A/N: No direct Merlin/Arthur in this chapter, sorry… but it will probably come in chapter 3!
Chapter 2: How They Reached Ealdor
In spite of his order for Arthur to hurry his start on this mission, the old Director-in-Chief accompanied Arthur to the closest safehouse, off the military base by rail, and on the trolley through town for the sake of speed and convenience for an elderly man who couldn't hustle through the streets at Arthur's pace.
Not really necessary, he'd told the Director.
Do you plan on telling Scout Thompson which pilot went down? Gaius returned.
Arthur didn't protest further.
Leon from Logistics was already there as well; between him and Gwen they had the kits pretty well packed, Arthur observed – two hefty shoulder-packs of mottled gray-and-white fabric with numerous pockets and partitions – but trimmed in inexplicable neon colors.
Arthur stopped dead in the doorway of the safehouse kitchen, eyebrows raised at the dash of color on the kits packed and waiting on the table. Leon looked up from zipping one last zipper, as Gwen appeared in the doorway to the living room, her arms filled with snow-overalls and parkas, also sporting garish neon trim.
"What the hell is this?" Arthur said stupidly. "We're going to stand out against the snow of those mountain slopes like wine spilled on a white shirt, wearing those."
Gwen lifted an eyebrow; Leon didn't try very hard to hide his smile.
"It's our cover," Gwen said caustically. "And you're mistaken if you think I like it any better than you do."
Arthur turned, obeying Gaius' insistent nudge to let the old man pass. "Oldham, please brief Scout Pendragon on the details, while I have a word with Thompson in private."
Gwen paused in the act of dumping the winter outerwear atop the two shoulder-packs, alerting to the unusual request. Leon didn't hesitate, beckoning Arthur through the doorway where Gwen had entered, and Arthur followed his friend through the sitting area, down the hall to a generously-sized full bathroom.
"You and Thompson are crossing the border by rail," Leon said, gesturing to a pile of clothes waiting on the sink countertop. "You've got passcards declaring you both as citizens of Mercia, students from Camelot Northern spending the first weekend of the winter holiday in Ealdor for the snow slope-sports."
"Oh," Arthur said, passing Leon in the doorway and beginning to shrug out of his uniform – black on black, which was different than the regular military mottled-camouflage Leon wore. That explained the worn jeans and CNU sweatshirt – and the bright colors on their gear and outerwear. Students.
Almost ironic. But how many people knew that he'd been denied his dream of attending the university under pressure from his father to join the armed forces? And that his younger sister now enjoyed campus life and the challenge of classwork? Leon didn't, he was pretty certain.
"All that pink and green detaches from your gear," Leon assured him, a smile again lurking as Arthur unbuttoned and unzipped and discarded his uniform.
Their sizes were in their files, and usually Logistics was spot-on in their wardrobe choices – though that was more observation talking, in Arthur's case, than experience. He was better suited to sneaking over the border and trekking the wilderness, striking a target without warning and then fading back into obscurity too swiftly for the enemy to scramble a response, moving out of range of notice or reaction, than to hiding in plain sight.
"But," Leon added, a smile lurking as Arthur pulled the hooded sweatshirt over his head – glanced in the mirror cabinet over the sink and decided to leave his hair tousled, "since it's just the two of you and not a group of three or more, you're going as boyfriend and girlfriend."
Arthur's fingers slowed, pulling the hem down over his belted jeans. He wished he could put his uniform boots back on; standing there on a fluffy-cream bathroom rug in his socks made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable. "I bet she's going to love that."
How awkward to play at being Arthur's girlfriend while on a mission to rescue her actual boyfriend.
"There's one hotel in Ealdor," Leon went on. "Within walking distance of the rail-stop. You're already booked for the weekend."
Arthur cocked an eyebrow- was that an assumption of failure? Or an indication of the degree of difficulty allowed for the mission?
"In case you need to do some recon," Leon said. "Or… triage."
Yeah, that. Because Lancelot wouldn't have a passcard to cross back into Camelot on the rail-line with them. Because they couldn't get caught carrying his passport to him, and because such a thing couldn't be mailed or dropped via night-flyer. All the mail into Essetir was scanned, and the flyer too risky and uncertain. Case in point.
