Chapter 8: Who the Psychic Reported To

Merlin didn't need to be psychic to know that his two companions, the scouts of Camelot, were worried about their friend.

Gwen cuddled over the prone pilot, resting on one elbow on the metal floor of the delivery truck container, over the hurried bumps and jounces, crooning and dropping an occasional kiss on his forehead. Merlin didn't think he felt either – bouncing or kisses.

Arthur slouched next to Merlin against the wall, quiet and watchful and guarded. Watching her, though, more than he eyed Lancelot.

Pendragon had been a nasty shock. No relation was a lie, and Don't worry about it, Gwen had said. It's nothing to do with you.

They probably didn't need to be psychic to know that he was worried. He didn't even try to hide it. He hadn't really expected to slide into Camelot unnoticed – that wasn't logical – but he had hoped he didn't rate the personal attention of the most powerful man in the kingdom. Now, though…

He couldn't guess whether it made his situation better or worse to have made the acquaintance of Pendragon's son. Depended, maybe, on whether Arthur concluded his business and association with Merlin finished for good, at the end of this…

Mission. At the end of this night.

Arthur shifted to glance at his timekeeper in the dim uncertain glow of the worklight hooked to the container ceiling. "Won't be long now."

Merlin's stomach pinched, and he drew his legs up a little more.

"Is he conscious?" Arthur added, his voice low and rough in his throat, in spite of the coffee they'd been drinking.

Gwen shook her head. "Not really," she managed. "His eyes are open – he looks at me. I know he's in pain and he recognizes me, but…"

"Give him the rest of the coffee, instead of more water?" Arthur suggested, extending his hand sideways to Merlin without looking at him.

He picked up the cannister balanced against his thigh and slid it into the scout's hand, but Gwen shook her head.

"It would spill all over, I'm afraid. The water bottles are all right…"

Was Merlin the only one who thought the water tasted like hair today? Or was that only because he knew the water had been snow melted in their helmets?

"But the coffee only has that wide lid-cup," she finished.

Merlin straightened away from the container wall. "I could try pouring it into a water bottle," he volunteered. "Then it would be easier."

"Thanks, but…" She shook her head. "I honestly don't think it's going to make that much of a difference."

Jounce, and rattle. Merlin very deliberately did not think about the echoes he'd felt of the pilot's crash – terror and dread and the excruciating pain that exploded from the black-out impact.

"What are you thinking?" Arthur said. It took a nudge of his elbow to realize he was speaking to Merlin.

"What?" he said, finding himself startled. That was an unusual question; most of his life he'd been asked to repeat others' thoughts.

"You don't have anything to worry about, you know." The scout's eyes were keen, though his attitude seemed relaxed to the point of dozing. "You surrendered to me, which gives me some authority in your case. It won't be all strangers, then, yeah?"

Oh. He hadn't… really… thought about further association with the son of Uther Pendragon. Whether it was wise – whether he wanted to – whether he could, considering.

"We'll call Gaius from the trauma ward," Arthur continued. "He'll take you into custody officially. He's our boss, he's a good guy, if a bit gruff."

Gwen gave a gentle snort with a little jerk of her head – a fond agreement of Arthur's assessment.

"Probably he's too busy to be your handler, but he'll choose whoever is, personally. And he'll be more invested in you being satisfied with your decision and level of cooperation, than in grilling you for every last scrap of information. He'll make sure you're not overwhelmed-"

Merlin swallowed, and nodded. Richard Gaius was a name he knew also. Director-in-Chief of Camelot's Psychological Operations – not someone to be trifled with.

"And the odds are good that you'll be housed on Fort Fuller," Gwen interjected. "That's where we are as well. When we're at home."

At home. And they could say that about their accommodations on the military base? Must be a helluva lot different than what he was used to at the Institute. A helluva lot better.

"I," he said, and had to clear his throat, staring at his boots because he couldn't look either of them in the eye. "I was thinking about… our bootstrings."

