'For surely I know, if I flee here tonight
That I'd be alone, a singular fright,
And I'm sure that I'd crumble and crease in the weight—
It's safe in your arms, in your arms I will stay.'
"Safe Haven" ~ Royal Wood
It's been quiet for a while now, which suits Spike and his throbbing temples just fine.
He sits with his back to the tub, knees drawn too tight to his chest, just like in that cell. He hasn't turned on the light but it doesn't matter. His head is bowed into his knees, arms curled so tightly around them they're white.
There are no tears. No shaking. No whimpering sobs from his mouth like that night on the lawn.
Spike feels foolish, more than anything. That he should struggle with something so hard to name and so bullseye obvious, all at once.
This is level one trauma ordinance, and it should be much easier to compartmentalize than some of the other atrocities he's faced.
He's not haunted by blindfolds or vans or wealthy Arabs or even the prospect of almost being shoved into a desensitization chamber. No triggers so black and white. They appear in his nightmares but to consciously think about them, they're smaller than his logic. His fear isn't hijacked by their memories.
No, Spike struggles with leaves.
Spike sits there on the floor, cold, thick throated, and struggles with irrational thoughts of that hellish, still night in the woods.
He's so wrapped up in his turmoil that he misses the melodic, slowly spoken words at first. They're tender, broad strokes, and Spike isn't used to hearing them from that particular voice.
Then comes a sound he knows much better.
The lock on Greg's bathroom door is brand new, but it's still your average deadbolt. There's the mousey clicks of a tension wrench and a rake pick hitting all nine tumblers in the lock. Spike can pinpoint the exact second it gives, even though no one opens the door right away.
Someone's knuckles brush the wood. "Hey…I'm coming in, Spike."
Because the door is so new, its hinges don't squeak. Though Spike does hear the latch when someone closes the door again. The flick of the light switch.
The pad pad of treaded shoes trying to approach softly.
Then silence.
Spike doesn't move an inch. He doesn't care who's standing in front of him. He doesn't care that he's holed himself up in the bathroom for the last forty minutes. It's selfish, but he just needs to feel…to know…he needs…
"There's the one and only Barry Allen."
By the time Spike's body twitches in surprise, Ed already has a hand on his back. It doesn't stop there, bumping Spike forward with enough force to bring his head up.
Ed doesn't sit beside him, squished against the towel rack.
Instead, with one deft move, he gets behind Spike and bundles him into his arms, against his chest. He takes great care not to step on Spike's socked toes with his boots.
Spike sits ramrod tense in shock.
Ed, just like that night in the gulley, doesn't look one bit self conscious about the whole thing. He doesn't push Spike to talk or berate him for scaring pretty much everyone downstairs.
He just sits there, chin propped on Spike's shoulder, hands securely around him.
Spike blinks.
And Ed's sweater smells like leaves. Like dead mulch and cologne and…
Spike deflates in an aborted motion before he can censor it, feeling like he might cry with the overflow of relief.
They breathe together, echoing on the cold tile. Ed's elbows bracket Spike's ribs and his diaphragm pumps Ed's folded hands up and down. They stay that way for a long fifteen minutes, at least.
"It was all just too much for a bit, huh?"
Spike swallows. Nods.
"I know how that feels." Ed's throat bobs. "Sometimes at home I'll pull the blanket up over my face, just to block the world out."
Spike can relate. Though he doesn't sleep, his eyes will scrunch shut at night, shaking hands over his ears. It's a futile effort to block out something that's completely in his mind but it makes him feel better. An itsy bit more in control.
Ed hums a buzzing sound in his chest. "I struggled with being helpless, Spike, while watching you deteriorate from poisoning. That I was incapable of helping you and fixing the problem when a teammate needed me most. But you…you're wrestling with that night in the woods."
Spike doesn't nod this time. Doesn't have to.
"You know what? I don't think it scares you at all."
The steady inhalation of oxygen to Spike's lungs falters. He stares at the closed door and a dip appears between his eyes. For all his brainpower, he can't figure that one out.
"I mean it," says Ed, confidence in his voice. "I don't think you're struggling with that night, with this, whatsoever. I realized that the instant Jules called me."
Spike's eyes grow stormy. His voice comes out a rasp. "Then what am I struggling with? I feel like I'm losing my mind."
"Spike…" Ed's voice shifts to a gentle octave. "Spike, I think that was the one time, in this whole experience, that you felt safe. I think you miss it."
Spike may as well have just been socked in the jaw. His foggy mind sees stars. "What are you talking about?"
He can't examine Ed's face at this angle, but there's a twist of lips in Spike's shoulder that speaks of agonized compassion.
"Mike—that was the one time you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I wasn't going anywhere. That you could close your eyes and I'd still be there when you woke up, however conscious."
A stinging comes immediately to Spike's eyes. He presses it back.
Like Ed can sense this, and he probably can, his arms slide from Spike's stomach to around his chest, fingers kneading into the tech's shoulders. Spike reaches up to grip Ed's forearms where they cross.
