Chapter Seven: Reclaiming English

Despite his instant worry for a delirious, unconscious Wordy, Greg was forced to suppress a chuckle at Spike's slack-jawed gape. Not to mention Sam's incredulous, "You can talk to him, Boss?"

The Sergeant twisted back towards the rest of his team, humor glinting in hazel eyes. The profilers had already recovered their poise and every one of them sported an assessing, considering expression directed squarely at him. His teammates were still gawking and, outside the door, he faintly heard Roy asking Onasi if he'd had a few too many donuts for lunch as the lean detective supported his larger, heavier partner up the stairs.

"Sam, go help Roy with Onasi," Parker ordered. "Lou, Eddie, let's get Wordy up on one of these beds. Jules, if you and the agents could clear the rest of the residence…?"

Technically, the Americans weren't under his command, but they accepted his orders nonetheless and followed both Jules and Sam out of the room. Maneuvering around his constable's thrashing form, Greg tugged his bomb tech out of the way and helped Young and Lane lift Wordy up on the only clear bed in the room – the other was piled high with books.

Ed grimaced as he ran one hand down his best friend's right shin. "He got himself pretty good, Greg; feels like a break."

"Copy," the Sergeant acknowledged softly. Turning to his forlorn raven-haired constable, he asked, "Spike, from the beginning, what happened?" Fidgeting, Spike retrieved one of the books on the other bed, a slender tome with a title that caught Parker's eye at once: 'The Olde Rituals'. Taking the book, the officer flipped it open, eyebrows rising as he scanned the pages. "Rituals, Spike? And you got one to work without magic?"

The bomb tech flushed and shook his head. "Wyrdig's magic," he explained in a low, miserable voice. "It worked, but…"

"Wordy can't handle the strain," Parker finished, earning an even more miserable nod. Turning back to the book, he asked, "Which one?"

"The last one." The Sergeant turned the book, displaying the ritual he'd found. "Yeah, that's the one," Spike confirmed.

Frowning at the entry, Greg flipped through the rest of the rituals again, cringing at how corrupt and vile every last one of them was. "You used a Dark ritual to share magic with Wordy? Why?"

Spike froze, horrified. "Dark?" he croaked. "It's Dark?"

Parker landed his best unimpressed glare on his constable. "Don't tell me you didn't read the whole book, Michelangelo Scarlatti." He tapped the spine, glare intensifying. "Don't tell me you didn't notice just how Dark all these rituals are."

Spike squirmed guiltily. "That one didn't look that bad. And it worked, Þegen, I promise. I mean, I still couldn't speak Englisc, but we were talking and everything. I swear, I didn't know it would hurt him." Shame limed every inch of the miserable bomb tech's form. "I never would've suggested it if I had, Þegen."

"Boss? What's going on?" Ed questioned, a wary edge to his voice.

Sighing heavily, Greg ran a hand over his head. "Spike found a ritual to let him and Wordy share magic. He says it worked, that he and Wordy could talk after they did it, but he still can't speak English and well…" He trailed off, indicating the thrashing, muttering constable. "It looks to me like the ritual was designed to work even if whoever supplied the magic didn't have enough to share."

"So what, we just have to get Wordy through this until it wears off?" Lou asked hopefully.

Ed didn't miss his boss's flinch. "Greg?" he half-asked, half-demanded.

The Sergeant held up the book. "According to this, it's not going to wear off. Magically speaking, Spike and Wordy are brothers now; Wordy's magic is trying to split itself between them to maintain the new blood connection."

"And there's not enough," Sam concluded, poking his head in the door. "Rest of the place is clear, Sarge. Looks like our subject got away."

"Shame," Roy growled. "I was looking forward to meeting him."

And throwing a punch or two, no doubt; Giles was an emotional wreck, which meant his partner was overprotective and looking for someone to hurt. Parker, however, had started to wonder…who could have known all those details? The Portkey landing site and the cellar torture chamber, sure, but the waterfall? The details behind the weeks prior to the Christmas Eve ambush? That pointed message about Onasi's multiple suicide attempts at the hospital? Who, besides Giles himself, knew every last detail? And why bring it up now, well over a decade later?

Dismissing their absent subject with a shake of his head, the negotiator focused on a thoughtful Braddock. "Sam?"

