A.N. All right everyone, thank you once again for your patience! I think we're in the home stretch here, there shouldn't be anymore huuuuge gaps in posting. I know I have said that before, but this time I have almost all of the rest of the chapters already written, with just a few more to go. So fingers crossed!
Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!
.
.
.
.
The tires of Wordy's SUV screeched to a stop in a parking spot that was much too small for it, but the occupants paid no mind to that, only registered it as a nuisance as it made getting out of the car difficult, so close it was to its neighbors, and even then they only registered it due to the fact that it slowed them down from getting into the hospital. To getting to Sam. To getting something, any word on Sam.
They'd had the presence of mind to strip their tactical gear off, but they were still quite a sight as all three of them burst through the doors of the emergency room, still wearing their SRU uniforms.
Before they even reached the nurses station, prepared to demand an update, a nurse cut them off, stopping them mid approach.
"You'll find your teammate over there," he gestured to a quieter corner of the waiting room, an annex. "You can wait with him there and as soon as we have an update, the doctors will be out to see you."
Ed glanced at the annex, but stayed rooted to the spot, torn between going to Spike and demanding more information from the nurse right now, though the rational part of him knew there was nothing more this nurse could provide. He finally decided that the rational part of him had been in charge long enough—ever since Spike knocked some sense into him—and he was now prepared to be completely irrational, all in the name of looking after his friend, and had opened his mouth to demand answers, when the nurse frowned, mistaking Ed's warring stubbornness for confusion.
"You are here for Samuel Braddock, right? The off-duty officer who was brought in just a little while ago? From the square?"
"Yes," Jules replied, pouncing at the opportunity for information. "Can you tell us anything about him? How he's doing?"
The nurse shook his head. "No, I'm sorry," he told them, true regret filling his eyes. "I know what you all go through, how you all put your lives on the line to protect others, and I wish there was more I could give you. For now, though, you'd best take care of the teammate you can help right now. See if you can't get him to get cleaned up at least. He won't let any of us near him."
Thoroughly shut down in their quest to get information on Sam, the trio took the nurse's advice and quickly made their way towards Spike, into the small annex on the side of the waiting room. Ed was sure this must be a very popular waiting area, as it was more quiet and private, but right now its ten chairs were all deserted, except for one. And Ed had a feeling that they had not long been deserted, that the one occupant had unintentionally driven them out of the space due to his appearance.
Spike sat staring hard at the entrance into the medical area. And though the three members of Team One had approached from the direction he was now staring, he appeared not to have registered their presence. It gave Ed a moment to assess him.
Though both of Spike's elbows rested on his knees, Ed could see that he only put weight on his right arm, his left was simply supported by his knee. The bomb-expert's gaze was laser focused, and completely unaware of everything except for the door doctors sometimes walked through, updating waiting family members. Ed let his eyes continue to travel down Spike's body in order to finish the assessment, and he did not like how the man's left shoulder appeared bloody and hunched forward—no doubt from pain—and his left hand shook every once in a while, despite the fact it rested on his knee. And oh god, his hands… his hands and the material of his pants around his knees were soaked in blood. It did not drip from his fingertips, but clung to his skin like a stain that threatened to never come out, a horrible reminder that not long ago, he'd held the very life of a friend in his hands, and there had been barely anything he could do to save him.
While Ed examined Spike from a distance, Wordy moved forward to sit on his left.
"Hey," he called softly, resting a hand ever so gently on Spike's left forearm, aware of his injury. "You need to let the nurses have a look at you," Wordy told him gently but firmly, eyes resting on the sizeable patch of blood that had blossomed on Spike's left shoulder. "Looks like you ripped some stitches."
Spike shook his head and muttered, "It doesn't matter."
Ed and Jules sat opposite the pair.
"What do you mean it doesn't matter?" Wordy inquired.
"What's a few ripped stitches compared to—" Spike cut himself off, right hand fluttering up to gesture in the direction of the interior of the hospital, before snapping his hand back down to his lap. "I'm fine."
Ed snorted. "Well that's the biggest lie if I've ever heard one. In no sense of the word are you fine."
