2.11: What Preparations Were Made

Out of sight, out of mind.

Arthur strode down the pavement of Drysell's streets, quick enough to keep the other behind him, and watched the view of not-so-distant Fort Araun change with each glimpse through this last line of buildings. Not really any different from Fuller – low square buildings, dark windows, razor wire over the high fences staking out what was to be considered their yard.

Wasn't working yet. He didn't have to be psychic to remain keenly attuned to every movement the other made, every footfall, every swing of his arm. Every glance at the back of Arthur's head.

Then he also glimpsed the four-story flat building. Four to a floor in each cardinal corner, sixteen altogether. All of them one bedroom, one bath.

Maybe some couples, maybe some sharing for any given reason. Even Essetir didn't keep families in protective custody like this. Then again, when those leaving were closely monitored and there weren't any coming in…

Even prisons had visiting hours for the public.

Right. Anyway. Just think of the mission-and-retreat. Just the facts.

He let his steps slow to the pace of other pedestrians, sent his gaze across the street casually, to draw no attention – and hoped the other was at least keeping his head down.

Red brick, concrete lip-ledge at each story. Entrance three steps above street level to allow opaque glass-block windows high in a basement wall – laundry, boiler room, storage. Front door recessed from a landing barely bigger than Alice's back step; one black-clad guard was seated in a folding chair before a door propped open to hint at the figure of a companion-guard within.

For the weather, he assumed. Otherwise, there would be an entryway for the guards to occupy more or less comfortably…

All other windows, even to the fourth floor, were covered with chicken-wire mesh, reinforced and bolted into place.

Can't go up from below; can't go down from above without significant effort and difficulty… Arthur looked at the next building, which was a mix of residence and small self-employed businesses. Families there, he'd bet, open and airy and guarded by simple lock-and-key on the building's front door.

Eight-to-ten-foot alley between, and a significant drop to the roof of their target building anyway.

On the other side, across the street – Arthur stepped down from the curb to cross – was a stately used-to-be mansion, from when single-family homes also included staff quarters and extra rooms for the processes that had become outsourced or condensed, over time. In any case, it had a real estate agency's sign outside to advertise its for-sale status.

He imagined it was difficult to find large families with significant funds available for purchase who wanted to live next to a building guarded by armed military.

Arthur kept going, still casually observing the architecture of subsequent structures down the block. His follower lagged somewhat, but Arthur didn't slow his pace further, and honestly – could he care less if the psychic tried to do something stupid? Alice was packing and he knew where and when he could find a delivery truck to hot-wire; the handgun was hidden by the denim of his shirt-tail. Shoot the idiot and run, leaving all the rest behind…

Merlin quickened his step to fall in beside Arthur, giving him a worried glance.

Too bad if he did hear that thought. Hear me, traitor? I'm still perfectly fine with shooting you…

That's pain talking, Alice reminded him.

"What do you think?" Merlin asked in a low hoarse murmur.

It caught Arthur's attention with a bit of confusion, til he remembered – not just a mark, for this one. Not just a mission. If he'd been psychic and walked past the place where his mother lived…

How long since he'd seen her? What was his range?

"She's there, then?" he said, keeping his tone neutral with an effort. He would be professional, not indulge the urge to be snarky-hurtful.

"Yeah…"

"What do you think?" He turned the question back on the psychic, as the corner grocery – why were groceries always on a corner, anyway? – came into view.

Thought-stuffed frustration. "I don't know. But they must have – repairmen? Maybe cleaners for the public areas? If we sabotaged the air units on the roof, they'd have to call…"

Complicated. And Arthur felt the push of time. "How long til they notice your contact hasn't checked in? How long til they start a serious investigation into the top explanations for that?"

They don't know you're gone? How long til they figure it out?

Bloody hells.

The toe of Merlin's boot kicked into an irregularity in the pavement, and he stumbled. "Did you…"

"Arrest her? Well, yeah." Arthur let some arrogance steep into his tone. Camelot's Psych Ops weren't entirely useless… "So?"

The startled silence might have been, I don't know. Or at least, I'm not sure.

"It's not really a question of how do we get in," he instructed the psychic, feeling it easier to be professional when he was being professional. "It's a question of, how do we get her out."

"Yes, but-"

Arthur cut him off, moving in front of him to open the door of the grocery. "I've got an idea, but a lot depends on her."