"Boss, what if I do the same ritual with Spike?" the Squib-born suggested. "I've got more magic than Wordy does; maybe that would take the strain off."

"Or put you in the same position," Jules countered. "If we're talking about second options…" She trailed off pointedly, glancing behind her to a certain Auror.

Greg's wild side protested at once with an internal yowl that made the Sergeant wince. As angry as the gryphon was, if it did come down to Giles, Eddie might have to tie him up first. Keep him from interfering. As the thought crossed his mind, the gryphon hissed, nudging and prodding at him. Without really knowing it, Parker opened the ritual book again and flipped through it, examining the text with a predator's focus.

Around him, the argument picked up steam; Roy was objecting to putting even more stress on his partner while both Eddie and Lou were arguing that Onasi had plenty of magic to spare for one ritual. Sam tried to edge in, insisting that he knew Spike and Wordy better than Giles; that might make all the difference. Jules maintained it was too much of a risk to Sam and Spike, unable to comprehend a word of what was being discussed, looked on in bewilderment, shame, and no small amount of terror. Meanwhile, Wordy thrashed and moaned, his movements growing weaker the longer his magic strained to split itself in between two wielders.

"All right, enough." The words cut through the debate, stilling it at once. The gryphon gleamed behind Parker's hazel as he brought his head up, pointing first to Braddock. "Jules is right, Sam, you don't have enough magic to pull something like this off. You try and Wordy might recover. But you'll be the one down on the bed instead." The blond gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing as he stared at Wordy's limp, delirious form.

The finger shifted to Onasi. "You have more than enough magic," the Sergeant admitted. "But we're talking about a ritual that uses the Old Religion, which you have no experience with. If we want this thing to work right, then we need someone who at least knows the basics of Old Magic." The Auror swallowed, knowing just as well as Parker that while he held no grudges against the Calvin siblings, he'd also gone out of his way to avoid learning anything about the magic they used.

"So you're going to do the ritual?" Ed demanded sharply.

"That would be the plan, Eddie." Sarcasm tinged Greg's reply; his team leader stiffened, both at the uncharacteristic tone and the gryphon eyes.

"Greg." The word held both plea and warning.

"What do you want me to do, Eddie, watch him die?" Parker shook his head firmly; he hadn't done that with a cursed choker around his constable's neck, he wasn't going to do it now. Jerking his short knife from its sheath at the top of his boot, he waved Spike closer.

Ed stepped forward, getting between them. "Greg. Tell him." When the Sergeant's eyes narrowed, Lane shook his head. "Tell Spike what's going on or I'm not moving, Boss. You're right on the edge and we both know it."

"Þegen?" Spike asked, plaintive and afraid. "What's going on?"

Sergeant and team leader stared at each other, neither backing down; Ed held his stance even as his best friend's moans grew fainter, though the anguish in blue eyes spoke to what his decision was costing him. "You don't even know if it's going to work, Greg."

No, he didn't, but what choice did they have? The gryphon strained, demanding that he put yellow in its place; internally, the negotiator's human side recoiled and the same iron will that had once given Parker the strength to abandon alcohol for the sake of a young orphan came to his aid.

"Spike." Soft, firm. "You're going to do this ritual with me. Wordy should start recovering once we do that."

The bomb tech glanced between his boss and team leader. "Then what's Éadweard so worried about?"

There was a long pause, then the Sergeant sighed in resignation. "Ed's worried I'll lose control of my wild side."

Alarm flashed. "No, no, no. Then there's got to be another way, Þegen," Spike begged. "I did this to Wyrdig, I can't hurt you, too!"

"Spike, there's no time," Greg retorted. "Wordy may not rely on his magic like most Squibs do, but he still needs it." He gestured to the weakening constable. "This is exactly the same thing that happened on that cargo ship three weeks ago; he's delirious because his magic is almost gone."

Spike crept closer to Wordy, resting a hand on his teammate's neck when the brunet whimpered. "He saved my life," the bomb tech admitted, glancing back and up at his boss.

"We know, Spike," the Sergeant replied. "The subject was recording everything."

"If we do this, he'll live?"

"Boy, I hope so, Spike."

The lithe constable considered, then nodded firmly and rose, one hand stretched out, a white line across the palm. "Ready, Þegen."

Ed shifted to be between them again; Parker's eyes narrowed. "I told him, Eddie. Now move."