"Spike, I'm not going to be taken away from you again."
"I know that," Spike croaks out.
"Your brain does. But for your body, your automatic reactions and subconscious, it's going to take some time."
"…Congratulations on requalifying today."
"Spike, you precious idiot." Ed says it with warmth, a smile in his voice. "Son, I didn't take the test. I told them I'm not coming back to work until you are."
Spike blinks again, and it tastes like salt. Tears slide down his cheeks and onto Ed's arms. "Why? My recovery is going to take a lot longer than yours. I still can't seem to put on weight."
Ed squeezes him. "I know. But I'm not leaving you, whatever form that takes."
"Ditto. No more hiding your body in the woods."
This time Ed's mammoth grin is clearer than a klaxon. "Deal."
Spike's crying is silent, but he can't get it to stop no matter how much he argues within himself. Ed's grip relaxes, body uncoiling. Spike imagines himself all those years ago, scowling at these men like a cornered animal, now trusting them not only with his life, but his heart. He can't believe he ever thought they'd misuse him.
"Ed?"
Ed leans into him to hear better. "Yeah?"
Spike tries, opens his mouth a few times, before he finds the words he wants. "Saul said that Hartford abandoned him when he was the most vulnerable. It made him bitter, turned him."
"Yes, it did."
"But…but Hartford didn't. He searched for him, on the sly, for over five years, right?"
It is Ed's turn to be silent. He sighs and the lilt of it against Spike's back makes his hands tighten around the sniper.
"He loved his pupil," Spike insists. "Saul's loss tore Hartford apart, made him lie to us."
Ed curls around him, grip almost crushing. Spike can't tell why. There's a scared catch in Ed's breathing, the sound matching that night in the woods when Spike asked a very different question.
"That could have been us. What if we lose each other and grow to hate like that?"
"No, Spike," Ed whispers. "Never. Not in a million years. Know why?"
Spike really doesn't. He frowns.
Ed strokes just over Spike's heart. "We triumphed where Hartford didn't because he tried to do it by himself. He tried to find his protégé without help and eventually gave up because it didn't work. That whole process skewed his morals."
Spike gets it after a moment. "We had the team."
"Mmm. And the team asked for help, both from each other and the surrounding authorities. They fought for us, for every single person on the other side of that door. Hartford had just himself."
"Shouldn't go it alone?" says Spike, guessing the maxim here.
Ed pulls away enough to look Spike in the eye. "No. We can't do it by ourselves. It's not even possible or we'll self destruct, like Hartford and Saul did."
Spike moves to hide his face again but Ed won't let him, bumping his chin back up. There's a beautiful moment of contact between their hands, a resolution of that torture on the plane. Ed wraps him up in protective arms.
"We're going to pull through, Spike. Next time you're struggling, instead of running like Saul did, come to one of us."
"I'll…I'll work on that." Spike wipes at his nose.
Ed huffs, thawing and fond. "I'll be here to make sure you do."
A hesitant knock on the door startles them. Greg cracks it open with a sliver of assessing eyes. He's holding a glass of water for Spike and a few pain meds. "Everything okay now?"
"You bet," Ed calls. "Floor's an ice rink though. Get in here and help me up, Doctor Kimble!"
Greg splutters and only loses a second being thrown by that. "Kimble? I have Tommy Lee Jones' bossy monologue down pat! I'm so much more of a Gerard!"
Ed flat out refuses to leave that night.
Clark offers to chauffeur them home but Ed silently shakes his head and his son nods, like he's already expecting this. He conks out on the couch, Dean curled up on one end, Clark stretched out.
The TV plays on mute, cheery flashes in the dark. Dean has Clark's ankles cuddled in his arm and they're both completely fast asleep.
Checking up on them, Ed smiles. These kids will be the death of him one day, and he'll be thanking them for it all the while. He marvels, again, that the two boys have become so close in such a short time, after spending almost ten years apart. They got on like a house on fire, even as children.
He has illustrious plans about badgering Spike to bed as well, maybe sitting with him so he feels safe enough to do so, but when he pops back into the kitchen, sometime around nine, it's to see Spike at the table. Izzy is dozing against his chest.
Spike stares at the giraffe sandwiched between them, the batting still sticking out. At his listless eyes, though calmer than before, Ed's chest winches.
He figured out how to rescue us all by himself. The fact will never get easier to digest. How little Ed really did to help. He was alone for so much of our abduction and we nearly lost his mind. Sam saved him by a thread.
Just thinking about this truth is like Napalm, eating away at the space inside his lungs.
"Hey." Ed keeps his voice soft to avoid frightening Spike. "I'm too hyped up to sleep and I'm guessing you are too. Fancy a game?"
The tech shifts, blinking back to the present. He watches Ed retrieve a deck of cards from the junk drawer, dog eared and cracked to death.
"I don't know if I have the brain power for poker," says Spike, rubbing his eye.
Ed snorts. "And I don't know if I believe that, not with your track record."
"You just suggested poker because you and Clark are better at it than us."
"Darn right, I did."
