A/N: And now for something completely different! Because I've had this done for a while, and I don't have a chapter to update Torr Badon tonight…

Modern A/U, no magic… This short story was partially inspired by my chapter 12 of The Towers of Lionys (A Heart-Won Victory). And totally stolen from an episode of Moonlight (CBS, 2007-08; Alex O'Laughlin and Sophia Myles; I was too lazy to look up the actual episode title)... more complete explanation at the end.

Blood Brothers

It was raining.

Raining, and mid-afternoon, and it would be an early evening because of the low, heavy clouds. Already the Buick's headlights were on.

Raining, and Arthur was driving, peering through the gray downpour, leaning forward slightly, tense on the steering wheel, windshield blurred-clear-blurred-clear as the wipers splip-splopped their monotonous rhythm of endless never-successful attempts at improving visibility.

On the upside, at least it was only a country lane and a half. On the downside, two more hours of this soup before they'd reach the highway. But maybe the rain would be stopped by then.

Raining, he fumed, and should be Merlin driving.

Merlin with the inhumanly keen senses and impossibly fast reflexes, could probably read a map and eat lo mein with chopsticks and drive ten miles over the speed limit and Arthur could be the one napping with his head against the window, cool from the rain streaming sideways on the outside, because he felt perfectly safe when Merlin drove.

His partner shifted in the passenger seat like he was uncomfortable, but too tired to do much about it. Arthur's sideways glance caught a flash of blue before he faced the watery gray veil again, his chest leaning toward the steering wheel, but he knew the other was awake enough for him to speak.

"How's your feet?"

It had been a leap of almost thirty feet, from the stockroom rafter onto their fleeing suspect. If Arthur had attempted the stunt, he'd have missed the perp by three yards, and his ankles would have splintered up through his kneecaps. But Merlin, again, inhumanly strong and graceful.

Merlin's own personal views on his condition were obscure, at best. He might not appreciate the admission of Arthur's private comparison – and wild horses couldn't drag it from him, in any case – but he had thought before, and did again in that storeroom last night, how much his partner resembled a hunting panther. Dark and lean and intent, silent and graceful and fearless and deadly.

That was half the reason Arthur had suggested the partnership, after all, over a year ago. The fear. Not only the frightened paralysis of the doomed prey Merlin's predatory aura often provoked. But the fact that Arthur didn't have to fear for another partner's life and safety, on the job. Merlin was fully capable of taking care of himself.

Merlin snorted his response and cuddled into the circle of his crossed arms without completely opening his eyes.

"Stings a bit," he allowed. "I won't be hanging by my feet from the roof of my cave for a while."

Arthur snuck another glance. The first time he'd shot an insult at his partner mocking what they referred to as his condition – oddly enough, had served to cement the partnership.

An astonished gape, then Merlin had tossed his head back in a genuine shout of laughter. Good one, he'd said, and something tight and unsure between them had eased. If Arthur could accept the particulars of Merlin's life enough to make it a joke.

But when Merlin made the joke, there was always an undertone of… bitterness maybe? that made Arthur wonder, how well he'd accepted his condition, himself. He'd had plenty of time to adjust, after all – more time than Arthur's parents had been alive. Then again, Arthur had no clue how he'd adjust to those kinds of changes in his own life.

"Feel like driving?" he suggested. Casually. Not hopefully.

"Why, are you tired?"

"Nah," he brushed off Merlin's own brand of caring sarcasm. "You just look so terribly uncomfortable over there, I thought I might sacrifice my nice comfy driver's seat and trade you."

"It's your car," Merlin groused. "Your fault if it's uncomfortable."

"And you find it hard to sleep in anything but your ebony box," Arthur said, mockingly sympathetic.

Merlin's wide grin spread sudden. "Silk-lined," he said. Then he shuffled a bit and squinted at Arthur. "Are you missing your bed? Big, tough cop wants his warm fluffy comforter? Or is the lady in your bed you miss?"

Arthur slapped at him without taking his eyes from the sloppy weather, fighting the grin that pulled at his mouth. Gwen. Yes, he missed her, he had to admit. Merlin knew.

