Hey party people. Sorry for the delay on this one. I've been busy. I have friends and a life and stuff. Why shouldn't I? Don't look at me like that.

Congrats to Buckeye for getting my ghetto trivia question right! Yeah, in the unaired pilot Jules's name was Kate Travers and she was having an affair with Ed and I was all like, "Say whaaat."

I am constantly amazed by the kind words you guys are saying when you review. I am so grateful for every review, favorite, and follow. For reals, just forget the French fry - I think this bird found a whole damn Happy Meal. Now scroll down and enjoy chapter four!

[…]

The next time Spike woke up was early the next afternoon. It was Saturday, and Sam happened to be the only one in the room at the time.

Since the team had been given the prognosis by Dr. Traver, Sam had been mildly stunned. He had never known an SRU without Spike. As long as Sam had been on the team, there had been Spike. He couldn't even really imagine what it would be like trying to make it through the tough calls without his never-ending sense of humor or his expertise.

As he watched his friend sleep, Sam studied him.

It was easy to forget how small Spike was. Besides Jules, he was definitely the least physically intimidating member of the team. And Spike often spent so much time in the truck, Sam had to admit that he often glanced over how very capable his friend was. Not only was Spike as good a shot as any cop on the force, but he fought with the strength of a man twice his size (tackling a volatile, armed subject in a hospital basement and administering a flawless sleeper hold on an angry young man holding a live bomb came to mind).

And then there was Spike's specialty.

If anyone else on the team were to become incapacitated and unable to do their job, there was always another member who could step up and do it for them. If Greg couldn't negotiate, Ed could. If Sam had no joy, Jules would be there.

But if Spike couldn't defuse a bomb…

And Sam admired Spike every time he went out to the field for a diffusion. Sam felt safe up high on a sniper's perch. There was a sense of security that came with being up so toweringly; untouchable.

But every single damn time Spike went to do his job, he risked everything. And he never hesitated, never flinched. True, their job was never safe, but there was something wholly different, something utterly and debilitatingly terrifying about walking right up to an armed explosive, staring down a ticking timer, sticking your bare hands right in it, and risking getting blown to a thousand unidentifiable pieces by simply trying to render it safe. It was definitely the most dangerous aspect of their job.

And to watch Spike work on a bomb was another thing entirely.

Sam had seen diffusions before, of course - in Kandahar. Not intimately and not particularly up close, but he had seen them. He had been present for them. But with Spike, disarming a bomb was different; it was personal. No one was better at his job than he was. It was as simple as that. His normally clumsy hands became almost graceful. His fingers moved nimbly, with purpose.

Sam would almost compare them to choreographed dancers in a ballet, each moving in time to a rhythm only Spike could hear.

Yes, no one was quite like their Spike. To think of a Team One without him scared Sam more than he'd be willing to admit, but that was all he could concentrate on as his blue eyes bored into Spike's heavily casted left arm. It wasn't particularly unpleasant to look at with the rainbow of signatures and pleasantries and get wells decorating it (not to mention the Spongebob stickers Wordy's daughters insisted Spike would love), but Sam cringed outwardly anyway, remembering what was underneath and what it could possibly mean for his friend. His gaze drifted down to those graceful fingers - now mangled by a faceless, enraged young man with a steel baseball bat - and he wondered if they would ever work properly again. Spike loved bombs more than anything; it was one of the few things Sam was aware of that he was passionate about. What would Spike do if he couldn't handle bombs anymore?

A rustle from the bed brought his attention away from his thoughts. He observed as Spike jerked awake abruptly, his heavily lidded eyes scanning the ceiling rapidly, confused, his good hand gripping tightly at the sheets, the steady rhythm of the heart rate monitor increasing markedly.

Sam, realizing that Spike was disoriented and didn't know where he was, placed a tentative hand on the technician's forearm. "Hey," he whispered cautiously, gently. "You're okay, Spike. It's Sam. You're okay, and you're in a hospital."

The words seemed very familiar and very distant to Spike. He stilled and turned his aching head toward the voice and despite the pain and drowsiness, he twisted his face into what arguably could have been a smile. "Samtastic," he croaked.

Sam returned the smile, because how could he not? It was Spike.

