2.12 How They Handled the Escape

Merlin drifted to the back porch door to watch Arthur's shape ghost through the backyard – pause once when a dog barked two blocks over – then disappeared entirely.

He was still arguing with himself over whether or not he should keep track of the scout's movements psychically or not – Arthur might never know; he might suspect anyway; either way Merlin would know he'd done it; was it another betrayal or not, if he was aware Merlin could, and might? – when Alice emerged from her bedroom still zipping the second of her two rucksacks.

"Has he gone yet?" she called to Merlin from the kitchen, no doubt aware of his presence even if he stood perfectly silent. Which meant she knew the answer to her own question, that Arthur wasn't there – which meant she asked it for Merlin's sake.

He left the screened porch and joined her in the kitchen, where she was pulling out the last of the perishables – eggs and milk and berries. The sausage and apples would go in the top of her ruck when they left.

"A while ago," he told her, his voice feeling rusty again.

"You've been up awhile longer," she observed, glancing at him as she cracked the last egg into a bowl and reached for a whisk – the milk bottle emptied on the counter beside her. "Nightmares?"

"You can't tell that from your room, can you?" he said, frowning as he paused in reaching down the plates. Bad enough he probably woke Arthur with that one.

"No, but I can tell it from here, now." Her whole body jiggled vigorously as she whisked – then interrupted herself to find the pan for the stovetop. "Want to talk about it?"

Nightmares of the interrogation room were always bad. Feeling young and helpless and out of control – his ability roaring in his ears with the certainty that he wasn't using it right… and then it was Arthur across the table from him, cold and sneering, sarcasm that needled as sharply as the attendants' sedatives if he dared act out his protest. And then his mother sat the chair of the observer – clinically detached, slightly wary, slightly disgusted, mostly uncomprehending.

"No," he said, finding napkins. Then rinsing the berries under the sink faucet.

Salt on the eggs and parsley, but no cheese since they'd finished it last night with bread and ham on toasted sandwiches. Pickles and olives because the jars couldn't come, and generous with the condiments because why not.

"Did you check on your mother after Pendragon gave her the message?" Alice said, sitting across from him and not wasting any time with the meal.

"Not really. I mean, she's ready…" And feeling all the things Merlin was inclined to, anyway – uncertainty, apprehension, desperation – a need to know more, and no good way to ask. He didn't need those emotions doubling back and echoing and magnifying through a connection.

He leaned over his plate – two-thirds of the eggs and one-third of the berries – and tried to focus on getting it inside him comfortably, as his stomach rolled and pinched.

"I know how you feel about him," Alice told him calmly, between bites.

Good for you. I know that. How 'bout explaining it to me, then, because I have no bloody clue how I feel from one minute to the next. Guilty-hopeful-resigned-skeptical-angry…

"I know how he feels about you," she added.

He froze, fork halfway to his mouth. She met his eyes – the look in hers reminded him of the way Gaius watched him sometimes. As if he understood from experience something Merlin didn't have reference to comprehend, yet. She nodded, then rose to bring the empty used dishes to the sink, leaving him to transfer the last cold lumps from plate to belly as best he could.

There was an offer there. Do you want me to tell you?

Is he confused? Disappointed? Furious? The top of the white stone wall was still out of sight, chinks rare and left unexplored. Does he hate me?

She might tell him yes; she might tell him no. And it would be truth, and he would know it – if he asked Arthur, the scout might say yes or no, depending on how he wanted to affect Merlin. Yes if he wanted to hurt him back. No if he wanted to keep Merlin calm and trusting for today – and tomorrow, maybe.

He wanted to tell her how he envisioned his gift working, ask her what Arthur's mind-castle meant. While he was at it, ask her about others he'd encountered who didn't seem to fit the pattern of houses in a neighborhood… But he'd only ever told his mother. And Gwen and Arthur on a snowy mountaintop just a few months ago.

She bent over him to collect his dishes. "Do you want to know what he thinks about-"

"No!" he said. "I mean, yes, you know I do…" Was she saying these things to explore his reactive feelings?