So they'd have to make the crossing back into Camelot, in the mountains somewhere. On foot, with an injured man…
"I need maps," Arthur said, padding past Leon in the doorway, back toward the kitchen. "Topographical maps. And a weather report."
"That's all included in the guise of vacationer's literature in your kit," Leon said, following. "You can rent slide-boards in Ealdor."
Arthur's mind immediately began considering how two slide-boards might be rigged to make a safe and sturdy sled for an injured pilot. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, where Gaius stood close to Gwen by the sink, one sympathetic hand on her shoulder.
She faced Arthur, eyes blazing with emotion – and determination.
"Let's go," she said.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
They didn't really speak again, lugging their kits through the local rail-stop, onto their designated rail-car. He stowed their two packs, jammed the parkas into the compartment, and let her take the window-seat.
She leaned her chin on her elbow, propped on the seat-arm, and stared out the window, intense and morose. He watched the other passengers, noting and internally explaining a few minor inconsistencies, satisfied finally when the final call for boarding was sounded, that none of their traveling companions was anything other than what they seemed.
Just the two of them.
As the rail-car jolted forward, jolted again, and the journey smoothed into increasing forward progress, Arthur slouched in his seat, letting his knees fall lazily and sloppily to the sides. He leaned toward Gwen, close enough to murmur to her without anyone else being able to hear the words they used, or read them on their lips.
"So," he said. Distract, and engage. "What kind of relationship do we have?"
She didn't immediately react, though he could feel her stiffening.
"I mean," he continued, "is our relationship new, and we're shy but obsessed with each other? Are we lovers and we can't get enough of each other? Or are we getting bored and impatient, but not quite ready to give up and move on?"
She shifted to look him full in the face from very close, her incredulous expression doing nothing to decrease the draw of her dark eyes. He stopped breathing – and grinned, hoping as always that she couldn't see past his bullshit to realize how he actually felt.
"Whatever's going to mean the least amount of weird behavior from you," she returned, in the same low murmur he'd used.
He snorted, shifting even closer. His nose was inches from her ear, her cloud of sweet-smelling black curls. "Define weird."
"This."
He hummed, understanding and acceptance, and shifted back. Good enough to cement their relationship in the minds of their fellow passengers, he supposed. And it was worth his while to memorize the vacationer's pamphlet Leon had tucked in his bag – local map, restaurants and shops, the trails marked for public snow-sports in the mountains.
The areas that weren't.
It was snowing when Arthur and Gwen disembarked in Ealdor, the Essetirian side of the border. He didn't feel much like a student on holiday – Gwen's tension had increased subtly as they chugged a zig-zag way into the mountains, and the breathtaking vistas of snow-covered peaks under a wan but adequate noontime sun had Arthur calculating and recalculating for the trek home.
And then, of course, there was the corporate incredulity over Arthur's skills with this sort of infiltration. He'd much rather catalogue all the objects to hand that could be used for weaponry, to incapacitate any and all comers and blaze his way through the border-search in the basement of the little Ealdor station, than to hook an unwelcome elbow around Gwen's neck as they shuffled through the lines, and pretend to flirt and smile charmingly to the suspicious, unimpressed stares of the armed attendants.
"Smile, babe," he murmured into her black curls. "Just a few more steps and we'll be through…"
Unless they did something overt to draw attention and suspicion from those around them in Ealdor, no one would be watching like the rail attendants and these border guards were paid to.
She didn't respond, only squirmed uncomfortably. Of course she wouldn't be left out of a mission to rescue her downed boyfriend, but surely she felt disloyal now in addition to anxious.
"Get mad at me," he suggested in the same low tone. Lovers fought, after all, that was more of a cover than two cool, unconcerned people claiming an emotional connection.
She took her chance almost immediately, shrugged him off emphatically, as the near-sighted businessman in front of them stepped to the counter where the first guards would scrutinize paperwork for forgeries.
"You said," she scowled at him, raising her voice as if no longer concerned about the embarrassment of being overheard. "You said this vacation was for us. Reconnect, you said. Rejuvenate our relationship. And now you sound like you plan on spending every free second of the day out on those slopes!"