The younger man – Arthur's perception of that description persisted, in spite of the great disparity of their birth-years – whined in breathless laughter at the assault. But the hands he raised in self-defense were just a shade slow.

Adequate. But not normal for Merlin.

"You okay?" Arthur said. Another glance from the gray-soaked world of road and sky and naked tree and gravel ditch to the warm dry shared car-interior.

"Yeah." Merlin wound his arms around his chest and propped himself in the corner between seat and door. Stiffly. And without meeting Arthur's glance. He looked paler than usual, too, which was saying something.

"What are you missing, then?" Arthur said. "If not your bed? Your couch and tv? A hot bath? A hot girl?" He grinned; Merlin-baiting had become one of his favorite kill-times. "How 'bout that chick in IT, the one who wears black nail polish and red lipstick? She'd probably volunteer to be your love-slave for life if she found out you were –"

"Arthur." Scandalized exasperation.

He grinned wider, the tone of Merlin's voice a victory of sorts. He knew two reasons Merlin didn't date – his condition, and the long-lost love of a murdered fiancée – but ribbing his partner was a way of showing he understood and sympathized.

And who cared it that seemed backwards to anyone else? It worked.

"Come on, then," he taunted. "One thing you miss. Bright lights, big city." He upped his voice an octave, making like he was Merlin talking. "I miss mopping my floor. I miss the view from my bathroom window. I miss the captain's turn to make coffee. I miss my –"

"I miss my fr-" Merlin snapped, halted himself at the almost-slipped truth, then decided to continue with the unintended confidence. "My fridge," he mumbled, curling up a little tighter.

"Your fridge," Arthur said blankly. What kind of - Why would he be –

Oh.

Oh. He said, with another questioning glance, "You're –"

"Yeah."

Merlin's refrigerator contained one substance only.

Merlin's refrigerator could easily have been mistaken for lab or bank or hospital equipment, but was gruesomely out of place in a private apartment. Merlin's refrigerator told the whole story in one shocked glance – the good and the bad. Arthur knew, he'd remember that moment til his dying day, the moment an intriguing acquaintance, a possible partner, proved the unique and dangerous opportunity, proved his trust in Arthur, also a near-stranger at that moment in time, proved his fantastic story true.

His diet, and where he procured it. Where he didn't procure it. Or rather, who from.

"I'm all right," Merlin added. The nonchalant shrug agreed with the words, the tiny breathless catch in his voice didn't.

Merlin had said the same thing, the night of their first stakeout together. A convicted sex offender suspected of kidnapping a minor; they were hoping the perv would lead them to a secondary site, since his two-story in suburbia was clean. Quarter after three in the morning, and Arthur on his third slice of pizza – indistinguishable from the cardboard of the box but at quarter after three who the hell cares – belatedly and awkwardly offering to share.

No thanks, I'm all right, Merlin had said.

And Arthur, bored with the fruitless object of their vigil and reluctantly fascinated with his company, said, Is it that you can't, or

Merlin had taken his gaze from the two-story to grin, all teeth and eyes in the distant streetlight faintly illuminating the interior of the car. The thought is repulsive, now, he said. Like the craziest entrée on a foreign menu. Beetles. Or live seafood. Haggis and kimchee. Like if I offered you what I live on. It would make me sick.

"Took us longer up here than I thought," Arthur offered, as an apology. And realized there was still a lot about his partner he didn't know, or understand. "Three days, instead of just one…" He tried to imagine how he'd feel and act after three days without food and water. Next door to dead, maybe. Rummaging through trash cans or breaking bakery windows to get what he needed… "You're all right, though?"

"You almost sound like you really care," Merlin needled him.

"Not at all," Arthur returned loftily, reassured a bit by the other's joking. "Just looking out for number one. Do you know what a headache it is to break in a new partner?"

"Well, I did my best to make all your headaches worthwhile."

"Memorable, anyway," Arthur grouched; Merlin's expression said he wasn't buying Arthur's pretense of surliness.

Another reason Merlin made such a good partner. Their personalities seemed to match. The long hours of tedium relieved by Merlin's quirky sense of humor and indefatigable patience: the moments of frighteningly swift action and danger eased by the other's reflexes and strength: the frustration shared and vented somehow resulting in investigation progress.

