Spike the laptop.
The tech is clacking away before it hits his knees. Figuring out how to type is a little stiff, with the bandage, once Dean reluctantly releases it, but he manages.
"We talked about this." Greg keeps his voice low while he stoops to be at eye level with Spike. "It's not your fault. You have nothing to atone for."
Spike doesn't answer.
"Are you hearing me, Spike?"
"I can do this." Spike spares a fast, pointed look for Greg and then his eyes are back on the screen. "I'm sitting up, easier on my lungs, and it's not physically demanding."
"That's avoiding what I said, but okay."
Lightfoot kneels behind Spike in the waiting room chair, a stethoscope to his back and two fingers against his neck. He checks his analogue watch while counting the pulse beats. Greg mouths a question at him and the doctor nods.
Jules has another question. "How much did you hear?"
This time Spike's intense eyes are for Hartford. "Enough."
Hartford's brazen pride from minutes earlier drains away. He gazes at Spike with agony, a knowing brand of desolation, and something haunted, like he's watching a ghost in real time.
Spike murmurs in his throat while typing furiously, syllables of self talk problem solving Jules can't decipher. In comparison to the yelling, it's quiet—yet somehow ten times more on edge.
Everyone, even Lightfoot, is huddled around Spike. Trying not to hope and failing.
"Can you stop the sale?" asks Holleran.
"Nope." A crease sinks between Spike's brows. "That's not what I'm doing at all."
Cho shifts forward. "What—?"
Greg stays the young agent with just a raised palm. He doesn't have to say a word and Cho backs down. It's a testament to how much Greg has earned all their respect.
"Then how are we going to find Ed?" Dean asks.
Spike doesn't look away from the screen, yet somehow he knows exactly where the boy's shoulder is. He pats it.
"I'm going to rig this system to outbid them."
Sam leans back and Holleran swears quietly. Even Jules is taken aback by that one.
"Wouldn't it be easier to just shut the website down?" Greg takes a seat perpendicular to Spike. "Then no one can get their hands on Ed."
"And Saul probably kills him, since he has no value aside from marketability."
Hartford goes pale.
"No," says Spike, gentle. He throws an empathetic look at the man, forgiving to the end. "The best way to get a step ahead of our trafficking ring is to be the bigger buyer. Then they'll give me his location. I would trace it but the IP address is bouncing around the world; it would take too much time."
"We don't have that kind of money," Cho argues. "And we don't negotiate with terrorists."
"They're not terrorists." Spike quirks a brow. "If I learned nothing else, it's that they didn't operate under ideology. This is about money, plain and simple. So we'll speak their language."
Lazlo sits next to Greg, effectively catching Spike's attention. "You may not have that kind of money, but we do."
Spike's fingers halt altogether. "You'd do that for us?"
The aging director doesn't light up, not in the way one would expect. But his freckled wrinkles get deeper, and he squeezes Spike's knee. "For good people like you? Of course."
Spike nods back. "I heard I have you to thank for my hospital room too. Not cheap and we didn't have the pocket change to pay for it."
"Pay?" Dean's face twists in confusion. Then all at once it smooths. "Oh yeah! Right…"
Greg smiles at his son. "We're in the States, Dean. Par for the course here."
"Besides." Lazlo writes down an account number for Spike to key in. "You plucky Canucks have made more headway on this case in one weekend than we have in half a decade."
Spike doesn't answer or join in the relieved looks.
It sets Greg on the alert. "Spike?"
The tech shivers faintly. He breathes shallow, even with the fresh oxygen. Sam tucks a blanket around his legs and looks worried it isn't working until they realize his shakes are not from the blood loss or cold at all.
Jules grasps Spike's wrist.
He looks at her with a gaze that floats in absent waves. "We won the bid. We're to meet them at a crop duster airport west of here. Farm country."
Everyone catapults to their feet.
Lazlo is already on a cellphone, coordinates blinking on screen. The agents mill around each other, all speaking at once. Holleran rushes off to gas the rental, Sam hot on his heels with a duffel of borrowed ammo in hand.
But Jules feels her own heart speed up in response to something tumbling in those eyes.
She clenches Spike's hand again, hoping to halt the spiral. "We'll get him back. You rest and Ed will be right next to you when you wake up. Okay? You've done your part."
"Good work," says Greg. "That was amazing. You never cease to impress me."
Spike flinches, paling.
Dean feeds off the silent frenzy, nudging his brother with a jittery knee. "Spike?"
"They…" Spike's voice breaks and he has to start again. "They messaged asking if we wanted him wiped first. I said no, to stall for time, but…"
"Wiped?" Dean grabs at his father's arm. "Did he just say wiped?"
Greg's brows draw low over fiery eyes. "Let's go."
"I'm coming too." Spike shuffles to standing with Lightfoot's help.
"Oh no." Greg pushes at his shoulder. "You're barely stable as it is and the poison's still working through your compromised immune system. You are not getting in the middle of an active federal take down."
"Yes." Spike stands his ground, glare leveled at Greg. "I am."
The hard tone gives Greg pause. His eyes drift around Spike's face, reading the subtle cues and though Spike's body may be weak right now—his spirit is a forest fire. Jules can see it and Greg must too, nodding.
"Alright." Greg points a warning finger at Spike. "But you're staying in the truck with Dean."
AN: I finished this whole chapter ages ago and then went...WAIT! They would have to pay for a hospital room. Then I proceeded to scramble and fix it haha. I never usually think about those little cultural differences!