Silence.

"And," he continued awkwardly, "the helmets. The slide-boards and… the skid-carts on top of the mountain? Does anyone ever go… pick up those things, or do you just… leave them to whoever finds them?"

He glanced up to see Gwen's eyes on Arthur, who was wearing a lazy half-amused smirk – the sort of genuine expression he wasn't used to on the people around him.

"Something I think about, sometimes," Arthur said. "What is someone going to think, to find this, here."

Gwen snorted again, another fond I know what you mean, and Arthur's eyes fastened to her again. Merlin's fingers twisted the coffee cannister absently between his knee and Arthur's, and they all alerted to the delivery truck slowing deliberately, shuddering to brake. Turn, and struggle again to accelerate, but not to the same speed.

"We're almost there," Arthur guessed, rolling to his knees and balancing to his feet with one hand on the wall. "Gwen, is he going to be able to stand and walk, or shall I run inside for a wheeled stretcher?"

"Lancelot?" she said, in place of answering.

Merlin lurched to his feet, his caution at odds with the unexpected movements of the truck. Briefly he peeked inside the driver's mental windows, to be sure it was a trauma center, and they hadn't been betrayed somehow to local law enforcement or the military patrol. Not an end-of-the-world prospect, but he'd at least like to know. Trauma ward as promised, and the truck slid to a stop, his body and Arthur's swaying til the momentum was parked.

He levered the back door open with a screech of protesting metal, and pushed both sides open, watching over his shoulder as Gwen and Arthur tried to coax and manhandle Lancelot upright. The pilot wasn't cooperating, and all of them startled when the truck's horn sounded – toot toot t-t-t-toot! – signaling the personnel inside the ward.

Merlin leaned out, hanging on to one of the doors, to – see two white-clad attendants at the automatic doors of the well-lit building, bright blue medical-aid-here sign washing the wet pavement of the parking lot brilliant. It was dark – though how late, he couldn't guess accurately in winter. They were all exhausted, too.

"Do you need a wheeled chair or bed?" the driver called to him, halfway between his vehicle and the waiting attendants at the door.

Merlin glanced back down. Arthur dragged Lancelot's legs closer to the door while Gwen supported and protected his head, shuffling on her knees.

"Yes!" Merlin responded to the driver, who relayed the request to the waiting medics, who turned to retrieve the equipment with alacrity.

He pushed the doors wide and pressed back to the container wall, out of the way as the two scouts maneuvered their injured comrade to the door, then grabbed up their two packs and Arthur's discarded gloves, leaving the blankets and coffee cannister with the truck.

Arthur jumped down to the ground to take Lancelot's weight, his focus emphasized by the bloody scab on his forehead, an inch above his left eyebrow.

"You've got him?"

"Careful…"

The attendants arrived with a wheeled chair in a rush – "Sir, can you hear me? What happened? Can you tell me-"

"It's his left arm – compound fracture of the tibia at least, I think," Gwen said. "We splinted it, but – watch it!"

"Ease him down slowly – feet up on those rests…"

"Okay, let's get him inside."

Merlin followed, crouching down to sit on the floor of the container before heaving himself down to the parking lot. The two attendants hurried the pilot in the wheeled chair toward the ward entrance, Gwen jogging close behind in her parka and coveralls and snow-boots.

"Do you need me inside?" the driver asked tentatively, and Arthur paused, turning to take one of the kits from Merlin.

"No, I don't think so. We'll be fine from here – I'll handle any reports that need to be made – though we may send a citation of gratitude to your company's headquarters?"

The driver shuffled self-consciously, reaching to close the back doors of his vehicle again. "No need for that… happy to help."

"But surely we took you out of your way, and you've lost time?" Arthur said. "And it's probably against regulations for you to carry unauthorized passengers?"

"Not in an emergency," the driver said, more firmly. "No need, really – I just hope he's okay."

