Chapter 4: A Quixotic First Date

Hunith came to the hospital, and Tom, and it wasn't as bad as Merlin expected – just a repetition of what Gwen had already said. You scared us – we were worried – don't go there again.

And he promised, not to go to the Penned Dragon to talk to his father, or to Will. They seemed to take it for granted that he'd gone to ask his father about his friend – and he had, so it was good to leave it at that. Gwen didn't seem to remember they'd discussed other aspects of the Penned Dragon – and he hoped that lasted.

There were other visitors, too. The doctor came to discuss his tests; everything looked normal now, and providing he had normal results tomorrow, he could be released on blood thinners and taking-it-easy.

Someone reached in the open door to knock with a bent forefinger, quick and bright. A girl – college student, maybe – with shoulder-length wavy chocolate hair, dark lipstick and a nose-ring, several necklaces over layers of tank-shirt-vest. A fluffy black skirt over striped Pippi-Longstocking tights and a pair of masculine knee-high boots.

"Hi!" she said. "I write an online column for the Sun-Star, I was wondering if I could-"

"No," Hunith said decisively, "thank you."

"Out," Gwen ordered, firm but inoffensive in her nurse's scrubs.

"Wait a minute," Merlin said, straightening in his cross-legged slouch on the hospital bed. The Sun-Star was taking the offensive in the Penned Dragon media debate, against the Gazette networks that defended the authenticity of the business and the honesty of its owner. "You got a card? A number where I can call you? Just – now's not a good time," he finished lamely, aware of his family's raised eyebrows in his peripheral vision.

Her smile was wide and crooked and sweet. "Sure," she said. And uncapped the dry-erase marker to write on his patient board on the wall – Sun-Star, the phone number, and the initials F.M. She waved her fingertips, and the fluffy edges of the skirt flared as she spun to leave.

Moment of silence.

"What?" Merlin asked, and let his mouth quirk. "She was cute – I might call her."

"Merlin," his mother chastised. Gwen released an emphatic sigh and flicked his shoulder. Tom let him catch the glitter of a smile in the dark depths of his eyes before he was straight-faced again.

The admin clerk had the sense – or the timing – to wait til his family had gone. To supper, they said, and would stop back before going home; he'd insisted that he didn't need anyone to stay.

After a close call like he'd had, the woman explained, settling her office-casual self into the visitor's chair, it wasn't uncommon for a person to need to…talk. To a professional. So would he please answer a few questions? As part of his release paperwork.

Merlin shrugged, expecting – and getting – the checklist for clinical depression. Loss of interest in normal activities? a tendency to isolate from family and friends? trouble concentrating? feelings of excessive guilt? He couldn't help thinking what Will's answers might have been, and considering that he might have paid closer attention, might have ignored Will's standoffishness…

He couldn't help wondering what Arthur's answers might be.

Honestly, he told the clerk, I feel more like I have a second chance at life. Rejuvenated, if you know what I mean. Ready to tilt at windmills.

Well, she revealed placidly, capping her pen and clipping it to her board, that was the secondary reaction possible for heart attack patients. And of course she was glad he was feeling so well, but please remember to take it easy, and seek help if he found himself answering more of these questions yes, and so on…

His night was broken by periodic blood pressure and temperature checks. He used the waking time to think of Arthur, and how his time was spent outside of business hours. And how Merlin was meant to go about… whatever he was going to do.

In the morning, when they walked him and his rolling IV pole back to his room after his second MRI, he startled to find a young blonde woman with a white blouse over black dress trousers waiting for him.

"Mr. Emrys," she said, smooth and self-assured, dark eyes going right through the hospital pajamas with clinical detachment.

"Yeah," he said, shaking her hand warily. "That's still me."

"I'm here on behalf of the Penned Dragon," she said. "And without admitting any culpability on the part of my employer, let me begin by saying I'm very sorry about what happened to you yesterday, and that I'm very glad you seem to have recovered so well."