The moment hung, then Lane sidestepped, letting his teammates close with each other. Briskly, Greg opened up the cut Spike already had and slashed his own palm open without even flinching. Both hands came together and Parker felt his core stir to life. Meeting Spike's eyes, the Wild Mage Squib-born nodded once.

Two voices rang out, mixing and melding as they spoke. "Brōþra nú, wé ġedǣlaþ úrera glēawnessa." A single mixed drop of blood fell, heralding Wordy's relieved sigh as blue flickered around him, thin and stretched, but no longer under strain.

"Wordy?" Spike asked, worry and hope mixing.

Ed checked his friend's forehead and relaxed. "Already a little cooler," he reported.

The bomb tech slumped in open relief, then jerked upright again. "Sarge?" Fear rang as he turned back to his boss.

Greg's face twisted in a grimace of pain as his core fought to incorporate the new blood connections. Not just Spike, he could feel it. Wordy, too. Though for some reason, it felt like more than just two connections… "Give me a minute here," he managed, letting himself collapse down on the other bed in the room. He panted, thinking a moment, then asked, "Riesci a capirmi?"

Spike jerked in surprise. "Sí, Sarge." Awe flickered across his face. "You…you gave me back mio italiano, too?"

"Sure sounds like it, Spike," Lou teased. His eyes shifted down to their unconscious teammate and he cringed. "Let's get Wordy to the hospital."

"Copy that," their Boss agreed, staggering back to his feet; he only made it two steps before nearly collapsing again.

Ed swooped in to catch him. "Spike, get his other side," the team leader ordered. "Giles, make yourself useful and get Word outta here."

Roy bristled, but the Auror let out a rusty chuckle. "Copy that, Auror Lane," he acknowledged, saluting before he flourished his wand and levitated the unconscious man off the bed.

"We are gonna have a long, long talk," Lane hissed in Parker's ear as he helped the other man down the stairs. A tired lion-like rumble was his only reply.

Auror Detective Giles Onasi slumped against the inside of his front door, still shaking. The first and second worst days of his life, re-lived all over again. He wasn't sure what was his third worst day – the day he'd almost lost Roy or the day he'd found Dustil alive…in Team One's interrogation room and under arrest on multiple counts of using an Unforgivable. Sliding down to the floor, Onasi struggled to hold in the raw emotions coursing through his body.

A strangled sob broke free. Morgana. Dustil. Revan. Brian. Nearly Roy as well. How many more people did he have to lose? How much longer did he have to live without those he loved and cared for? He stole a longing glance down at his gun and froze. All the ripped, torn bits of his soul cried out for an end. For the pain to stop.

Trembling, the detective worked the weapon free and racked the slide. Then he stared down at the sleek weapon, unable to take that final step, but unable to release his grip on his black hope of salvation. The trembling increased, the two sides of his mind battling for control; his hand shook, but the fingers didn't open. He wanted it all to stop, but…

"Don't leave me alone!" he'd begged his dying partner.

And Roy hadn't. Parker had saved him, but a sliver of Giles believed Roy had wanted to live, thus enabling that last second miracle. How could he leave his partner behind, bewildered and grieving? But how could he keep going now that they knew everything? Knew how pathetic and weak their magical backup truly was.

A heavy sigh came from his right and someone knelt beside him, gently prying the gun away. Professional hands removed the magazine and racked the slide to eject the round. The grieving man lifted his head, numb as he stared up at blond hair and sympathetic blue eyes.

"How did you get in?"

The other quirked a half-grin. "Asked Simmons if he had a key to your back door."

Sam Braddock set the empty gun down on Onasi's kitchen table and tugged a chair over to sit at an angle to Giles' slumped position. Once the chair was positioned, the blond plopped down in it and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Heck of a day," he mused aloud.

Onasi shot him a dirty look that went unnoticed in the dim lighting. As silence draped the room, the Auror fidgeted, waiting for the questions, the accusations. And confused when they didn't come. Finally he asked, "How are they?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "Spike's fine. They healed Wordy's leg and they're keeping him overnight for observation. Something about his magical core. Sarge insisted on walking out under his own steam; I think Ed was gonna have a little chat with him, if you know what I mean. Case is wrapped up, so those profilers will be heading home in the morning; their Unit Chief promised to keep the whole 'magical serial killer' thing under wraps." Hooded blue eyes turned. "Looks like it all worked out."

