'So when I'm ready to be bolder
And my cuts have healed with time,
Comfort will rest on my shoulder.

Cause they say home is where your heart is set in stone
Is where you go when you're alone,
Is where you go to rest your bones.
It's not just where you lay your head,
It's not just where you make your bed,
As long as we're together, does it matter where we go?'

"Home" ~ Gabrielle Aplin

Jules comes home later that week to see Spike and her husband sprawled on the floor of their living room, the play area where Sadie works on tummy time. And soon—shudder—walking.

They're on their backs, not looking at each other.

Spike is half asleep already.

With the Braddock house so dark, they haven't noticed Jules yet, a silent watcher in the shadows of the entry way. She can't make heads or tails of this strange sight.

"It's cheesy," Sam is saying. "But it's true."

"Well, it's a nice idea, either way. And thank you, Sam. I just needed to…"

"Remember you're not stuck in the woods?"

"Something like that."

Sam lets out a big breath. "I'm glad you came over. If you can't count on a brother, what's the point?"

Spike smiles. "They look nice. Although you did get some of the constellations wrong."

"Thanks for buying them. Sadie loves anything that lights up."

Jules squints and finally realizes that both men are staring at a slew of cheap, glow in the dark stars taped on the ceiling. Little planets and comet tails are peppered throughout the display. They're not at full brightness yet, with the lights freshly off, but they're enough to see her husband give a lazy stretch and a meaningful look at Spike.

"Are you going to do it? Finally?"

"Stop badgering me. You're worse than Ed and his 'suit' comments."

"You brought it up."

Spike pokes Sam in the nose. "Maybe I'm regretting that now."

"I think you should, and soon." Sam lays back, smug. He tucks one arm underneath his head. "Do I at least get best man duties?"

"What if I was going to ask Dean?"

Sam pins Spike with narrowed eyes. "Are you laying on his floor at ten o'clock on a Saturday night?"

"No…point taken."

"I didn't have a best man," says Sam. "So I'm living vicariously through you."

"Does this mean I get a reciprocation of that epic bachelor party I threw for you?"

"Eehhh…" Sam pretends to waver. "It's so much work."

Spike shoves his shoulder. Sam laughs.

They both hush faster than can be passed off as easy going, and Jules knows the two friends are thinking of that awful, beautiful morning rescue in the desert. She'll find them making eye contact sometimes, just nodding silently.

Sam woke up crying once and called Spike, both of them just laying there, breathing across the line. That simple sound calmed her husband faster than a lullaby.

"It'll be the best," says Sam, quiet.

With a tranquil spark in his eye, Spike blinks up at the planets. "Yeah."

Jules has to tip toe away so she can blow her nose without them noticing.


THUMP.

Greg's eyes snap open. The noise takes a moment to filter in, faint as it is, short enough that quiet has resumed already. There's no further ruckus and Greg wonders why this one noise was enough to wake him.

He checks, but Marina is still asleep next to him and Dean returned to live in the dorms for midterms so what…?

Had one of the team stopped over or forgotten something? This doesn't seem likely, being after two in the morning.

Greg throws on flannel pants and his robe, wary of what he'll find and thankful for the cane, in the unlikely case of an intruder.

With the windless night and lack of moon, it's both dark and utterly silent, an eerie combination.

He creeps down the hallway, feeling ridiculous since this is his house, the starlight-speckled carpet rendering his steps soundless.

It takes two passes by the guest room before Greg realizes what's not right—

Spike's bed is empty.

Not again.

The sheets are rumpled and pulled back, so he's been here. Greg rushes to check outside, then the living room couch, but he's nowhere to be found. Not in the bathroom either. He's done this several nights in the past few weeks, giving them all heart attacks in the process.

Greg's hand is just hovering over Eddie's number on speed dial before he puts it together.

The door hinges in the guest bedroom are freshly oiled, so they make no noise when Greg pushes it all the way open and pads inside. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the murk, but when they do—

A dark crop of hair is visible near the far wall.

Greg rounds the bed and stops, something inside of him dissolving into pixelated, technicolour fragments of love and fear where they've tangled up together the past month. They separate at last, and looking at Spike huddled on the floor between the bed and the wall, all Greg feels is deep, calm watered love.

Spike is awake, glancing up at Greg. He averts his eyes, sheepish. "My body…remembers this."

"I don't blame it. Curled up on a cold floor is very comfy." With the help of a shaky hand against the bed, Greg too lowers himself down. He leaves his cane on top of the sheets. "See? Nothing to it."