Could he really blame her for that? They weren't exactly enemies – they weren't exactly allies - it was his fault she had to leave her home so precipitously today.

"I don't want to go behind his back anymore," Merlin said, feeling no energy or urge to rise and help her wash the few dishes at the sink. "From now on, I want to try to deal with him without any… of this." He waved a hand to indicate psychic power. She'd know what he meant.

She glanced at him as she set another plate in the drying rack. "You do realize he's going to expect you to be using it on him, don't you?"

"It doesn't matter," he said stubbornly. Even if he believed Merlin was being deliberately obtuse to convince him he wasn't prying psychically to cover the fact that he was… he wouldn't.

You do realize he's never going to trust you anyway, so what does it matter?

"Did you ever wish you were normal?" he said, without meaning to, without lifting his eyes from the cheap, scarred tabletop.

Clink-clatter of the handful of silverware into the rack-holder; gurgle of water down the drain. Alice wiped her hands on the towel, watching him, and abandoned it decisively.

"Grab your ruck," she said. "We need to get into place – I'll tell you a story as we go."

Merlin did as he was told, and waited on the back step as she double-checked her house for the last time. Turning off lights, leaving pay and a note for the bills, grabbing last-minute items she didn't want to leave behind…

He heard her cross the screened porch and stepped down to the yard, out of her way.

She didn't slow, crossing the yard with more determination than stealth, and momentarily Merlin resisted the urge to check if Arthur had gotten away with the delivery truck, if he'd met unexpected obstacles, if he hadn't reached it or made his attempt to steal it yet.

"Your friends are all recent ones," Alice said, leading him down the sidewalk. The dog two blocks over barked again, and he caught a whiff of woodsmoke and evergreen. "You don't have experience with that, with choosing a level for a new acquaintance. That means the friends you made are few – but deep, and strong."

She wasn't wrong, but her words prodded the truth inside him, and it ached. An old wound – this should not have been done to me; I should have gone to school and grown up like other children and had a chance to learn how to make friends like everyone else…

"My best friend," she said, with a careful and deliberate weight to her words. "Wanted something from me that I didn't have to give. At the time. And after that… he tried to behave with me as before, as if nothing had changed, as if… he'd never asked. But I could feel how he felt, trying so hard to hide hurt and disappointment, and it was changing me, too. I felt I wanted to avoid him, I felt impatient that he couldn't resolve his feelings more quickly, I felt a little betrayed that he dared allow his feelings to begin with, and I had no say or control over them."

It resonated; he couldn't deny it. For a moment there was only the sound of their rubber soles on pavement, and he hoped and wished she could give him some wisdom.

"That's why I took this assignment," she said, and her voice sounded sad – though not regretful. "We received word – whatever drew their attention to you also alerted us in Camelot. We knew they took you in the Institute, and it seemed imperative to know what they did with you."

Echoes of the interrogation room – unyielding, unbearable pressure to prove himself. Hard voices, no compassion or encouragement. Only a retreat to his cell-room and his books and his crayons and his window… Why didn't you come for me sooner? was an impossible and pointless plea. Much like, Why didn't I escape sooner. Why didn't I… make different choices.

"They might've killed you, intentionally or otherwise. They might've broken you… they might've tamed you."

He tripped over a break in the pavement, and the predawn breeze exploring the back of his neck and the corners of his jaw chilled him.

"They didn't," Alice continued. "I don't know how they analyzed the data I sent them, what percentage likelihood they assigned to that possibility. But you need to think about the fact that he knew who you were, in Ealdor. And he responded to your request for asylum, instead of eliminating you outright. Which would have been easier…"

"Maybe not for him," Merlin said softly.

Because Arthur really wasn't at all like the Man in the Institute. Not at all cold with his calculations of cause and effect, choice and direction and action. He felt – maybe so deeply that he covered that with charm and arrogance, and maybe he'd learned that a long time ago, too. If he had stabbed Merlin in the neck, it would have stayed with him as regret for a long time, maybe forever. And yesterday he'd caught Merlin in a rush of deliberation action and controlled emotion – but he hadn't been violent, hadn't refused to listen or accept an alternate course. Had committed himself to finding another way…

"I gave up," Alice said with an air of conclusion, of telling him a secret she'd discovered quite some time ago. "I quit trying to figure out the relationship with my friend. I ended possibilities for change and adjustment. I left. It seemed easiest, and it probably was."