"Don't sweat it," Merlin murmured, showing every intention of returning to his nap. "We'll be home in a few hours… and I'll be fine."

"Yes, but…" Arthur grimaced at the driver's side wiper, which had developed a squeak and was no longer clearing a two-inch arc of wet windshield. "Is it… cutting it too close?" He'd never thought it important to press for details, how often or how much his partner needed to function.

Merlin mumbled something in a reassuring tone that Arthur found to be anything but. He glanced at the younger man – older man? It was harder to get used to the idea of his partner's age than his diet, sometimes – eyes sharp for details that might betray the true state of his health.

Then a fairly crappy day went straight down the toilet.

In glancing back to the rain-streaked road, he caught movement and white out of the corner of his eye – low to the ground and seemingly directionless –

Dog, his mind said. Lapdog. Some kid's pet.

He stomped on the brake and yanked the wheel hard over – and they skidded with a nerve-raking squeal - and Merlin's body exploded from his nap-cocoon, all long arms and wide eyes and –

CRUNCH

The belt snapped taut across Arthur's left collarbone with enough force to bruise him and he blacked out for an instant. Coming to in a confusion of – was Merlin wearing his belt, and – did we miss the dog?

The engine was still running; his foot still on the brake. He fumbled to shift into park, left the key in position with the vague idea that it might prove harder to re-start the engine if he turned it off.

He realized he was panting, and trembling – a familiar reaction to the after-effects of a jolt of adrenaline.

"Are you okay?" Merlin said, reaching to unlatch his seatbelt and let it retract. Arthur didn't say anything, but Merlin seemed to gather the answer in one comprehensive glance, and turned his attention to the world outside their vehicle, a world now tipped at a twenty-degree down-angle. The front window looking at the soggy brown and pathetic green of a high steep bank of earth. "What happened?"

Arthur unlatched his own belt and pushed open the driver's door. "There was a dog."

Just below, a muddy-gravel gash of a ditch, the car tilted down and to the left as it rested half-in and half-out, and the bumper buried in the high bank of the curve of the road. Arthur's shoes slipped once as he picked his way toward the back of the car.

"I hope we didn't hit the little bugger," he added, coming around the rear bumper, where Merlin stood oblivious to the steady rainfall speckling his brown canvas jacket, hands on his hips.

"That the little bugger you just risked your life to avoid hitting?" he said, nodding toward a white object sailing over the surface of the road.

One way, then another, before the driving wind. Arthur squinted, ducking his head against a gust of rain droplets, and read the words in red on white: Thank You.

Damn shopping bag.

He groaned irritation and chagrin, wheeling to slap the car's wet steel skin, expecting Merlin's uninhibited shout of laughter which would last forever and then peter out into random fits of reminded chuckles which would also last forever and turn into a running joke which would be shared at the precinct probably and which would then truly last an eternity.

Merlin didn't move. Just lowered his brows, and his head, and focused a mild frown on the road's narrow shoulder, letting the downpour soak through his clothes.

"Sorry," Arthur muttered. "Geez – sorry, Merlin. Wasn't paying enough attention, I guess. Here, help me push this thing back up on the road and then we'll – ah, damn."

The driver's side front tire was completely flat, courtesy of a visible tear in the thick rubber.

Merlin followed him back down to the ditch to assess the damage from closer-up. "You've got a spare, haven't you, under the lining in the trunk…" Arthur swore, more viciously. "What?"

"The rim's bent," he said shortly. "Look. You can see it there where the hubcap's popped off. That edge. Means we can't just change the tire. The car is un-drivable." He leaned back against the chilly slick grass of the opposite bank of the ditch, and blinked up at his partner.

Merlin's hands stuffed themselves in his pockets. His shoulders hunched in the brown jacket – not even fastened, which reminded Arthur to zip his own windbreaker – as he stared at the damaged wheel, hung down over the exposed edge of the offending rock.

"Gimme a hand," Arthur added, reaching up but looking down to place his feet securely in the muddy shale.

To his surprise, Merlin backed up a step, then two. "You got yourself into the ditch," he said shortly. "You can get out the same way." Turning, he stalked to the rear end of the car again, where he wrenched the trunk open without bothering with the key.

