Chapter One: Crouching Dragon, Hidden Cop
Author note: spoilers for 05x01: Broken Peace. Pretty much the entire episode. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the sixty-ninth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Year of the Dragon".
Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.
In the deepening night, light shone across the city of Toronto. Some skyscrapers were tinted yellow as interior lights blazed and others held a green tint. Glowing logos accented the buildings, each in its own unique color as flashes of red or teal blue drew attention from the hordes of motorists making their way through the streets far below. Off in the distance, the CN Tower glowed, almost a jewel in the city nightlife and aloof from the concerns of ordinary citizens.
In the depths of the city, large red letters curved across the bricks of an old, distinguished hotel. The Fairmont Royal York was a proud establishment, boasting high class service to both travelers and those more local with a bevy of private rooms, a vast kitchen, and an assortment of larger rooms suitable for both meetings and banquets. In the cool night air, the hotel's logo remained steady, constant, offering no hint of the drama unfolding within its walls.
The man pushing into the hotel's massive kitchen appeared respectable in his perfectly pressed white shirt, dark jeans, black shoes, and long black jacket. But the gun clenched in his right hand accented his furious yell. "Where is Michelle Dalton?"
Kitchen staff screamed as they ducked for cover, cringing away from the madman invading their workplace. The worker who'd been pushing a waist-high cart full of plates was just grateful he'd been ignored; fragile, breakable dishes made for horrible cover. He watched with mounting terror as the invader pressed forward, searching wildly for his target.
"Michelle!"
In another part of the hotel, Sergeant Edward Lane hustled through the building's plain tiled service corridors, Constable Samuel Braddock on his heels. "Team One, James is headed to the banquet kitchen."
His team leader, Constable Kevin Wordsworth, acknowledged the report, but remained cool as he organized the evacuation of the banquet hall closest to the kitchen. Closer to the tables, Constable Julianna Callaghan urged one worker away with a brisk, "Come on, let's go."
Just behind her, Constable Lewis Young tapped a young woman with long brunette hair on the shoulder with a soft, "Excuse me."
In the kitchen area, the gunman stalked through the kitchen, sweeping his gun around indiscriminately as more workers dove for the floor, praying the madman wouldn't target them. "Where is she?" the brunet roared, desperation and anger mixing.
Outside the hotel, two people sat in a squat, rugged truck, both of them watching surveillance video from the kitchen area. A young woman with piercing gray eyes, long black hair, and sharp features demanded, "Wh…what's he doing?"
Her companion, one Constable Michelangelo Scarlatti, asked, "Boss?"
Holding a door open for his companion, Team One's Sergeant replied, "Seconds away." With that, he followed Braddock, weapon up and ready as the two snipers raced forward into the kitchen area.
Continuing his search, the gunman scanned the kitchen, swinging around to check behind him as he shouted, "Michelle!"
Behind him and further into the kitchen, a brunette in a sharp white shirt and high class black outfit called, "James?"
Hate swirled on the gunman's face and he swung around, bringing his weapon up to point unerringly at his target's face. She stumbled back a step, fear contorting her features. A fearful gasp escaped.
In the Command Truck, the young woman next to Spike whispered, "Mom."
8 hours earlier
Early morning light brushed the city, reflecting orange off the nearby lake as the city began yet another day. A humble, ordinary day, just like so many others. As the sun rose, the city's residents began their daily commutes to work, school, and play, blissfully unaware of the world that lurked just of sight in their very own city. Wizards and witches, each of them born with an extraordinary talent, yet just like their non-magical neighbors. The same concerns, the same hopes, and the same dreams for a better future.
In a classroom inside one of the city's high schools, the other world was closer than any of the high schoolers present might've imagined, save the two who were in on the secret. Dean Parker's eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as his father's best friend held forth on the city's Police Strategic Response Unit. Even after several weeks in Toronto, he still hadn't gotten tired of learning more about his father's life – and he especially hadn't gotten tired of the newest member in his 'extended family': an invisible young purple dragon hiding right under his desk and listening just as avidly as he was. Even more amusing to Dean was the fact that none of his classmates had twigged to the golden dragonfly sitting on Clark Lane's shoulder; the two teens shared a quick glance of amusement as Clark's father continued his presentation.
