Chapter One: Dreams and Reality
Author note: This story is the thirty-first in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "The Gryphon in the Airport".
Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.
Wordy had known it would come, sooner or later; the miracle that brought a certain sixteen-turned-four-year-old back to them couldn't erase the last week of shock, anger, and mourning. And it certainly couldn't erase the nightmares the Sarge had been having since the accident. So when Sarge slunk into the Wordsworths' kitchen at two in the morning, Wordy was lying in wait and already had the coffee made.
Wordy waited until his boss slumped into the chair closest to the door to speak. "Rough week, huh, Sarge?"
Sarge jumped a foot, his head snapping up, hazel eyes wide and unable to hide their pain; the ghost of a boy who was sleeping only meters away haunted their depths. Seconds ticked by, the shocked man gaping at his worried though slightly amused subordinate, then Sarge did his best to smile. "Morning, Wordy."
Wordy wasn't about to let his boss get away with faking being all right. The constable made a show of inspecting the nearby clock, then wryly offered up, "Well, I guess it is technically after midnight, but I think most people would call 2 AM the middle of the night, Sarge." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sarge sigh and slump down again, giving up the mask that hadn't been fooling Wordy anyway. "How bad?" Wordy inquired bluntly.
The other man rubbed at his eyes, looking even more exhausted. "Same one I've been having since that blasted accident," he admitted after several minutes, when it became clear Wordy would wait as long as he had to.
Wordy cocked his head to the side, inviting his Sergeant to elaborate, but he didn't; just stared into his coffee cup, tears gleaming at the corners of his eyes. Silence draped the room, but Wordy refused to break it; if this nightmare was the reason Sarge hadn't been getting better, then it had to be dealt with now, before it tainted Sarge's relationship with his nephew going forward. And Sarge knew that too, Wordy could tell – his Sergeant was shifting, mostly staring at his cup, but also glancing up at Wordy as well, panic glittering brighter the longer Wordy simply waited, tapping his own coffee cup with a thoughtful expression on his face as he leaned back in his chair.
It seemed to take forever; as the clock ticked on, Sarge twitched and fidgeted and flinched, drawing in a few deep breaths, but still saying nothing. And when, at last, he spoke, it was a hoarse, barely heard whisper. "Always the same one, Wordy," he rasped; Wordy sat forward at once, his fingers shifting from his cup to the table and eyes on his boss, paying close attention. "My car, on fire, with Lance trapped inside." Brown eyes closed and Sarge didn't seem to notice two tears slipping free. "We didn't even see it on fire, Wordy; by the time Ed got there, the fire was out, but…"
"You can imagine it," Wordy supplied, his own voice low and soft. He flinched at the image, so easy to imagine and impossible to forget, a perfect storm to lash out and emotionally flay his boss alive. A nasty voice at the back of his head whispered that it was only what his boss deserved, for abandoning Wordy when he'd needed backup most; Wordy mentally recoiled and took the time to grab that thought by its throat, strangling it with fury and indignation that anyone, anyone, much less his gentle boss, deserved to go through the sheer hell of thinking someone they loved had burned to death. When the nasty voice was silent and the even nastier thought was well and truly dead, Wordy cleared his throat, drawing Sarge out of his blank stare at the table. "We got him back, though, Sarge."
Sarge stiffened, fear and resignation mixing in his eyes. "This time," he countered and Wordy wished he was surprised by that. "What happens next time, Wordy? What if next time he doesn't come back?"
"Playing the 'what if' game isn't going to help anyone, Boss," Wordy pointed out, keeping his voice matter-of-fact and level.
The other man's coffee cup abruptly slammed down on the kitchen table. "He was dead," Parker snarled, as if Wordy's observation had been the last straw. "For a week, he was dead and gone and nothing mattered anymore. How could he do that, Wordy? How could he do that to us…to me?" The rage drained away just as suddenly as it had come and Sarge slumped down even further in his chair, fortunately missing the expression on Wordy's face at his Sergeant's inadvertent admission of just how badly he'd been handling Lance's 'death'. Without looking up, Parker continued, his voice listless, "He was gone, Wordy, and I…I don't know if I can handle it again." A bitter laugh. "Not that I handled this week all that well, anyway. And when I woke up tonight…I didn't remember he was still alive until I saw him sleeping on the couch."