"You want some water, buddy?" Sam offered, already reaching for the unopened plastic bottle by his feet that he had taken in with him. When Spike murmured a response, Sam unscrewed the cap and held it up to Spike's lips, helping his friend drink. When he had a few sips Sam pulled the bottle away and Spike coughed lightly, clearing his throat.

"Thanks, Sam. Sammmm… Samtastic…" Spike drawled, letting his eyes flutter closed again. He sighed deeply and his breathing evened out after a moment. Sam thought he had fallen back asleep, but then Spike spoke up again, eyes still closed. "I'm in a hospit'l." A statement.

"Yeah. You remember anything?" After a moment when Spike didn't respond, Sam ventured further, adding, "You woke up yesterday and the doctor talked to you."

Spike's brow furrowed. "Hmmmm…" It was a deep hum, from the back of his throat. "I 'member Wordy was here. I think…" His words were still very garbled and quiet. Sam had to lean forward to make them out.

"Yeah, Wordy was here," Sam encouraged patiently.

"I musta… I guess I hit my head?" At that, Spike's eyes cracked open and his right hand drifted up to his head. He fingered the bandages gingerly, then felt around to the back of his head. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Spike?"

"Sam, whuh happ'nd ta my hair? 'M I bald?"

Sam balked. He hadn't been prepared for that. Of all the things he had been expecting Spike to say, that certainly hadn't been one of them. Of course, Spike's head had to be shaved for the operation to repair his fractured skull, but for some reason Sam felt incredibly uneasy addressing it so upfront.

It was Sam, as a matter of fact, who had pointed out once, when he first joined the SRU, that Spike had a habit of running his hands through his hair when he got stressed out. This caused his hair to become increasingly more wild during their more taxing calls until by the end of the day it would be standing on end, pointing out in every direction, causing Spike to properly look like the mad scientist the entire team knew he truly was. This gave the team some welcome relief on those trying days and Spike still had no idea why everyone smirked at him like that. Just like every unique, quirky aspect of Spike's, it added to his charm.

"Sam?" Spike was watching him expectantly.

"Uhh, yeah-" he finally said, his voice breaking slightly. Sam cleared his throat and continued. "Yeah, the doctors had to shave your head - to work on it. It, uh - it doesn't look bad though."

"Oh." Spike paused, closed his eyes again. "Do me a favor? Can ya not tell Ed 'n th' Sarge? 'N Wordy? We don' need another baldy on th' team."

And Sam allowed himself to smile again. He was comforted by the fact that fractured skull or no, Spike was still Spike.

And morphine was a hell of a drug.

[…]

Over the next few days Spike became increasingly more coherent. He was able to hold more and more lucid conversations, but he also became more aware of the state of his body. It seemed that every slight movement jostled his broken arm or his head or ribs or pulled at his stitches. Spike was never one for sitting still, and as the haze around his mind slowly began to lift and he was conscious for longer stretches of time, he quickly became restless, like when he had to sit through Sunday mass with his family as a kid.

One evening almost a week after Spike had been admitted into the hospital, he sat in bed with Jules talking animatedly next to him, having shown up after shift much to Spike's delight. The team had returned to work that week, and with his mother caring for his sick father, he had no regular visitors during the day. Reading gave him a headache and he had little interest for daytime soaps, so the past few days had been excruciatingly dull for the injured officer. He loathed to admit that he was almost looking forward to the nurses popping in periodically to redress his wounds, draw blood, and generally poke and prod at his poor beaten body and make him feel uncomfortable.

So even though Jules was speaking way too fast for Spike's still drug addled brain to keep up with and eating half of his hospital mush-dinner, he realized what she was doing and he appreciated it.

The distraction was nice, and so very welcome.

But then Spike caught something Jules had said as the woman spoke, her hands flying about excitedly as she told her story.

"-And I just couldn't get access to the records - I mean, I got them eventually, yeah, but still, it took some doing - and I thought about how it would have taken you, what, like a minute to get the password and it just - I mean, it would have been nice to have you there, Spike - we really missed you today-"

They had missed him today.

"Jules," Spike interrupted softly, cutting his friend off mid-sentence.

Jules immediately leaned forward on the edge of her seat, concerned and attentive. "What is it, Spike? Do you need something?"

Spike took a short moment, licked his lips, before he responded. "When are you guys replacing me?"

