Hellooo. Thank you guys so much for all your awesome words - and a super-big thank you for sticking around with me. I really hope you guys are enjoying reading as much as I'm enjoying writing.
The action picks up a bit more in this one. Keep in mind I was a theatre major in college and I have no medical training, only textbooks and the Google machine. For god's sake, I'm a writer, Jim, not a doctor. That being said, please enjoy chapter five. :D
[…]
The next week Team One held trials for a replacement bomb technician - but they weren't happy about it. They were disinterested, they took all the time they could afford filling out the necessary paperwork, and they made it very clear to all the applicants that the position was very, very temporary.
Greg went to visit Spike in the hospital after the initial cattle call trials. Even after the marksmanship, hand-to-hand, obstacle course, and other training tests had weeded out a lot of the candidates, they still over a hundred hopefuls to sift through. So Greg knocked on Spike's door and poked his head in the room, a thick stack of files under his arm.
"Everybody decent in here?" he called out lightheartedly.
"Hold on, I'm almost finished giving Mike his sponge bath!" came a snappy female voice. She laughed, Spike gave a low chuckle, and the woman added, "I'm just kidding. I'm just checking out some things over here and then I'll be out of your guys' hair."
"Oh, no rush," Greg assured, stepping into the room. He watched as the pretty blonde nurse fussed around with the medicine IV that fed into Spike's forearm.
"I can't believe you're busting out of here tomorrow. I'll be so sad to see my favorite patient go," the nurse pouted as she worked.
"Yeah, that makes one of us," sighed Spike. Greg noticed that his energy seemed a bit lower than it had been the past few days. Dr. Traver had been steadily lowering the dosage of Spike's pain medication day by day in preparation for sending him home. Greg knew the younger man had been in good spirits since the cloud over his mind had been most of the way lifted. Usually Spike would be flirting and teasing along with the pretty young nurse. Greg became increasingly more apprehensive as he waited.
"Okay," the nurse said finally, turning to beam vibrantly at her patient. "I think we're all done here. Mike, if that's too low, you just give me a call, you got that?"
"Yeah." Spike lazily nodded his head once. "Thanks, Kate."
The nurse squeezed Spike's hand before turning away, gave Greg a pleasant smirk, and left the room, closing the door behind herself.
When Spike didn't immediately greet him, Greg shuffled forward slowly. In a buoyant attempt to make conversation, he asked, "Lowering your medicine some more?"
"Yep."
The profiling gears in Greg's mind began whirring. Hmm. A monosyllabic response. Very un-Spike.
Greg took a seat and looked at the younger man, who was looking at his good hand, picking neutrally at the blanket. Spike seemed to be concentrating very hard on something.
"Is it too low?" Greg fished. "The medicine, I mean? Cause I can call that nurse - what was her name? Kate? - I can call her back in here and-"
"No, Boss, s'not that. Sorry," Spike said breathily. He turned to look at Greg. "Sorry," he repeated with a forced smile. "I'm just a little tired t'day, that's all. Breathin' on my own for the first time in two weeks an' all."
It wasn't until then that Greg noticed the nasal cannula that had been aiding Spike's breathing since he had been woken up had been removed.
"Oh - oh! Spike, I'm sorry, buddy - I didn't even notice," Greg gushed enthusiastically. "That's - that's great, that's terrific. That's so - that's - how are you feeling? Everything all right, you feeling okay?"
Spike flushed at the consideration and suppressed a cough. He waved Greg's nervous flitting off and assured him, "Boss, 'm good, I really am. It's just…harder'n I thought it'd be. It's really kickin' my butt. Y' know, maybe Ed doesn't work us as hard as he thinks he does. I must be outta shape."
Greg took a closer look at his officer. He could see now that Spike's breathing was slightly affected and his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat. It honestly looked like he had taken several steps back in the recovery process.
Greg wanted so much to be a busy mother hen and bustle about and shower Spike with attention and ask him again if he was sure he was all right, to assure him that it was okay if he wasn't, that after everything he had been through he was allowed to take it easy on himself just a little bit-
But he didn't. He knew that would just frustrate the young man even more.
"Okay," said Greg after a long moment. He patted Spike's knee comfortingly. "Okay, buddy. But you let me know if you need anything."