"We carry machine guns, nine millimeters, Corner Shots." The Sergeant paused, allowing his audience to imagine those weapons, then pushed forward. "And we are trained to fire those guns. And then we're trained not to fire them." Nodding at the subvocal buzz of confusion, he explained, "Now, this job isn't about firing guns. This job is about getting into the subject's head. It's about listening to what they have to say." Casting a look around, he finished, "You gotta connect, respect, and protect."
"Keep the peace," Dean piped up, though the toe of one shoe nudged the dragon to keep him quiet; little Spyro still hadn't quite grasped that if he spoke out loud anyone could hear him. A sigh echoed in the back of Dean's head as the hatchling settled once more.
"That's right," Sergeant Lane agreed. Turning to the rest of the class, he said, "Okay. You guys, who here has thought about being a cop?"
Although a few students raised their hands, Dean did not. For himself, he wasn't sure. He loved learning about his Dad's life on the job, but after the turmoil of the past several months, the young man wasn't ready to commit to anything. There were costs to that life of heroism and some paid a heck of a lot more than others. Especially those cops who ended up working magic-side, like his Dad and Team One.
Surveying the show of hands, the SRU officer nodded. "Good. Good, good." Pausing to gesture towards one side of the room, he remarked, "My son, Clark, he's got other plans. I can respect that." Dean saw one of Clark's friends shove him lightly in the chest, both teens sharing wicked grins, and felt a pang for his own school buddies back in Dallas. "Anybody else?"
Two more students raised their hands, earning an absent nod as Lane moved on. "Now, in my case, my Dad was a cop, my brother's a cop, and I started out walking the beat."
Dean's eyes widened a hair. He knew none of the members of the SRU had started out in the unit, but somehow, he just couldn't imagine it. Just like he couldn't imagine them ever doing anything but the SRU. Below his desk, he felt Spyro's slim draconic snout rub against his jeans, the baby dragon just as surprised as he was, but thankfully still staying quiet.
Moving to the young Parker's desk, the Sergeant explained, "And it was actually this guy's Dad who convinced me to join this new unit, the SRU."
Really? Hadn't Clark's Dad worked with that other Sergeant at first? Danny Rangford or something like that? Or had both his father and Clark's worked under Rangford? Dean frowned, resolving to ask his father about the history later. Maybe his Dad would be more willing to talk about the SRU's history than his parents, Dean's grandparents. As the presentation continued, Dean hurriedly tuned back in, determined to learn as much as he could.
"It wasn't easy, not for any of us. Hundreds apply, few make it in. First you take a psych test, multiple choice. What kind of cop are you? What kind of human being? Sixteen hundred questions. And you get through that, then it's fitness tests and drills." His voice intensified, turning sharp and brisk, unconsciously accenting his words. "We specialize in marksmanship. Bombs, tech, psychology, negotiations. Every day, you push yourself to your limit. Physically, mentally, so that you can handle the job when the job gets tough."
Dean's breath caught as his father's best friend gazed at him again, the confident officer faltering. He knew without asking what the Sergeant was remembering. He might still be new to Toronto, new to his Dad's life, but the wounds and scars from his father's undercover assignment ran deep. Even now, it wasn't uncommon for every member of his Dad's former team to call him at home, just to check in and make sure he was still there. Still alive and not just an impossible, incredible dream. There had even been more than a few times that Dean had overheard his father on the phone and he'd had to leave, unable to handle the raw anguish in his father's voice.
In a softer tone, Lane continued, "Because the job does get tough." Regaining a measure of steadiness, he raised his voice. "But you work hard, you do your best. You do what you think is right, and you'll find peace in whatever it is you choose to do."
