Chapter One: Unfit for Duty

Author note: This story is the sixty-fifth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "The OMAC Project".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.

Previously

Greg saw Lou dragging Spike out of the burning apartment complex, both of them covered in dirt and debris; fresh horror wrapped around him at the realization that they'd been that close to the bomb.

"Lou, let me go!" Spike yelled, fighting against his friend's grip. "We can't let him die!"

Above them, gryphon muscles tensed. Can't let who die?

"Spike, man, it's too late!" Lou yelled back, refusing to loosen his grip. "If Wordy couldn't get to him, we sure can't!"

"No, we have to save him!" Spike insisted. "We can't give up on him!" Fighting even harder against Lou's hold, the bomb tech screamed, "Ed!"

The fire boomed, flames scorching the third floor balcony and bringing the precarious platform crashing to the ground. But Greg was already clear, soaring towards the parking lot and a familiar Team One SRU truck. Beside the vehicle, he could see Spike still fighting against Lou's inflexible hold, shouting insults as he fought to get free.

With a sharp growl-hiss, he landed in front of both men, inwardly smirking at the stunned expressions on their faces at the sight of him and two unconscious humans on his back.

Greg let out a low, rumbling snarl and uncurled, leaping down from the truck and landing in the middle of the huddle with his wings tented. The message was clear: he would help them retake the barn and save their friends.

The gryphon gave a plaintive, worried whine and Ed's head came up, blue meeting hazel. He wasn't even aware of speaking until he heard himself say, "Greg?"

Light flashed, the collar's magic giving way, and the gryphon form before them flexed and shifted. No smooth blur of animal into human, no, it was more like when the Animagus reversal spell had been used. Bones broke audibly as the gryphon writhed under the magic, though he never cried out. Feathers and fur rippled, reluctantly giving way to skin and soot-stained clothing. Wings folded in on themselves, blending into his back and revealing that the shirt beneath was one of his custom-altered shirts, specially tailored to allow for his vanishing wings. The tail vanished and that great gryphon head blurred, giving way to human features. Though they'd half-expected a beard and hair down to Greg's shoulders, he looked just as he always had. In fact, he looked as though he'd just had a haircut and a fresh shave.

But he was terribly thin and gaunt. Not quite starving, but his skin hung on his frame, tinged gray, and his cheeks and face were hollow, almost sunken. His clothing and shoes looked as if he'd been through a fire – the same fire that had killed the Castor siblings – and his gun was still tucked in its holster on the gun belt around his waist. Worst of all, his hands were bleeding and his face was already twisting in sheer agony.

"Ed, while Auror Queenscove contacts his father, we'll need to move Sergeant Parker to the magic side of the barn."

"Sir?" Ed asked in confusion.

The commander's expression turned stern. "Additionally, none of you are to inform anyone outside of this room of Sergeant Parker's survival. Not your coworkers, not your families, no one. Am I understood?"

"What about Sarge's kids?" Wordy protested.

"No one, Constable Wordsworth," Holleran repeated, the words harsh and ripping. Dark eyes went harder. "And Sergeant Lane, before you even go there, you are not volunteering for a demotion so Sergeant Parker can take command of Team One back. I won't accept it and neither will Parker."

"So what happens to Greg?" he questioned. "What, we just leave him out in the cold 'cause IS made him lie and stuck him undercover without asking? Greg's Team One, sir. And his kids have suffered long enough."

Holleran returned the glare with interest. "Sergeant Lane, that's my decision. No one outside of those who already know is to be informed of Parker's return." A beat, heavy with meaning. "And regardless of anything else, Sergeant Parker is not a member of Team One anymore. The sooner you accept that, the better."

Reluctantly, Ed Lane bowed to his commander's orders, his posture warning his teammates not to argue either. "Yes, sir."