Spike rolls his eyes but he's smiling, so Ed takes the victory. He spies a needle and thread on the table, left abandoned like they were thrown there, and offers them instead. Maybe Spike needs healing more.
He takes the needle, though he's bright eyed at the sight of it, for some reason. Then, suddenly he says, "How about Count Down Crazy Eights?"
"Really?" Ed's voice is dry but he starts dealing anyway. "This is a children's game. I used it to teach Clark math."
"False." Spike's voice goes into lecture mode. "Crazy Eights is a game for all ages and was originally played by soldiers in the 1930s."
"Whatever helps you sleep at night."
"Besides, any game can be an adult game if we put stakes on it."
Ed can't fight a grin. "Maybe not Mrs. Matheson's thirty grand, but sure. And no counting cards this time."
Spike glances around, feathering the needle through the giraffe's foot. "Loser has to lie and say that Greg's new lasagna recipe is delicious?"
"Deal. You're on." Ed examines his cards, waiting for Spike to make the first play. He throws down a pick up four, the imp. "Wait a second. Wasn't Crazy Eights called that because of mentally ill soldiers after the war?"
Spike accepts the lose a turn Jack Ed puts down and shrugs. "Maybe it's fitting."
Ed sobers. Izzy shifts in her sleep and the men go quiet, though Spike continues to sew up the rest of the hole.
"Spike…"
Ed's whisper isn't a question and it's not a statement. It's just his name, just the sheer majesty of him existing in the space of this quaint kitchen. Just like they're all designed, as people and family, to take up space and splash colour upon the world.
To be human means there's no greater thing they'll ever accomplish than to exist and enjoy life.
The tech's movements slow down. "Sometimes I'm sad, Ed."
"I know, because I'm in the same boat. We're both getting poor at hiding it, huh?"
"Maybe that's fitting too."
Spike looks at him, steady eyed. Ten years ago, stoic Ed Lane would have glanced away or made a gruff joke to deflect the open hearted expression.
Now, Ed just takes Spike's hand, the one holding his cards, and grasps it. He squeezes once before letting go.
"We're not here, surrounding you, because you're supposed to get better or be something for us, Spike. We're not demanding your 'old self' or anything like that."
Spike says nothing. At some point, his breathing has synced up slightly with Izzy's, a syncopated rhythm that melts Ed's gut. He'll never get tired of watching his kids together.
Ed leans in close. "You're here because you're allowed to be sad, as long as you need. Just let yourself feel and be that version of you, even if 'you' means tears and heartache and nightmares right now. It's okay, Spike."
Spike again doesn't reply. But he finishes the stitches—much better than even Sophie could have done, if Ed's honest—and breaks off the knot thread with his teeth. There's something very reverential and sacred about the action. A breaking of thread to heal the metaphorical ones between them.
Then he sets the stuffed animal on the table, displaying the wholeness of it.
And maybe it's a giraffe or maybe it's a head wound, maybe it's running together through a dark forest, maybe it's a little brother's tears, maybe it's the future, maybe it's a father's love irritating top government officials around the world until they find his son, maybe it's all of them, maybe they're all leaves making up one giant nest pile—
Whatever it is, Ed looks at it, held upright by Spike's scarred hand, and sees something without blemish.
It's perfect because it's home.
"You know something I never said?"
Ed lays down a pick up eight in retaliation. "What's that?"
"Thank you, Ed."
"For what?" he asks, watching Spike pick up all his cards.
Spike pins him with a sharp gaze. "I never would have made the trip, surviving, if I'd done it on my own. You carried me, got me breathing again, kept me from a fatal case of hypothermia. I know you felt helpless but I'd be dead without you."
Ed closes his eyes for a beat. He thinks of so many nights lying awake in the dark, Sophie trying desperately to soothe away the night terrors, Clark knocking on their door in tears because he's just so scared of losing them again, and Ed trying to do everything around the house.
His almost manic caring for Izzy because he can't be found useless like that again…
None of it works the way he wants it to. It's all a futile effort.
Ed knows he and Spike will never be able to share that experience in full with anyone else, no matter how hard they try. That no one can ever imagine hard enough to get a handle on how appalling it was, listening to Spike drown from the inside out and Spike hauling him across the ground.
They only have each other for that intricate brand of commiseration.
But right now there are big, coffee brown eyes gazing at him and his daughter is happily sleeping, his son snoring away in the living room, and they're both fine.
We're both fine.
"Two way street," says Ed, reaching over to stroke Spike's hair. "I'd be brainwashed in a warzone by now."
"I'll follow you anywhere," Spike whispers. The pretense drops at the same time his cards do. He's reaching for Ed right when Ed reaches for him. The hug is light, to avoid squishing Izzy, but Spike's fingers clench tightly in the back of Ed's shirt. "Thank you."
And Ed vows, right then and there, that he'll be better.
He won't be anything like Hartford and his choices, throwing his kid in harm's way without backup, letting him get taken, giving up when things go south. That so long as Ed has breath in his body, Spike will never end up like Saul.
Two way street, Spike…two way street…
