I have recently become completely infatuated with the idea of Jules and Spike as best friends. I still have no idea why, no can I explain how it came about. But they're best friends and you can't do anything about it. Also, she gave him the nickname Spike since this was started pre-No Promises, too. Sorry, Mac.

Jules was there before him. She had gotten to know the rest of the team – Boss, Wordy, Rolie, Ed, Cavanaugh, Dexter – enough to have been accepted into their family. Dexter was constantly at her side, an annoying gnat in her ear, clapping his hand over her shoulder and saying things like "So, Cowgirl, what's going on?" and "Let's saddle it up, boys, and hit the trail!"

(She still denied she had anything to do with him being shot in the leg. Tragic, yes, especially that he had to have it amputated, but at least she didn't have to listen to his voice anymore.)

Michelangelo Scarlatti joined the team in his place. He had a great shot, a fantastic knowledge of bombs and other equipment, and a killer brain for electronics. He laughed a lot, falling into the family like he had always been there. He became the son Greg never had and the young rookie that Ed always enjoyed to push. He argued with Rolie over hockey, flipped through pictures of the newborn baby with Wordy, and discussed literature with Cavanaugh. He even stopped in the mornings to say hi to whatever temp was filling in for Sidney.

Jules had never met anybody so complex. He was intelligent and goofy, but composed and mature. He knew when to put on a straight face and never took things too far. He was the loving big brother, the pestering younger one, the protective father, and the best friend, all rolled into one Italian man.

There was no in-between with them. The first day, from the first moment he walked in, he said, "Michelangelo," and offered his hand. She shook it, knowing who he was, of course, from recruiting, and said, "Call me Jules." The next second, they were best friends.

They went to movies, went on staycations, made forts out of pillows and blankets and watched scary movies. She felt perfectly safe curling up next to him in her king sized bed, no worries of crossing into the less-than-platonic skirting the edges her mind. She never even considered that there could be more than they were, because they were everything.

Where there was Spike, there was Jules. She even gave him the nickname. A week into his Rookiedom he came into work with his hair severely gelled, sticking up every which way like he had been electrocuted. "It's so Spikey," she said when he sat down, and ran her hand over the top of the tiny hair pyramids he had created. "God, what did you use, a whole can of Bed Head?"

There was no warning of the end. No plagues or insects or floods to foreshadow what was coming. Because one minute, she was in the passenger seat of an old, doorless Jeep, driving down dirt roads, music blaring on the stereo, her best friend at the wheel. Next, she was sitting across from him at the table, six months of friendship evaporated by the hot summer sun.

Cavanaugh had an easy smile and a soft laugh and took up a lot of space. He was tall and slim, often having to duck beneath doorframes. His limbs folded together awkwardly when he sat, his knees unable to rest comfortably beneath the table. Jules liked him well enough. He left, eventually, moving his family out to Ottawa, and Lewis replaced him.

It was like Lewis was a missing piece of Spike. They were twins separated at birth, pieces of the same puzzle finally coming together. They were Best Friends, the Double Duo, the Two Musketeers. There was no room for Jules.

The movies and phone conversations and trips to the beach stopped abruptly. She didn't realize it until months later when she turned around, laughing, to relay something to Spike – he wasn't there. He hadn't been for quite some time, and her heart stuttered. How could she have missed it?

There was no animosity between them. It was just Something, and then it was Nothing. Lewis was gentle and kind and he balanced out the loudness of Spike, something that was hard to do. Jules had been the strong one, taking the brunt of hot calls head-on, while Spike's laughter faded into the background and concentration set in. She was less dress and more jeans-and-tee-shirts. She liked beer instead of wine and burgers instead of salad. That's who she was. She was the opposite of Spike, the untapped, feminine side of his personality. Lew was just the ying to his yang.

Rolie was promoted, but she wasn't too torn up to see him go. She trusted him, of course, but he talked too loud and his laugh had grated on her nerves. The worst thing out of it was Sam taking his place.

Not that she didn't like Sam. No, she loved him - and that was just it. He made it difficult to breathe when he walked into a room, difficult to concentrate when he was off cracking wise remarks, and difficult not to give in to everything he asked for. This was a problem, because it was more than a crush, more than a fling – it was real, and she couldn't have it. And that made it even better, something she craved.

The night she broke it off with him for the first time, she went somewhere she hadn't been in a long time.

It was as if the past few years hadn't happened at all, that they were right back to those first six months, Spike in his Rookie boots and Jules with the gun strapped to her chest. It was nothing more than a summer away from home. She knocked on his front door and he answered and there was no question to it – she collapsed into his arms and cried into his tee shirt, hiccupping and coughing and wheezing.

He took her out to a diner on the opposite side of town. It was so different than where she had been earlier that night, with Sam – the tables were plastic and the food was greasy and everything smelled like disinfectant. It was exactly what she needed, and it was no surprise that had known.

Halfway through their first basket of cheese fries, Spike's phone rang. It was Lew. Jules had already closed her eyes, purse in hand, ready for him to say "Sorry, I've gotta go" – and it came. Just not in the way she expected it to. She eased one eye open to see him putting away his cell and reaching for his Coke.

"You're not leaving," she said, astonished.

"Why would I leave?"

"Lou called."

"He's not my wife," he retorted, and grabbed the ketchup. "I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to be here with you."

This set off another round of tears. He was there, though, cracking jokes and dropping things on the floor (the manager was called when he became too disruptive, but he charmed his way out of punishment). But most importantly, he was there, being a friend.

Lew died a few months later. Spike took more personal time than the rest of them. He didn't answer emails or phone calls or text messages. Finally, a few days after his complete disappearance, she stopped by his house. Spike's mom answered the door, worried as she always seemed, and immediately started whispering frantically. He won't eat and all he does it lie in bed like a dead man and I have only seen him leave once to go to the bathroom and oh, poor, poor Lewis. Jules nodded and smoothed a hand on the woman's shoulder, soothing. Finally, Mrs. Scarlatti took a breath and composed herself.

"He's in there, of course," she said. Jules smiled, sympathetic, and backed into the living room. She stopped, though, when she heard, "Julianna?" She turned to see Mrs. Scarlatti wiping tears from her eyes. "It's good to see you back."

Across from Spike's bedroom door was a wall full of pictures. Jules paused to take them in, just like she had done so many times before. Many of them featured two little boys, practically identical – he and his brother. They were on a swing set, in a bubble-filled tub, kneeling on the ice for a hockey team photo. Further in time: a prom picture, Spike in a clean suit, his hair over-gelled as it had been so often, his brother more reserved at his side. Their dates sat in chairs in front of them; Spike's brunette's head looked like it had been ripped out and reapplied several times. Below, there they were again, clad in a caps and gowns, holding certificates. Further down, a Police Academy graduation photo placed next to one from a school of Education.

She knocked on his door, two, quiet taps. When there was no answer, she eased it open and let herself in. The first thing she noticed was the lump of blankets on the bed – so, yes, he was there. Not that she had been expecting otherwise.

The walls were painted a dirty, off-white color. He seemed to have realized its ugliness sometime in life, because posters and pictures and tiny, Italian flags covered most of the available space. On the back wall, nestled between the closet and the door, was a huge bookshelf, full to bursting. On the opposite, a desk, cluttered with toys and gadgets and more books. There was a small pile of fandom-specific merchandise, including a TARDIS keychain, Star Wars action figures, and a Hogwarts beanie she had seen him wear, once, on one of their impromptu mid-winter hikes.

Though most of the floor was covered in dirty laundry, there was a hamper, though that was full, too. (She pretended she didn't see the boxers stuffed into the side, for his sake.) It'd been a while since she'd been in this room, but it looked much the same.

She went to the bed and sat down, her fingers finding his leg. He shifted, pulling the blankets farther over his head, and said, "Go away, Ma." His voice was hoarse. There had been only two times she had heard him sound like that before: when his girlfriend of two months decided to break it off and after they had attended a U2 concert (and danced on bar tables) a week later.

Instead of leaving, however, Jules stood up and went around the side of the bed. She slipped off her heels, lifted up the blanket, and slid in next to him.

He stiffened for a moment, his shoulders tense with surprise. Then, slowly, he turned around, his eyes falling shut upon recognition.

"Julianna."

"Michelangelo." She smiled and pressed her palm against his. "You've been hiding from me."

"Not just you."

"Everyone's worried."

He blinked a few times and said nothing. She rested her head against his chest and breathed in. Nostalgia filled her, suddenly, and she remembered, in vivid detail, everything they had ever done together. She exhaled softly and, along with her breath, the visions disappeared.

"It's okay that you didn't like him. Not all my friends have to get along."

This surprised her. "I loved Lew. Just like everyone else."

"I know it was terrible to leave our friendship like that," he continued. "But I don't want you to hate him for that. It's my fault. I don't know why I did it, but I did, and now you're here and he's dead. And I don't know who I miss more, because I ditched you and he ditched me. You two are the most important people in my life." His voice cracked. "You two are my two best friends."

She squeezed his hand. "I'm not mad. At either of you. I understand." She inhaled deeply and lifted the blanket a little bit, letting fresh filter out the warmth from their breath. "I was upset at first. With Lew, especially. But I knew that if I needed you, you would be there. And that was what really, truly mattered to me. Lew was your best guy friend, and I know that you didn't have someone like that in your life. Someone who was the opposite of me. He wasn't hard like Ed or soft like Boss and he was your age, single, without kids. You could relate. You could share your war-torn, lost-love stories and check out girls and drink beer and be men."

"But we could've done that with you." Her hair was stretched out across the pillow, and he picked a piece up, rubbing it between his fingertips. He smiled slightly. "We could've raised hell together."

She grinned. "We've still got time, you know. Just you and me." She sat up, suddenly, bringing her knees into her chest so the comforter didn't expose them completely. He rubbed his back once he was up, as if he had been laying down for days. Her knees touched his and this only got her more pumped, because here they were again, best friends, conspiring. They were warm and close and carefree, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

When Mac died, he almost fell off the rails completely. The pressure of his father, the leftover grief from Lew, and the fresh wound from his mentor was so much to handle. He tore himself up, especially after Toth's evaluation. Jules could only do so much for him – sometimes he pushed her away, didn't want a shoulder to cry on, too angry at the world to let himself take a breath.

He was mad at Greg for hiring an outsider; angry with Ed for getting shot and messing everything up; but even more furious at himself for giving away his feelings to Toth. He had cracked under pressure, felt the scabs that had taken so long to heal over being ripped away, his protective mask breaking. He always had a smile on for a reason, just like Ed was always the cool, collected one.

Wordy left the team shortly thereafter and it proved a huge blow not only to the two of them, but the whole team as well. Everyone was already scrambling, trying to fix themselves in the wake of the crippling evaluations, but this served as a whole new hurdle to their close knit family. The surface was starting to lose its shine, the shell it preserved in order to be the best. Reality was breaking down the walls at last.

Spike felt guilty about every word he'd said in ill will, every move he'd misinterpreted. He wanted to take back all the bad things that had ever happened between him and Lew, him and Mac, him and Wordy – but he knew he couldn't. He was struggling with that, trying to focus on the good times.

He eased the severity of situations by blaming himself. It was just the process of dealing with things for him, as natural as his smile. In his mind, he was responsible for everything that went wrong – when a fire started at the company event and he couldn't get the door open for Ed and Wordy; when he hadn't kept his eyes out for Petar and almost cost Ed his life; even when he couldn't get the information they needed to stop three teenage girls from killing their peer.

He blamed himself, too, for irrational things. He was guilty for sending Lew to diffuse that bomb; at fault for Mac getting shot and killed; to blame for Wordy losing hope in himself; the reason his father stood up when he walked into the room. There were a number of things he could've done, and they ran through his head in a loop – could've told Lew to wait, could've evacuated the building and let it blow; could've kept a better eye on Mac, should've noticed the change in behavior; could've been a better friend to Wordy, could've helped him hide his disease for a little bit longer; could've shown his dad the good part of being a cop, could've prevented this altogether by becoming someone he didn't want to be by following in his brother's footsteps. He was losing people he loved left and right, more than any other member of his team, and in every situation, he was the common denominator.

There was one person in his life, through it all, that he could count on. Jules was there no matter what. She would wait if he was saying no, or would be there in a flash if he needed someone. He was a wreck, blaming himself for every single thing that had ever happened to the force, dating way back to his first days wearing the cool pants. He remembered every single detail – knocking that soda across the table and onto Ed, which ended with Sophie putting him in the doghouse for weeks; letting the door go and hitting Wordy in the face because he thought he'd had it; tripping on the stealth and letting the subject know where they were. He kept these emotions inside for months, bottling them up until Jules pressed a sensitive area – then he exploded, all the guilt and sadness he felt pouring out. His façade toppled, just like it always did around her. She could see right through him, so it was no use hiding what he was feeling.

Even if he was breaking down inside, he plastered that smile onto his face. That flash of teeth kept the other members of his team going, even when times were tough. Ed was the main wall of One, the cornerstone of keeping them all upright and focused; but he was the spirit behind it, the culprit behind the jokes and the laughter and the collective deep breath at the end of the day.

When Raf joined the team, Spike took to him pretty quickly. He had the same quiet nature as Lew, the same dry humor and kind heart. Even though they never grew too close, Jules knew that he wouldn't have left her behind again, because there was nothing he needed more at the end of the day than a hug and someone to listen.