Now

Between a quick Disillusionment spell and another levitation spell, moving Greg out of Commander Holleran's office without anyone seeing him was accomplished with much the same ease Ed had come to expect with magic. The ease left a sour tang in the Sergeant's mouth; magic was a great tool, he knew that, but all too often, none of them considered the cost of that tool. They still didn't have the full story, but Ed was going to bet that Greg had gotten slapped with a Portkey to the middle of nowhere, an easy thing for whoever had done that to him. An easy crime, to kidnap a police officer and leave him stranded, half a continent away from home.

Could Greg have gotten kidnapped without magic? Of course, but it was magic that had made the crime so easy, magic that meant Greg had disappeared from the scene of a fire and been presumed dead, an eventuality that was unlikely to happen on a purely tech hot call. Ed's expression hardened, donning a familiar mask – the mask he wore as Team One's Sergeant, a position he'd been thrust into without warning and deceived about the reasons behind his promotion.

The rest of his team adopted that same coldness, hiding their emotions from the rest of the barn, all of whom were curious about why they'd been in the commander's office for so long. Although Ed was livid at Holleran's declaration that no one was to know about Greg's survival, he knew just as well as the older man that Greg was still technically assigned to Intelligence Services as an undercover officer. To let IS get their claws on Greg again wasn't happening, so secrets, once again, were the name of the game.

Once on the magic side of the barn, Giles took the lead, heading for a space that wasn't being used, why, Ed hadn't a clue, but it meant they had a spot for Greg to hide out in for a few days. The small room was bare, but clean of dust. Ed and Wordy caught their now visible boss and kept him off the ground while their Auror liaison conjured a bed. Sam arched a brow at the plain wood of the bed frame and the rigid mattress on top.

The Auror's shoulders slumped. "Conjuration's not my thing, Braddock," he admitted. "It'll only last a hour, but that gives me some time to find something better."

"An exam bed would be better, Auror Onasi."

All heads turned to a man in the room's doorway. The wizard's brunet hair fell down past his shoulders, though it was caught up in a tie that kept it out of his face. Green eyes very like his son's, if a touch darker, regarded Team One with understanding and sympathy. As he moved into the room, Ed noted that he had hints of silver at his temples and a reddish tint to his hair. Behind him, Neal fidgeted, clearly unsure of his next move.

"Nealan, attend me," the elder wizard ordered, drawing his wand. The bed Giles had conjured vanished, replaced by a contoured exam bed, one that would let the injured Sergeant remain on his front, with hands and feet well away from touching any surfaces. That done, he turned towards Ed and Wordy. In a kindly tone that nonetheless offered not a trace of pity, he asked, "Would you prefer to place Sergeant Parker on the bed yourselves, gentlemen?"

"Whichever's better for Greg," Ed replied immediately. Did he want to? Very much, but Greg had suffered enough without the jarring he and Wordy might inadvertently cause.

The Healer studied him a moment, then inclined his chin and gestured with his wand. Greg lifted up and the two officers hastily got out of the way as the wizard guided his patient to the exam bed. Once Greg was down, the Healer waved his son over and began examining Greg from head to toe, clearly preferring an actual examination to using his wand.

"Father…"

"All in good time, Nealan," the older man interrupted. Without glancing up from his work, he added, "You may call me Baird, officers." For a moment, his head came up and he cast them a wink. "Neal has told me much about your team and I have observed your endeavours with great interest. You have set our world on its ear by nothing more than being yourselves."

"And we've paid the price for that," Sam countered; Ed jerked in surprise. Seeing that, the blond snorted. "Come on, Ed, don't tell me you weren't thinking the same. You think the Boss would've been targeted like this if we weren't working magic-side?"

"Castor Troy still would've come after him," Jules pointed out.

"Would he?" Lou asked suddenly. "How do we know he wasn't broken out of prison by somebody with magic?"

Ed swallowed; he'd had the same thought himself. How easy would it have been for some wizard with a grudge to arrange for Castor Troy's release? He knew Moffet would've done it, in an instant, if he thought it would benefit his ongoing vendetta against Team One. Still, the Sergeant said nothing as he leaned against the wall and watched Greg's slow, steady breathing. True, their team had paid – was paying – a heavy price for getting involved in the magical world, but by that same token, they'd also gained so very much.