Spike broke his staring contest with the door to glare at Ed for a moment, before he let his eyes travel back to it. He didn't respond.
"Spike," Ed tried again, letting a little bit of his Team Lead voice come to the fore, "You still need to take care of yourself. Sam will feel terrible when he finds out that you left your shoulder untreated because of him."
Spike's eyes flicked to him once more, letting Ed know he was getting through to him.
So he appealed to the side of Spike that was ever so considerate of others. "And quite frankly, you're freaking everyone in this waiting room out. I'm willing to bet there were at least four people sitting near you when you first sat down."
Spike glanced around at the annex, empty except for them, and grimaced. "Six," he admitted, before his gaze wandered back to the door, wistfully.
"Spike, as much as I hate to admit it, we're in for a long wait. And I swear that if something happens, if we hear something while you're being looked at, I will come straight to you."
Finally, reluctantly, the other man's resistance crumbled and he got to his feet. He swayed for a moment, and Ed, Jules and Wordy all lunged from their seats to steady him.
"Do you want one of us to come with you?" Jules asked.
"Sure, fine, whatever," Spike allowed, seemingly indifferent, which was a testament to just how out of it he was.
Exchanging quick glances, the trio decided wordlessly that Ed would go.
"Okay bud, come on," Ed said gently, and led Spike to the nurse's station, careful not to touch him in order to allow him independence, but right there in case he stumbled.
Minutes later and Spike was seated on a bed in the wide open and busy space of the ER, legs dangling off the side, waiting. Ed stood beside him, arms crossed, back to the room, just watching his teammate.
Spike was now staring pointedly at the ground, legs swinging back and forth. Ed wanted nothing more than to talk to him, to reassure the other man, but also just to talk, because he himself was inwardly terrified for the life of a friend, but he couldn't make himself say a word, couldn't even think of where to begin, what to say. So he took the only road he could at that moment and offered silent moral support, waiting for Spike to speak first. Perhaps it was the coward's way out, but it was all he could do right then.
"How do you suppose Sam figured out Ben Gaskill was the real target?" Spike finally asked softly, voice so quiet it barely carried to Ed over the hum and buzz of the room.
Ed started, not expecting that. "What do you mean, Spike?"
"I mean, I had all these resources, tons of people making phone calls—you included—for me, databases and profiles, and I figured it out just when you caught the first subject. But how could Sam? How could he when he was lying on the ground shot, and isolated from everyone but Libby? I just don't understand, was it that obvious? Did I miss something? If I'd caught it sooner maybe this wouldn't have happened," Spike rambled, speaking ever more quickly, voice rising in pitch and volume as he started to hyperventilate.
"Spike, Spike, hey, stop!" Ed ordered, stepping forward and putting one hand on Spike's good shoulder, the other beneath his chin and forcing the man to look at him. "Slow down, just breathe, in… and out…"
Gradually, Spike's breathing came under control.
"That's it, now what are you talking about?"
"Sam," Spike stated clearly, like Ed was being dense.
Ed rolled his eyes, immediately reminded of their earlier conversation, which had gone similarly. "I know it's about Sam, Spike, but what do you mean? Why do you think Sam figured out Gaskill was the target?"
Spike swallowed hard and seemed about to speak, but just then a doctor finally arrived and made Ed take a step back as she treated Spike's shoulder.
She frowned. "Spike, I just discharged you this morning and now you're back and you've torn through almost all of your stitches!"
The ghost of a smile slipped onto Spike's face. "Sorry Dr. Griffin, I promise there's a very good reason."
"There always is, but I did tell you that you were not to go back to work for a minimum of three weeks, and that you'd need to do physical therapy first!"
"I wasn't officially at work, but I was needed. I don't know if you've heard, but there was a situation downtown today," he explained tentatively.
She grimaced. "I did hear. You were there?"
Spike nodded.
"And were you injured elsewhere?" she asked, moving to examine his knees.
"No, that's—" he paused and swallows. "That's not mine. I wasn't injured, just my shoulder.
"Well, the good news is that it doesn't look like you've done further damage to it. I can stitch you up and get you out of here in no time, but this time you had better keep it in your sling and rest it!"