She paused and reached to gently turn him. This was where he'd continue on alone, and she'd divert to join them later.

"You have to decide, I think," she told him. "You can retreat, and protect yourself. Or you can risk offering to figure out something else with him."

He swallowed against a lump in his throat.

"But not right away, I don't think," he said softly. When they got back to Camelot, they'd probably lock him in a cell next to Nimueh… which didn't bear thinking of. And would Arthur be in trouble too? Maybe he wouldn't be free to offer much – and maybe Arthur would refuse even if he was allowed to try writing, or using a comm-block.

"Good luck," she said, squeezing his arm. "See you soon."

He watched her move away, aware of the air lightening toward dawn, and his own part in the plan depended on getting into place before the flat building's back-door guards noticed him.

It was worth thinking about, what she said.

But not right now.

He adopted a version of Arthur's stealthy tread, aware of the houses and buildings he passed and the people inside them, making sure he went unnoticed.

Slowing as the slat fence of the vacant lot came into view, he crept forward til he could see the back-door guard, black-clad through the window. Reinforced screen, reinforced door closed against the chill of early-morning air and the cheep and call of robins and cardinals.

They were focused on keeping the people inside from escaping outside, not on guarding against an external threat. Not with the building full of hostages, and not on Fort Araun's very doorstep.

Merlin prowled forward, feeling his balance affected by the pull of his ruck-sack's shoulder-straps, and came to rest in a ready crouch near the corner of the fence, hidden from view by the back panels. It was high enough that no one looking out even fourth-floor windows could see him – and beyond there was only scrubby meadow and distant trees and eventually Fort Araun to the north.

No one should come down this path til the scout of Camelot and his stolen truck…

But first, the fire alarm.

Come on, Mama, he thought, waiting for the minute hand to tick its way down to 7:30. Be brave.

Trust me…

It seemed ironic to him now, how long he'd waited and strived to make the people at the Institute believe him trustworthy, grant him some freedom from the locks and drugs and wariness… Because here he was, betraying them. And he'd told Arthur some bald, scary truths, needing only to be trusted just enough for Camelot to take him in. He'd been taken a lot farther in than he'd ever anticipated, than he'd ever wanted, and he couldn't help treasuring that so deeply it shocked him.

For most of his life, he thought of himself in solitary terms, unbothered. And now that he'd ruined his chances with true friends… with Arthur-

Partner. With me. Maybe.

Loneliness.

With his thoughts honed in on Arthur, his senses followed automatically. Memory of the night in the railyard – darkness and chill, gravel-crunch and fuel-scent – superimposed over this morning-

Driver gone inside to check in and chat with the clerk, scarf wrapping curlers in her hair. Keys in ignition, still running… Shift into neutral and steer the slow-rolling truck just around the corner of the building so the change in RPMs and engine effort didn't alert them, inside.

Merlin's heart was threatening to climb through his throat and his muscles quivered involuntarily.

Shift again at the road and ease the acceleration, lingering on the edge of speed and caution and stealth… Psychic perception slid forward to now the truck passed the corner grocery, making the turn-

Merlin opened his eyes and could see and hear it, distantly.

Alice? Yes, Alice was ready and waiting, two block west of here. Out of harm's way, and if things went really wrong, she could walk away, get away back to Camelot and let them know what happened…

7:29. Hunith in the kitchenette with a bag and jacket, shoes on her feet, plastic containers on the electric heating coils of the stove's burners – on high, melting and igniting. Hunith walked out her door, not bothering to close it. Touched the little bar of the red fire alarm unit mounted on the wall in the corridor – checked the timekeeper on her wrist – and pulled it.

Merlin flinched, the shriek piercing even the outside air, clear through the vacant lot to the back fence. The guard, sleepy in the doorway and sluggishly watching the minute-hand labor up thirty last minutes of a twelve-hour shift, jerked with sudden confused adrenalin.