Spike grinned tiredly up at his sergeant and replied, "You got it." Then he looked down at the stack of documents in Greg's hands. "Whatcha got there? Anything fun?"
Greg suddenly remembered the files he still held in his lap; in his eagerness over Spike's development he had forgotten all about them.
"Oh, these are, ah…" Greg stumbled over the words momentarily, waving the files absently. "They're, um - they're the applicants we've flagged."
Spike perked up a bit at this. He struggled to sit up a little higher in bed and drawled, "Ah, the eager young padawans that wanna become Jedi knights." He coughed again, politely turning his head away from Greg.
Greg chuckled, thankful for the fact that Spike could still kid at such a time. "Yeah, sure. Turns out there's a lot of people who want your job, Spike. A few of them even put you down as a reference." Greg paused, debating whether or not to continue. "That's actually why I brought these in today. See, we're having a little trouble thinning the numbers and Eddie suggested I - well-"
"Bring them ta me to see if I can knock a few names offa the list?" Spike finished for him.
"Uh - yeah." Greg looked pitiably down at Spike again. He seemed to have gotten more sluggish since the older man had shown up. "Listen, Spike, we don't have to do this, not right now. If you're not feeling well I can come back another-"
"Boss." That one word stopped Greg in his tracks. Spike smirked weakly - a kind of smirk that thinly veiled pain, Greg mused - and coughed again. "The bomb community in this country is a lot smaller'n more close-knit than you might think. Lemme do this. I c'n help." He paused, and Greg look at him guardedly, obviously not wanting to push Spike into overexerting himself. "Please, I wanna help."
Greg was still unsure. Spike was starting to look really awful in his opinion. "Spike, are you sure you feel up to this?"
Spike gave his boss a very serious and incensed look. "I have counted the ceiling tiles seventeen times," he deadpanned. "I've written three letters ta mail to my gran'parents in Italy." He took a moment, sighed. "Boss, I called Winnie at work today an' asked her ta put Babycakes on th' phone so I could say hi. Please."
Greg could only gape at Spike for a moment, trying to tell whether the young man was being serious or not. "Spike. You asked to talk to your robot?"
"I'm jus' sayin'," he countered mock-defensively. "I'm goin' a little stir-crazy. 'N b'sides, I really can help."
And Spike did help. For a good portion of the candidates Greg only had to read the name and the bomb technician would immediately recognize the person and rattle off pertinent information.
I did a seminar with that guy a few months ago - really talented but a pain in the ass to work with.
She studied under a buddy of mine - not really cut out for the job.
I've heard about him - works on the emergency bomb squad, yeah? Supposed to be really reliable, but don't give him a gun.
That guy helped me pull some info on a dirty bomb once, but it was weird - I thought he kinda smelled like cheese.
The two continued for sometime, Greg reading off names, Spike putting in his two cents, and Greg jotting notes down on the papers. After about an hour they had made three piles - one for definitely nots, one for maybes, and one for smells kinda like cheeses.
They were on a roll and Greg was enjoying the rapport he had going with his subordinate. It was just like being back at the Barn. One minute the two were laughing and carrying on - then suddenly Spike began coughing again. However, unlike his earlier bouts where he would wheeze once or twice and that would be it, this time Spike didn't stop. His face was turning red from the force of hacking and Greg knew it had to have been hurting his healing ribs.
Greg had his hand on Spike's back and was rubbing it in reassuring little circles. When that clearly wasn't helping to calm the young man, Greg stood up. "Here, let me get you some water," he stated calmly. As he moved to turn, he felt something tug at his arm. He looked down and saw Spike's hand fisted feebly around his sleeve. Looking into the young man's face, Greg saw something that hadn't been there before: pain, and - was that fear?
"B…Bo-oss…" Spike struggled to get out between gasping breaths and painful coughs. "I-I - nngh! I can't-"
Then Spike was cut off, seemingly not able to get a sufficient breath in at all. And while Greg projected an outward air of calm and control while he pushed the call button above the bed and told Spike not to panic, to just calm down, to focus on Greg's eyes and his own breathing - inside he was panicking. His heart was racing almost as fast as Spike's was; he could feel the thumping in his chest as it held almost perfect time with the now erratic beeping of the heart rate monitor.
It felt like ages before that same nurse from before opened the door and stepped inside the room.