Merlin followed him over the threshold, crowding slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

"Morning, gentlemen!" They were greeted cheerfully by the round, balding attendant – deep, wrinkle-set eyes, wide-open grin, white apron over collared shirt. "Or afternoon, rather, what time's it?"

"Time to make a milk run," Arthur returned in a matching tone of good-natured vigor. He dug in his pocket for the change from his vodka last night, and handed it to Merlin, who cupped the coins in his palm with a lack of comprehension. "Say, have you got a public comm-block I can use?"

"Sure thing. Right over there by the window."

"Thanks." Arthur left Merlin on the threshold with a handful of extended change, and moved to the window. Picked up the comm-block, made the connection.

Office this time, probably.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen was supposed to be on leave. After the weeks in Aravia, she was due time off. But she'd missed her train.

She slouched on the old orange sofa in the scouts' lounge in the basement of the battalion building, watching some mindless romance-mystery based on the latest Charles Gates novel, staring through the screen as often as she focused on it.

Nimueh had been moved. Where, Gwen didn't have the clearance or the courage to ask, but presumably somewhere isolated, so she'd have no opportunity to manipulate those around her. There were those trained to deal with enemy psychics, even if – Gwen suspected – Nimueh was stronger than most. Wary enough to notice their approach from at least a block away, and ready an escape attempt – and it almost worked.

In any case, Gaius knew Gwen was here. Uniform and kit and ready for anything, because – Merlin bolted… Pendragon is in pursuit. The Old Man had gone with Nimueh, she thought – but he knew she was here.

And the comm-block in the corner shrilled a contact alarm.

Gwen yanked her boots off the coffee table, scrambling up from the depths of the couch and crossing the room to grab the comm-block. "Yes?" she said, assuming Gaius – and belatedly remembered her protocol. "Sub-level A, Room Fourteen, this is Scout Thompson speaking?"

"They said the Old Man wasn't there." Arthur's voice, and Gwen's heart gasped a relief and a pleasure to hear it.

"Arthur!" she said – she was alone in the room, and good thing. "I mean, Scout Pen-"

"They said he was with your newest guest, and unreachable?"

"Yeah, as far as I know," she said, collecting herself back to professionalism. "Where are you? Calling to report, or-"

"We're in Drysell. Me and him and our hostess." His cadence was a little too casual, his wording a little too obscure – chance of him being overheard, then. "We're going to visit his mum, but we should be leaving tomorrow."

Hostess would be the long-cover scout Gaius had in place in Essetir, but what did his mum mean? Merlin's mother – actual mother? Unless it was impromptu code for something else…

But Gwen began to glimpse motivations – his mission wasn't voluntary, but even if Nimueh didn't know what surety they held over him… Her own mother had left her father when she was a teenager, and frankly it had been a relief from the vibrating tension and the vicious fights that echoed through the whole house. But she was aware enough of Merlin's childhood and the forced separation from his mother to guess that it would have been different for them.

But now was not the time for her speculations.

"Both of you?" she said narrowly. "You and Merlin? You're bringing him back?"

"That's the plan." Studiously neutral, and she wished it was a private call with plenty of time to coax him to talk… but it wasn't.

"Where on the border do you want to cross?" she said. "What kind of exit strategy? We can have a troop ready to meet you if you're followed?"

"We might do a little fishing off the coast, but we won't spend a lot of time on that. If you want to be ready for company when we get back, that might be best."

"Britesea?" she said. That was the northernmost port for Camelot, but exclusively military – which of course he could make use of, if authorities there were alerted to his arrival.

"Sounds good. If we catch anything, anyway. If not we might drift a little ways farther before we put in again."

Britesea if they were being pursued. Otherwise he wanted to keep his cover and return less… officially.

"Are you both all right?" she couldn't help checking. Because if it still made her cringe to remember how the confusion and uncertainty she caused in the corridor the day they debriefed had chilled in retreat to formality and silence, think how Arthur and Merlin would feel with an actual betrayal between them.

"He's a pest but I haven't squashed him yet," Arthur said, far too lightly; it reassured her on their physical wellbeing only. "I've gotta go, luv, all right? Plans to make, things to do, people to see… We'll catch up later, I promise."

Luv.