"Thanks, Andy," Arthur said, shaking the man's hand. "We really appreciate it."

How did he know-? Merlin wondered, til his eyes dropped to the man's name, embroidered on the front pocket of the button-up company shirt he wore over long-sleeved undershirt.

The driver gave him a smile and nod also, backing toward his cab with the clear desire – now that his passengers in need had been delivered to care – to return to the job he needed finished before his night was over. Arthur was already striding toward the entrance doors, not looking back to see if Merlin was following.

For a moment he simply stood, feeling a bit lost. Freedom was a concept he was unused to, though he coveted it strongly – and knew he couldn't have, not for maybe a very long time. Didn't have, in spite of appearances. It was just – very strange to think that he could turn around and walk away, if that was what he chose, and he was willing to be responsible for consequences – but no one would physically stop him.

No one was physically making him step forward, follow Scout Arthur Pendragon into Stansford trauma ward – he almost wished there was. It would make him feel less-

He could see through the doors that Lancelot's arrival was causing a furor. The two attendants didn't pause, rushing him down a short corridor toward a pair of doors, calling instructions and observations-

"Unresponsive-"

"Sir, you need to stay with us! Can you open your eyes for me-"

"He's tachycardic, get me a cuff and an oximeter, and an IV kit prepped!"

"Page Dr. Carmichael to Receiving, and-

"Wake the surgeon on standby!"

Gwen was trying to follow, and being shouldered out of the way by other attendants converging on the pilot in his wheeled chair. The receptionist behind the desk – wide-eyed thirty-year-old with dark red hair in waves on her shoulders – was on her feet, speaking indistinctly into the chaos.

Arthur, kit slung over his shoulder, stood still and turned to her. "He's a pilot with the army – I have his ID."

"And you?" the woman asked, sounding confused as she gestured to the flight suit, patched down the left side and missing the sleeve.

"No, sorry – I'm a student. My friends and I were snow-sporting in the mountains and found him-"

"How long ago?" one of the attendants at the side of the chair said.

"Four, almost five days," Arthur said. "We administered first aid, put on that air cast. He's had trail rations and-"

Merlin wondered how they were going to explain the meramine patches. Recreational use, wasn't that the term? for college students.

"What about you, sir?" the receptionist said. "There's blood on your head-"

"No, I'm fine, I don't need-" Arthur started, but was distracted by the disappearance of the pilot through the double doors.

Gwen was arguing with another medic – briefly, before she began ripping off her weatherproof gear – hat, parka, coveralls - leaving them scattered on the hall floor because, evidently, then they would allow her to follow the pilot as they began assessing him for immediate treatment.

"There's admittance paperwork," the receptionist added, leaning over the high counter to watch Arthur head down the hall and begin to pick up Gwen's things. The double doors separating the triage area from the rest of the ward swung slowing on their hinges. Merlin could have mentally followed the group – could have found Gwen to experience what was going on, and chose not to.

"I might be able to start that for you," Arthur responded, not returning. "But there's a number he gave us – his commander at Fort Fuller? Can I use your comm-block?"

"The one for public use is just there," she said, pointing. And gave Merlin a smile as he slipped past her desk.

Not to follow Arthur. Not to linger like an uncertain shadow, waiting to be told what to do because this was as much freedom as he'd ever had before, as illusory as it might prove.

The sign for the public restrooms were down this corridor, too.

Arthur leaned against the wall, punching numbers into the comm-block, tethered to the wall charging-socket to prevent theft. He lifted it to his ear – and glanced up as Merlin sidled past, faint surprise lighting his eyes.

Merlin realized, he hadn't yet been in the scout's line of sight inside the building. Maybe Arthur had been tacitly allowing him a chance to slip away, keeping his back turned and wondering…

He handed Arthur his forgotten gloves, then gave his chin a little jerk, indicating his destination. Arthur returned a nod of understanding and thanks, tucking the gloves under one arm.

"Gaius," he heard Arthur said as he moved for the door to the men's room. "It's Pendragon. We're back – Stansford, the trauma ward – only Lancelot – yes, he'll make it but I don't know prognosis yet – will you – Sir. Please listen, I've got…"

Merlin let the door close behind him, leaning up against it and breathing deeply of scented cleaner and air freshener and disinfectant and restroom. Tired to his bones, and unsure where he would sleep tonight, if much at all. Unsure what tomorrow might hold for him – next week, next month? Maybe he'd go right back to waiting to be told what to do because no one trusted him with as much freedom as he'd been afforded by his enemy's son.

It was all so horribly ironic. The more semblance of freedom he achieved, the more tightly bound he'd be in fact…

But his body needed to make use of the facilities, and the rush of hot clean water in the sink was tempting.

By the time the door opened, Merlin had stripped to his trousers for what his mother used to call a spit-bath, sink rather than tub. Wet, lather, wipe.

It was Arthur at the door, he knew before he saw the scout. Arthur's gaze rose from the kit Merlin had dropped in the way of the door opening, and Merlin froze, anticipating exasperation or irritation or embarrassment with his choice to undress and scrub up.

But Arthur's face lit up with a half-grin and his kit thudded to the floor next to the other, followed by his armful of Gwen's winter-wear. He unzipped the flight suit, toeing off his boots. Letting the top half of the tattered suit hang from his hips, he yanked off his long-sleeve shirt and another undershirt as one, to join Merlin at the second sink.

Scout, Merlin reminded himself. Probably Arthur had made do washing up in stranger places than a trauma ward restroom. Bruises showed on winter-pale skin, and Merlin noticed that Arthur had applied a second stimulant patch at some point; did Gwen know about that? Arthur peeled them off and pitched them into the trash without self-consciousness.

"So I talked to Gaius," he said.

Merlin scraped at the soap-smear on his skin with damp paper towels.

"He's sending Leon first thing in the morning. Which means Leon will get here around midmorning, which means we camp out here in the waiting room, which is fine because then we'll know something about Lancelot. Whether they're keeping him, for how long…"

Merlin shivered as the circulated air wandered over his bare skin. He very much doubted whether Lancelot would be released so soon, after the damage he'd felt, and sensed. But the mention of Leon was interesting – Arthur said his name like they were familiar friends.

"Anyway. Breakfast here. Probably Thompson can decide whether to stick with us or stay here with Lancelot, if they keep him." Arthur stuck his head under the faucet and Merlin watched, convinced he'd scrape his scalp on the metal fixture, or bump on the sink ceramic or something, but he didn't. "I guess the old man figures Leon and I are enough of an escort for you. Back to Fort Fuller to his office, first of all, and then…"

Arthur shook his head like a dog, leaning close to the large mirror spreading above both sinks to inspect the gash on his forehead, clearly dismissing the injury as trivial within seconds, and met Merlin's gaze.

"I dunno. We've never had a defector, before."

I've never been a defector before. I kind of wish…

"Here," Arthur said, turning to the kits. "Pretty sure we got a couple sets of clean underwear. T-shirts, I mean, and socks…" Rummaging, he came up with two tubes of socks folded in pairs, and another set of tight-rolled white cloth undershirts. Laying them on a dry spot of sink-counter, Arthur turned to pad into a privacy stall.

Merlin enjoyed the slide of clean cotton over his skin, shrugging the new undershirt down over his belt. Pulling the plug on his sink to let it fill with water, he hoisted himself up to the counter to let his feet soak a bit. How long had he been wearing those boots? Forty hours, give or take? But Arthur had probably gone longer, wearing his.

"We stink," he observed, wrinkling his nose as the odor of their dirty laundry, freed from their bodies and the suppressive layer of outerwear rose subtly.

"Speak for yourself," Arthur retorted immediately from inside the stall. "I reek of triumph."

Merlin snorted. And how odd after all, that it was a scout of Camelot who treated him like a person, saying outrageous things and taking no offense at Merlin's responses, rather than anyone in his native kingdom.

Save his mother. Of course.

The toilet flushed and Arthur emerged to stuff the ruined flight suit into one of the kits – there was room now since they'd eaten all the packaged snack food Gwen had taken from the bed-and-breakfast. Merlin let the water gurgle out of his sink and swiveled to let his feet dangle and drip on the yellow-tile floor.

"Is the rest of that going to fit?" he asked idly, watching Arthur fold-roll Gwen's parka like he'd done the skid-cart covers. Oddly, he'd thought at first – but perfectly necessary and surprisingly convenient when they stopped for the night. By deliberate foresight, or by scrounger's luck?

"It'll fit," Arthur grunted, wrestling the puffy material into the kit.

Merlin swung his feet, contemplating his own button-up uniform shirt, and their two limp-sweaty undershirts. And there was his black uniform coat, as well as Arthur's university sweatshirt he'd worn to disguise it.

"Did you go to Camelot Northern?" he said.

Arthur straightened to give him a look Merlin was beginning to recognize – surprise at a question he probably figured Merlin should have found the answer to, without bothering to ask aloud. And maybe he'd get used to what Merlin could just see, and what he wouldn't look for without permission – and maybe they'd never know each other long enough or well enough for that.

"No," the scout said, ducking back into the clean undershirt, then his long-sleeve shirt. "Military right out of secondary school. Tested into Psych Ops from there. Extensive training. Some-odd missions." His head emerged, damp hair tousled. He repeated with half a smirk, "Some odd missions. There's my history in a nutshell."

But it wasn't, Merlin knew. There was the whole No relation and It's nothing to do with you elephant in the room.

"How 'bout you?" Arthur added sardonically.

Merlin kicked his feet, watching Arthur sop up their spills with the pair of discarded undershirts, then stuff them into the trash receptacle built into the wall. You know enough to be able to guess the rest, don't you? Aloud he said mildly, "Yep. Me too. Military right out of secondary school."

Arthur gave him a look that said clearly, I know what you're doing. Deflection by repetition that Merlin didn't expect him to believe.

He turned and retrieved his roll of socks and pulled them on, deciding not to put his boots on til Arthur did. "What about this shirt? My coat, and your sweatshirt?"

"The people who need to know about you already know," Arthur said, swinging one of the kits over his shoulder and picking up his boots in one hand. "No one else should, though. Gimme those, and put the sweatshirt on. Yours now, if you want to keep it. I'll make an executive decision, and Leon will learn to like it."

"Are you going to throw those away?" Merlin gave a little hop to dismount from the sink and obey.

The inside of the sweatshirt smelled like it had been used multiple times, though not unpleasant, just worn. He crumpled his black button-up uniform shirt and tucked it inside the overcoat – on second thought including the knit cap that was also standard issue. Probably they wouldn't need to spend any more time out in the winter weather anymore than to get from building to vehicle to building. And then it might be a while before they allowed him out again…

They might let their own psychics have at him. That was a thought guaranteed to keep him on edge.

"Come on." Arthur watched him shoulder the second kit, then pulled the door open. He glanced both directions of the corridor – they seemed to be the only non-employees in the emergency wing - then set his boots down. Taking the black bundle of material from Merlin, he disappeared into one of the treatment rooms, door standing ajar and lights off.

Curious, Merlin leaned in the doorway to watch Arthur lift the lid on the laundry bin, next to the trashcan and underneath the sharps-disposal mounted on the wall. The scout dug down into bed-sheets and patient gowns discarded during the course of the evening's use for the room, then buried the evidence of Merlin's military affiliation. Not so much as a scrap of black showed through the clear-opaque side of the laundry bag stretched on the wheeled-frame, and Arthur closed the lid again with quiet satisfaction.

"What is someone going to think," Merlin said with low amusement and no little admiration for the scout's ingenuity, "to find that there?"