"You guys doing all right in he-?" Kate cut herself off at the sight of Mike struggling to breathe and his visitor twisting around to shoot her a pleading look.
All at once Kate - with her perfume and blonde ponytail and pink scrubs and flirtatious nature - was all business.
Poking her head back out into the hallway, Kate called out, "I need a doctor in here now, please! Patient in immediate respiratory distress!" She rushed over to the bed and began to physically asses Spike. She pushed him back so that he was lying flat on the bed and placed her palm firmly on his chest. After a moment Kate stepped away to throw a drawer open. She returned with an oxygen mask which she strapped over Spike's face and began squeezing to inflate.
Greg had since taken a step away from the bed so as not to get in the way. From where he stood he saw two more people enter the room: a young female doctor, accompanied by a handsome male nurse.
"Patient has been being treated for a punctured lung for the past two weeks," Kate appraised for her as the doctor hurriedly put on a pair of latex gloves she drew from her coat pocket. "We took him off oxygen today. It looks like the lung collapsed."
The doctor snatched the stethoscope from around her neck and pushed the collar of Spike's scrubs down, holding the diaphragm to his chest to listen for breathing sounds. Pulling the buds out of her ears, she announced, "Okay, we're not getting enough oxygen. Looks like we need to do an emergency chest tube. Danny-"
"Got it," the male nurse responded, already prepared with a scalpel and a handful of equipment from another drawer.
"Kate, up the morphine, please," the doctor ordered, and the nurse did as she was instructed while the young doctor raised Spike's scrub shirt and swabbed an area of his left side with an alcohol pad.
Greg watched, mildly horrified, as the doctor felt his ribs and used the scalpel to make a small incision in his chest between two of them.
"Okay, let's turn him," she said, and she and Kate rolled Spike so that he was lying on his side with his casted left arm raised above his head. "Tube," she snapped, holding out her right hand, palm up. Danny passed the doctor a long, clear plastic tube. The female doctor firmly inserted the tube into the opening in Spike's chest, wedged it between his ribs, and fed it through. "Okay, suction." Danny attached an empty canister to the other end of the tube. A sickening mixture of pus and blood drained through the tube and into the canister. Danny then walked around to the other side of the bed and began cleaning up the wound with antiseptic towels.
Spike, for the most part, seemed to have mostly checked out before that point, although Greg was unsure whether this was due to the sudden increase in medication or from lack of oxygen. His brown eyes bobbed lazily under his lids as the heart monitor slowed and his once again assisted breathing evened out. His face and body were now drenched in sweat, his scrub top plastered thickly to his skin, and he was shivering slightly.
The male nurse, Danny, placed a hand to Spike's neck. "Dr. Buchanan, he's running a fever," he reported. He moved to grab a disposable thermometer, unwrapped it, and popped it in Spike's ear. After an instant it beeped and he removed it. He looked to the doctor, wide-eyed, as he threw the used thermometer in the hazardous waste bin. "It's one-oh-four.
"Okay, not a problem," the young doctor replied, not breaking her stride in the least. "Danny, bring us up some cold compresses from the second floor storage room." Danny nodded and left, and Dr. Buchanan looked to Kate. "Can you page Carl? Let him know the patient's stable, but that he'll want to check in here as soon as he's able. Oh, but I'll want to speak with him first."
"Okay." Kate looked from Spike's half-conscious form to Greg, still standing, shocked, against the wall. She offered the man a supportive smile before hastening from the room.
Once Kate was gone from the room, Dr. Buchanan allowed herself to groan as the adrenaline began to leave her body. She peeled the bloody gloves off her hands and dropped them in the waste bin. She turned to Greg, seemingly noticing him for the first time. She drew in a deep breath and deflating, offering a tired, "Hi," as she brushed her hair out of her face.
"Hi yourself," Greg responded instinctively. He swallowed hard, then earnestly said, "Um, thank you."
"Oh, I was doing my job," she responded, waving her hand dismissively. She took a few steps toward Greg and extended her hand. "I'm Jayma Buchanan. Dr. Traver should be here before too long, if you want to wait around and speak with him."
"Greg Parker," he replied, shaking her hand.
"I'm sorry you had to see that. Are you his father?"