Ordinary emergency. Fire alarm. Sleepy, irritated residents obeying the rules of the situation with resistance and complaint – guards focused on forcing protocol and distracted by what's happened, where's the fire, smoke on the fourth floor-

Three or four people in pajamas out the back door, trundling down the steps, ignoring and obstructing the guard- Hunith descending past the second floor-

He could see the truck past the mansion's back garden, now. Arthur visible through the windshield, steering the wheel til the truck was aimed right at Merlin. Determination was dominant. No hesitation, no deviation, no doubt-

Merlin had a doubt; for a moment he was convinced that Arthur would run the truck right over him. Traitor dealt with – no sound of gunfire to flee or explain – leave the emergency-confusion of the flat building, guard and inhabitants, pick up Alice and make excuses, accelerate out of town and back to Camelot.

He opened his eyes to face his fate-

Saw from Arthur's expression that he'd recognized what Merlin feared, in that instant-

Don't you know me at all, you-

"Back, get back!" Merlin screamed, as he was supposed to, suddenly terrified that he'd delayed that single second too long and someone would get hurt. "The truck's out of control – it's going to crash!"

The welter of noisy confusion in the vacant lot on the other side of the fence ratcheted abruptly higher – the truck lurched over the curb and the driver's side fender punched through, no doubt precisely placed between posts to splinter slats and the cross-boards that held them together. Metal screeched and glass shattered-

Merlin curled away from the crash, shielding head and face with his arm like he'd been instructed, feeling the shudder and grumble of the truck grinding the fence down – the pull of his ruck strap ion his shoulder and the burn of crouching muscles in his legs.

People screamed; alarm and terror ricocheted through the vacant lot.

"Hey! Hey! What the hell! What the f-"

The guard, Merlin thought incoherently, from the back door across the lot. He forced his legs to lift and carry him forward, even as the truck lurched into reverse, away from the gap it had messily created in the slat fence. The engine – cracked and crooked grill, jaggedly broken light-cover, dented fender – was nearly level with his face, and he was trembling with adrenalin and we're-not-done-yet.

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

Arthur ignored the psychic deliberately, aiming to bring the truck to a skidded stop three feet past the fence. He was high enough in the driver's seat to see the people evacuated from the flat building – skipping and skittering away from the shock and confusion of the splintered fence – alerted in time by Merlin's shout of warning, as planned.

He had the driver's window rolled down – not to let cicala smoke waft away, but the better to holler through-

"The brakes are out!" he shouted apology at the guard in the open back doorway, buffeted by more residents caught between fire-on-the-fourth-floor and the carnage of the fence. "I couldn't stop!"

-The better to shoot through, if he had to. One hand obviously on the steering wheel, trying to extricate himself – the other bracing his handgun in his lap, safety off. But eleven and a half hours into a twelve-hour overnight shift meant the guards were operating on significantly reduced thought-speed-processing.

Merlin uncoiled from his protective crouch – you bastard, thought I was going to run you over, huh? – and leaped forward, ignoring the weight of his rucksack on his back. He shoved broken sections of slat-fence out of his way as Arthur touched the accelerator to back a few more feet, tires rubbing stridently over torn wood.

"What are you doing?" the guard yelled back, over shocked epithets from residents still spilling out the door. Speaking to Arthur, or to Merlin, who was picking his way over the wreckage of the fence, trying to get inside the vacant lot.

"Omigosh! That truck just crashed-"

"Right through the fence!"

Arthur gestured some kind of conciliatory doing-the-best-I-can, focus skipping from one to the next – which one was Hunith? Was she going to be tall, with dark hair? Probably dressed to leave, since she was the only one who knew this was going to happen.

"…See the fire? Where-"

"Smoke, though, I smelled it – but a damn truck!"

There. Already feet on the ground, crossing the lot with a determination he recognized, and which set her apart from her fellow residents, and he saw the moment Merlin noticed her, something like shock vibrating through his moment of stillness.