"Thank you," Merlin said dryly, motioning her to her seat, and hitching himself back up onto the bed.

"This sort of thing is so rare," she said confidingly. "But it is our policy to remind you of the waivers you signed, to save yourself and us the embarrassment and expense of filing a lawsuit only to have it dismissed."

"I wasn't going to," he said honestly. Understanding her completely – and deciding that he could do a little handling in return. "There was nothing that your people did wrong, no misuse or misapplication of equipment or materials that I'm aware of. Just… accidents happen sometimes."

"I'm so pleased to hear you say that," she said, smiling and resettling her weight in the chair. "If you're agreeable, however, I'd like to ask you a few questions about your experience – in the hopes of achieving some closure about the incident, on both sides."

"Of course," he said, agreeably. Well-meaning blue-collar worker, present to see his dad one last time, and to check on a friend who recently passed. Possibly his emotions had gotten a little out of control – still quite upset, you understand – but, um, he didn't see why his medical records were their business?

Just routine questions, she assured him.

Ah. He nodded, and shaded the truth a bit more than what he'd told the doctors. Yes, he smoked. (Well, he used to have an occasional puff with Will before they'd both moved out of that apartment building.) Yes, his job was high-stress (sometimes) and he was a type-A personality (well, sometimes). Stimulant drugs? Well… er… stutter and wink and avoid eye contact and blush – and no absolutely not, especially when employed by the police department, read as gosh yes, obviously.

The blonde woman left, and Merlin was fairly satisfied that she'd report, for all his young age and steady cholesterol, a heart attack wasn't completely out of the blue.

Lancelot came, while Merlin was finishing getting dressed. Gwen was on duty again, and Hunith waiting in the hall to drive Merlin to pick up his truck from the Penned Dragon lot.

"Is he supposed to be driving so soon?" Lancelot asked at the door, as Merlin sat down to lace his boots.

"It was a heart attack, not a seizure," Merlin told him. "I'm good to drive – and I don't even need to report it."

Lancelot leaned on the open door. "Hey. Sorry I missed seeing you in your gown."

"Still not as pretty as you," Merlin responded, grinning.

His friend's smile was subtle, and fleeting – habitually serious, and his job didn't often admit for excess levity. He was in uniform, now. "They want to know, do you still want the Lee Parks case?"

"Yes," Merlin said without hesitating. Hunith appeared beside Lancelot, a worried look on her face, and he added reassuringly, "It's my only one right now, and I won't take another for a week or two." Because Arthur Flite's case didn't really count as a case, if it was on his own days and dimes.

"Captain wanted me to tell you," Lancelot commented, "no more Penned Dragon for you unless it's the monthly checks at the Yes-or-No desk."

Merlin huffed. And maybe it was cynical for him to wonder if that was entirely a joke, or whether he was now on someone's radar. Best to slip quietly off that, then.

"I," he stated, standing and checking his pockets for their contents one more time before leaving the room, "have had it with that place. And, I'm ready to get out of this one."

It was still two days til Lee Parks, the bank robber, was released. He doubted he was the only investigator set to recover the stolen cash – there was a half-percent finder's fee, and something like that would set someone like him up for life. He intended to beg, bribe, or coerce Gwaine into letting him use his system to tail Parks remotely, because it might be weeks or months til the thief felt cool enough to retrieve the money from its stash-place.

And he had promised his family that he would rest.

So Merlin sat at his desk in his basement apartment, tilted back into the corner with the phone sent right to silent voicemail, and thought.

About Arthur, and about Uther, and the Penned Dragon. About Dr. Morgause, and the four techs in that hidden room. About the tutor, and the nanny.

Undercover work would take too long to set up, even if all he was after was information. Having seen Arthur, he couldn't just sit back and tell himself, Well, he's handled it for years, he can take a few more months…

What could he do with what he had now? Police could do nothing, no judge would issue a search warrant based on Merlin's hearsay, if he even wanted to reveal what really happened, exposing himself to popular ridicule and discredit. Lawyers wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, especially after his signature on their waivers.