His boss and best friend wasn't a lonely man, trudging through life without family, going home to an empty apartment day after day. Lou wasn't six feet under in a casket because of an aging environmentalist who'd wanted to cut a swath through the city so badly that he'd booby-trapped his last bomb. Wordy still had Parkinson's, but so long as his healing bracelet kept working, he could stay on Team One for the rest of his career without worrying that his body would betray him at any moment.

Lives changed, lives saved, all because they'd chosen to embrace the magical world, come what may. And though the price was turning out to be far higher than they'd ever imagined, they'd made that choice, in full knowledge that there were going to be people who hated their decision and some of those people might well lash out. They'd accepted that risk and everything that came with it, good and bad.

"Guys, we made the call," Wordy said, voicing Ed's internal conclusion. "Stop with the 'what-if's, it doesn't change a thing." He stopped, a glimmer of anguish appearing. "We made the call to take the Auror badges, so you might as well say we put Sarge on that bed." Anguish deepened. "Don't…don't cheapen what Sarge did for us by second-guessing everything."

"But…" Spike's grief shone in dark eyes. "If he never walks again…"

"Cease and desist," Healer Queenscove snapped, straightening from his examination. The team stopped, caught off guard by the demand. The older man pinned them with a glare. "Have you so little faith after all that you have seen?"

Ed returned the man's gaze, striving for calm. "He walked every bit of skin off his hands and feet."

The wizard's expression softened, though only by a hair. "That is so," he conceded softly. "And his recovery will be long and difficult, but so long as he keeps to that recovery, he will walk again. He will use his hands again." A faint smile appeared. "In fact, I have every confidence that he will be able to return to active duty."

Shock reverberated around the room, even the wizards stunned by the Healer's pronouncement. "You're sure?" Jules managed to ask around her astonishment.

Baird Queenscove bowed in affirmation. "I am." His head came up, green catching Ed's blue. "If I recall correctly, Sergeant Lane, you are Sergeant Parker's medical proxy of record?"

"That's right."

The Healer bobbed his head. "If I may, Sergeant Lane, my son once intended to join me in the Healing profession. If I might, could I instruct my son as I treat your colleague? The instruction would not interfere with Sergeant Parker's recovery, you have my word on that."

Ed considered the wizard a moment, then glanced over at Giles and a silent Dustil Onasi. "Giles, we'll keep you informed."

The Auror's shoulders slumped at the dismissal, but he tilted his head at the door. "Come on, son, let's go find somewhere else to lurk."

Dustil bit his lip, but let his father bustle him out the door without a syllable of protest. Neal looked just as unhappy, but the green-eyed wizard said nothing, understanding Ed's reluctance to trust a convicted criminal with the details of Sergeant Parker's current condition. The young Auror's own father nodded, approval at the decision plain.

Turning back to Healer Queenscove, Ed said, "Go for it, but that means you're telling us everything, too."

The Healer inclined his chin in acceptance, then gestured Neal to his side. "Now then, Neal, do you know what you did wrong with your diagnostic spell?"

"I didn't record the results?" Neal offered uncertainly.

"No, no," the elder Queenscove disagreed. "A preliminary examination need not be written down, Neal, particularly if immediate treatment is required." A brief pause. "And coming to me, especially when you were unsure of the proper course, was well done, my son. Never attempt to tackle a treatment you are unsure of, save in the direst of circumstances. Healing is an exacting art and one which involves other human beings."

Neal nodded, intent on his father's lesson. In the background, Ed quelled his teammates' impatient shuffles with a glance. Greg was still asleep and oblivious to the pain, plus the Sergeant was almost completely certain that his friend would accept being a bit of a living lesson to a young Auror they both liked.

"What you did wrong, Neal, was to put your trust exclusively in the diagnostic spell," Baird explained. "I am not surprised, most young Healers have the same tendency, I'm afraid. Never assume that any diagnostic, no matter how well cast, will give you all the information you require. Always examine your patient's injuries yourself; if you must act to stabilize them first, do so, but make sure you examine them before proceeding any further."