She saw him, too. Her whole face lit up, and Arthur's heart twisted – even though Merlin was an adult, and not the child he'd seen sitting in an Essetirian interrogation room, she knew him.

Come on, come on, come on – the one thing he hadn't predicted, was this moment of reunion, how each of them would react, how very clear it was, all of a sudden, what was going on. Come on, comeon!

"You!" the guard bellowed. "Stop right there! Stop where you are! Not another step-" He was reaching to his belt-holster, reaching to his own weapon, realizing Merlin-and-Hunith, at least. "Everyone on the ground, now!"

Arthur half-lifted his own weapon, keenly attuned to the one threat – who seemed to have forgotten him, for the moment. The man yanked his handgun, but pointed it upward without hesitation, not trying to do more than warn. Even so, the sound of the gunshot ripped through the air, cutting through nervous chatter and engine-rumble and alarm-shriek.

Merlin flinched badly – Hunith cowered in place, turning back – the black-clad guard straightened, confidently taking charge of the situation. And more people were coming out, cringing at the noise of the discharge, and the other guards from the front door would probably join him momentarily.

Nope.

Arthur lifted his handgun smoothly, transferring it to his left hand and resisting the temptation to brace his forearm on the door-frame through the open window.

"Don't move!" he commanded, projecting his voice forcefully across the vacant lot and the scared people, strong and unyielding as steel.

The guard's eyes found him, and widened; his body jerked in reaction, then froze as commanded. Hunith looked back – looked at Arthur for the first time, and her eyes were scared, too – but Merlin didn't turn. Arthur wished he dared holler the psychic's name, but every second the Essetirians did not know who they were dealing with counted.

Merlin, now! Hurry up! Arrows over the battlement.

The psychic beckoned emphatically – he might have called her name, or he might have said Mama – but Hunith hurried to him, tense and uncertain, glancing back over her shoulder.

Arthur shifted boot-soles on brake and accelerator, turning the wheel right-handed in preparation. The cab was big enough for all of them plus their luggage – tight fit, no time to arrange or organize – Come on, comeon!

Merlin yanked the passenger door open, hustling Hunith up the step and onto the bench seat. "Come on," he said, crowding up behind her as she slid awkwardly toward Arthur. "Hurry…"

He could tell that her eyes were on him, and her quiet was overwhelmed and uncertain, but he focused on the guard as Merlin slammed the cab's passenger door, shuffling their packs down into foot space. Disregard the civilians between them, twenty-six paces and down fifteen degrees, and any minute now-

The guard twitched, turned a quarter toward the door behind him though his weapon remained aimed skyward. It was enough of a warning that-

Arthur lifted his boot from the brake, shifting his knee firmly against the bottom curve of the steering wheel, right hand supporting and steadying his weapon – relax, breathe, two degrees left-

Ready before the second guard appeared.

He squeezed the trigger, controlling the buck of the discharging piece, ready again a fraction of a second after his bullet chipped brick inches from the second guard's head. Arthur stepped on the accelerator, increasing distance and backing the truck away in an arc, and the first guard instinctively brought his arm down, aiming to return fire.

"Shift to drive," he ordered calmly, and pulled the trigger again, aiming between the two to disrupt and drive them to cover, not to kill. Both of them jerked in reaction, retreating and folding themselves into defensive positions – good enough til they both-

Hunith was frozen, but Merlin lunged over her, grabbing the gear shift to make forward movement possible.

Six shots left. Arthur let the weapon bob slightly as his body adjusted to the bounce of the seat beneath him, the heave of the vehicle as he pressed the accelerator. Squeezing off two more shots in quick succession – just above the guards' heads - he leaned forward in the seat, balancing to steer back to the road with his knee.

The second guard aimed – but the bullet PINGed off the cab-door just behind the open window as Arthur stomped down on the pedal.

One more shot? – one more shot, down on the concrete of the step, ricocheting up into the door, and from there he didn't care, it didn't matter. They ducked again, and then their angle was wrong for anything but useless waste of lead at the boxy metal shape of the truck.