"Hell, Merlin, I said I was sorry," he snapped, struggling back up to the road. "If it had been a dog, would you rather I hit it?" He rounded the back again to find Merlin leaning on the upraised trunk lid, staring down at the overnight duffels they'd packed for their criminal-hunt three days ago. "Did you have to damage the car even more?"

Merlin mumbled something.

Arthur said, irritated, "What?"

"How are we going to get home tonight?" Merlin said, more clearly, but still down into the car's trunk.

"Look, we passed one of those little hole-in-the-wall motels a couple of miles back," Arthur said. "We can walk back there, call a tow truck or something."

He turned to retrieve the key from the ignition, wet gravel gritting under the soles of his shoes, and when he turned round again, Merlin was fifteen yards down the road, his navy duffel slung over one shoulder by the short hand-straps.

Arthur cursed again. Merlin was never moody. He didn't know how to deal with a moody Merlin.

"I said I was sorry, dammit!" he hollered after him, with no other effect that his partner hunched his shoulders a little more. Or that might've been because of the rain.

Arthur yanked his own bag from the trunk, reflecting that it would be nice to get a hot shower and dry clothes while they waited for their tow. Knowing the trunk with its broken latch wouldn't close all the way, he still lowered it out of habit and principle and to help keep the interior dry –

And found his fingertips skating wetly across twin series of dents in the metal skin of the vehicle. Just where Merlin's fingers had been.

He found a new expletive to vent his feelings; Merlin was overreacting. It was just an accident and neither of them was hurt. He was going to make sure the money to fix this came out of Merlin's pay.

But he didn't try to catch up with the lanky figure of his partner stalking along the roadside. Just kept him in sight.

For two miles. And no cars passed them.

Arthur was no stranger to physical hardship and discomfort. No cop was. Shit happened, and then you found yourself dumpster-diving for evidence, or crouched in an alleyway waiting for backup, up to your ankles in what smelled like a combination of various bodily fluids. Animal, vegetable, and mineral.

He was soaked before they reached their destination; at least the rain was clean, but wet jeans were the worst. Loosely aware that Merlin had stopped walking – not to wait for him, but to stare blankly ahead – he plowed into his partner to get him moving again, unwilling to stay one moment longer than necessary in the rain.

"What are you waiting for," he growled.

"We're here," Merlin said, and Arthur blinked in the rain, slowing.

The Roadside Sleep Inn, a row of six or eight numbered doors, the sidewalk that fronted them covered by the sloping roof and weathered wooden supports. Lace curtains in the windows of the front office, red geraniums twitching in the rain in half-barrel planters, a bench for loiterers decoratively incorporating wagon-wheels, now waterlogged. A sea of puddled gravel for the parking lot.

Arthur slogged across the lot, impatient with Merlin's reticence. "You were in such a hurry on the road," he threw over his shoulder. "And now that we're here, what? You haven't got the sense to get in out of the rain?"

Merlin stopped entirely, and Arthur paused, hand on the knob of the door. Rain dripped from thick black hair, ran unheeded over Merlin's face and down his clothes like he was a fountain-statue – he ignored it to stare in the window, an oddly unreadable look on his face.

Arthur shivered. These moments that reminded him, Merlin wasn't exactly human, had been fewer and further between, since the mystery and shock of their first meeting had been explained. And mostly, these days, it was occasion for a teasing joke or a moment to indulge satisfaction at a caught criminal's turn to fear and beg for mercy.

But sometimes…

"Come on," he said roughly, trying to dispel the unsettling moment.

"But there's a kid in there," Merlin said, his voice halfway between protest and plea.

"So?" Arthur barked, as intolerant of the excuse as he would be if it came from the mouths of any of his brother-cops. "What the hell does that have to do with the two of us standing out in the rain?"

"Children shouldn't be in the same room as monsters," Merlin said. "I'll wait out here."

Arthur's mouth actually dropped open. Even knowing what he did, even seeing what he had… his partner stood there slender and soaked and hunched against the rain with such an earnest look on his face Arthur was tempted to make a joke about sometimes the kid was the monster. Not Merlin.