In a small apartment with cheery yellow-toned walls, two women carried a heavy box through a short hallway. The top of the box was open, revealing the bottom of a large white vase sticking up. Both women had long dark hair, though the younger's hair was darker than her mother's; she made up for her darker hair with her gray eyes to her mother's dark brown. Despite the chaos of moving, both women were cheerful and upbeat.
"Watch the corner," Michelle Dalton coached from her position at the front of the box. Although she had to back down the hallway, her half-turned posture allowed her a glimpse of her destination. "We're almost there." As they made the corner and continued down the hallway, she remarked, "We are getting way too good at this."
Her daughter May laughed. "Seriously," she agreed. "Wait."
Shifting, the two women bent over to let their box down on the floor of what would, in time, become their new living room; it was currently piled high with boxes, furniture, and needed a great deal of work to become livable. Sadly, it was far from the first time they'd had to deal with such chaos, but each was hopeful that they were finally reaching the end of what had proven to be a very long road.
As the box safely hit the ground, May gasped, "Oh, my gawd. Okay."
As her daughter glanced around, still curious about their new home, Michelle said, "So I'll tell you what I'm thinking. After work, I'll buy a bottle of bubbly, bring it back here, and we'll crack it open and celebrate your show tonight. Just the two of us."
May smiled, but her uncertainty shone through. "Well, maybe not the first time. Second, maybe? I could suck."
Michelle moved forward, pulling her daughter into a hug. "Shut up. You shut up." Drawing back, she gazed right into her daughter's eyes. "You are May Dalton. You're smart, talented, wise beyond your years, and you are the bravest person that I have ever known."
For an instant, heaviness draped them, then May ducked her head and came up with a mischievous grin. In mock solemn tone, she asked, "And who do you think I got all that from?"
Michelle's smile turned a touch sorrowful, then she tilted her head to the side as she shrugged. Reaching out, she stroked her daughter's hair, cupped her chin, and whispered, "I gotta go. Bye." As she headed for her new bedroom to change into her work clothes, she heard the chime of her daughter's phone behind her.
Smiling to herself, May checked her caller ID, then picked up. "Hey."
Her boyfriend's familiar voice caroled, "Hey, goddess."
"Shouldn't you be working?" May half-asked, half-teased.
In the background, she heard the sound of a stapler and Tobias replied, "I've got eleven posters left and I do not plan on letting them go to waste."
"Tobias, you're already late and your boss is gonna-"
"It's whatever," he replied fiercely. "You're worth it."
May looked down, faintly embarrassed as she caressed her old teddy bear, still a faithful companion even so many years after she'd first gotten it. "You know, it's killing me that you can't be there tonight."
"So sing for me now."
"What?"
"Please?" Tobias asked.
"I can't just-"
"Just sing it like you're up there and I'm the only one watching you."
She hesitated, but Tobias had been so good to her. Willing to go the extra mile, no matter what she or her mother needed. May could do the same. "Okay, just hang on a second." Digging in a box, she found a picture frame with a shot of her and Tobias, both of them grinning at the camera. Soft, she began, embarrassment heating her cheeks at her own performance. "My heart has wings, love. Wings to carry me home. My heart, it sings, love. Your name is its song. Though valleys-"
Her phone beeped in her ear, stilling the song, and she was almost grateful for the interruption.
"Hang on," May told Tobias. "Call waiting." Lowering the phone, she checked the caller ID and froze. Not again. Not him…how had he even gotten her number? Again? Anger pulsed and she snapped her phone back to her ear. "It's him. Not taking it."
Tobias's voice wobbled, just as uncertain as she felt. "Uh, that's good. That's good, that's good."
Impulse crystallized into decision. "You know what, I'm gonna, um… I'm gonna come see you. I need my good-luck kiss." And maybe she could make up for her poor singing performance over the phone with an in-person concert.