He was back to the media, then.

Opening his eyes and straightening in his desk chair, he keyed his computer to search the Sun-Star's archives for articles relevant to the Penned Dragon, and for the byline of F.M.

Freya McKenzie. The thumbnail portrait was a shade more sedate than the original, but her prose was honest, thought-provoking, and quirky enough for enjoyable reading. In addition to the issues surrounding the Penned Dragon debate – medical, ethical, metaphysical – she'd handled topics of domestic abuse. Spousal, and child, in addition to an article where she'd written in defense of the small percentage of abusers who had been falsely accused. She'd begun her career, it looked like, two years ago with a tart little piece on the ethics of DNR's sighed not by the patient nor by someone appointed by the patient, but by medical proxies assigned by the courts.

She had insights that hadn't occurred to him. Used arguments that were brilliant in retrospect, but that he wouldn't have thought of to begin with. She didn't attack, demean, or belittle her sources – but seemed more often to protect their privacy than to expose.

He could trust her.

Merlin picked up the phone.

It rang eight times before she answered in a breathless rush. "Hey, this is Freya McKenzie for the Sun-Star."

"Hi," he said, wishing he could sound confident and professional. "Merlin Emrys, you stopped by my hospital room yesterday?"

"Oh, right – heart attack at the Penned Dragon. Even though you're twenty-three and don't smoke or drink habitually, or have any other chronic health conditions…" Very leading.

But he said, "You background-checked me?"

"Of course – don't you always, Mr. Private Investigator?"

"I read your articles," he said, "not your medical chart."

"So sue me," she said cheerfully. "Oh – no, not really, we've got lawyers on retainer, you probably won't get very far."

"That's what the Penned Dragon told me," he said. "Very politely, of course."

She made a thoughtful noise. "And would there be… any special reason you'd consider a lawsuit, otherwise?"

"You're asking me, is there a story," Merlin guessed.

"Well, is there?"

Merlin took a deep breath. "Yes."

After a brief pause, she said, "You want to do this over the phone, or do you want to meet me somewhere in person?"

"If we meet, can I call it a date?" he tried.

She laughed again, rather flattered than offended, but not taking him any more seriously than he'd intended. "I'll let you know when we finish, if it was a date or not."

"Fair enough. My schedule is open, so – when and where?"

"I can do this afternoon, say three o'clock. The Fish-Dix Café, do you know it?"

"I can find it," Merlin said. "See you there."

"Looking forward to it." She disconnected.

Merlin left his basement apartment-office, locking the door behind him, and drove himself and several of his files to the café, eating lunch and clearing away the dishes before their meeting. It was only about three-quarters full at the busiest time, and the waitress didn't blink when he told her how long he planned to use the table.

"Sure thing, hon."

So he read through the file given him by Lancelot on Lee Parks the bank robber, making notes as ideas occurred to him – a couple places he could check, a couple people to investigate as possible contacts in the search for the missing millions.

He made a couple of phone calls. A good deal of his job was done on the phone, with a map and a good dose of common sense with an occasional flair for theatrics. Finding a person who was deliberately missing for whatever reason, proving an alibi one way or the other. Logging his hours for a client's paycheck.

And finally, looking through the last file he'd put together. Information more than twenty years old, as well as his own witness statement, which made him downright jittery to have in print.

Or maybe that was just the third cup of coffee. No more, then, til Freya-

"Hi, you're early," she said.

Merlin jumped, instinctively sliding out of the booth to greet her standing beside the table he'd been using. She was wearing tight black jeans with her menswear boots, and a baggy-clingy shirt of bright fuscia that just covered the tops of her shoulders and wrinkled fascinatingly over her chest, under the half-dozen necklaces. She had a wide silver thumb ring, and eyeshadow that hinted at a match to her shirt, and when she tucked her hair behind her ear, he saw that underneath the shoulder-length waves, the hair on the sides of her head had been cut to a bout half an inch of soft-looking bristle.