So saying, the Healer guided his son to Greg's mangled feet and began to lecture, explaining what his personal examination had found that the diagnostic had not. Despite the flood of technical terms that Ed only half-understood, he winced – Queenscove was being very thorough, particularly with his speculation of how the ongoing physical damage had affected Greg. In short, Ed was learning far more than he'd ever wanted about how Greg had gotten injured and, worse, how much pain he was in.

The Healer worked his way up, explaining how Greg's condition had been affected by lack of food and the diminishment of his physical reserves. Though he touched on the three pain spells the diagnostic had uncovered, Queenscove maintained that Greg had long since recovered from the spells, though that recovery had set him back, thus contributing to the later, more extensive injuries. When they reached Greg's hands, Ed flinched outright at the confirmation of nerve damage, but the Healer was unconcerned even as Neal vibrated anxiously at the extent of what Greg had suffered.

When Queenscove's explanation finished, his son gazed down at Greg then up at his father. "So how do we treat all of that?"

"Slowly and in stages, my son." The Healer waved his wand, conjuring a table tall enough for him to set out a number of potion jars. "Even magic has its limits, Neal; I cannot wave my wand and repair all of these injuries overnight, much as I might wish to. Without magic, I confess, I must concur with Constable Scarlatti's fears – Sergeant Parker's ability to walk and use his hands will be severely compromised; there will be no question of his retirement." He let that hang just long enough for his son – and the rest of the room – to shiver. "However, with magic, it is a far different story."

Picking up one jar, Queenscove opened it and moved to Greg's hands. "Help me put this on, Neal. Don't stint, I want both hands well coated."

"Yes, sir," Neal replied, joining his father.

Even as he worked, Queenscove continued his lecture. "I estimate at least a month before the initial damage has healed and another two months before Sergeant Parker can resume his full complement of duties." Brisk, but efficient, the Healer finished applying the paste-like potion and cast a spell to ensure it stayed on Greg's hand. He waited until Neal was finished, then cast the same spell on Greg's other hand. With a glance in Ed's direction, he said, "I will make arrangements for a bed identical to this one; it's best that Sergeant Parker remains off the ground and on his stomach to avoid anything touching either his hands or feet. A bed sheet, perhaps, but no more.

"For the first day or two, I will provide you with sleeping and nutrient potions, Neal; spell them directly into his system. Rest and open air is the best course at this early stage. After two days, we may dispense with the sleeping potions; I doubt Sergeant Parker will be in the mood to go far; but continue with the nutrient potions. The sooner we can build Sergeant Parker's system back up to a regular diet, the better. He will need strength to heal."

"How far can he go?" Ed asked.

Healer Queenscove inclined his head and, picking up another jar, moved to Greg's feet. "For the first week, to the bathroom and back, Sergeant Lane. Any more will interfere with the healing; I doubt he's capable of more anyway. Nothing at all for the first two days, I fear."

Neal joined his father and the two worked quickly, spreading the second potion on the soles of the sleeping man's ravaged feet. "Should I reapply the potions, Father?" Neal inquired.

"Yes, of course," the elder wizard confirmed. "Never fear, Neal, I will supply you with more. These must be applied for the first three weeks for maximum benefit, every morning and every evening. I will teach you the spell I'm using, but it's not essential so long as the potions absorb into Sergeant Parker's skin."

"Are they for the pain?" Wordy asked.

"The potions serve three purposes, Constable Wordsworth," the Healer replied. "First, as you said, they are intended to reduce Sergeant Parker's pain. Second, they promote the healing of damaged flesh and nerves and thirdly, they will guard against further damage." A brief frown. "They are more for the first two, I fear, but they will offer some small protection."

"So Greg can get to the bathroom," Ed concluded, earning a nod. "What else are we looking at here?"