Spike's stretched a hand off his tight knees to hover over Greg, eyes wide at watching him sit down. "You don't have to do that. This happens sometimes, when I startle awake and am trying to remind myself I'm safe. I'll be good in a minute, five tops."

"It's fine, Spike. You can chill out on the floor as long as you want."

Some of Spike's embarrassment and shame eases off his face. Greg drinks in the sight of him, no need for imagining this time. He knows for a fact that this is how he looked that night in the forest, curled up against Ed and finally feeling a moment's peace.

Greg shifts to settle in, then frowns. There's something soft and bulky under his left knee, making it hard to get comfortable. After much shuffling, he realizes it's coming from under the bed.

"Greg, I can explain—"

Greg pulls it out with one victorious tug.

And his jaw drops.

It's a standard issue SRU 'go bag,' black, nylon, with white accents and a thick Kevlar section for storing ammunition when in a hurry.

There are no bullets or guns in it now.

Now, it's full to bursting with mismatched and faded clothes.

None of them belong to Spike—nor, in fact, do any of the clothes he's currently wearing. Sam's jogging pants, Ed's sweater, Greg's own T-shirt, the one that went missing over a year ago, Wordy's scarf…

The smell alone, of all these beloved and familiar people, brings tears to Greg's eyes before he can huff a sound of wonderment.

"So this is where you've been hoarding all of our missing clothes?"

"Yeah…"

Even in the dim interior of this room, Spike's blush is visible, his knuckles white.

Greg's eyes tear up for a different reason entirely. He rocks forward to set a hand on Spike's shoulder.

The heartbeat under Greg's fingertips, the folds of his calloused and wrinkled palm, is strong and fast. It carries memories of pain and memories of a life lived half alone, in chivvied, sharpened fear, and half liberated.

With family.

One particularly strong pulse hits right at an aged crease next to Greg's lifeline.

Young against wizened…scared against scared. Cigar burn scar against trigger finger scar. Hope against assurance and faith.

Son against father.

"Hey, Greg?"

Greg squeezes and the heartbeats slow down. "Yeah, Spike?"

Spike doesn't answer right away, just rubs his nose against the top of the T-shirt and sweater, eyeing Greg, the room, Dean's soccer ball in the corner, and the world at large.

"We made it home."

Greg nearly collapses at the weight in his heart, a heated, perfect one. He can only whisper. "Figlio. We wouldn't be here, resting, if you hadn't."

Spike makes eye contact with him for the first time since his little retreat to the floor.

"I knew something was wrong with you before I was even informed. Did I mention that?" Greg shakes his head. "I've never been so…so terrified as I was in that moment, Spike."

"That's why they failed."

Greg's brow creases. "Failed? What do you mean?"

Spike's eyes are easy and fond. He tilts his head so his ear partially rests on Greg's hand. "The other agents—they had no one. Just themselves. I escaped with such determination because I knew you were coming for me. Saul thought someone was coming for him but no one ever did, not until it was too late."

Greg's hand moves so it's cupping his boy's face instead. "Hey, Mr. Turtle?"

Spike's eyes spark, lips twitching. "Yeah, Clark Kent?"

"No one's taking you away from us, from me, ever again. Not ever."

Spike's eyes grow bright but do not spill over, like Greg's.

Instead, he can't seem to stop smiling. One of those small, butter yellow ones, packed with so much heat and childlike softness and in-the-moment humour that Greg feels fifty pounds lighter just looking at it.

Greg isn't sure how they end up pressed together, but he's glad for it so he can hear Spike's soft, shy words.

"I'm so blessed to have you, Greg, the team. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me." He brings Greg's hand to rest over his own heart. "My paparino."

Every last cubic centimeter of air inside Greg's lungs is vacuumed out, all at once, in a huge rush of shock and delight so strong that he rocks backwards. Tears fall instantly, a visceral gut response to that simple, priceless word.

He'd trade everything he owns for that word.

Greg inhales and it audibly shakes. He feels Spike's heart rippling against his fingers, and is quenched with awe for this adopted boy and his blinding spirit.

There's one particular article of clothing poking out of the bag, the only one that smells of lilacs and not cologne. Greg takes it out and presses it over Spike's unruly scruff like a coronation. Instead of a crown, the purple toque has a yellow pom-pom on the top.

While Spike itches at Jules' woolly hat, Greg takes the opportunity to steal a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you too, Spike."


AN: This scene at the end is one I've had planned from the very start and it's kind of the emotional climax for me, the reward for all that pain being a term of love that Greg's been waiting to hear for ages.