Then do you follow me, my sister…

Smile, babe – c'mon, sweetheart…

Tears sparked to her eyes even as she snorted laughter. "All right, then, I'll hold you to it. Be careful."

"Bye."

She replaced the comm-block, biting her lip to distract and settle her feelings.

Such a jaunty disconnect, when he was in enemy territory, clearly planning some side mission without proper planning or a kit or back-up. But that was the way he liked it, wasn't it?

A lot of her memories of the trip over the mountains from Ealdor were tangled around Lancelot's pain and her worry and considerations of care and comfort. But she thought Arthur and Merlin had worked well together – she'd seen their friendship develop. It wasn't polite or usual or evenly-paced, but something unique.

She hoped they were going to be able to work together again this time. And as for the future… well, if she was feeling guilty about rejecting Arthur's offer to be something more and special – whether he intended romantic, or not – she could only imagine how Merlin felt, if he'd been coerced into his own mission, and betraying that relationship with Arthur, over some threat to his mother.

Gwen headed out of the lounge room, mentally reviewing schedules. Who could she take with her?

Evidently she was going to see Elyan in Britesea after all.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin kept Arthur in the side of his vision as he wandered to the back of the grocery and the cold storage cabinet for the milk. Did they need milk? Did Arthur really want it, or had he sent Merlin to the corner of the shop furthest from the comm-block on purpose?

He yanked open the door, chose the smallest bottle of milk based on the collection of coins dropped into his palm, and let the door close again. The older guy at the register kept shooting Arthur glances over the top of wire-rimmed glasses, in between a half-interested focus on… crossword puzzles, Merlin thought.

With the vague idea of distracting the clerk – and maybe himself too – from what Arthur might have been saying, Merlin wandered back to the counter.

The scout's shoulders hunched under the grubby denim shirt, his free hand bracing him on the window-frame. His white stone was dingy-dark, and it made Merlin consider the possible lingering effects of what he'd done.

Arthur was an excellent scout, and Merlin had deceived him. Had earned a rarely-given trust that he didn't really deserve, and had shattered it rather spectacularly. If Arthur doubted himself, now or in the future… if others doubted him… If that changed which missions he was given, which missions he took, how well he did… If Arthur lost faith in himself, and that put people in danger…

Merlin shivered and almost knocked over a wobbly stand of postcards and refrigerator magnets at the end of the aisle. At least it distracted the clerk.

But Arthur dropped his arm to hook a thumb in his pocket, squared his shoulders. The white of the stone lightened, and golden energy gleamed between chinks, and… He was talking to Gwen, wasn't he. Merlin didn't check, though he could have – Arthur wouldn't glow like that for Gaius.

"This be all for you?" the clerk said dubiously, straightening to his business even as he disapproved of the size of the purchase.

"Yeah," Merlin said, trailing off and giving Arthur another glance, in case the scout had something else in mind.

"Haven't seen you boys in here before – you new in town?" The clerk shot him a look over his glasses, laying aside his pen to punch buttons on his register.

Merlin was off. Unhappy about his choices and lack of them, and where they led him, and how he hurt those he cared about…

How he'd ruined his own life before he even had a chance to live it.

But he couldn't see further than the clerk's cookie-cutter house – square and white, black roof, green shutters.

"I-" he said. "We-"

"We're visiting his aunt," Arthur said, sliding along the counter casually to join them – then re-directed attention to the rack of thickly-folded paper behind the attendant and next to the door. "Say, is that a map of town? How much is that – we have enough for that, don't we?"

Merlin's mind wouldn't even calculate, wouldn't remember the price of the milk, wouldn't read it from the clerk-

"Sure," the old man said genially, reaching to pluck one of the maps from the rack. "Who's your aunt? Anyone I know?"

Merlin was abruptly uncertain of Alice's last name.

Arthur was still distracted. "I love maps," he told them with a charming smile. He let the first fold flip open, then spread the accordioned sections of one giant page over the counter. "You always find things you didn't know were there, and you'd never have known otherwise…"

Merlin handed the coins to the clerk, who deposited them in the till.

"Hey, grab the milk," Arthur said to him, lifting the map. His body language hustled Merlin to the door, milk bottle in one hand, to open it for him with the other, as he was still busy with the spread map. "Cheers!"

Merlin gave the clerk a shy, apologetic smile as Arthur passed him over the threshold.