Wordy licked dry lips, wishing Ed was here; Ed knew Sarge the best of any of them and Wordy was pretty sure Sarge counted Ed as his best friend. Ed would know how to whack Sarge upside the head and get him to stop being an idiot, but he wasn't here and Wordy was. "Come on, Sarge, you think I'd handle something like this happening to my girls any better?" A snort, meant to be loud and derisive. "You'd probably have to cuff me and use that full-body bind spell to keep me away from the nut who thought, just 'cause one of my girls looked like their kid, it gave them the right to keep her away from me 'n' Shelley." Wordy shook his head, but not at Sarge. "But you? You walked away, kept your focus on Lance and let Giles and Roy handle that witch. That…that's a heck of a lot better than I could do and you know it, Sarge."
"And what about the rest?" Sarge questioned without looking up. "I knew I was sinking, Wordy, but I didn't care; that wasn't good for the team, wasn't good for Alanna."
Wordy pushed himself up and ostensibly went to get more coffee. Casually, he inquired, "So, what, you think just 'cause you couldn't come to grips with what happened inside of twenty-four, you never would have gotten better? That, just 'cause you were grieving, you were letting 'Lanna down? Letting the team down?" At the startled look he got, Wordy shot his boss an irritated expression. "Give me a break, Boss; it takes a lot longer than a week to get over a loved one dying. And we knew you were having trouble, that's why you and Alanna are here instead of your place, remember?"
"And if we'd gotten a hot call?" Sarge challenged.
A shrug. "Jules would've negotiated while Ed handled the team; he probably would have dumped the paperwork on you afterwards, though." At his boss's incredulous expression, Wordy smirked, just a bit. "We had it all worked out, Boss. Holleran never would've known the difference." The constable rubbed a hand through his short, almost nonexistent hair. "And tonight? It's so close that I'm not surprised you didn't remember he was still alive at first, but you'll have to thank Shelley for the couch idea; I sure didn't think of it." Sarge managed a tiny chuckle at Wordy's self-deprecating tone.
Silence hung in the room, but neither man seemed in a hurry to break it. Wordy blew on his coffee before sipping at it, idly watching the clock while really keeping an eye on his boss. Parker shifted back to the table, bracing his elbows on the surface and taking several deep breaths as he fought to get his emotions under control.
As the clock ticked on, Sarge looked up at Wordy again; Wordy obligingly shifted his gaze to his boss and quirked a brow. "How do I do it, Wordy?" At the puzzled expression he got, Parker elaborated, though his eyes dropped away, back to his cup. "How do I risk going through all of this again?"
On the job, Wordy never would have done it, but here, at three in the morning, with his boss being a bit of an idiot, Wordy rolled his eyes and walked back to the table, literally whacking Sarge upside the head as he strolled past. Without looking back, Wordy dropped into his chair again before finally glancing up at his boss; he bit back a snort at the poleaxed look on Sarge's face.
"Stop it, Sarge," Wordy chided. "When Lance is back to being sixteen, you give him one heck of a lecture for scaring you, 'Lanna, and us half to death, ground him until he's thirty, and move on." The constable hesitated, then added, "You love those kids too much to act like a coward now, Sarge."
Parker flinched at Wordy's all-too-accurate analysis. He paused, considering, then, just as he opened his mouth, he stopped, eyes flicking downwards; Wordy followed his gaze and suppressed a chuckle. A four-year-old stood next to Sarge, both hands on Sarge's leg and head cocked to the side in clear curiosity. "Hey, sport," Parker greeted him softly.
"Uncle have bad dreams?" Lance asked, innocence in every syllable.
"Some," Sarge admitted, his voice carefully level; Wordy shot his boss a warning look for using his negotiator skills. "What are you doing up, Lance?"
Lance tugged at Sarge's leg and Sarge obligingly swung him up, settling the little boy in place on one leg so he could see over the table and look at both men. "Magic woke me up," the child explained, "Wanted me to come and help."