Arthur's grin gleamed as he passed Merlin in the doorway. "Not our problem," he said, scooping up his boots. "Come on, let's see what we can find to eat in this place…"

The receptionist watched them pile their kits and boots in one corner of the otherwise deserted waiting room, then kindled a bit to have Arthur lean over the counter and give her a charming half-smile as he scrawled on the paperwork she was compiling on Lancelot.

No, sorry, the cafeteria has been closed for hours. There's the vending machine – more than just chips and candy and chocolate bars, for being where it was. And yes, of course they could spare pillows and blankets for the heroes who rescued an injured military pilot…

Merlin's money was useless now, in Camelot, but Arthur had enough to buy them both two packaged sandwiches and bottled tea, which was at least lower-caffeine than soda, if he wanted to try to sleep. Fruit snacks and crackers, and Merlin felt faintly juvenile in his eagerness – such things had been rare treats for his childhood.

They disposed of the wrappers in a plastic bin in the corner of the waiting room, and waited. Arthur paced slowly, stretching overused muscles, and Merlin watched out the front window – all dark past the parking lot lights. Stansford was small and sleepy, and it was so late as to be early, now.

"He's in surgery," the receptionist told them when Arthur asked her to make an internal call to check on their friends. "We'll let you know…"

Badly broken arm. Not entirely unexpected.

"I knew a guy once," Arthur said to Merlin, "who'd had an accident with a power saw, and he had to have pins…"

Merlin shuddered.

Arthur finally seated himself in a corner chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall to close his eyes, in spite of the stack of pillows and blankets. Merlin guessed he wouldn't truly relax til they knew that as much had been done for Lancelot as possible – and what that was.

Merlin unfolded himself from his chair and padded the hallway in his socks to peer through the double doors. There was nothing to see; he padded back to the corner where the hall became the waiting room in front of the automated emergency receiving doors, just out of range of the receptionist's peripheral vision.

Once in a while another attendant came to check in with her – two females asking her to look up information or clarify some detail of earlier admittance, making some query about their shared work schedule, one male orderly with low-key flirtation wondering about her off-schedule opportunities. Merlin couldn't help a certain subtle fascination with the doors and how no one was really watching for anyone coming or going, except to help those who needed and asked.

Once again, he could simply start to walk and keep going – and no one would notice for hours, maybe. He'd be out and gone and he expected he could remain gone, even if they came looking…

But if he closed his eyes and let himself drift, he could easily be back at the Institute. Industrial cleaner, low officious murmur of voices, the occasional sound of a comm-block alert. Footsteps on tiled flooring with a determined destination.

And everything else just a bad dream.

He'd known for quite some time that life couldn't continue as it had been. He wasn't a child anymore, and while it seemed the tests and trials were interminable, they weren't. They couldn't be. Something had to change, something had to happen…

This.

He felt her coming and straightened from his weary slouch, watching her over his shoulder as the double interior doors thudded gently on their swing-hinges.

She was blank-faced and dark-eyed in the three-quarters-strength overnight lights, hugging her arms to her chest, shuffling snow boots with her jeans tucked in. Her CNU sweatshirt was slightly different than the one Merlin wore; it had pink block letters. Her hair was damp and newly smoothed back to a knot behind her neck, and she stopped close enough that he could smell a feminine version of the hand-soap he and Arthur had used in the bathroom.

"Have you eaten?" Merlin said quietly, rather than asking about the pilot. He could find that out himself if he focused on making the connection, and he very much didn't want to.

She shrugged, not looking at him, and he realized, her gaze was in fact focused… across the room at Arthur dozing against the wall.

"He's not what I expected," she said, her voice low and rusty with unshed tears. "He has a reputation, you know? And I thought – being who he is, I thought one of two things. That… a military career was a rebellion against… his father. Turn eighteen and immediately do the one thing that would shock everybody the most – if he was supposed to be groomed for political position. You know?"

