Chapter Four: What Do You Want From Us?

After their host left, Wordy spent some time trying to calm Spike down again. He didn't know exactly what the bomb tech had asked, but he had a sneaking suspicion… By the time the big constable got his teammate to stop panicking, his throbbing headache had morphed into a migraine. A contrite Spike, recognizing the signs, insisted, with several pointed hand gestures, that Wordy lay down and get some rest, even finding the off switch for the overhead crystal light.

The exhausted constable fell asleep to the light and sounds of Spike poking and prodding cautiously at his phone.

Several hours later, his stomach's demand for food finally overcame his need for rest. Wordy blinked awake, wearily rubbing sleep detritus out of his eyes. Wary of exacerbating his still present headache – though it was no longer at migraine level, thank Aslan – the constable peered around, noting the lack of an electronic glow by Spike's bed.

"Wyrdig? You awake?"

"Hey, Spike." The brunet automatically kept his voice low as he regarded the raven bomb tech. In the dim shadowy grays of night vision, he saw his teammate gesture towards the light switch, a clear question on his face. Considering, Wordy nodded, but shielded his eyes as a precaution.

The light flickered on, but his headache didn't protest. Carefully, bit by bit, Wordy lowered his arm, squinting at the brightness. Aside from an insistent grumble from his stomach, nothing happened.

"Hungry, I hope, gentlemen." The cheerful tone preceded their mystery host as he returned, two loaded trays of food and water floating by his shoulder. The sight of food instantly perked Spike up, he grinned, his stomach audibly whining for the meal he could now smell.

Wordy, though, wasn't nearly as excited; rather, he regarded the wizard with more than a touch of suspicion, wary tension radiating. The tension increased as the food trays marched past the wizard and drifted over the constables. Despite his stomach's growl, he made no move to reach for the plastic fork and knife. Spike stilled his own reach, glancing between his teammate and their host in some confusion.

The wizard's expression morphed to one of resignation. He flicked his wand, incanting a spell; the brunet recognized a common food detection spell he'd heard both Giles and Neal use. After a moment, white light glowed around both plates and the glasses; Wordy minutely relaxed and picked up the plastic utensils.

Both men dug into their meals, though the big constable noticed, with some confusion, that his portion was considerably larger than Spike's. And judging by a few rather jealous glances, Spike had noted the same.

"Your healing bracelet is quite impressive."

Wordy jumped, gray eyes darting up to the amused wizard now perched on a chair he must've conjured. A sparkle hinted at internal laughter, though the other man's face remained solemn aside from a twitch of the jaw.

"But it does not change your condition."

The big man swallowed. "My illness, you mean?"

A slow nod. "Unless I am mistaken, that bracelet keeps you in good health and ameliorates the worst of your symptoms, but it cannot cure you."

Though a shudder worked its way down Wordy's back at the all-too-accurate synopsis, he held the wizard's steady gaze, refusing to flinch.

One hand swept out. "Such a severe illness would take a toll, particularly when your body is placed under stress, as it was today."

Feeling his way through the explanation, the constable asked, "So that's why I collapsed in the staircase? Too much hitting me at once?"

"In a way," their host granted. "I was referring more to the overuse of your magical core, but that certainly applies as well."

Scowling, Wordy's eyes narrowed. "You keep insisting I don't have a crippled core, but I do; that's why I'm a Squib, not a wizard."

The other shrugged. "Your diagnostic said otherwise, Auror Wordsworth. I do not dispute your argument: you are a Squib – but your core is hardly crippled. But that was not my point."

Perplexed, the big man cocked his head to the side in clear question.

A low chuckle rang out. "Between your illness and your considerable magical exertion of late, you need more food than your friend does."

Wordy flushed bright red and ducked his head, avoiding Spike's curious gaze.

"Would you like me to tell him?" More amusement.

Feeling as though his cheeks were on fire, Wordy forced a nod and tried to ignore the soft babble of the wizard explaining things to Spike. Instead he focused on his meal, which was a generous mix of noodles, chicken, shrimp, and several green vegetables slathered in a rather tasty white sauce. Spike voiced something that sounded like a tentative question and Wordy automatically glanced up at the sudden silence.

"He wishes to know if your hands are trembling," the wizard remarked, his expression inquisitive.

Setting down his knife and fork, Wordy awkwardly twisted on his bed towards the bomb tech and brought both hands up in front of him. His teammate watched intently for a minute, the brunet just as tense, then nodded in clear relief when the brunet's hands never twitched.