They bounced on the bench seat as he demanded speed from the vehicle initially, then had to slow for the corner. He tucked his handgun under his hip and reached for the gear shift himself to navigate the turn, then accelerated again. Morning breeze buffeted him from the window, having no outlet through the cab – quarter to eight o'clock meant the guards' replacements were probably en route but oblivious, and any reinforcements called to chase them down would have to start from further away.

Hunith braced herself on the seat, perched on the edge and probably dealing with some level of shock. Merlin jammed his body back into the corner, gripping the passenger door just below the window and the seat-back, white-knuckled.

And if Arthur was going to reunite with his mother after years of separation-

"All right, there?" he said, deliberately casual. They were novices, they had no frame of reference for- "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Hunith looked at him, and he let a grin spread without facing her. She was thin, just like Merlin – cheekbones and tendon in the backs of her hands.

"There's Alice," Merlin said shortly.

He was so tense that he had the door open before Arthur braked to a standstill. Hunith watched him silently, suddenly wholly focused on him, and Arthur was reflectively aware of how the younger man moved – fast-efficient in taking Alice's ruck, in jamming it temporarily into the cab atop the dashboard on the passenger side.

"It went well?" Alice said, clambering up into the cab. No one answered, but she probably didn't actually need them to.

Hunith shrank back, intensely aware of Arthur on her other side, and he stopped thinking of her in terms of Merlin's mother or an unrelated target-mark, and thought of her instantly in terms of released long-term prisoner. Handle with care.

Merlin swung himself up to the crowded cab behind Alice, and Arthur shifted immediately into forward motion.

"We're good, Alice," he said, inching surreptitiously closer to the door to give the other three more room on the bench seat. Hunith hugged herself and flinched like the handgun between them had burned her. "Everyone's fine, the rescue is smooth – we're outta here."

He glanced at his mirrors for any sign of pursuit that might make him a liar – not yet, but it would come. No actual fire in the flat building, so the guards would get on the comm-block with Fort Araun, report the incident, figure out who exactly had escaped, pass it along to someone who'd decide what to do.

Pursuit for sure, even if they had no idea who'd been involved, that their scouts in Camelot had been compromised – as soon as they realized that, though, it would be a serious pursuit. Maybe an at-all-costs sort of pursuit, rather than just please-recapture-if-possible…

"Hunith, isn't it? My name is Alice , I'm a scout of Camelot. That's Arthur, he's a scout too, we're helping Merlin get you out of Essetir so you'll both be safe, and free…"

Arthur couldn't help shooting a glance over the women's heads – at the same time as Merlin glanced back at him, dark-eyed and tight-jawed. No freedom for him in Camelot, and he knew it.

Your own damn fault, buddy.

He knew that, too.

How on earth did Arthur possibly think that Merlin should have chosen him – chosen them – over his own mother?

"Hold on," he ordered tersely, taking the corner at a bit of a skid for the lumbering vehicle.

One more corner – he checked the clock set in the dashboard – and then they'd have a clear path out of town, while any pursuit would be hindered by the Tuesday-morning school traffic.

"I should switch places with you," Alice commented calmly. "Let you sit next to your son – how long has it been since you've seen him?"

It occurred to Arthur to wonder if Alice found the emotion in the cab overwhelming, or if she could block it out. He shifted to take the next turn, then ground gears and floored the accelerator, eyeing the treeline as it passed too slowly – more people meant more witnesses to the direction they'd taken, too – turf-bikes were faster, could cover more ground, they didn't have time to lay a fake trail, they only needed to stay ahead…

"Years," Hunith said, her voice sounding thick and hoarse, like it wasn't often used.

Arthur could only see the corner of her jaw; she managed to remain focused on Merlin across Alice, but he was tense and silent. He tried to imagine riding in the truck cab with Alice and Merlin and his own mother…

"Just sit still," he advised. "Once we put some leagues behind us, we can stop to rearrange. Maybe a couple people would rather ride in the back? Not so crowded."

"Are you all right?" Hunith said softly to her son, as if she hadn't heard Arthur.