"Don't be an idiot," he said, grabbing Merlin's sodden jacket and shirt at the shoulder to propel him into the office, first through the door.

Ah, heaven. Warm and goldenly lit by lamps, a whiff of spicy apples just discernible from a scented candle. An older man, bald on top, curly white hair else, glanced up from a book over half-specs. The kid perched on a high padded stool next to him – a boy, though his brown hair was in-his-eyes long, remained glued to a 12-inch television in the corner, where a gangly cartoon Great Dane yelped, Ruh ro, Raggy!

"How can I help you?" the old man said, with a smile both amused and sympathetic for their state.

Merlin slunk to the opposite corner of the room. Arthur growled to himself again and gave the old man his cheeriest grin.

"Slid into the ditch two miles up the road," he said, leaving out the part where it was his fault because he'd misjudged and mishandled the situation. "Got a bent wheel. Can we call for a tow, and maybe get a room where we can dry out a bit?"

"Sure thing."

The old man reached under the counter, hauled up a dog-eared yellow-pages and flipped through it, fumbling the receiver of the phone into the crook between shoulder and ear. On the tv, a tuxedo-clad, black-caped bad guy was chasing the Gang in a montage of in-and-out hallway doors in a dark castle. Arthur wandered to the end of the counter and leaned backward on his elbows. Merlin had seated himself on one of the lobby chairs, which looked like it hadn't been re-upholstered since the 60's. Duffel hugged in his lap, one leg jigging restlessly, his gaze fixed blankly on a worn spot in the carpet.

The sight was more disturbing that it should have been. He'd never seen Merlin like this. They'd never discussed…

"Sorry, son, you're outta luck tonight, and I'm not just saying that so you'll have to pay for a room," the old man said, clattering the receiver down. "I mean, you can have it all night for an hour's fee, if you like. Roddy's on another call, and his is the only truck in town."

"How soon –" Arthur began.

"Not before midnight, I'm afraid," the old man said cheerily. "His call took him all the way out to Watkins Mill, and in this weather, he says he'll not do another call til nine tomorrow morning."

"If we make it worth his –"

The old man clicked his tongue and gave his head a shake. "Roddy's got a screw in his knee from the war," he said. "Bothers him like the dickens, weather like this. You could swear to make him a millionaire, and he'd still go home to put it up on a pillow with a heating pad."

"A taxi, then," Arthur suggested. And they could retrieve the car on the weekend… but the old man's wrinkles deepened with another apologetic grin.

"Meyer's taxi is what Roddy got called out to pick up."

"Only taxi in town?" Arthur guessed.

"Not even that. Meyer's based fifteen-mile up the road. Isn't another for fifty miles or so. And your light's leaving you."

Arthur glanced at the window as rain gusted grayly against the outside. It was true.

"Have you got any other options?" he said, lowering his voice instinctively, though it probably wouldn't do any good, as keen as Merlin's hearing was. "Any car rentals?" The old man shook his head. "Thing is, I'm a city cop –" he flipped up the edge of his jacket so the man could see the badge he carried on his belt – "and my partner and I need to get back to the city a-sap."

The old man pursed his lips. "Can't even let you borrow my car," he said mournfully, "on account of my daughter's got it – she works nights, so the boy stays here with me."

From the tv – Like, run, Scoob!

Arthur contemplated the trouble they'd be in trying to find – beg borrow steal confiscate even officially commandeer – someone's private vehicle. The explanations he'd have to give – the lies he'd have to tell – the trouble Merlin might be in, from his landlord and handler.

"Ambulance?" Merlin spoke from behind him.
"I beg your pardon?" the old man said, the smile dropping.

"Have you got any medical clinics? Closest hospital?"

Arthur, looking over his shoulder, saw Merlin's lips begin to form the 'b', and his mind supplied the term. Blood banks?

"Are you sick?" the old man, said, leaning forward on the counter to see Merlin past Arthur. "Or hurt? It won't come, else. And they might refuse your request for a lift if the EMTs don't find nothing wrong with you."

"He's fine," Arthur answered for him. "Just a little… He'll be fine. He has a – condition."

Arthur recalled the same conversation with his captain at the precinct, having to be as honest as he could. Condition. Disorder. A blood disease? - What, like AIDS? - No, nothing like that.