"Help with what?" Sarge inquired.
One hand patted Sarge's chest. "You talk to me," Lance instructed, insistent as only a preschooler could be. "Do better that way." The little boy snuggled in close to his uncle. "And I talk back," he finished, grinning at Wordy.
Wordy flashed a grin back across the table, noticing that his boss looked both startled and thoughtful at the little boy's words. Curiosity flared in brown eyes as Parker considered his next move. "Does that happen often?" Sarge questioned, "Your magic telling you to do things, I mean."
Both men were relieved at the shake of the small head. "Magic tells me things," Lance replied. "Like baby sister; Mommy and Daddy kept saying I might have a baby brother, but I knew she was baby sister. When she got big enough, she told me so."
"Your magic could tell your Mom was having a girl?" Wordy interrupted without thinking, his eyes wide.
Lance regarded him, then shrugged. "Baby sister's magic talked to my magic," he said simply. Sapphire swept upwards. "Magic told me about you, too," he chirped.
"I know," Sarge agreed, to Wordy's surprise. "You were right about that; I do much better with people who can talk back." Wordy arched a brow, but, when Sarge looked rather uncomfortable, he opted to drop the topic.
The child was oblivious to the exchange; he rattled on, "Magic talks much more now than before. And magic let me see the spell mean Mummy woman used to trap me and keep me away from baby sister."
"Trap you?" both adults demanded.
A solemn nod. "Spell was on room door where mean Mummy woman made me sleep." He pouted and crossed his arms. "Mean Mummy woman could tell if I opened door, but magic told me it was there, so I didn't." He brightened after a second. "Then Aslan came; He promised I could come home if I waited a little longer."
The two men couldn't help but stare at the boy; the Lion they'd seen in the Netherworld had visited Lance? Had promised the young wizard that he could go home, if only he waited? "Why not bring you home?" Wordy asked.
Lance considered that, his face twisting up as he thought. "He could have," the little boy finally admitted. "But He wanted me to trust Him to make a way. And if He'd just brought me home, mean Mummy woman wouldn't have gotten caught. Now maybe she'll ask Him for help and she can get better."
Both elbows ended up on the table as Lance nodded to himself. "She must have been nice once, before He called Daniel home. I think she thinks He abandoned her, but He never does. Or maybe she never knew Him." Magic trickled around the boy and he shaped it into a lion form that bounced around the table. "Daddy says a lot of people don't know the Lion anymore," Lance remarked, watching his creation prance. Looking up, he asked, "Is that true, Uncle?"
"I'd say it is true, Lance," Sarge replied, his voice soft. "So, you think He wanted us to find you ourselves? Without help?" A smidge of hurt lingered under his words.
"Silly," Lance accused, one hand smacking his uncle's chest. "Aslan told Roy and Giles to look for me by the big, noisy metal things, so they found me. Then they called you and you found me." He smiled brightly and turned back to his play, a gryphon and a phoenix joining the lion on the kitchen table.
Wordy let out a low whistle. "He's got a point, Sarge. I mean, what are the odds that Roy and Giles would be the guys called in by Customs and that Customs would shuffle them off to watch the passengers from the exact same plane that our kidnapper was flying on?" And what are the odds that Roy would just happen to walk close enough that Lance could see him and yell?
Sarge froze, his eyes snapping up to meet Wordy's. "About the same as the odds that Lou had," he whispered, going pale; Wordy went just as pale at the reference. "About the same odds that I had." A swallow, then, even softer, "When does it stop being chance, Wordy?"
Wordy stared at the four-year-old, who was completely unaware of the emotional firestorm he'd just kicked off. "I don't know," he admitted after a few minutes. That much was true, he didn't know the answer to Sarge's question. But, he was also quite sure that he didn't want the answer either…at least not yet, anyway. Because, if it wasn't chance, if it was more than chance, then what?
If it's not chance, then it must be Someone, Wordy thought, right before he shoved that train of thought in a box and stuffed it in a deep, dusty corner.
Because if it was Someone, then everything changed.