Greg sputtered at that and laughed out loud. "No - no, I'm, ah, his sergeant."
"Oh." Then, realization dawned on Dr. Buchanan. "Oh! I'd heard there was a police officer in the wing, but I didn't realize…" She trailed off and looked over her shoulder at Spike in the bed. Turning back to look at Greg, she reflected, "He looks young."
Greg nodded his agreement. "He is young." Then, looking a bit harder at the brunette doctor before him, he realized how young she looked; she couldn't have been older than twenty-five, and Greg assumed she must have been fresh out of medical school. That being considered, she handled the situation amazingly. Then Greg looked past the doctor and down at Spike. The younger man's eyes were now closed but he looked far from peaceful. Without looking away from the man in the bed, he distractedly said, "Excuse me," and moved next to the bed. The chair he had been sitting in had gotten shoved out of the way at some point by the hospital staff, so he moved it back to its position and sat down.
Spike seemed to have fallen into a fitful sleep. Although his breathing was again unobstructed, he was still sweating more than he should have been in the cool hospital room.
Greg was at a loss. In lieu of saying anything to the unconscious man, he guardedly took Spike's hand in his own, studying it. His hands were smaller than Greg thought they would be - than the thick protective gloves they all regularly wore made them appear - but with long, thin fingers; perfect for the intricate, detailed work Spike did. Greg found the calluses he expected, one in the divot between the thumb and forefinger, and another inside the knuckle of the middle finger. He had matching marks on his own hand, from his own gun. Continuing his exploration, however, he found marks he somehow hadn't been expecting. The tips of Spike's fingers were littered with cuts, all in various stages of healing; some appeared slightly fresh while others had scarred over years ago. There were also a few faint and healed burn marks on his hand and fingers, though these appeared to be much older than the cuts.
Well, Greg assumed, if you worked with volatile chemicals and explosives every day of your life since childhood, you're allowed to have a few minor accidents.
"He'll be okay," Dr. Buchanan assured him from where she stood over his shoulder. She was now flipping through Spike's chart. "The fever is an easy fix and the collapsed lung - although a setback - will heal, given time. We'll schedule a surgery for him in the morning."
Before Greg could verbalize a response, Danny reentered the room carrying a large, heavy box. "I wasn't sure how many to bring," he explained, panting from being out of breath, "so I grabbed a whole box."
"Danny, there's thirty compresses in a box," Dr. Buchanan said. She was clearly amused as she moved to help Danny set the box down on the counter near the bed. She cut the box open and pulled out a handful of the small blue packages. She moved over and placed them down on the bed. "These should bring the fever down in no time," she told Greg. One by one, Dr. Buchanan took the compresses in both hands and flexed them until they cracked in half, activating the cooling pack. Then she placed one on either side of Spike's neck, one under each of his arms, and one between his legs near his crotch.
"Um, what should I do with the rest of these?" Danny asked, lifting up one end of the box of compresses.
After considering for a moment, Dr. Buchanan responded, "Go ahead and leave them here. Check in on him in about an hour. If the fever hasn't broken, switch out the compresses."
Danny left, and Dr. Buchanan continued to check on a few more things. She adjusted the morphine drip slightly and recorded the new level on Spike's chart. She checked Spike's breathing with her stethoscope once more and looked overall pleased with the state of the young officer.
"Mr. Parker?" Buchanan spoke quietly, hoping not to disturb the trance the older man seemed to have fallen into while watching his officer rest. She waited until Greg looked up at her before continuing. "I'm going to speak with Dr. Traver now, and then he'll be up to speak with you in a bit. He'll be out for awhile," she said, nodding to Spike. "Will you be all right in here, or would you like me to send in a nurse?"
Greg stared at Spike. After his two weeks in the hospital, the bomb technician had finally started to look like himself again. Although he had lost a great deal of weight, some of the fullness and color had more recently begun to return to his cheeks. A fine fuzz of dark hair had spread over his head, and the minor injuries from his attack were mostly faded and forgotten.
But now, looking into the worn and fatigued face of his subordinate, the man he had long since considered a son, Greg couldn't help but be reminded of the fragile, pathetic, barely alive Spike from two weeks ago.
"Mr. Parker?" Buchanan repeated, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.
Greg started a bit and said, "Uh, no. I'll be fine. Thank you, Doctor."