Arthur caught Merlin's movement in his peripheral, facing her fully for the first time. "Yeah, I'm… I'm a lot better, now."

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

His mother was one of the only people Merlin had ever read without meaning to, before he knew what he was doing. And it was a long time til he learned not to do it, except on purpose.

They'd never talked about that. He'd been just a kid, without the words or the understanding… or the training.

"Are you all right?" He turned the question back on her, the moment he deployed the latch securing the two of them in the back of the truck.

Unseen in the driver's seat, Arthur stepped on the acceleration, and Merlin swayed with the truck's movement. Bottles clinked and boxes shifted, incongruously cheerful colors and shapes intended for corner groceries, children with after-school pocket money and grown-up nephews sent to pick up extras for dinner.

"I mean – if you're hungry?" he added, gesturing at the snack options around them, and had to grab the edge of a fixed-shelf to keep balance. "Or if you're tired, you could use one of the packs for a pillow…"

"No, I'm fine," his mother said. And she was, that was what hurt. She had nothing but a change of clothes and personal items and a book of poetry in her shoulder-bag - nothing. Except him, with fifteen years between them, and imprisonment. But she was fine, she was content, with just him.

It was his fault she had next to nothing. His fault for being psychic, for resisting his training – for being such an abysmally poor scout that he'd connected to his enemies and quit his mission to come for her instead and now they might be killed, and she'd find out…

"Why don't you come sit?" she said, when another patch of rough road threatened his balance again. "We won't have to shout to hear each other…"

It was noisy in the back of the truck. The engine – the tires – the road. The lighting was dim, and extremely yellow, too.

He made his way to her at the end of the aisle, down the middle, flanked by shelves of boxes and crates. "Arthur thinks we can make the coast by noon," he said. "He's got a boat waiting…"

If it hadn't been discovered. Merlin knew it hadn't, but he felt uncomfortable telling Arthur that. Unless he was asked.

Bracing himself, he let his legs collapse down into sitting; she watched him, wearing a smile he remembered – and suddenly realized meant she knew more or guessed more about him than he thought.

"Are you hungry?" she said, reaching to put fingertips lightly on his knee. The floor-tread was gritty beneath them, and he regretted that for her sake.

"No – we ate at Alice's."

"And you slept all right?"

He couldn't hold her eyes. "I… didn't escape, from the Institute. Camelot's scouts didn't… come rescue me."

Her hand slid further, gripping his kneecap, but she didn't say anything.

"They sent me. They said, infiltrate Camelot – so I did. I made friends, and they trusted me, and I told Essetir things about them."

Tears and love shone in her eyes and he was sure she didn't understand, that it was all his fault and he didn't deserve her looking at him like that, and she really was going to be better off without him, once she was good and free of Essetir.

"I'm not a good person," he said to her. The interior lights of the truck's cargo box flickered around them and the tires trundled under them and he was trembling. "I'm not a good friend, I'm not a good son. I didn't… I wasn't serving my country like Alice or Arthur, I wasn't helping the people who helped me…"

"I'm sorry," she said, leaning forward to cup his jaw in her hand, and it was so astonishing he forgot to pull away. "It was because of me, wasn't it? When they came last year and took me to that place and kept me in that apartment – that was when they forced you into service, wasn't it? And you came for me now because you can't do it anymore?"

"I-" he said, and couldn't tell her no. "It's not your fault, Mama…" Or should he say Mother, now that he was grown? Or Mum?

"I should've told them no," she said, and then blinked tears down her thin face, dirty-sallow in the yellow-tinted light. "When they first came to tell me how very special you were, I should've told them no, I should've known their promises of education and provision and privilege-"

He could hear the echo of the Man's choice of words, and knew it for a phrase she'd repeated to herself for comfort and reassurance, over the years.

"Too good to be true," she whispered. Her hand was trembling on his cheek, and he covered it with his own.

"They would have taken me anyway," he told her.

She searched his eyes for a moment, and he let her take her hand back. "But Camelot let you come for me."