Their host observed with a measure of his own interest. "What disease do you have, Auror Wordsworth?"

Stiffening again, the constable met the question with a challenging glint. "Does it matter? We don't even know why you're helping us."

"Is it not enough to wish to do the right thing?"

Ignoring the jab of shame for questioning their rescuer, Wordy held the other's gaze. "Doing the right thing is reporting a crime to the authorities. Doing the right thing is jumping in when you see someone getting beaten up or about to get murdered. We were in the middle of a serial killer's private house of horrors…how on Earth did you even find us? And why not before if you knew what was there?"

The wizard's jaw twitched. "You…both of you…have magical signatures. I was aware of the killings, but until the pair of you were inside that…house of horrors…I could not find it."

Chills ran over Wordy's skin. "Okay," he admitted, "you had to find it first; I'll give you that one. But why help us? Who are we to you?"

Another twitch. "I'm doing a favor for an old friend of mine."

And he would say no more on the topic, deliberately changing it several times when Wordy attempted to press him for more of an answer.

Scéaþ did his best not to feel too bored when their host talked more with Wyrdig than with him. He did appreciate Wyrdig permitting the wizard to explain why his teammate had been given twice as much food, though he couldn't help but fret once he knew it had something to do with Wyrdig's shaking palsy. Wyrdig, however, was more embarrassed than concerned, so Scéaþ dropped his worrying once his friend passed the Toth Test, as Team One had dubbed it.

Despite the language barrier, their host's evasiveness was plain, as was Wyrdig's frustration with that evasiveness. Scéaþ was almost grateful when the wizard rose and summoned the empty dishes to leave them alone for the night.

Then he paused and turned to look right at Scéaþ. "I have looked into the spell you were struck with."

"Yes?" Scéaþ asked, hope and more than a little terror in that one tiny word.

The other man shook his head. "I will investigate further, but I suspect the spell used was of the Old Religion."

"There's no counter-curse?"

Lips pursed, answering more eloquently than words ever could. "No."

With that, the wizard departed; Scéaþ slumped down, shaking as reality set in. The Old Religion. Old Magic trumped Latin Magic and what was he supposed to do now? He'd figured out a few things on his phone, but what was he supposed to do? He couldn't work like this, couldn't even talk to his Mōdor like this!

"Spike."

Scéaþ hugged himself, trembles growing more violent as his world slipped away, right before his eyes. Without his words, what was he? Without his skills – which depended on being able to read – what could he offer? What could he do? He really was useless, a helpless burden holding his teammate back; he might've saved Wyrdig from the staircase and the dogs, but Wyrdig had done most of the work – and nearly sacrificed his own life and magic in the process.

"Spike."

Dully, Scéaþ looked up at his friend. His life was over…couldn't Wyrdig let him fall apart in peace? Let him keep some of his dignity?

"Spike, we're gonna get through this."

Incomprehensible gibberish.

Determination blazed in gray eyes; Wyrdig's hands made the now familiar movements. Connect, respect, protect.

Something wrenched in Scéaþ's chest and he lunged at his teammate, clinging to him and sobbing like a small child into his sooty, sweaty uniform.

Author note: I am so tired of going to work and not getting any work to do. On Tuesday, we had a hint of getting work to do. We met the Pega lead (very briefly, he left maybe half an hour later and we were not given any contact info for him) and there was talk of a meeting with someone working for the client company at their location. Well, meeting never happened and here we sit, twiddling our thumbs and waiting for something to do. Unless something happens today (highly unlikely since it's Friday), that's yet another week on the bench and yet another week where my coding skills are getting rusty.

In another blow, I've just found out that one of my coworkers (we aren't exactly a team yet since we're just sitting and each doing our own thing) will be leaving shortly for another job. I cannot blame him for seeking out another job and a large part of me wishes that I could do the same, especially as each week drags on with no resolution in sight.

I want to be responsible and I want to work - I love writing, but coding is what's paying the bills right now and it's been close to three months now with no work - but my employer literally won't give me work. I want work, I want experience, and I don't want to go for another level of certification until I get that experience. Is that too much to ask?

Please pray that God would make my path clearer than it is right now. Thus far, I've felt that His will is for me to wait (and it may still be His will), but I can't deny that I'm chafing and fretting and having a great deal of trouble with simply waiting. Please pray that if His will is that I continue to wait, He would help me to accept that, but if He wants me to take action, He would make my next steps clear. I desperately need His guidance and yet, as always, He seems to be silent.

I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and sorry for pouring out my sob story; thanks for listening/reading.