He was seized with the desire to test that bristle with his fingertips and see if it was really as soft as it looked.

"Hi," he said breathlessly. "Sit down?"

"Have to say," she told him frankly, sliding in to the bench opposite, tucking a large canvas messenger bag next to her hip, "I've never interviewed a private investigator before. Aren't you young for it?"

"Worked for a guy who was a cop first," Merlin said, seating himself again. "He retired last year."

"Taught you everything he knew, and you were good at it, and kept doing it?" she asked, taking a pen and a half-size notebook from her bag, and flipping to a page that had several lines written on it already.

"Pays the bills," he said. And wondered if she could tell that he was nervous.

"Leaves a little extra to visit the Penned Dragon," she observed, twisting to signal the waitress by lifting the extra empty coffee mug from the table, the one Merlin hadn't used. "That's not cheap. This was your first visit there?"

"Um," he said. "Technically I guess my fourth. Though the first time was just to the Yes-or-No desk."

"Uh huh. And what happened differently this time, as far as how you felt physically, or how the visit went – or were the effects cumulative, in your opinion?"

Merlin drummed his fingers on his file. "I couldn't find reported statistics," he said. "For how often something like this happens. Or how often someone… kills themselves, or tries to, after a session there."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Those are hard to find," she agreed. "I don't imagine Uther Flite likes people looking."

"The Sun-Star knows?" he suggested.

"The Sun-Star suspects," she corrected. "Whether or not it's worthwhile printing those numbers… when it's so much better for business to hush it up."

The waitress leaned over them with the coffee pot, splashing Freya's mug full; Merlin slid his fingers over the top of his in a wordless declining of more, and the woman moved away again. He waited til Freya had dumped four packets of sugar substitute into the black liquid and was stirring it, before he spoke again, deliberately.

"Statistics are the very least of what they have to keep hushed up. I know how that place works. Makes Asian sweatshops look religiously ethical."

Her eyes widened, just slightly; she put down her spoon to pick up her pen, but didn't write anything. "You mean, beyond the medical and metaphysical technical terms Dr. Morgause vomits every time she opens her mouth?"

"Yeah."

"They're breaking laws?" Freya asked, leaning forward over the table.

"That…" He hesitated. "Yes, but proving it…"

"Tell me what you know, and how you know it," she ordered. "I'll worry about proof."

And this was where it could get hairy. If he left out the foundation of his story, it would sound like the ravings of an oxygen-deprived brain. An NDE-driven dream.

He opened his file and spread out the copies he'd printed, evidence of the early years of Arthur's life. "These are for you to keep, by the way," he said.

"I didn't know Uther Flite had a son," she said, though it must have seemed like side-tracking to her, she was patient and willing to be interested. She glanced over the marriage certificate, the three death certificates. Merlin's eyes followed her fingers – slender, the nails painted slate-gray – quick and confident and expressive.

"I've met him," he said. "He's being held against his will in the Penned Dragon facility – I'm not certain where, but it's close to the center of the structure."

She met his eyes, her brows drawing together in concentration but not comprehension.

"He is what makes the whole concept work," Merlin added. "Calling up departed spirits for hour or half-hour visits."

"I thought Dr. Morgause…" she began, but Merlin shook his head.

"She makes the science sound fancy. And I think the degree of ambiguity is intentional – so people can walk away and tell themselves, that wasn't real."

"But it is," Freya said, watching him closely.

He nodded, searching as far to her soul as she'd let him, in return. It was quite a long ways, and he wondered briefly whether he could find his way back, unscathed. If he wanted to.

"There are certain people, who have certain innate talents for things that most of us would disbelieve as impossible, if we didn't witness it firsthand," he told her. "For want of a better term, Arthur is a medium, able to communicate with spirits who have passed beyond the veil of death. His father discovered this talent after his mother's death-"

He put his finger on the police report of the car accident, and her eyes followed the movement briefly before linking with his again.