Queenscove considered, expression thoughtful. "No footwear of any kind for the first six days," he decreed. "The skin will be far too fragile to withstand it." The wizard's glare backed up the edict. "After those six days, Sergeant Parker may wear slippers. No shoes, no socks. He may also add the shower and mealtimes to his excursions, but they must be kept as short as possible, to reduce the strain on his hands and feet."

"How long with just slippers?" Jules asked, once again writing in her notebook.

The Healer considered her question. "Two to three weeks, starting from today if all goes well, Constable Callaghan. At that time, subject to my approval, Sergeant Parker may begin wearing a lighter shoe as well as socks."

"Sneakers?" Lou suggested.

"I will need to see them, but I suspect so," Queenscove concurred. "I will also clear him for light duty, but not a full day's work by any means. At four weeks, he may resume a full day's work, but no overtime and I expect him to remain indoors whenever possible. Extreme temperatures, in either direction, could re-damage the skin. At six weeks, I can clear him for full duty and the boots I see all of you are wearing, but I would recommend caution for another fortnight complete beyond that." A brief pause. "That is, of course, under ideal conditions, so his recovery, in practical terms, may take as many as three months."

As Healer Queenscove finished elaborating his general treatment plan, Commander Holleran slipped into the room, expression worn. Most of Team One regarded him rather frostily, still upset over his edict that their boss's kids be kept in the dark, but Ed simply cast him a questioning look. The tall pepper-haired man managed a wan smile. "I need a week," he said simply.

"For what?" Wordy asked, eyebrows hiking.

The commander sighed. "Wordsworth, I've been trying to get Parker back since the day we lost him." Holleran slumped, just a hair, but none of them missed it. "He's too darn good; once he started catching dirty cops left, right, and center, neither the Commissioner nor the mayor's office would give me the time of day."

"Even though the Boss never wanted the transfer?" Jules blurted, dismay shining bright.

Bitterness twisted Holleran's mouth. "Who do you think authorized the transfer in the first place, Constable Callaghan? They authorized the gag order, too." The bitterness grew in the commander's dark eyes. "After Parker was presumed dead, I started arguing that he'd want to be buried as an SRU officer. Another few days, maybe a week, and I would've had all the paperwork completed."

Ed's mouth dried up. "But until you do…"

"…he's still IS," Holleran finished grimly. "And worse, if IS can prove we knew he was alive before the paperwork was finished, they can lobby for it to be reversed."

Lane felt his chest close up; in the background, their teammates were ashen with horror as they understood, all too well, why their commander was being so inflexible. "Sir…if you knew all that…why did you tell us about the report? You said it yourself, you suspected it was Greg…why blow his cover if you needed more time?"

Silence rang around them, even the Queenscoves hanging onto the drama before them, waiting with baited breath for the response. At length, Commander Holleran bowed his head. "Ed…he's one of my officers, I couldn't just leave him like that." The black man's fists clenched. "Everything he did to get home…I couldn't dishonor that."

Ed swallowed harshly; for two months, his commander had lived with the knowledge that his shooting had led directly to the fire. Holleran had been the only member of the SRU who'd known the truth, Greg's last link – his last anchor – to home. In his own bitterness, Ed had never considered that Commander Holleran felt just as much guilt as the rest of them over what had happened to Greg.

Softly, the Sergeant murmured, "We hear you, sir." He waited until Holleran looked up, then continued, "But sir, we aren't the only ones Greg came home for. He came home for his kids, too." A beat. "Don't get me wrong, sir; you tell Greg that you need another week and he'll wait. It'll kill him, but he'll wait." Determination and plea wove together. "He shouldn't have to, Commander. Everything he did, he did for them. He deserves to know that his kids are okay, that Castor Troy didn't get them."

Yet again, silence rang, tension thick in the air. At last, Commander Holleran nodded. Turning to Healer Queenscove, he remarked, "I didn't hear everything in here, so how long is Parker going to be kept unconscious?"