The man pacing in his apartment was sharply dressed with a pressed white shirt, dark jeans, and black shoes. His brunet hair was cut close, its length tightly controlled, and blue eyes flicked back and forth over stern features, a strong nose, and a cleft chin as he focused on the flip phone in his hand. It should've been his old phone, but he'd needed the money. Just like so many things in the sparse apartment had vanished over the months following his divorce and the loss of the only person that mattered.
In the background, he heard a buzz from his doorbell, but ignored it with the ease of long practice, hoping and praying that his call would be picked up. Surely she wanted to talk to him, unless her mother was interfering. Again. Then the ringing ended, followed by a message he could recite after so many times hearing it. "Hi, this is May. Leave a message."
He had to try, had to keep trying to reach her. "May, it's me," James Mitchell began. His voice hitched and stumbled as he continued, the buzzer behind him sounding even louder. "Um, I just wanted to call and give you this cell phone number. I had to get a new cell phone because the phone company's…"
The buzzer let out a loud tone, his visitor relentless and refusing to go away.
"All right, I just- I wa- I just want you to know that I'm thinking about you and, uh… And happy birthday. And, uh… I would really like to hear your voice, okay?"
Another buzz sounded, interrupting his train of thought and igniting the anger festering below the surface. Snapping the flip phone closed, Mitchell hissed, "Damn it!" Stalking to his front door, he threw it open to find his landlord just outside and an eviction notice only inches from his nose.
The other man didn't give him a chance to speak. "The couple moving in's been more than patient."
"I told you, I can pay."
"You were supposed to be out a week ago," the other man shot back, expression closed and unimpressed.
"The new job, it's as good as mine."
"No way."
"Two weeks," Mitchell pleaded. "First paycheck, it's all yours. Come on." How could she do this to him? How could she play with him like this? Reducing him to begging when he should've been in his house, not this rinky-dink apartment, selling his belongings one-by-one to keep his creditors off his back.
"I've heard it before," his landlord snipped back.
Desperation peeked out and Mitchell reached down to his wrist. "Okay, look, take my watch. It's worth three-hundred bucks."
The other man recoiled, annoyance surfacing beneath the straightforward tone. "I don't want your damn watch."
"Three hundred bucks," Mitchell repeated, still working at the band before abandoning it for the ring that was still on his left hand. "You can have the ring as well. It's white gold. I sure as hell don't need it anymore. Take it."
"James."
"Come on." When the other man made no move to accept either watch or ring, Mitchell turned and, without moving from his spot in the doorway, picked up a heavy decanter he'd been able to hold onto throughout all his trials. Lifting it, he shoved away any thoughts of regret and turned back to his landlord. "All right, look. Here, take this. It's real crystal. It's real. You gotta be able to get something for this. Come on, take it. Take it!"
He thrust the decanter out, but his stubborn landlord refused to accept it and instead the precious object slipped free, crashing to the ground and shattering into a million pieces. Aghast, Mitchell stared at it, anger rippling. Yet another thing she had taken from him. That witch!
Aside from stepping back, his landlord didn't even seem to notice his attempt at bartering his way out of his current predicament. "You're gone by tonight," he announced, tone cool.
Fury rose and Mitchell snatched the eviction notice away.
"Don't make me call the cops." With that, the other man turned and walked away, utterly unconcerned with his tenant's flashing eyes and temper.
Leaning out his front door, Mitchell's shoulders bunched, his voice rising to a bellow. "You will show me some respect!" Once, that tone would've produced immediate compliance and contrition, but his so-called landlord didn't even turn.
Slamming the door, Mitchell leaned into the wall, panting. He was losing everything and it was all her fault! She had taken everything that mattered from him and she was still getting away with it! Well, not any more. Not anymore. Fury boiled into decision and he stalked to his dresser, shoving aside a white cloth hiding the case underneath. Brisk, he brought the case out and flipped it open to regard the gun within. It had taken a great deal of work and all the money he could scrounge to acquire it and the information he needed, but he'd managed. He always did.