"Enjoy your visit," the older man said, unperturbed.

Once outside and started down the sidewalk, Arthur refolded the map with deft efficiency, focused down the block. Merlin's fingers were getting cold from the milk and he'd never wished more for the ability to read someone easily. He was suddenly afraid the scout was going to declare a rescue impossible, and resume his opposition to the plan – and he still carried the handgun. Merlin had no idea what he was going to do if Arthur-

"This is what I need from you," the scout said, dispassionately brief. "Which room is Hunith's. When the guards change shifts. Protocol for a fire drill. Anyone else who's allowed out that looks like Hunith, and if they're going to leave the building today."

Without waiting for Merlin to respond, he stepped off the curb and jogged across the road. Merlin stumbled in trying to follow and keep up.

Because – what?

Arthur didn't slow his pace by much, continuing at a right angle to their previous route. Still scanning the buildings like a first-time visitor to town, curious and friendly. Still keeping Merlin behind his peripheral.

He can't stand to look at me. Merlin couldn't erase from memory that cold fury, the calculation and suspicion he'd woken to, somehow worse than the steadiness of the weapon pointed at him. Arthur was a professional, and Merlin didn't believe he let himself act on emotion; he wouldn't attack unprovoked, or out of vengeful retaliation. But that look still hurt Merlin… He deserved it, though. It was all his fault – he couldn't now remember what it was that had brought him to the attention of the Institute and the Man, but…

Wait, that meant Arthur was planning, didn't it? He'd seen this side of Arthur before, in Ealdor, though he'd been unsettled and a bit inattentive to nuances, then. This was Arthur Pendragon, Scout of Camelot.

Who threw half an expectant glance over his shoulder.

Merlin lengthened his stride to catch up a bit, extending his senses almost explosively in his newfound hope. They weren't so far away – he remembered the guards – he could connect to his mother-

"There isn't anyone allowed out who looks like her," he answered Arthur's last question first, guessing that some part of the plan might depend on mistaken identity.

Arthur grunted. "Pity – an alternative ID might have been useful…"

And Merlin believed without a doubt that Arthur could have figured out a way to snatch the ID from any woman, anytime and anywhere, and without her realizing it, if he decided on that course of action.

"Um," he said, tripping over the step up to another curb – the next road down from the one they'd taken, which meant they'd pass behind the flat building on their way back to Alice's house. "Protocol for a fire drill is… back stair or front stair, depending on the location of the fire. But unless the fire is blocking the back door, everyone is meant to gather in the back lot to be accounted for. Guards change shifts at eight-and-eight. Twelve-hour shifts, four days on, four days off…"

"We won't be here for four days," Arthur said negligently. "Eight in the morning is doable, though."

They were approaching the rear of the mansion-for-sale, and the flat building was in sight, the vacant lot behind it enclosed in a six-foot slat-fence, hard to see through unless you put your eye to a gap. But the guard in the rear lounged in an open doorway several steps up from ground level, like the front; reaching the fence to peer inside without being seen trying to do it would be problematic.

"My mother is in the corner flat, there. Third floor, in the rear."

Right there. Sitting by the window, book in hand. Poetry. He couldn't see her, not from here, but he could see her.

Weary. And depressed. Tears threatened to choke him. I should've… sooner, I should've come, or…

Arthur took an abrupt turn onto the mansion property before the back-door guard noticed them. This was a black-iron fence, easy enough to reach through and lift the latch, and Arthur managed it with only a faint squeal of metallic protest.

"Third floor," he murmured to himself, slipping inside. In the absence of other instruction, Merlin followed him, deciding to pull the gate almost closed but still unlatched. Arthur continued, "Southeast corner…"

They weaved their way through an elaborate garden, gravel crunching under their boots, and a shiver snaked down Merlin's spine. What on earth were they doing here?

He reminded himself of the misdirection of the truck on the rails out of Ealdor. He reminded himself that he trusted Arthur – his judgment, his choices, his instincts, his motives. It was part of the reason he hadn't tried very hard to find a way to tell him the truth, before now. Because his friend would have felt honor-bound to turn him in, at least to Gaius. And then where would his mother be?

"Have you got a good throwing arm?" Arthur asked him. He stopped by the base of an enormous tree, a spreading thing Merlin couldn't identify by name, with thick branches tangling horizontal and vertical, and shading the majority of the garden.