Buchanan smiled politely, replaced the file at the foot of the bed, and left.
Almost fifteen minutes later, Greg heard the door open again. He looked up impartially, expecting to see Dr. Traver, but instead saw a confused Ed Lane standing in the doorway. Greg watched as Ed's eyes flicked from the tube in Spike's chest to the barely detectable blood splatter on the hem of his scrubs.
Greg slowly rose to his feet. Hoping to placate the other man before he could fly off the handle with worry, in a low, warning voice he said, "Eddie-"
Ed cut him off, storming the rest of the way into the room, and Greg exhaustedly returned to his seat. "Greg, what the hell happened?!" Ed was fully prepared to tear into Greg until he was satisfied the sergeant had fully explained the situation, but he stopped short when he really looked at the other man.
Greg looked much more tired than he had when their shift ended just a few short hours ago. He sat, posture slumped, in the chair by the bed, looking like he hadn't slept in days. One hand was gripped tightly around Spike's right hand. Greg brought his free hand up to his face, a finger pressed to his lips, silently telling Ed to keep quiet, not to disturb their sleeping friend.
"Don't wake him up, Eddie," the Sarge whispered almost inaudibly. "It's been a rough day."
Ed's hard eyes softened - not completely, but considerably - and after a moment he conceded and pulled up the second visitors' chair in the room to the side of the bed opposite Greg and sank down into it heavily. He sighed, looking down at the younger man. Spike was pale and gaunt and sickly and had - oh Christ - a tube in his chest.
"So what happened?" Ed tried again in an almost impartial tone.
"They took him off oxygen today," explained Greg resignedly. "But I guess…it was too much, or too soon, or too something." He looked up and met Ed's gaze momentarily. "His lung collapsed, they said."
Ed cursed under his breath. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair, unable to vent his pent-up frustrations. "So what does that mean for the recovery process?" he asked agitatedly, although he wasn't really sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"I'm not exactly sure," responded Greg vaguely. At Ed's exasperated look he continued. "The doctor who was in here wasn't Spike's normal doctor. All she said was that Dr. Traver would be in to talk to me soon, and that - uh, that Spike has to go back to surgery tomorrow morning."
"What-?"
"To fix the lung, Eddie." There was a pause before Greg spoke again. "He's running a fever, too."
Ed clenched his jaw, biting back his anger. He wasn't angry with Greg - no, how could he be? None of this was his fault. He was angry at the doctors who had weaned Spike off the oxygen too soon; he was angry at the sons of bitches who attacked Spike, twenty-to-one and beat him within an inch of his fucking life; but mostly Ed was angry with himself - and he knew it wasn't at all rational - for getting shot and being forced to take a leave of absence from being team leader. He knew it wouldn't have made any difference. Just like he had assured Sam two weeks ago, if Ed had been in charge of that call, Spike still would have been stuck in the truck driving getaway. There was no way Ed would have been able to part the mob any easier or quicker than Sam and Wordy had, so he wouldn't have been much more help there. And the pair had worked astoundingly to resuscitate and care for their bomb tech until paramedics arrived, and that was what had ultimately saved Spike's life that day. Ed couldn't have done any better or worked any harder. There was nothing he could have realistically done that would have spared Spike from this whole ordeal, but he couldn't help feeling guilty, like it should be his responsibility to shoulder the blame.
Finally Ed said, "You should have called us, Greg. The team would have wanted to know."
"It literally just happened," countered Greg calmly. "I've been sitting here maybe ten minutes. And anyway, I wanted to talk to Dr. Traver first. You know, so I'd have something to actually tell you. Good news, hopefully."
A silence fell over the two SRU officers and a few minutes later, a familiar face entered the room.
Greg looked up and Ed turned to look over his shoulder to see Dr. Traver. However, his normally cheerful disposition was dampened; he seemed grim. Ed swallowed nervously and looked back to Spike briefly. He had been hoping the situation was one of those "it looks a lot worse than it actually is" kind of deals, but that was seeming more and more unlikely.
Dr. Traver sat down at the foot of Spike's bed and watched the young man for a moment. Then, in a subdued voice, he asked, "How's he doing?"
"Well, they increased the morphine, and he hasn't woken up," Greg replied.