Moment of stunned – amused – silence surrounding them like a bubble. He could feel his face reddening. Hope that helped release some steam, Thompson.
"C'mon, sweetheart," he said coaxingly, trailing her as she whirled to stomp to the counter and slap her papers down. Mercian ID, Camelot Northern student credentials, class schedule to prove occupation, and pay-stub to prove employment with an on-campus bakery. "The weather is supposed to be spectacular this weekend, and we can't spend all day in a hot tub!"
The ears of the clerk who held Gwen's documentation briefly up to the light were red also, and he shoved them swiftly back at her, beckoning to Arthur. Gwen snatched up her paperwork.
"I hope it rains!" she hissed at him, spinning to the pair of attendants waiting to perform their searches – personal and property.
"Babe, you don't mean that," Arthur whined after her, perfectly aware that the row of disembarking passengers behind them were leaning to one side or another to watch. Boring, tedious, tense process alleviated by the interest of someone else's drama. "I'll make it up to you, I promise. An hour's massage, while I'm sporting, huh?"
Gwen dropped her coat over her bag, lifting her arms so the second guard could pat her down for possible weapons, and challenged him, "A day at the spa."
Arthur nearly smirked. As if he'd need a gun or blade in order to feel or act armed, anywhere in Essetir. The clerk handed his paperwork back – employment had him working in the cafeteria dish-room, he'd been amused to note; take that up with Leon, later when they were safely home – with an air of anticipation for Arthur's response. He had to pretend not to notice – and gave Gwen the most salacious grin he could summon.
"A whole day – you should be very relaxed after that, huh?" He sauntered up to her, hips and grin, daring her not to smile, and reached a hand around her waist.
"Step back, sir!" he was immediately ordered by the search-guard.
He kissed at Gwen's cheek as she leaned backward to avoid him, before obeying and relinquishing his own pack and coat to be peeked at and shuffled through.
"You're incorrigible," she told him, biting her lips and dropping her arms, moving to claim her bag and zip all its zippers shut.
He opened his mouth to retort, That's why you love me, and couldn't. Instead, as the big guard's big hands pressed and shoved and invaded, he held the grin. "Don't incorrige me, then."
Snickers from the line at his lame pun. She shook her head, but he could tell that their little performance helped to resettle her shaken emotions.
"And anyway," he continued, "what about that time you-"
The guard cleared his throat as he straightened from making sure any ink-pens Arthur might turn into shivs weren't hidden down his socks. "Quit while you're ahead, buddy," he murmured advice.
Gwen heard, and snorted. Arthur dropped his arms and mimed zipping his lips shut.
"Get your stuff," Gwen told him with a long-suffering sight – and the second guard hastily stuffed an unmistakably-colored box of contraceptives back into Arthur's pack. Blushing.
Damn you, Leon.
Arthur winked at him, shrugging into his heavy coat before tossing Gwen's bag over one shoulder and balancing to lean down for his.
Outside the station, the wind had picked up, cutting into the corners his unzipped coat left vulnerable. Daylight was fading from the sky and the other passengers had reason to hurry to their destination, leaving Arthur and Gwen increasingly anonymous as they headed down the sidewalk.
"Two blocks, then left?" she said to him. "Here – let me carry my-"
Arthur made a negative noise, shifting away from her reaching hand. "I'm balanced," he said. "One on each shoulder. It's not far – I'll be fine."
She kept pace with him as he strode, beginning to think of warmth and hot food – and a single room at the hotel.
One bed?
"Pendragon?" she said tentatively, her chin buried in her scarf and the fringe of curls over her forehead nearly hiding her eyes.
"Just say Arthur," he told her. Less chance of a slip-up where someone could hear, that way. There were others on the sidewalk, ahead of them and behind, and passing them, though none close enough to overhear at the moment.
She cleared her throat, and didn't, but nodded her head decisively as if to convince herself to continue. "I wanted to say – thanks. And I'm sorry."
"You're welcome," he said, totally uncomprehending. "And don't worry about it."