It was just a question, simple as that. There wasn't a hint of malice or pity in Spike's voice.

Jules slowly sat back, speechless for the first time since she arrived at the hospital that evening. She smiled shakily and asked, "What are you talking about, Spike? Replace you? Come on, you know you're going to get better and-"

"Jules."

Spike was staring hard at her. After a moment Jules had to look away.

"I'm not stupid, Jules," Spike continued. "An injury like this-" He nodded at his broken left arm. "It doesn't heal up in a week. You guys can't just be a man down forever."

"But it won't be forever," intoned Jules desperately. "It's just until you get better. Spike, we're not going to just forget about-"

"My doctor told me, you know. I know what the odds are of me recovering with the full use of my hand. I know that…that I might not ever make it back on the team."

"Stop it." Jules was almost near tears at this point, her tone sharp. "Don't say that, Spike."

"It's true. If my hand doesn't work one hundred percent I can't trust myself to hold a gun steady, let alone defuse a bomb. This team deserves someone they can depend on, who can keep 'em safe. You guys, you - you need to move on. I want you to. You can't hold open a spot for me when we don't know if I'll ever make it back. It's too big a risk. I'm a liability, Jules. And if you put a gun in my hands - I'm dangerous. The last thing I want is to see one of you get hurt."

Jules almost laughed outright at the irony of that statement. Instead, she admitted, "Holleran spoke to the Sarge yesterday about holding trials." Spike raised his eyebrows at that and Jules continued soberly. "God. You should've seen how livid he got. He told Holleran that it was too soon, and that we aren't even sure yet that you'll need to be replaced. I mean, I know the Sarge knows, but it's like he's in denial. He's scared, Spike - we all are. But Holleran was firm about it. We have to hold trials next week. We just - god, Spike, we don't want to lose you, you have no idea…"

"But you won't be losing me. Just 'cause I'm not on the team anymore doesn't mean we have to stop being friends all of a sudden," Spike pointed out.

"It won't be the same, and you know it. And besides, you're - you're an important part of the team, Spike." Jules forced herself to exhale slowly, taking control of her breathing. "I don't want to be on it if you're not there." She sat forward again and placed her hand over Spike's. Jules could tell how worn-out the man had become, how exhausted the conversation had made him.

"No one does this job forever. You know that." Spike sounded so resigned, so damn tired. It frustrated Jules that Spike had seemingly just accepted his fate so easily.

"Yeah, I do, I know, but you still have so much time left. There are still so many people you need to help, Spike, so many people you can save, and it just - it makes me so mad! It's not fair that this happened to you. I - I just - how are you not angry?!"

"Jules. Jules, hey - Jules. Jules," Spike whispered over her impassioned words, squeezing her hand with weak, trembling fingers, and odd calm having taken over him, "it's gonna be okay."

And god, those words - those familiar, horrible fucking words that Jules still heard in her nightmares - they were what did her in. Forsaking any dignity she may have had before, Jules let the dam break and really, honest-to-god for the first time in far too long let herself break down and just cry.

And as Jules allowed her chest and head to collapse on the bed, burying her face in Spike's shoulder, she felt her friend's unsteady hand move to run through her hair. She felt Spike stroking her head, placating her and shushing her and telling her over and over again that it's gonna be okay, Jules, it's gonna be okay, and she couldn't help but think about how backwards this whole situation was. She should be the one holding and comforting Spike, not the other way around.

And in that moment Jules hated herself just a little bit because yes, Spike really was stronger than her in a lot of ways and no, it just wasn't fair that this had happened to him.

"…Jules. It's gonna be okay."

[…]

I am still so sad about Lou. This chapter was a pleasure to write. Hope you liked it! I wish I could invite you guys all over to my apartment for chocolate cake and soda, but I don't think Brenda across the hall would appreciate the ruckus.

Here's another story about my mom watching Flashpoint. Remember Sally? In the wee early episodes she was the dispatcher - in the time before Kira. She thought Sally was a hooker and that the SRU was doing some kind of work release program. And then she started talking about how the hot call siren sounds kind of like disco music. Like Kira is wearing bell bottoms behind the desk or something. Then when Kira disappeared and we met Wonderful Winnie, she was so confused. We decided that the police life was just too much for Kira and that she returned to the disco, where she felt safe and funky.