It was time. Time to throw her games back in her face and get his daughter back. Time to take control of his life again. Without hesitation, he tucked the weapon in the back of his belt and walked out calmly, grabbing his long black jacket before heading for his front door. Stepping out into the hallway, he moved around the shards of his crystal decanter before striding down the hall, determination setting in his features.
Sergeant Ed Lane strode into SRU Headquarters, keenly aware of the young purple dragon trotting at his heels and the golden dragonfly buzzing after both of them. Inside the atrium, he glanced down in time to see the air ripple, a sheen of magic lowering to reveal Spyro; the mysterious 'Chronicler' had visited the barn several times, each time teaching their charge a new ability, but Ed wasn't at all happy about the latest one. Sure, invisibility was a great way for their resident dragon to stay anonymous, but it was also ripe for abuse. If any of them had been consulted, they would've vetoed the invisibility, but sadly, by the time they'd discovered what the Chronicler was teaching Spyro, he'd already mastered it. At least Spike had put his foot down and evicted the ancient dragon until he came up with a newfangled thing called a lesson plan. One they could vet and agree to before he taught Spyro any more magic.
At the dispatcher desk, Winnie leaned forward. "How'd it go?"
Heading for the side of the desk leading towards the offices, Ed replied, "Went great." One thumb jerked back. "No one saw this guy and I'm pretty sure Dean only had to nudge him twice."
Winnie chuckled. "I'll let him know you're on your way in," she promised, picking up the phone.
"Belay that," a new voice instructed, its owner appearing from the office area. Lieutenant Gregory Parker was carrying two vests, one bullet-proof, the other meant for equipment. In the weeks since his return to full duty, the stocky man had recovered a good twenty pounds; though he'd never regain the weight he'd had before his undercover assignment, he was much healthier than he'd been right after he'd made it back to Toronto, two months after he'd disappeared and been presumed dead.
From what Ed knew, his friend and boss was still doing all his paperwork on the computer; he'd recovered from the nerve damage to his hands and feet, but his handwriting was still best described as chicken scratch and Healer Queenscove had finally recommended physical therapy for that lingering issue. Still, handwriting aside, Parker had fully recovered and he was better than ever. The SRU's second-in-command regularly dueled for top honors in the range with their best snipers and several of his gryphon-inspired takedown tactics had been added to the SRU's playbook. Even better as far as Ed was concerned, Greg had reached the point where he could safely balance his paperwork and his time in the field without shorting either side. The only downside was that he was still working on getting to know every team in the SRU, so he couldn't spend as much time with Team One as any of them would've liked.
Nodding to the vests, Ed asked, "Got the new ones, Boss?"
Greg quirked a tiny grin. "Yes, Eddie, I did. From what I hear, they're lighter than our old ones."
"Sure are," Ed agreed. "I guess the goblins got a new source for intel and they're working on rolling out updates to everything we got."
Amusement flashed, coupled with a wider grin. "You could say that, Eddie."
Trading a glance with Winnie, the Sergeant pinned his friend with a look. "Spill, Boss."
Parker chuckled, but didn't respond directly. "You might ask Roy how Giles is getting on with his new learner's permit."
The sniper's jaw dropped. "He finally got one?"
"He did," Parker confirmed, tone solemn, though hazel danced. "I believe the exact phrase was, 'No associate of mine will be operating without the appropriate training.' "
Lane's jaw hung further open, working soundlessly. KITT, it had to be. But when had he moved to Toronto? Last he'd heard, the AI been puttering around Dallas, still getting used to his newly acquired freedom and deciding where to go next.
Without waiting for Ed to recover, the lieutenant turned to their dispatcher. "Winnie, could you keep an eye on Spyro for the rest of today? I'm going to be patrolling with Team One."
Glee replaced the shock and Ed's grin split his face. Greg, on patrol with them – the day couldn't get much better than that.
"Sure thing, sir," Winnie acknowledged.