She put a glove on his elbow, slowing him slightly. "Don't you mean, for what?" He gave her half a smirk, lifting his brows, and she retreated her hand. "They said. How you'd be lousy at this part of the job. The cover, the – play-acting. They said you couldn't pretend effectively to save your life."
It's not pretending. He hoped she never realized that. And, it was to save her life.
He shrugged to answer her. "I don't like it," he said with blunt honesty. "They're right about that. I prefer fast, in and out and done. And-"
She made a strangled sound, and he belatedly remembered that Ops was often compared to dating. Sex.
Geez. Just put his foot in his mouth, huh?
He plowed forward as if oblivious to his unintentional innuendo. "And if I'm caught, I prefer fighting and fleeing. Instead of lying."
"That's… not a terrible character trait," she decided, with an admirable effort to self-control.
On the corner they approached was a small cluster of people well-bundled against the cold – locals waiting for public transportation. Adults, and one child tugging at a parental hand as diminutive boots splashed slush off the curb. Arthur slowed to navigate without drawing attention or giving offense, and Gwen dropped behind him.
"Evening," he said politely in response to an older gentleman. "Hi – good, thanks, how're you?"
Skirting the last loiterer, he looked up along the last block to the town hotel waiting at the next corner, crowding the street with an angled entrance like the best-dressed lady at a social function, posing to optimal notice. Strategically-positioned lights illumined the stone façade – solid, century-old architecture, classy windows-and-ledges, and a wide front stair leading up to a first-floor lobby at face-height from the street.
Warmth and comfort and understated luxury. Exposed skin tingling from cold and wind wanted him to hurry up.
Except that the troop of black-clad men climbing those stairs like they owned them – like they owned the whole town, and pretty much they did – gave him pause.
Military. Para-military. Whatever unit of Essetir's field-ops division had been sent to retrieve data and-or pilot from Lancelot's crash site. Their competition. The ultimate test of their cover-story, wary and suspicious and it was fair and smart to guess, as well-trained as they were.
The sight filled him with determination even as Gwen moved out from behind him with an involuntary, "Oh…" as she noticed the hotel's other guests also.
But what made him stop dead on the sidewalk just past the corner, desultory chatter of trolley-stop waiters still at their backs, was the recognition of the figure in the middle of the formation ascending the steps.
Noticeably more slender, even in heavy overcoats, than the soldiers surrounding him. Capless, shaggy black hair gleaming under hotel lights, way too long for a regular-trooper haircut. He paused and began to turn around even as Arthur marked him, and the features, even at a distance and in profile, were familiarly sharp.
The others around him reacted to his delay – some focusing on him, some attempting to follow the shift of his attention like it was important. Like they'd been trained to do so.
The psychic of Essetir. Was here. They'd brought him here.
What was his range?
Arthur spun, catching Gwen before she ran into his back, steadying her even as he shoved her back the way they'd come.
She started, bewildered, "What are you-"
He glanced over his shoulder to see that the troops were also hustling their central figure up the stairs even as he strained to look over his shoulder. More than one gloved hand was fisted in the bulky overcoat covering the slender figure – they darted backwards looks themselves, some facing the street with alert tension even as they moved to maintain their tight perimeter.
Not immediately dashing outward to question and apprehend, not escorting their psychic down the block to confirm and pursue. But still…
"A hotel?" he said to Gwen roughly, blindly.
What was his range? How long did they have, if anyone had noticed – if he noticed, if he said anything - if anyone was being sent to investigate?
"You said," he added, intending to manhandle her back through the crowd, back around the corner, down the street and out of sight of the hotel. "You said we were staying with your brother!"
Did she have a brother? He thought so; he wasn't sure.
"You said you were going to introduce me to your family! You said they were going to love me! And you booked us at the hotel?"
The elderly man cleared his throat in ostentatious embarrassment. Someone else snickered.
"I'm sorry," Gwen said, trying to catch up. "I just thought – we'd have more space-"
"Doesn't your brother have a spare room?" Arthur demanded, continuing to shepherd her away from the hotel. A few more steps, then line of sight would be broken. If they had to run, he'd head them for the deepening shadows, the back-yards, the sheds and culverts and outskirts and outbuildings abandoned. "Or didn't you tell him we're sleeping together?"