"What?" Merlin said. Because, maybe? Depending on what Arthur needed thrown.

The scout was unfolding the map again, spreading it out on the grass, over a protruding root. He pulled out a pen from his pocket that Merlin recognized as belonging to the grocery clerk, and when had Arthur taken that? He hadn't even noticed, and he'd been standing right next to him – momentarily Merlin envisioned the clerk fruitlessly searching the counter and the floor and unable to continue his crossword.

"What's the fence look like from the inside?" Arthur went on, beginning to move the pen over the map in wide sweeping strokes – scribbling, it looked like, obscuring whole neighborhoods.

"What?" Merlin said again, feeling stupid. Surely Arthur wouldn't deliberately waste his time with pointless foolishness, would he? Arthur gave him a dirty look, and he regretted his tone instantly.

"Read the guard, psychic," he growled, bending over the scribbled map. "I need to know if that fence is just wood slats, or if it's reinforced on the inside like the window screens."

Oh. Read the guard. Of course. Merlin concentrated momentarily, feeling past the scratch of Arthur's pen and the breeze that brought the scent of marigolds and mulch.

"It's not reinforced," he reported. "Just what you see."

"Doesn't look new," Arthur commented. He clicked the pen closed and jammed it in his pocket before refolding the map without offering Merlin so much as a glimpse of what he'd scribbled.

Merlin considered. "They replace a board when it breaks?"

"Not every slat is grounded," Arthur observed, standing up to slide the map into one of his back pockets. "How far apart are the posts?"

"They don't know for sure," Merlin reported. "Six-eight feet?"

"Huh. Help me up, here," Arthur commanded, circling the tree so the trunk was between him and the distant guard. Putting both hands on the trunk, he scanned the branches above.

Merlin obediently linked his fingers to make a stirrup for Arthur's boot. The scout hopped once, then stiffened as Merlin strained to boost him as high as he possibly could, sweat breaking out and breath held for the single moment of exertion. Then Arthur was scrambling to the first notch, dropping bits of bark back down on Merlin, who stepped back, dusting bits of detritus from Arthur's soles from the new creases in his palms.

"If the guard even begins to think about looking over here, throw a rock over there," Arthur instructed, moving out on the angled branch to better reach a higher one. "Only to distract him with the noise, not to make him wonder who's throwing rocks in his backyard. And when Hunith notices me, let me know."

Merlin could monitor that even while he watched Arthur, though he bent to grab a decent-sized piece of gravel and moved to a better place to throw it from and remain hidden, himself. He wasn't really worried, though, Arthur was neat and precise and strong, and the only moment that had Merlin's heart rising in his throat was the last one, when Arthur swung on a branch that dipped alarmingly under his weight – then let go and dropped several inches to the mansion roof with a thump.

Not so much as a twitch from the guard.

Merlin moved when Arthur did - in a careful crouch over peaks and behind gables – trying to keep the scout in view. And realized that Arthur had reached a point on the roof where he could be seen from a third-floor window on the southeast corner – not the southwest one, though, there was another peak there – but the edge of the roof would hide him from the guard.

He was quite high. Merlin hoped he wouldn't slip…

And if he craned, he could see that Arthur had unfolded the map, also, and was holding it up like a sign.

Breezes lilted past. The guard exchanged unheard conversation with his fellow down the hall at the front of the flat building. What'd the missus cook for dinner last night… Did you hear what the new man said to the commander… You're such a bloody ass for always insisting on the interior position…

Merlin shifted, gravel grinding under his boots. Message for his mother, and she sat at the window, reading but not really taking the words in. Poetry. Depressing stuff, but it was cathartic to shed a few tears over someone else's heartbreak.

Mama. C'mon. Look out the window – I'm right here. We're right here.