All three humans ignored the baby dragon's audible sigh, but Spyro gamely trotted around the dispatcher desk to curl up in an out-of-the-way spot that would let Winnie move her chair around without accidently hitting the hatchling. It wasn't the most exciting way for the youngster to spend his day, but the officers had yet to find a better solution, particularly since Spyro needed to stay with them until he matured enough for his magical core to support him without external assistance. At least he was talking now, though he still tended to revert to telepathy whenever he got tired or rebellious.
Dragon-minding dealt with, Greg took the lead as he headed for the gun cage area, Ed right behind him. Mentally, the sniper adjusted, recalculating the shift now that they'd have the Sarge along – even with his new rank, most of the SRU and Team One in particular still referred to him as 'Sarge'. Greg hadn't wanted to 'steal' any of Ed's thunder as Team One's Sergeant, but Ed had talked him out of it, insisting that he was fine with 'Boss', but 'Sarge' still held too many connotations to be comfortable with. Eventually, Ed knew, they'd need to figure out another nickname for their lieutenant, but he was fine with the status quo.
The first few hot calls with Sarge had been awkward, all of them flailing as they struggled to figure out a new authority system, but by now, Team One had mostly adjusted. When Sarge couldn't run with them, things were the same as they'd always been, even if the team was one man short, but when he could run with them, they used a three tier structure. Sarge at the top, of course, but both Ed and Wordy maintained their own authority in a system that still felt a little jury-rigged, yet it let them recapture the old Team One while still forging the new Team One.
Once in the gun cage, the two leaders had to pause for the obligatory cheer from their teammates, then Ed headed for his usual spot in the gun cage while Parker moved to the next area over, staking out a spot for himself before beginning to gear up for the patrol Team One was slated for. Banter flowed around the two men, neither participating at first as the Sergeant worked through getting his equipment in place and the lieutenant adjusted a few things on his side of the gun cage so he'd have a permanent place for his gear before organizing his new vests, wanting a better look before he donned them.
Collecting his sidearm and checking it over, Lane's blond fellow sniper asked, "How was class, Ed?"
"It was good," Ed replied. Originally, a member of Team Three had been slated for the high school presentation, but he'd gotten pulled in by Greg when the man came down with the flu and he'd jumped at the chance – Sophie could hardly argue with an assignment that involved spending a little time with Clark.
"Your kid's school, right?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," Ed confirmed. "Boss's son goes there too." Flicking a glance in his friend's direction, he added, "Dean seemed pretty into it."
"Oh, yeah?"
A tiny shrug emerged. "Well, more than Clark did."
Wry understanding gazed back, comprehending Ed's secret disappointment. "That's because your boy's had seventeen years living with a cop. Mine's just getting started."
Neither man mentioned Greg's other two kids; they attended a private school and were still working on catching up after the utterly poor teaching they'd gotten from their magic-side schooling. Ed suspected Lance harbored an ambition to follow in his uncle's footsteps, but he wasn't so sure about Alanna. Both of them were tougher than just about any other kid he knew, Clark and Dean included, but they still bore emotional scars from the loss of their parents and had a lot of growing up to do before he'd be comfortable with either in uniform.
"Yeah, we'll see," Ed murmured, almost to himself before he headed out to check the trucks and make sure his friend's SUV was ready to go, just in case Greg opted for his own vehicle instead of riding in their usual trucks.
Striding out of the gun cage, Team One's faithful bomb tech asked, "What's not to love about being a cop? The hours, the glamour, the girls."
"The girls?" their primary negotiator inquired, glancing over as Spike came to a halt in front the team's less-lethal specialist.
Mischief rang as Spike cast a wicked grin at his best friend. "King street, Saturday night? I'm just saying, I saw you."
"Hey, I was just making sure the ladies got home safe," Lou protested.
Turning to include Jules in his teasing, Spike announced, "Both ladies."
"Ah!" Jules cried, tossing Lou a teasing glance of her own.