When she'd finished, she began to walk away, promising to send someone to discharge him shortly. Ed quickly followed her.
"Dr. Griffin!" he called.
She stopped and waited for him to catch up.
"Uh, is there any chance I could get a pair of scrubs or something for my friend?"
She frowned. "He'll be discharge momentarily and then quite frankly you should take him home."
Ed nodded. "Yes, that's what I should do, but there's no way that I can. You see, one of our teammates was injured today and was brought in, and I'm afraid that none of us, Spike included, is going to leave until we hear about him. And it's not doing Spike any good to sit in clothes that are soaked in our friend's blood."
Her expression softened and she nodded. "Yes, I imagine we can find something. I'll have something brought out to you."
A little while later, Ed and Spike returned to their silent group in the waiting room, about an hour after they'd first departed, Spike clad in fresh scrubs, hands and arms bright red, but this time from the amount of scrubbing he'd had to do in order to get all of Sam's blood off.
A single look from Wordy and Jules was enough to tell them that there'd been no news.
No news is good news, Ed told himself fervently, clinging to that old adage.
(…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…Flashpoint…)
An hour or so later, Libby arrived. Ed was honestly surprised she had not shown up sooner, thinking rather fondly of the last time when she had gotten into his car and demanded she be allowed to ride along with him to the hospital. When Spike had said she needed medical treatment, he hadn't realized the severity of her injuries, therefore his surprise quickly changed to concern and understanding once he laid eyes on her, and saw that in addition to a flushed face and sunken eyes, sure signs of heat exhaustion and dehydration, her right arm was encased in a soft cast.
Her left hand was encased in a different way, encased in the tight grip of her brother, and her parents flanked her. When she set foot in the waiting room, entering from the door that led to the ER, the door Ed and Spike had not long ago returned from, her eyes immediately scanned the room. When they landed on the remaining members of Team One, she hesitated.
Her hesitation cut Ed to the core. Though he wouldn't expect her to sit with them because she knew them—it had been three years after all, and they'd only spent a few hours in each other's company even back then—when waiting for news of a loved one, one sat with those who were also waiting, because it was comforting to be with those you knew cared just as deeply for that someone as you did. And Libby's hesitation meant that she was no longer sure of that. No longer sure that the members of Team One cared for Sam the way they should.
And could he blame her for her that? No. He'd given her every reason to doubt his allegiance to Sam when he'd spoken with her last night.
Finally, Libby moved to join them, but she sat as far from them in the annex as she was able.
Ed wanted to go ask how she was doing, if she was physically okay—because he knew mentally she wasn't, none of them were—but knew it was not his place. And he figured her parents would have seen to it that she was.
Silence fell upon their group, though the rest of the waiting room remained anything but silent. People came and went, screaming kids, shell shocked eyes, things an emergency room saw every day. Things Ed saw almost every day, just not in such high quantity.
He tried to think of something, anything to break the silence of the annex, something that would not seem out of place, and finally settled on a question from earlier that had gone unanswered. "Hey Spike, earlier, you wondered how Sam was able to figure out that Ben Gaskill was the target. What did you mean? How do you know he did?"
Spike picked his head up to meet Ed's gaze from where he was sitting directly across from him. The rest of Team One leaned forward imperceptibly, seemingly equally eager to end their silence, to hear something, anything, about Sam, to fill in the pieces to a day that seemed so utterly fractured and splintered. They all wanted that, all wanted to be able to put things back together, and they had no chance at repairing the fractures they'd shattered in their friendship, not right now, so piecing together the day was all they could do.
"Well," Spike started slowly, "I don't know that he did, but either he did or he's just unlucky."
Ed remained quiet, waiting for Spike to go on.
"When I was running out to him and Libby…" Spike's eyes flicked towards the figure sitting in the corner with her family, but she refused to look at them all, so Spike continued, "Right before I got there, I heard a bit of a commotion and saw Ben start to get up, or try to get up, but Sam was holding onto him, which pulled Sam up off the ground. Ben was stubborn though, and kept trying, but Sam managed to pull him down a bit, and that's when the second subject fired. And Sam got hit instead of Ben. But like I said earlier, I'd only just figured it out with a million resources at my disposal. I have no idea how Sam did."