"Not exactly. I said that if they rescued you, I'd turn myself in." For real this time… "Probably they'll keep me under lock and key for years-"

Back and forth from a cell to an interrogation room, but maybe they would let him keep books. He'd read Charles Gates novels and maybe check that Arthur was still alive, sometimes. Maybe there would be a window in his room.

"But you'll be free. I'm sure they'll let you go where you want and do what you want…" Take a vow of citizenship and get an ID and find a job… make new friends to go out with… see a high school play and get a cat, and-

"What does any of that mean to me without you?" she said gently.

"You could teach," he said, a bit desperately, "or be a nurse, you can stay friends with Alice… They won't lock you up, in Camelot, to make me cooperate because I'll already be doing that."

"Oh, Merlin," she said, and her tone made his heart ache.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

"Have you done so much damage?" she added, pleading. "Maybe, if I explained – Alice seems kind, I'm sure if I explained why you had to-"

"They know," he said. "Mum – they know, already. I'm lucky they-" Rephrase that for honesty's sake. "I'm lucky he listened to me and agreed to bring you. More than that…"

His mother set her jaw, a thought-wrinkle forming between her eyes. "Maybe if I talk to Arthur and explain-"

"No," he said immediately. Because Arthur would surely suspect that Merlin had suggested it, and the expression on his face when Merlin had said my mother had been heartbreaking. Of all the scouts to have met and befriended and betrayed, it had to be Ygraine Pendragon's son. "Don't do that. Arthur's the one I convinced to speak for me when they first took me in, at Camelot. He won't…"

He won't speak for me again. He can't, really, can he? He can't risk it. They wouldn't believe him anyway… And maybe Arthur's doubt in himself was beside the point, if he was going to be demoted, or removed from Psych Ops entirely…

Bloody hells, I did it all wrong, didn't I? Should've sat in that freezing garden shed and told him.

He scrubbed his hands over his face and realized that the rocking of his body wasn't wholly due to the movement of the truck.

She reached around his shoulders, bending forward to draw him in, and he rested his forehead in the crook of her neck, inhaling an almost-sob. Hadn't realized he missed this so much, and so deeply, and he clung to her as she smoothed her hand down the hair on the back of his head; her own breathing was uneven.

"We'll figure it out," she told him, sounding close to tears, herself.

So he didn't say, How? He didn't say, What will we do? He didn't say, Tell me how to fix it, because I can't see a way…

"We'll figure it out," she repeated, and he did his best to trust.

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

Arthur was aware that the local law enforcement would have been alerted when the driver of the truck first realized it wasn't idling at the back door of the grocery where he left it. He hoped that any search or investigation would be thrown off by the fact that he wasn't stealing it for his own profit but for this particular use. No one would expect this detour.

If they were lucky, the military and local law enforcement would get in each other's way and slow each other down. Two minutes and they'd be out of town. Heading for the coast, which meant outside reinforcements would have further to go, chasing them, and not be able to flank or ambush them. If not – well, there was always the handgun on the bench seat beside him.

"You know, I can tell how you feel about him," Alice said conversationally, watching out the windows from the far passenger seat with the interest of a tourist.

"Alice," he growled, irritated.

"And-" she paused deliberately for effect, knowing that he knew what she was doing. "I know how he feels about you."

"I'm aware that we can't keep our feelings to ourselves around you," Arthur told her. Nerves tense down his spine, eyes resting nowhere long, trying to focus on their route plus contingencies. "Maybe you should do the same, while we're in the middle of this."

She cleared her throat but didn't say anything further, and he had a sudden regret – long cover, which he hated for reasons. Meant no friends to let get close to the truth… meant loneliness, maybe. She knew the feelings of those around her, but maybe there wasn't anyone with whom she could share hers.

"You okay?" he ventured, checking his mirrors again. Checking the gas gauge reflexively.

"I'm fine," she returned tartly. "Never worry for me."

He almost said, I'm not. Instead, "Did you know? Or did you guess, maybe? Your assignment was coming to an end?"

Silence. Jouncing. Engine effort.

"I figured they'd use him, sooner or later," she said. "Maybe sending him, maybe keeping him under close watch – but in that case, I figured we'd move against him decisively. