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In uniform, Spike feels every inch the trained and professional SRU officer, just one of the guys on a kickass crime-fighting team.
Out of uniform and standing next to his lovers though, Spike can feel a little small. Not literally, because they're all roughly the same height and build. But while Ed, Greg, and Sam seem to wear the uniform in their skin—broadcasting 'Undeniable Alpha Male' nonstop in bold, neon lights—off the clock, Spike is...just Spike. Not Spike the ace SRU bomb tech. Just goofy, geeky, unassuming, unimposing Spike.
He thinks, if only he had the cut of Sam's jaw or Ed's piercing eyes or Greg's easy authority, then maybe he wouldn't be in this position now.
Spike bucks against the hands wrestling him none-too-gently out of the bar's rear exit and bites at the hand clamped over his mouth. But three-to-one are unfavorable odds for any man. Where he succeeds at dislodging one hand, another immediately takes its place. So he tries using words to make himself heard, berates them through the gag about their utter stupidity in picking a cop for their mark, but they can't hear him, his voice effectively muffled.
Out back in the darkened alley, under the gloom of a single fading lightbulb, Spike is abruptly shoved forward. He lands hard, on hands and knees, the coarse gravel pavement scraping up his palms. Before he can say or do anything, a solid object whips him hard on the side of his head. His head snaps sharply and his skull explodes with pain, blackness clouding his vision. He rolls and collapses on his back and goes limp as the shock registers throughout his body. Then someone pushes him over onto his stomach, impervious to Spike's pained groan, and kneels heavily on his back. One knee digs into his spine; the other pins him across the neck and Spike gasps, trying to breathe. But he can't find slack with his throat being crushed like so. Then hands are roughly tugging at the waistband of his jeans. Spike kicks out, but it's feeble and his ankles are quickly caught and pinned.
He's completely out of options and nearly out of his mind when he hears a shout. The voice is deep, male, familiar, but he can't place it. His mind is too muddled to make sense of the words being said. But it's enough to scare the men above him who instantly release him like they've been burned and take off like jackrabbits into the night. The man hollers some more and Spike sees boots go by, giving chase.
But the footsteps don't fade as expected; instead he hears one set backtracking quickly to him. The boots slide to a rough stop before his eyes and a hand reaches out, but stops short of touching his bruised face. They settle tentatively in his hair instead, and the man says in a shaky voice, unable to hide fear and pain: "Fuck, Spike, don't move okay? I'm gonna call for help. You're gonna be okay."
Spike blinks groggily at his savior. The man's face is deeply shadowed, but Spike can tell who it is without a doubt. He lets go of the tension coiled tight in his body and gives in to the encroaching darkness, knowing now that he's in safe hands.