"Two days, Commander," Baird Queenscove replied, his voice soft. Glancing over at Team One, he said, "I agree with Sergeant Lane, Commander. There has been enough grief and it will do my patient a great deal of good to see those he loves most. I am certain that between myself, my son, and Auror Onasi, we can keep the secret of Sergeant Parker's survival from these…unsavory…elements. Were it not for the short length of time involved, I would recommend a Conspirator's Hold to protect this secret."

"A Conspirator's Hold?" Lou asked curiously.

"Yes, it is similar to the Fidelius, Constable Young, save that it is meant to keep information secret, rather than a location. It also has a somewhat darker reputation." The Healer paused. "However, if a week is all you require, I believe we can manage that."

Holleran jerked a nod, but pointed at Ed. "No one else, Sergeant Lane!"

"Yes, sir," Ed agreed. Sophie was going to kill him, but this time, Greg came first. Once his friend was safely back in the SRU, then he'd tell Sophie the whole story and take whatever punishment she saw fit to dish out. They just had to get through a whole week without anyone guessing that Greg was alive and back in Toronto.

Simple.

He was sleeping. He knew that, in a vague, distant way, but a part of him was very much awake. It was a quandary…he was too deeply asleep to stop the magic rising within him and too awake to be oblivious to it. Nevertheless, Greg fought, struggling against the power squeezing his chest and summoning the links he'd spent two months ignoring and another two months following home.

Trapped in dreams, no one heard him cry out in dismay as the links surged to life, fairly howling in triumph. No longer were they blocked by a collar or restrained by the Sergeant's desperate need for his soul to be his own again. Magic roared and even while comatose, Greg felt his mouth move, heard the orders ring out. Orders that were incredibly simple and yet an absolute violation of his team's free will, their right to choose.

Just as he had before, he strained to countermand the orders, but something seized hold, rendering him mute – helpless. Guilt he'd thought conquered crashed down once more, leaving the negotiator drowning in shame. Tears slipped down, but he refused to cry. He didn't deserve to cry. The dreams twisted around him, pulling him down into sweet oblivion. As the awake part of his mind fell back into slumber, guilt squirmed in his chest, rotting his homecoming joy from the inside out, and his magical core began to throb as the links pulled ever more magic from it.

Sound came first. The hiss of ventilation, the steady rhythm utterly alien after so many days of wind and traffic and birdsong. A rustling nearby, irregular enough that his budding panic eased. The turn of a page, the whisper-soft sigh of someone with a good book. Even a tiny creak from a chair as its occupant leaned back, thoroughly enjoying themselves.

Pain came next, in a steady throb from hands and feet. It pulsed with his heartbeat, a reminder that he'd pushed himself well beyond his limits. He knew if he flexed, the ravaged flesh would pull and scream, so he stayed as still as possible, savoring a final respite before the day began. He'd be doing more damage soon enough…

It occurred to the man that he might want to open his eyes. Figure out where he was…and why his body felt different. The weight on his back, the gentle pull of his wings…it was gone, leaving him feeling strangely naked. He couldn't feel his talons either or sense his lion claws, sheathed, but ready to be called upon at need. The lack left him utterly defenseless…how was he supposed to protect himself without beak, fangs, talons, or claws? His muscles, too, felt flimsy and weak, scarcely enough to lift his head, never mind the rest of his body.

Panic stirred…how was he supposed to get home if his body failed him now? He was so close, he couldn't fail now. But he felt weak as a newborn gryphlet, feeble and helpless. Instinctively, he struggled, trying to get his trembling limbs underneath him. He couldn't give up, he wouldn't give up…

"Whoa! Easy, Sarge, don't hurt yourself!"

He heard the book crash to the ground, dropped without so much as second thought. Someone touched his back, keeping him in place. He fought, mindlessly and with a desperation he didn't even fully understand. Something was missing, something important, something precious and irreplaceable. He had to get it back, he had to.

The person above him swore and the next thing Greg knew, he'd been half-lifted off the bed – he was on a bed, when had that happened? – and arms locked around his chest, pressing him against the other person and keeping his own arms still so he couldn't use them. "Sarge! Come on, Sarge, listen to me! It's me! It's Wordy!"

Wordy? His struggles lessened, panic starting to ebb.

"Okay, easy there… Good… That's it, Sarge, you're okay. We got you; you're home, I promise."

"Dream?" Was that…was that his voice? It sounded rusty, disused…unused to speaking.

The laugh he heard was watery and hysterical. "Sarge, if this is just a dream, it's gotta be a really good one, 'cause I'm having it, too."

All at once, his limbs gave out and he sagged back against Wordy, head lolling against his constable's – former constable's – broad shoulder. "S…sorry." So very sorry…you have no idea how sorry I am, Wordy.

Wordy's grip adjusted, becoming more of a hug than a restraint. "We know, Sarge. We know you didn't mean it; we heard you talking to Ed."

Eddie? When had he talked to Eddie?

"Oh. You don't remember that, do you?"

Greg swallowed, wincing at the dryness of his throat, and shook his head, feeling the fabric of Wordy's shirt move underneath.

There was a long pause, then Wordy sighed to himself. "Okay, Sarge. I'm gonna let you back down, then I'll go get you some water. You've been asleep for two days straight; I bet you're parched."

The negotiator couldn't even muster the strength to nod, instead slumping into Wordy's grasp as the big man lowered him back to the bed, an odd shaped contraption that left him lying on his stomach, but kept his hands and feet off the ground. As Wordy moved off to find that promised water, Greg finally realized why he felt so…weak and helpless. Deformed and crippled.

He was finally back in his human form – and it made his skin crawl.

Wordy had to hold the glass; the flesh of his hands was too weak and fragile to even grasp the lightweight plastic cup, much less lift it. Greg had never felt more ashamed and exposed in his life. He couldn't stop shivering either, used to the warmth of fur and feathers, the strength he'd come to take for granted. Compared to his gryphon form, his human form felt so very helpless in comparison. No inbuilt defenses, no ability to see for kilometers, no way to fly, and as fragile as a dandelion. His body felt wrong, alien and foreign.

Memory had trickled back, but he still couldn't remember much from after the collar had been removed. Mostly pain and the feel of someone rubbing his back, right between his shoulder blades. Had to have been Eddie; he was the only one who knew about that spot… Greg might've flushed at the memory of when he and Ed had first made that little discovery, but he couldn't remember how. Two months in animal form had left their mark, leaving Greg a stranger to himself, struggling to remember how to function as a human.

The glass pulled away and Greg made an indignant noise, cringing instantly when he realized he'd reacted like a gryphon, not a man. He managed to clear his throat, rasping, "Wordy…"

"Not too fast, Sarge," Wordy chided, bringing the water back. He said nothing about the Sergeant's initial response; only the tightening of his jaw and the scrunch of his nose indicating that he'd noticed.

Greg throttled his first instinct, forcing himself to speak. "How long?" At Wordy's arched brow, he swallowed, automatically hunching into himself. "Like this."

Wordy cocked his head to the side, struggling to decipher the broken words. "You mean…how long do you have to be like this?" he guessed.

Fresh shame burbled, but Greg nodded, ducking his chin to hide the emotion and swallowing down another gulp of water. He'd had the full sentence in his head, but somehow, it just hadn't come out. Another thing he'd lost? The officer in him quavered…how was he supposed to be a negotiator if he couldn't speak basic English?

"Four more days, Sarge," Wordy informed him. "We'll help you get to and from the bathroom, but your Healer doesn't want you doing any more than that."

"After?" Greg questioned, inwardly cursing his inability to speak properly.

Wordy shrugged. "You get slippers and showers," he explained cheerfully. "The Healer said you could be up for meals, but we figured you'd probably get along better if we brought 'em to you."

Greg fought for the words, but they simply wouldn't come. Gingerly, he flexed his hands, wincing when they protested the movements. Still thirsty, he leaned towards the cup and greedily sucked more water down.