She swallowed, and Merlin said nothing. The hours he and Arthur had passed in this part of the building - meeting physical needs, staving off boredom, holding back the crash of overwhelming exhaustion a while longer – had been nothing to whatever she'd been through, present with Lancelot while they did whatever was medically necessary, and planned for more.

"That, or… It was a calculated appointment. That he'd been favored through training, that his position in our unit had been bought as a stepping stone in a deliberately military career. Still aimed at command, and with politics as the real goal. Right?"

Merlin made a sound of faint disagreement.

"I know. We were wrong. We assumed it was all about him, his father, his family – not about us. The people, his team, the missions. Except Gaius, maybe…" She trailed off, and reached absently to dab the corners of her eyes with her knuckles. "But really – it's not like that at all, is it? I couldn't see any of that, this whole time. He works alone, and everyone says – everyone thinks – he's given easy stuff that he can't actually fail at. You know? But it's not like that."

"The guys I was with," Merlin said, soft and slow. "They were impatient. Angry. Frustrated, and wary – of me, I mean. Focused and blunt. And – you both, could have been all those things, these last two days. And you weren't."

"He's been… incredible." She added, "I suppose you know that Lancelot and I are in a relationship? We've been seeing each other socially, since spring. And it could have been… really awkward. But he never snapped, not once. He could have been overbearing and domineering and… and sexist, you know? Given who his father is? But he's not… and I don't know quite what to do with that. I don't know… how to tell him…"

"How to tell him what?" Merlin said, as a vague dread rose from his gut.

She turned to face him fully, and tears spilled over, ignored. "They said there wasn't any pulse in his fingers. They said it was more than infection, it was… dead tissue. They couldn't get him to wake fully to tell him – to ask him – maybe it was that last meramine I put on him?"

Merlin unfolded himself to cup her shoulders gently with both hands, and two more tears rolled unheeded.

"They've got to amputate," she said unsteadily. "They said they'll try to save the elbow joint but it would depend on what they found in surgery…"

She held his eyes and the dread drained down to a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because of course he knew why the accident had happened, and even though orders had come from Camelot's upper command and Merlin had nothing to do with Fort Araun's defenses – even if he wasn't aware til they'd brought the photo of the flyer-and-pilot to the training room, he still felt guilty. Regretful and responsible.

"Arthur tried so hard to save him," she went on. "And that's… Lancelot's career over, at least. He was so proud of being a pilot, that was his whole life, I don't know what he'll…" She shook her head, reaching now to scrub at the lines of moisture on her face.

It was hard to remember now, why he'd wanted this. Freedom to live his life like any other person… but it hurt, this real world. He'd wanted people to treat him like a human being and not just a tool, not just a calculator, not just a computer, but this…

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. "I'm sorry, you – this isn't your… this isn't really your concern. You've got – your life is going to be upside down and inside out too, you'll have to learn – relearn, how to function…"

Two more tears.

Merlin chose to lean closer, to wrap his arms around her and hold tight. He remembered how his mother would, when he'd fallen on the sidewalk and scraped a knee, or bumped his nose on the slide at the park so hard it bled. When you were hurting, it helped to have someone hold you, like they could absorb some of the pain by proximity and thereby lessen it…

It still worked.

But he didn't mean to have her share his heartache, so he tried to let go – but she clung, shaking with sobs she couldn't quite suppress. He didn't have to be psychic to know she was trying.

"Merlin," she said, nearly inarticulate. "You're not what we thought, either. You've been amazing-"

He made a noise of protest in the back of his throat. Don't say that, not about me.

"Thank you," she added, as the tremors died away. She wiped her eyes on her cuffs and swayed back from him. "Sorry. Again. Normally I'm not quite so… not like this."

"You're fine," he told her, wanting to convince her. "You're lovely."