With a smile of his own, Parker left the gun cage; he didn't have his vests on yet, but it had been awhile since he'd been able to catch up with his former team. On his shoulders and upper arms, bronze maple leaves were embroidered in the same spots where he'd once had his sergeant stripes, the sole deviation from his uniform's black, white, and gray color scheme. Even with almost two months under his belt, he was still getting used to his new rank and the restrictions that came with it. Sure, he was the SRU's second-in-command, but in practical terms, far too often that took him away from the guys he'd served with for years. He'd been afraid the separation would be permanent, but Commander Holleran hadn't let that happen. Instead, his new job operated on both sides of the barrier, leaving him as half-cop and half-bureaucrat. Uneasy at times, but it allowed him to remain more on the front lines than he'd ever dared hope.
"Lou."
"Yeah, Sarge?" Lou asked, turning to face his lieutenant.
Following up on Spike's teasing, Greg questioned, "How's Lisa?"
Lou flushed, but held a steady expression. Excellent, he was getting better at the negotiator mask all the time. "She's good, Sarge. Not as many nightmares anymore and the diner's past that rough patch I told you about."
Parker nodded; even with plenty of help, Lisa had struggled with suddenly becoming a small business owner in the wake of her abduction and near death at the hands of a stalker who'd ultimately been linked to well over twenty murders of young women. There had even been a few unsavory types who'd tried to take advantage of Last Chance Diner during the Castor Troy debacle, hence why one of his first moves undercover as 'Carl Elias' had been putting the diner and the territory around it squarely under his protection. With 'Elias' and a few of the more respectable biker gangs guarding the diner against any attempts to extort protection money, Last Chance Diner had been able to recover from the financial squeeze plays inherent to Toronto's underworld.
"How about you, Lou?" Greg followed up.
Uncertainty cracked the negotiator mask and Lou glanced away from his former boss's patient gaze. "I'm still getting there, Sarge," Lou confessed. But before Parker could press, his head came back up. "What about you?"
Accepting the deflection, Greg considered his response, then flexed his hands. "Looking into the physical therapy Healer Queenscove recommended."
"Got a place?" Jules inquired.
The lieutenant turned to speak to both of them, but shook his head. "Baird likes the idea, but he didn't know of any place offhand. I talked to Dr. Travis and he came up with a few recommendations." Parker allowed a faint grimace. "It's a little up in the air; my hands work fine and the nerves are healed, so it's just…"
"The handwriting," Lou finished, earning another grimace and a silent nod.
"Have you tried using your magic?" Jules ventured.
Greg arched a brow at her. "I'd rather not get dependent on it," he chided.
The brunette shook her head. "No, I'm not saying that, Sarge. Just…" She hesitated, searching for the best way to phrase her suggestion. "What if you need to retrain the muscles? Your magic could help you do that, right?"
Parker shifted his weight backwards, frown turning thoughtful. Jules had a point; writing was largely about muscle memory – the way a person learned how to hold a pen and form the letters. He'd been avoiding using his magic, wary of depending too much on the supernatural when a technological solution would work just as well, but if Jules was right… "Worth a try," he finally decreed. "If we get a call, I'll give it a shot." Meeting his fellow negotiator's gaze, he added, "Thanks, Jules."
The brunette beamed. "Any time, Sarge."
With a smile, the lieutenant returned his attention to Lou and arched his other brow. "So, two girls, huh?"
Lou quirked a grin. "Actually, it was three, but who's counting?"
Jules giggled and Greg snickered before heading back towards the gun cage. He might not be Team One anymore, but it was good to be riding with his guys once more.
Author note: Hey all - I am starting this story a few days earlier because I have an interview on Friday and I really need the prayer. If this interview works out, I have high hopes that I will finally get back into development instead of being stuck in Production Support.
Now, even if it doesn't work out, there are many other fish in the sea, but I'm praying that the Lord says 'yes' - I've been praying and asking to get back into development ever since I was shanghaied into Production Support, way back in April 2020.
I do not know if I will post another update on Friday or if I will wait until next week to post the next chapter. For now, I'm going to say that I will probably skip posting on Friday and will post again next week on Friday, but! Never say never.
Thank you in advance for your prayer and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.