It doesn't make him weaker, he hadn't said. It makes him stronger. It won't kill him… quite the contrary.

Is he on medication for it? - Not really, just a… special diet. - Like insulin for diabetes? - Yeah, something like that.

The motel clerk said, just as the captain had, "Is it catching?"

Merlin made a noise like an amused whine.

Arthur stated, "You've got nothing to worry about."

The old man hummed skeptically. "Why don't you take the number on the end, anyway?" he said. "Plus it'll be quieter… unless you want two rooms?"

"It's got two beds?" Arthur asked. Just to clear that up. The old man nodded, and he finished, "Then the one is good enough."

"All righty then, give me your John Hancock and so on right here – cash or charge?" The old man pulled out an metal key affixed to a tacky palm-sized flat plastic maple leaf with a faded 6 visible on both sides. "Thanks very much, and let us know if we can do anything else for you, hm? We'll get your car straightened out come morning, I promise – and the weather might clear, too –"

The door slammed behind Merlin before Arthur was finished signing; he blocked the old man's voice and the television: the smarmy bespecled girl saying nasally, Jinkies, gang, there was no monster… He snatched the key and his bag and hurried out into the storm after his partner.

He was relieved to see Merlin's lean hunched form heading down the covered sidewalk toward Number 6, rather than angling out into the rain or some wild goose chase, or just disappeared. He was relieved also that his partner chose to wait for his arrival with the key, knowing he was probably capable of snapping whatever lock the door boasted himself, to enter first.

It was dark, and smelled cold and musty. Arthur tossed the key onto the table under the front window with his duffel, and felt for the light switch.

"I hate motel rooms," he remarked, moving to investigate further into the space as Merlin shut the door behind himself.

It was done in navy blue and forest green and – as they all did – reminded him of half-a-dozen crime scenes he'd visited in such places. This one didn't seem to have any extras – no coffeepot, no iron, no hair-dryer stuck on the bathroom wall like an old-fashioned telephone. No fridge, no microwave – though why that would matter, he didn't know, they had no food –

Reminded, Arthur swung around, his one shoe on the bathroom linoleum rather than worn carpet squeaking with the motion.

Merlin was seated again, in the room's one chair, in the corner past the front window from the door, his duffel beside Arthur's on the small round table under the window. In his lap he held his pistol, right forefinger resting inside the trigger guard. Unlike Arthur's service weapon, Merlin preferred a more personal piece, a freakin' antique Arthur usually called it, though it still did the job.

A revolver. Six-shooter. Load each bullet separately, flick the cylinder into place. Western shit.

"Merlin, what the hell?" he said, feeling reflexes shift into cop-facing-armed-assailant in spite of himself.

"I can't stay here," Merlin said. "I shouldn't stay here."

"Okay…" Arthur took several steps forward, keeping the bed between them. "Why not?"

Merlin swallowed, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. "I thought I could wait. I haven't gone this long in… ever, Arthur. I don't know… what will happen. To me. I don't know what I'll do."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said, trying to hide an edge of wariness that kissed his pressure points. Was this explanation an apology to the buffet before the starving man chowed down? But surely Merlin wouldn't need a gun if he intended to… "I thought you said you'd never –"

"I haven't. I wouldn't." Merlin swallowed again, didn't open his eyes. "But… Arthur. Right now your pulse is seventy-five – seventy-eight – and your temperature is ninety-eight-one. And I can tell that from across the room."

Arthur shivered involuntarily. Not because he was scared, or because it sounded creepy – though it kind of did – but because Merlin's tone was so desperate.

"And there's a kid here, Arthur. I can't – you can't let me –"

Merlin's hands moved swiftly and capably, flicking open the cylinder to remove one bullet; he held up the single snub-nosed bit of metal between thumb and forefinger. Then he opened his eyes and grinned – and it was the very cul-de-sac urchin smile that had Arthur first believing in his innocence, fridge contents notwithstanding.

"Garlic's nasty, and I'll burn in prolonged direct sunlight like any other pale-skinned northerner," he said. "But silver in my bloodstream will do the trick." He slid the bullet into the cylinder, snapping the mechanism back into place, then stood, approaching Arthur. Grip extended, barrel in his hand. "Aim for the heart?"