She rolled her eyes, still dabbing, then sniffled, looking around distractedly. "I need a tissue…"

"Hey," he said. "Go do what you need to do to take care of yourself. Go be there for Lancelot, and don't worry about Arthur and me. Let him sleep while he's sleeping, and I'll tell him. In a little while, when he wakes. And maybe there will be some good news by then, too."

She turned back to the double doors, nodding, but he could tell she wasn't fully comforted – an impossible thing, probably, and he the wrong person to try. Maybe it was enough for now that he was there, and made the attempt. "Maybe they'll save his elbow, at least."

He watched her move away toward the doors, slowly and with her head down, but she wasn't hugging herself anymore. He decided to believe he'd done some good.

If only for the moment. And only if he didn't end up making things worse…

Arthur hadn't moved. Merlin watched him several more moments, and Gwen was gone and the corridor was quiet and he had no idea of the time but the rest of the world was surely asleep.

It occurred to him for the first time that the team of soldiers he'd escaped had to have reported on him, by now.

And there was the comm-block, attached to the wall, waiting. And the memorized number was like a hot coal in the back of his mind. He wondered, if he concentrated hard enough, he could read the frustration and impatience of The Man, even from here. Leagues and leagues and the bulk of mountains between them.

Reluctantly he shuffled across the hall, hunching his shoulders against that pain in his chest. This isn't like I thought it would be…

He picked the comm-block off its charging-socket, and punched in one number at a time – direct line - and no one appeared to startle him into ending the call before it began.

Public unit. He believed that meant, untraceable.

"Hello?" The sound of that voice sent ice down the back of his neck, and he shivered.

"This is Merlin," he managed, barely more than a whisper.

"I expected your call earlier."

Merlin bit his tongue on an instinctively self-defensive list of excuses. Damn good excuses. "They shot at me."

"Good for them. Standing orders. You were warned, remember."

Yes, but. He hadn't fully thought through what it meant to deploy with a unit that didn't receive corresponding orders.

"Report."

Merlin wet his lips. "I did it. I'm in – I'm to report to Director Gaius himself, tomorrow."

"And no one suspects you? Be certain. They trust you?"

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall. "Yes. They trust me." Silence… silence. "What – what am I to do now?"

And he despised himself for asking. For seeking orders and direction, especially from the man who'd sat across the table from him in the training room so many hours, days, years.

"For now, nothing save what is expected of you by them. Listen, and remember – any detail could be important. It will take some time for protocols to relax, but you will be contacted by someone who can maintain a casual relationship without raising suspicions, and you will report everything you can learn about Camelot. Uther Pendragon and Richard Gaius, the Psychological Operations unit as well as the regular military. Anything they learn about us or any campaign conducted against Essetir is, obviously, priority."

He nodded, turning in spite of himself to see Arthur's elbow, and the side of his neck as he stretched, unconscious and uncomfortable-looking, to sleep against the corner wall.

"Merlin."

The bark of his name caused him to flinch; it always had. It was disapproval and dislike, a cold observation of his shortcomings and a reset of the standards to try again. Do not fail. You know what will happen…

"Yes, sir," he said into the comm-block.

A second later the call was ended from the Essetirian side of the connection.

Merlin put his back to the wall and slid down, the rubber tread of his boots keeping them in place so his legs folded tightly to his chest. They trust me.

Listen and remember. You will be contacted…

They were supposed to be enemies. It wasn't supposed to hurt like this. But it did, and it would, because he couldn't fail this mission.

Tell them you want to defect. Make them believe it, and they'll take you to the center of their operations. Then there will be nothing hidden from you, and you will tell us everything.

Yes, sir.

A/N: So this is the end of part 1. Part 2 is going to pick up several months after this, and probably will be more of a mix of Arthur pov and Merlin pov. I might take a bit longer to get Part 2 chapters started uploading, but as always, my policy is never to abandon.

And, if I 'got you' with this twist at the end here, I'd really enjoy hearing it. This was the plan all along, you know… *grins evilly, tapping fingertips together*