It didn't work like that. Merlin could only hear the directest of occurring thoughts, otherwise it took a moment of observation to discover focus and feeling and intent. Depending of course on whether the person had their windows open and was shouting from inside, or whether they were shuttered and hiding…

Merlin wanted to pace. What if she sat there til it was too dark to see? What if she got up to fix a cup of tea and then sat at the table in the kitchenette? Or went to bed early? He couldn't right now remember if he'd ever noticed that she was prone to gazing outside, or whether she avoided it…

And Alice would be wondering what had become of them, before long. What would she do if-

And Gwen. Merlin wasn't as close to her as to Arthur, but he could tell that she was focused on action, too. Because of Nimueh, because of him? He couldn't tell at all if she knew what he'd done, that Arthur was in danger because of what he'd done – stupid letter. Should've just left, and maybe written when he and his mother were free and elsewhere…

He squinted at the building. Yeah, and how likely was it that he could have rescued her without being recaptured himself… then it would be her in danger because of him…

There. The curtain shifted.

Her neck was sore from gazing at the book too long – thinking of teatime, stretching and letting her eyes wander aimlessly… to the young man on the roof across the street. What was he-

Hunith. 7:30am. Pull fire alarm. B ready. Love, Merlin.

The muscular blond wasn't her son, couldn't be her son. But she trusted the message – Love, Merlin – and she'd do it.

She checked for anyone else in the street, then waved – but maybe the glare from the setting sun meant he couldn't see that she'd seen him…

He snapped back into his own consciousness with a full-body shudder. Love, Merlin. Arthur had scrawled so the pen-writing could be read from the distance, so she would know…

That particular message had occurred to Arthur, that Merlin would want to say, that he'd want her to know… And he'd written it. Maybe he figured Merlin was reading it anyway, or reading him, or something, but…

Dammit. Merlin felt once again how despicable he was.

He turned – the guard was yawning, and thinking about what he wanted to watch that evening – and threw his gravel-stone onto the roof, where it would thump and clatter down to Arthur, no louder than a fallen acorn, but he'd know that his message had been received.

A moment later the scout appeared at the edge of the roof, flinging himself carelessly toward the nearest branch like a gymnast, then swinging his legs back up for the extra support and security. As if he hadn't needed stitches from dangerous proximity to an explosion just last week. Merlin winced, watching the scout maneuver back to the trunk and begin to descend; his whole body was trembling.

The fire alarm would be pulled at 7:30 the next morning, come what may.

Love, Merlin.

Arthur swung himself down from the last branch, steadying himself before letting go to drop to the ground. He was breathing hard and his hair was damp at his scalp but he looked pleased with himself in a way that made Merlin wish he could share the moment completely.

"That didn't take very long," Arthur said, heading immediately for the back gate. "She saw it?"

"And she'll do it," Merlin confirmed, following and waiting for the moment Arthur remembered his betrayal, and closed to cold professionalism again.

"Good. Let's get back to Alice." It didn't happen; Arthur was containing energy and satisfaction from a successful step forward in their plan, not actively shutting him out. "We've got packing to do."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur lay on his back atop an unrolled sleeping bag in the screened porch, watching the soupy darkness for the first hint of predawn gray. One knee was bent so his hips were canted to keep his weight off the still-healing gash below his belt.

Last evening, after Alice had stuffed them full of one of the oddest sorts of feasts he'd ever had – clearing fridge and cupboard of foodstuffs they couldn't take and would spoil – she'd let him use the bathroom shower, then insisted on medical aid for a fellow scout.

How could he say no to that? She'd snipped and pulled the last stitches with surprising care, murmuring something about rest versus activity and giving himself time to heal instead of making his injuries worse. He'd snorted a response to that over his shoulder and she'd only been quiet a moment before starting out, Merlin said-

No, he told her firmly. Not doing that. Period.

Sooner or later, she said, smoothing the tape on the last bandage as he yanked his clean shirt on, you're going to have to.

Arthur lay on the sleeping bag waiting for darkness to cede to the first shift toward day, rehearsing the plan because he refused to think about anything else.

First the truck – a major point, with several subpoints concerning timing and stealth. All the way down to how many hours at sea til they crossed into Camelot's waters. Half a tank left in the Wrapter, maybe slightly less, but it seemed a physics-defying thing that the bottom half of a fuel tank was used up faster than the top half. Maybe they wouldn't go all the way south to Sutton Bay, but Britesea was a last resort, necessitating official records and reports…

Didn't Thompson have a brother stationed there? If his ship wasn't at sea, maybe.