"Yeah, that might be a problem," Wordy conceded, eyeing his hands as he held the cup steady. "Don't worry, Sarge, we'll figure something out." He shifted, pulling the water back again. "Okay, we'll let that settle for a bit." At the silent protest in Greg's eyes, the big constable shook his head. "Sarge, we gotta go slow. Hope you enjoyed that steak, 'cause now you're on broth and nutrient potions."

Oh, that was so not fair. The Sergeant glared, absently grateful he could still glare.

The brunet snorted at him, unimpressed. "Sarge, Healer Queenscove 'bout had a coronary when Ed told him how much steak and bones you'd had right before Dustil got that collar off. Read him the riot act on the spot. Said you got lucky – most of it got digested before you reverted back to human."

Parker froze. "That bad?" he managed.

"Yeah, that bad, Sarge. It's not just your feet and hands; your whole system's outta whack." Wordy gave him a serious look. "Sarge, it's gonna be two to three months before you're back to where you were." He let that hang, then stood up. "Okay, I'm gonna go tell Ed you're awake, then I'll call Shelley and ask her to bring your two rugrats to the station. We're gonna have to be really careful, 'cause Holleran's still trying to get you back in the SRU, but…"

He trailed off at Greg's frantic headshake.

"Boss? Don't you want to see them?"

A tiny keen escaped despite his best efforts. Oh, he wanted to see them, wanted to hold them and hug them and reassure himself that they were alive. Greg squeezed his eyes shut, memories of the covered stretchers coming out of the judge's house running through his mind. Shivers ran up and down his spine; he wanted his kids, more than Wordy could ever understand, but instinct was screaming. Before…he might've dismissed it, but after two months as a gryphon, often with instinct as his only guide…he couldn't.

He felt air move, then Wordy was griping his shoulders, concern radiating. "Sarge? You okay?"

Words…he needed words… Wordy couldn't understand instinct… "Too…too risky…" he rasped out.

"Sarge, Castor Troy's dead. He can't hurt your kids anymore."

Greg shook his head, instinct howling. "Know that," he croaked. "Keep. Away." It was critical, it was important, though he couldn't remember why. Didn't matter, his instincts knew and his mind was still too gryphon to disregard them. "Promise, Wordy."

There was a long, sorrowful silence, then Wordy sighed. "Okay, Sarge. I promise."

Two tears leaked out, but they were safe, they were alive. That was all that mattered.

Another sigh; Wordy had seen the tears. "Get some sleep, Boss. We'll handle everything else."

Parker jerked a nod and let Wordy help him back down on the odd, but comfortable bed. Glancing up, he forced his jaw open once more. "Wordy?"

Wordy stopped in the middle of straightening. "Yeah?"

"Thank…you…" A glimmer of reluctance, then he whispered, "Tell Eddie…I said…okay…tell…you about…" Greg grimaced, fighting past the mental block in his mind.

A hand touched his back. "Easy, Sarge. I'm not goin' anywhere, just let it come."

Simple…he needed simple… "Spot…on my back…"

The hand jerked away, but Wordy hovered close nonetheless.

A faint smile emerged. "Guess…guess I'm more…gryphon…than…than I think…"

His former constable hesitated, then asked, "So…if I'm getting you right, Sarge, you want Ed to tell me something about a spot on your back…that has to do with your gryphon form?"

Greg nodded. It was embarrassing, but… There was a whole mess of secrets he needed to tell his team, that they deserved to know. He wasn't sure they needed to know this secret, but he was choosing to trust them with the secret regardless. "Tell…all…you…" A grimace emerged – how had two months of being a gryphon turned him into this? He couldn't even speak properly!

"Sarge, stop it," Wordy chided. "You've only been back to human three days and you were sleeping for the first two, so give yourself a break." The constable sighed, rubbing at his buzzcut. "Okay, anything else?"

Greg shook his head.

"Copy that." Wordy shifted to rise, then stopped again. Turning back, gray eyes snagged hazel. "Welcome back, Sarge."

The Sergeant reached down deep, determinedly gripping his humanity. "Thanks, Wordy."

His friend's broad smile lit the room.