Probably they were far enough away from the stop – oh, here came the trolley anyway, with its electric squeal and sticky brakes. No one would overhear anymore.
And Gwen knew it, too. "What?" she said, all intensity. "Arthur, what?"
Were they far enough? Would anyone come after them? Had they avoided the psychic's notice, or had they alerted the enemy team?
"Did the old man tell you about the reason for the flight?" Arthur said, thinking tangentially. Two options, as he saw it. Four possibilities, but he'd only choose one of the other two if she insisted.
"The photos," she said in a low voice. "The base. Intel – preparations."
"Because of evidence that Essetir has a psychic there who might rival half a dozen of ours combined, capable of things I've never heard of," Arthur said shortly, risking another over-his-shoulder glance. "My guess? Uther wants him, dead or alive."
"Well-" she immediately objected, troubled – then having to acknowledge practicality. "Yeah…"
"He's here," Arthur added, checking for traffic and leading her in a quick jog across the street. None of the others present on the sidewalk – half a block to two blocks – made a similar move. So they weren't being followed.
"What?" she repeated. "Here?"
"I saw our spy's surveillance recording. Recognized him. With an eight-man military unit, just going into the hotel."
"So we can't stay there," she said, thinking aloud to echo Arthur's conclusion. It was one thing to play-act in front of suspicious military men; it was a whole nother thing to put on pretense and hope that a psychic wasn't going to see through it. "Are you-" She took stock of their surroundings, the trajectory of their path, and she'd read the traveler's pamphlet, too. "You're heading to the bed and breakfast – what's its name?"
"Cheery Point," he said. Around the next corner ahead and on for another two blocks. They had a little money – enough for a room, but not two – and a bedroom at a cozy B-n-B was going to be a lot different than a hotel room, which might have a couch, and extra bedding stored in the closet for sure. "Or. We head right for the resort before it's full dark. The lift and slopes are closed but we could let ourselves into the lodge if no one's there – or one of the outbuildings if someone is."
She didn't say anything, keeping pace with him. That choice would take them past the bed-and-breakfast, past the lights of town. It would break laws, which was always risky to start doing – it led to the more of the same, and usually caught the attention of authority figures which could mean chasing and shooting…
"If we stay in town tonight, we set out at the same time and from the same place as the Essetirians," he said. "They'll have the advantage of following the psychic, probably right to the crash or the pilot or… both." He couldn't tell if she reacted, with her head down and her knitted cap pulled low over her curls. "We can follow them and hope not to be noticed and hope to catch a break. We can strike off on our own and hope to get lucky in our search."
"And if we break into the lodge, we can be on top of Cender's Peak before sunrise, and possibly be able to confirm the crash site visually." She slowed, then came to a full stop on the sidewalk, mere paces from the kitschy sign indicating the path to the illuminated porch and front door of of Cheery Point. She gazed past the last block of the village proper, out toward the scaped wilderness of the winter-sports slopes and the darker untamed ranging beyond, and he watched her.
He guessed she was thinking of Lancelot, out in the dark and cold, alone and injured and uncertain of being found at all, whether by rescue or by capture.
"Or," he said lightly, "we could go back to the station. Trade in our return tickets-" which were just for show, since they weren't going to use them anyway – "for seats on tomorrow's train back over the border. Report a non-successful mission."
Her head whipped around, and her dark eyes sparked with the reflection of the B-n-B lights.
"Or," he added, his heart thumping deadly serious. "I could take out the original target first. See how well they find photos or pilot or any of it without a guide."
She leaned closer, searching his eyes like the waning light interfered with her judgment. "Kill him? The psychic? He'd sense you coming from fifty yards away."
Or more. Depending. "There are ways around that."
She cocked her head, and he couldn't read her expression. "No. I vote no."
He smiled involuntarily, feeling approval throb warm in his chest. Of course she'd rather save someone than kill someone, even if it meant physical hardship and danger and higher risk.
"Here, or up?" he said – because of course she wouldn't choose retreat, either.
Gwen took a deep breath, and the first step on a dusky-dark trek toward the base of the snowy mountainside. "Up."