All their eyes turned towards the young woman who had been there beside Sam, who had undoubtedly saved his life and knew more about the day than any of them, and finally, finally she turned to look at them. Her eyes were fire. "Oh hell no," she growled.
"Libby," her mother started quietly, placing a hand on her daughter's forearm.
"No, no they need to hear this. Would you please take Tulio?"
Her parents shared a look, before her father finally rose and coaxed a protesting eight year old out of the room.
The minute he was out of ear shot, she started. "I see how all of you are looking at me; you want answers for today. Well yesterday, you couldn't have been bothered for answers, so why do you want them now?" she demanded, eyes blazing. "Yesterday you didn't want an answer for why Sam was almost late to shift, you didn't want an answer for why he took the shot, you didn't want an answer for how the hell he was able to take that shot in the first place—remember he said he lost his visual? Do any of you even know how he got it back?"
Spike clearly opened his mouth to answer, but she ploughed on without giving him the chance. "You didn't want any answers from Sam yesterday, never even gave him the opportunity to give you any, instead you tossed him out like garbage, and if you'd seen him after that, when he walked out of the building and no longer had your judging eyes burning holes in his body, you'd be thinking the exact same thing I was, which was 'thank god I'm here so I can pick up the pieces!' Because if I hadn't been there, I don't want to know what would have happened!"
This time it was Wordy who opened up his mouth to answer, but again, she ploughed on.
"But you know what? I can be the bigger person, so you want answers? I can give you some, but the others you are damn well going to ask Sam. Because you should have asked yesterday. So how did Sam know Ben was the target? Frankly, I don't know for sure. I've been trying to figure that out myself, because if I had also figured it out, he wouldn't be back there somewhere fighting for his life with a bullet to the head. The only thing I can think of is that once Ben started talking, Sam started getting agitated, so maybe he heard something that connected the dots, but stupid idiot me just thought it was Sam losing it, because he was freaking dying. But no, even though he was bleeding out, incoherent, choking on his own blood and barely able to function, he knew something was up. And though he shouldn't have been able to move, he tried and succeeded in saving Ben's life.
And you know what else? He figured out there was a second shooter, too. That one I do know. Before the shot at Ben, he tried to warn me, but I didn't understand. Even so he wouldn't let me leave when I tried to get up and get the EMTs; he started panicking and saying there wasn't enough time, and I thought he was saying goodbye…" she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she continued, her voice was raw, "I thought he was saying goodbye, it was only later that I realized he was talking about the second shooter. He wasn't able to string more than two words together, but he was trying so hard to make me understand. He kept tapping this," she stopped speaking and started tapping an odd rhythm on her leg, which went up to 14 beats, paused, then repeated.
When they all looked blank, she nodded. "There's no way you would know what that is because you weren't there, but that's the pattern of shots that came into the square. Or rather, a really rough approximation."
They all stared, listening with new attention, trying to understand how that would indicate a second shooter. The answer finally came to Ed just as a new voice supplied, "It's too fast."
Their heads whipped around to stare at Greg, standing at the entrance to the annex.
Ed nodded. "It's too fast for a single shooter taking headshots without missing, even for someone as skilled as Sam."
"Exactly," Libby replied. "Sam kept muttering about there not being enough time, and I thought he was just losing it, that the blood loss was getting to him, because too much damn time had passed, but I was just too stupid to realize what he was trying to tell me. It was so obvious and yet… Sam paid the price."
"It's not obvious," Greg disagreed.
"You guessed it right away," Libby challenged.
"Only because I had all of the information already. Only because I knew—you'd just mentioned it—there was more than one shooter."
Libby turned away. Clearly indicating this conversation was over.
Greg stepped forward and sat down next to Spike. "Okay, seems like I've missed a lot. What happened?"
.
.
.
.
A.N.2. And as an appeasement for making you all wait so long again, this is much less of a cliffhanger, right?! This has to be the least cliffhanger-y chapter ending I have posted in awhile...