For everyone except you. It wasn't said, but the observation hung between the two men nonetheless. Shivering, Giles huddled in on himself, doing his best to keep from throwing any longing glances at the empty gun. Somehow he didn't think he was doing a very good job of it.

"I was nine when my sister died."

The Auror froze.

"We were walking to the park, stopped at a crosswalk, and this car jumped the curb and hit her." Old sorrow rang. "Sent her flying and I remember looking over at her and wondering…why is she barefoot?" A swallow. "Then I looked down and saw her sandals. She'd been knocked right out of them."

Onasi stared up at the other man, unable to comprehend why Braddock would share something like that with him.

Clearing his throat, Sam continued. "Right before I joined the SRU, I was involved in a friendly fire incident in the Squib Squad."

"I remember," Giles breathed.

A sardonic grimace. "Right, you were already our liaison when I got snatched by my old unit." One shoulder lifted in a shrug. "You ever hear the whole story?"

"You…shot someone?" Giles offered tentatively.

Blue locked with brown. "You could say that." Sam hesitated for an instant. "I shot my best friend with a fifty-cal. You don't survive that, Giles; I killed him instantly. At least, for you, you didn't do the actual kill." The sniper leaned forward, gaze intent. "You think I didn't consider it? Look at my gun just like you did? Sure I did, even after I joined Team One. But I gotta tell you, Giles; you do it and Sarge'll drag you outta the underworld just so he and Roy can rip you to shreds. Then they'll dust you off and you'll probably end up sleeping on Roy's couch for a year."

Onasi barked a laugh, unable to help it.

"Face it, tough guy, you're stuck with us. And we're stuck with you; you think any other wizard is gonna wanna be our liaison after we had two die on us and the third turned out to be a homicidal maniac?"

Another laugh broke free, hoarse and rusty.

"Now come on, you're coming home with me." Sam stood up, reaching down to haul the wizard to his feet. "We're going to get drop-dead drunk and watch action-flicks until the sun comes up. Then we can start pretending today never happened."

Giles thought about protesting, but… How many times, at the end of a hard day, had Brian dropped by his office, leaning in and declaring it a good night to get drunk? "Can we have one drink…" He stopped, fumbling for words.

"For everyone we've lost?" Sam finished. "Giles, that's who they're all for."

The wizard was of average height, with a rather solid build. Brown hair fell to just above his shoulders, a forestry hue that darkened at the point of each 'spike' in the man's hair. Blue eyes regarded a small, humble house where two men were locking up, the blond already teasing the other out of his brooding. Jealousy and no small amount of wistful regret gleamed, but the wizard never twitched; instead he tugged up his black hood with its silver rune trim and turned to walk away.

Almost instantly, he halted as black leather boots entered his line of vision; his head came up to meet fierce eyes just as blue as his own, if two shades darker. Raven black hair framed wide ears and ended just above a red neckerchief. The rage in the ancient warlock's face stood out, living wrath prepared to strike the perceived offender down. Wrath gathered, then faltered as Merlin's jaw dropped.

"You."

A trembling chin lifted. "Me."

~ Fin

Author note: Annnd cut. I hope everyone's enjoyed the latest two-parter story and that ya'll had just as much fun reading as I had writing. Now, as always, I adore and treasure every review that comes my way, so please read and review.

Moving on, we'll be heading back to the main Flashpoint archive for our next story "A Grief Observed", which will start Friday, March 6th, 2020.

See You on the Battlefield!

RL Note: Oh, how God has a sense of humor. Not with work (yet), but this weekend, I got a summons to jury duty for later in this month. Which, ya know, no one's thrilled about, but it is our civic duty if our name comes up. So, I sighed, gritted my teeth, and prepared to hunt down whatever info I needed to take the day (or days) off work for this. Then, I'm filling out the pre-jury duty questionnaire and one of the first questions was: Are you a resident of Dallas County? Stared at it quizzically, then I checked my voter registration card. Lo and behold, I'm not a resident of Dallas County, I'm a resident of Collin County. So, happy day, no jury duty for moi. But my address is right on the border, so the lady at the courthouse told me this might happen again. Well, unless it happens real soon, I doubt it, 'cause I'm planning to move and that address will probably be fairly solidly in Collin County. Now I'm hoping I don't check my mail and find an identical postcard for Collin County jury duty.