"And he's been exploiting his son's ability ever since. Arthur never went to second grade. He's been held in the Penned Dragon itself since its debut, strapped in a chair and wired to the crystals and screens. All day. Every day."

"Against his will," Freya repeated.

"Yeah." Merlin was as sure of that as he was of Arthur's identity – and his own name.

She sat back, blowing out her breath in a sigh. Tapped her fingers on the pages, and squinted out the side window. "And you know this how? I mean, did you excuse yourself to the bathroom and take a wrong turn? Have a conversation with the guy?"

"Something like that," Merlin said. "I've written up the whole thing, my witness statement."

"Why didn't you call the cops?" she said.

"Because I was having a heart attack at the time," he said lightly.

She wasn't amused. She wasn't convinced, and he found himself impressed. "Why would meeting the man behind the curtain, so to speak, give you an actual heart attack? And why wouldn't Uther Flite be threatening or bribing you to keep shut about this, if it's true he's abusing his son?"

Merlin took a deep breath. "Because they don't know that I know."

"So go to your cop friends. Get a search warrant and go back, down the hall, through the door, why not?"

He was going to have to tell her. Give her a glimpse into himself as deep as he'd taken of her – and then let her go.

"Because when I saw what I saw, my body was in one of the visiting-room chairs. Arthur's spirit came through along with my father's, and when time was up and they left, I was able to detach my spirit and follow them. Only for a moment, but long enough to see Arthur's situation – there were four other people in the room, technicians or medical personnel, working whatever equipment facilitates the phenomenon."

Doubt filtered into her expression.

"I know how it sounds," he said calmly. "I didn't really expect you just to believe me – you're a journalist. You're meant to be as skeptical as a P.I. So, here – this is me putting my life in your hands."

Strong, delicate hands, and he wouldn't mind her touching… Another thought for another day, maybe.

He set her coffee cup – saucer and spoon – on the papers spread over the tabletop, and with a quick glance to make sure no one else was paying attention, he levitated them. Slowly, surely, lifting and floating – even the last two swallows of cold coffee out of the cup cleanly in a little cloud.

"You're-" she said faintly. "That's-"

"People used to say magic," he said in a low voice, and started her napkin folding itself into one of his father's origami patterns – a rosebud.

"This isn't a trick," she said unsteadily. "I don't see how this possibly… can be a trick."

"It isn't," he said. "But it's not exactly safe for people to know about people like me – and Arthur. Before you know it you're strapped to a chair and forced to perform to make other people rich."

The coffee trickled back into her cup, the spoon settled into the saucer, and it drifted back to the side of the table. She reached out to touch the stiff-soft folds of the napkin rose.

"But," he added, "not something I can take to the cops."

"No, I see that." She put her palm on her forehead, as if her thinking was re-arranging and needed some solidly reinforced margins. Then she used her fingers to comb her hair back over the top of her head, revealing the close-shorn sides again. "All right, say I believe you," she said suddenly.

Her dark eyes held his fearlessly and unwaveringly, and he never wanted to be let go. He wasn't less or more, in her eyes, and there was no calculation of advantage to be taken whatsoever. That feeling was almost as unnerving as the decision to trust and reveal himself to her – like a decision to allow admiration to teeter over into falling in love.

"How do you know Arthur wants to leave, and isn't allowed to? How do you know he's mentally capable of adult independence, after years of abuse going back into early childhood?"

"I know he wants his freedom," Merlin said. "If you'd seen the look on his face, you'd know too. What happens after that – shouldn't that be his choice? As much of a choice as he's capable of making? He's at least lucid enough to know exactly what he's doing – and to want to stop."

Whether he negotiated his return under better conditions, or started his own medium business, or checked himself into a full-time care facility to finger-paint and play with stuffed animals. He was capable of choosing his own life, Merlin believed that, and would see it happen. Arthur had done nothing to deserve being penned. And Merlin felt enough of Lancelot's sort of creed – defending citizens' rights and civil liberties – to commit himself to fight for Arthur. Even if it wasn't within the confines that Lancelot and his fellows swore to.