Gaius had told her enough, evidently. Who else? His own superiors? Arthur rather thought not. It was one of the reasons a mid-mission report was usually succinct and unrecorded, an exchange of pertinent information or changes-to-plan, only. Because so many times, details and events and motives shifted in the fluidity of the situation, and depended so greatly on the outcome…

Thompson. It had been a surprise to hear her voice over the comm-block connection, an unexpected gift that she sounded so normal. So unlike the stiff way she'd verbally pushed him back into his place in the battalion corridor.

Skittish, Merlin had said. Arthur wanted to trust that.

He pushed with his heel and rolled a few degrees further to the side, letting his head drop so he could see the grayish square of the living room window, below which Merlin slept on the couch.

Bloody hells, why stop there. His plan would have been ten times riskier without psychic input yesterday, and wholly uncertain of success today. And of course he trusted that Merlin wanted Hunith free, but he wasn't at all certain of that promise to surrender. At some point, Arthur suspected, if he thought he could separate the two of them effectively, he'd cut loose from Arthur and Alice and try to vanish again…

Dammit. Not doing this, remember?

A small sound focused his attention across the two rooms and the open doorway that connected them, and he immediately wondered if the psychic was awake and aware… prying.

But the sound was repeated, a murmur of involuntary protest as sudden or unexpected pain, and Arthur tensed, rolling further onto his elbow though his head didn't clear the pillow he'd been given.

Mind your dreams…

Merlin came awake with a great gasp of panic, struggling sluggishly upright in a scatter of limbs uncoordinated by the bonds of slumber. He panted noisily for five or six breaths, then appeared to fold himself over his knees, head in his hands to mumble helpless obscenities through his fingers. He ended on a deliberate that-sucked whine – and suddenly held his breath as if remembering his company for the first time.

"Arthur?" he whispered.

He debated the wisdom of feigning sleep. Except, psychic. He'd know Arthur was awake, and avoiding him on purpose like a grumpy fifth-grader.

"Still here," he responded in a low, neutral voice, settling back. The psychic had woken from his nightmare; they needed no further contact.

"Sorry – I'm sorry… for that. I woke you? I'm sorry – hells, itwassoreal," he trailed off in a mumble.

Curiosity betrayed Arthur too, and he wondered what exactly Merlin had been dreaming of. Complaints of selfish and shallow friendships seemed petty in comparison to what he knew of the psychic's childhood. Maybe no friendships, and a near constant betrayal of a child's trust in the adults meant to take care of him.

I see a gifted child tortured by our enemies.

"Arthur?" Merlin said again, the whisper more anxious than cautious. "About today… if-"

"Don't do that," Arthur ordered, rolling and ordering limbs and muscles to sit up, to get his knees under him. He began to roll his sleeping bag for something to do. "Don't anticipate any chance of failure. Don't even start talking about if it doesn't go to plan."

It never went to plan. That's what contingencies were for. And people like him, who could adjust and reconsider and react, trusting the momentum of his actions to carry him to safety.

"Is that in the scout's handbook?" Merlin said after a moment. In the darkness he couldn't see the psychic's expression, but his tone was both lighter and stronger, if not by much.

"It is for Camelot," he retorted, wrestling the bulges of the bag into its elastic bonds. "Don't know about for Essetir. Hey – maybe that's why we're better at what we do…"

And maybe that's why Essetir needed to pressure and coerce and abuse a powerful psychic to use against them. And the very best solution to that was-

Lancelot's mission was the first step toward appropriating this asset… or destroying it.

After a startled breath, Merlin snickered. An honest-to-goodness schoolyard amusement at Arthur's sarcasm, because he hadn't taken it personally, because…

No. Not doing this.

Arthur set the rolled sleeping bag beside the pillow and reached for his boots, tugging them on and lacing them with swift efficiency in the dark.

"Hey, is it – are you leaving already?" Merlin's shape stood and padded to the doorway. There was a gleam of white from the cartoon on the front of the long-sleeve t-shirt Arthur had loaned him – his own clothes this time, not the wardrobe selected by Operations for a certain cover look. "What about breakfast?"

"I have supplies." Arthur reached for his ruck, getting his feet under him and pushing upright as he settled the straps on his shoulders. "I'll see you later." It was more of a warning than a question, but Merlin seemed oblivious to that.

"Be careful," he said, taking another step over the threshold as Arthur clicked the tiny latch of the screen door open.

He didn't answer, letting himself outside. Time to trust, whether he felt it or not.