Arthur moved fast, maybe faster than he'd ever moved to neutralize an armed threat. "The hell's the matter with you?" he snarled, snatching the revolver out of his partner's hand. Merlin allowed it easily; he wanted Arthur to take it, after all. "What in our sixteen months as partners makes you think I'm okay with either one of us shooting you?"

"You can't let me hurt anyone," Merlin said, irritatingly earnest and devastatingly casual.

"What if I just cuff you to the radiator or something?" Arthur said. "Or a bathroom pipe?"

Merlin scoffed. "Yes, because that worked so well for you the last time you tried it."

He remembered. The night they met, actually. He'd tracked a killer to an indoor storage facility, and because he hadn't gone unnoticed, because he didn't want the guy to escape, he hadn't waited for back-up before following into an open central space, deserted at night. Except for the two of them.

Arthur remembered creeping through the dark, knees bent, ears and eyes wide open and still insufficient, heart thundering in his chest, pistol and flashlight at just below eye-height. Spinning at the hint of sound, of movement, ready at any minute to stop a bullet – to shoot one himself – coming around a corner to see two shadowy figures.

One body on the ground, unnaturally still. The other standing, raising empty hands at Arthur's controlled-panic bellow of Police! Hands where I can see 'em! Flashlight reflecting from Merlin's eyes and grin as he obeyed – perfectly docile and completely unafraid.

Arthur had cuffed him before stooping to check the other body – dead body, the ex-killer. And spun around at a metallic jingle – his mangled cuffs sliding empty across the concrete floor into the circle of flashlight from the vacant darkness.

"There's a wood behind the motel, we could walk a few miles." Merlin followed Arthur's retreat. "No one would find me, no one would blame you –"

"And no one will ask questions when I come back without you?" Arthur snapped, backing. If it came to it, he could probably bash Merlin in the head hard enough to knock him out til the morning… a few hours, at least… probably. "The captain? Gwen? Your landlord?"

"Bobby would understand."

"And what about me, you selfish ass?" Arthur couldn't bear it anymore; Merlin looked startled at Arthur's epithet. "You think I want to lose another partner? You think I want your blood on my hands and your death on my conscience the rest of my life?"

"Better mine than someone else's," Merlin said quietly. "You'll do it if you have to, won't you?"

"I won't have to," Arthur returned. "Come on, you're stronger than this, right? You can control it, I know you can. A few more hours and then we're on the road again, and when we get home, you can crawl inside your fridge for the rest of the week if you want."

"A few more hours," Merlin repeated, finally releasing Arthur from the oddest staring-contest he'd ever engaged in. He moved back a few steps, his vision distantly connected to the argyle pattern of the carpet.

"You can make that, yeah?" Arthur said.

Merlin nodded, turned away, fumbled for the remote on top of the tv and hit the power button mostly by feel and instinct. He dropped heavily to the edge of the bed and bounced a bit.

Arthur leaned against the bathroom doorjamb feeling slightly shaky himself. "You all right, then?" he said, trying to push the concern from his voice with forced sarcasm. Merlin nodded. "What was that, the suicidal stage of vampiric deprivation?"

Merlin didn't look at him, but his lips quirked in a tiny but genuine smile as he shrugged.

"You know how psychotic it is that you carry this with you?" Arthur said, ejecting the silver bullet and holding it up for reference, before pocketing it. On second thought, he ejected the remaining bullets, then tossed the revolver on the nearest bed.

"Don't leave home without it," Merlin murmured.

Arthur snorted; a silver bullet was like the opposite of a credit card. "And that's my bed you're on."

A flash of amused blue and an attempt at regaining energy followed Arthur as he retrieved his duffel and returned to the bathroom. "How come you get the bathroom first?" Merlin offered in faint protest.

"Because I'm freezing, and mad at you," Arthur said. "And because you're in no danger of catching your death of cold."

A wider grin, though Merlin's eyes stayed on the tv screen as he moved off the bed Arthur had claimed.

A/N: This was meant to be a one-shot, but the length got way out of hand. So I'll post the second chapter later…