"Yeah," Freya said. "Yeah. Hells."

She slid down the seat til her head rested on the back of the booth, and her knees touched his. He didn't feel self-conscious about it, though, and she didn't move away. She closed her eyes, her expression tight, and after a moment he compiled the file into its folder again for her.

Minutes passed. He watched her think and it was a little like watching Gwen work – quietly impressive and a little awing. It made him feel like he knew her better than a dozen lightly-flirtatious dates.

Or maybe that was only because he'd told her who he really was.

"I'm guessing," she said absently, without opening her eyes, "that since you're a P.I., you've used your – talents – in service to the law, rather than to break it."

"So far," he said, and then her fuscia-colored eyelids flew up in surprise. "I mean. Have you ever come up against an issue where you know what the right thing to do is, but everyone is telling you, you can't?"

Her lips twisted in wry recognition of his point. "Hm. I guess if I could use magic to get around that, I would… Merlin, I can't write this. I can write this, but I can't publish it. They'd never. Not without corroboration."

He filled his lungs and sighed his breath out. "I was afraid of that," he admitted.

She studied the file without touching it, and shook her head as if slightly overwhelmed by the information and implications. "Can I keep it, though?" she asked. "You're not going to let it go, I can see that – if you come up with some verifiable evidence…"

"Please keep it," he said, making the papers match a fraction more neatly, and pushing the file another inch toward her. "This is my insurance policy. In the event of my death or disappearance-"

"Merlin," she said again, disturbed. Conversely, he decided he liked the sound of her voice saying his name. And the way her lips looked, forming it.

"I'll keep in touch," he said. "Or someone will. But I'm serious, if something happens to me because of this-"

"I'll shout it from the internet's metaphorical rooftops," she said. "Consequences be damned. But do be careful – I'd rather have a story to start a career than end one."

"Me, too," Merlin said.

She smiled, picking up the folder and reclaiming her bag, sliding out from the bench seat.

"Don't pay them for the coffee, I've got it," he told her, standing beside their booth because that was the way he'd been raised.

"Thanks. Next time it's my treat," she said.

"Does that mean I can call this a date?" he asked, teasing.

She looked at the front of his shirt – she wasn't tall, but petite – and up his throat, up his face to his eyes. And blinked, at whatever she saw there – but it made her smile, too. "Sure," she said. "Call it a date."

"I'll call you," he said as she moved away.

She didn't respond, but halted – then turned and moved back to him, leaning over the table to pick up the napkin-rose. "I will be waiting for that," she told him. "I've… never met anyone like you before."

He was tongue-tied, dry-mouthed, and couldn't think of anything smooth or cool to say. He wasn't entirely sure she was referring to his magic, only… But then she smiled and reached to touch his arm in a farewell slightly more personal, more real than flirty banter.

It was like a static shock. There and gone before blinking, but unmistakable and undeniable – for the fraction of a second, she was in his arms, pressed warmly to him, so close that clothing was a tease, and their mouths were together, moving as intimately as their bodies did, comfortably and confidently like they'd done it before and both enjoyed it so thoroughly they'd go on doing it forever-

She jerked back, dark eyes wide and mouth dropped open.

"Sorry," he said huskily. Totally unintentional, totally unprecedented – was that a glimpse of the future, or only his desires? And she'd shared it.

"No, my fault," she said. "These boots… dry weather… Bye, Merlin."

He watched her walk away, and thought he'd have to drink cold coffee to be able to swallow. Maybe take a cold shower in order to function at peak mental capacity again.

She glanced back as she pushed through the door – and she was smiling.

Cold shower, definitely.

A/N: I did mean to get Arthur and Merlin back together in this chapter – but it didn't happen. Hopefully the Freylin made up for that a bit – next chapter Merlin&Arthur, I think I can pretty safely promise. And Gwaine again.