Traver nodded slowly before looking up at Greg, then at Ed. When he didn't speak immediately, both officers assumed the worst.
"Okay, Doc," began Ed apprehensively, "you're starting to scare us a little here."
Traver seemed to realize how foreboding he must have appeared to the men. He shook his head and gave and apologetic smile. "Oh, no - it's not as bad as I'm making it seem! Spike will be fine."
It was funny for Ed to hear Traver refer to their bomb tech by his nickname - something that was normally reserved for coworkers - but then he contemplated who the majority of Spike's visitors probably were (the team) and how many times the doctor had heard them call him Spike and not Mike or Michelangelo (uh, a lot), and he decided it was probably okay. In fact, Spike himself had probably insisted Traver call him that during his earlier, less lucid period.
Greg, upon hearing Spike would be all right, visibly sagged with relief. It was so frightening watching Spike in that bed, brown eyes open wide and filled with panic and pain, as he struggled to breathe - to stay alive. Although Greg, unlike the team alpha males Ed and Sam, had no particular hang-ups about feeling helpless or vulnerable (and god knows he felt helpless all the time when his team was in the field), in that moment, when his only role was as the passive observer, he nearly went crazy. The minutes it took for Dr. Buchanan and the nurses to insert the chest tube and get Spike stabilized seemed to stretch on for hours, and were still playing on repeat in his mind.
"All right," Ed eased, drawing Greg away from his thoughts and back into the conversation. "How bad is it?"
Dr. Traver, although not quite as morose as before, still was not his normal pleasant self. "Well, the collapsed lung is definitely going to be a problem. Spike's ribs and skull are healing very well and we were hoping that after a few days off the oxygen resting at home we'd be able to start sending him to PT a few times a week. The sooner he gets back into using his arm, the better. Also, we still need to gage how much, if any, damage was dealt to the nerves during the break." He shook his head, looking more forlorn. "It was a judgment call - the decision of when to take him off the oxygen, that is. We administered a chest x-ray, and it looked good - but realistically, no medical test is one hundred percent accurate."
Dr. Traver stopped talking, evidently realizing he was rambling. The two men weren't interested in medical procedure; they were just concerned about their colleague - their friend.
"In the morning Spike is going to go back into surgery to re-inflate the collapsed lung. This is a really simple procedure," Traver explained. "A balloon will be pumped into the lung to open it up, and a tube will be inserted into the balloon to circulate oxygen, essentially manually breathing for him. It'll have to stay in for a few weeks though."
Suddenly a thought came to Greg as he felt the clammy hand he still held in his own. "Doctor, what about his fever?"
Dr. Traver frowned before saying, "Well, it could have simply been induced by exhaustion. When we took him off the oxygen, Spike's body may have just overexerted itself, weakening the immune system. It would have happened very quickly, but it's not impossible."
Ed could tell there was something else Traver was considering. "Or…?" he lead.
"Or…there's an infection," Traver told them. "But that's a worst-case scenario, and even then it's something we can manage. If his fever doesn't go down tonight with the help of the cold packs, it's probably an internal infection from the surgery. We'll just start him on antibiotics and that'll take care of it. He'll feel bad for a few days, but he'll be as good as new after that."
Finally, some good news. At long last there was an end in sight. Just a little more time, a little more patience, and Spike would be whole again. Their team would be okay. They just had to endure. It was going to be okay.
It's gonna be okay.
Little did Greg and Ed know, someone else had very different plans in mind for their broken little family. As the man watching outside in the shadows moved away from the door to steal down the hallway, he couldn't stop the cruel leer from creeping onto his face.
It would all be over soon.
[…]
Ooh, what a twist! I hope it was worth the wait. We finally found us some plotline!
Since I know there's a fair percentage of you reading just to hear the funny stories about my mother, I'll leave you with the nicknames she's given to Team One:
Greg (her favorite character) is Papa Bear.
Ed (her least favorite character) is Drama Gnome.
Spike is Angsty Puppy.
Sam is Kandahar Ken (think: Malibu Barbie).
Jules will forever be Kimberly in her eyes.
Wordy is Dirty Wordy, the Entry Specialist.
Leah is Bitch Leah.
Winnie is Mrs. Scarlatti.
And finally, brace yourselves…
Lou's nickname is Debris.
D: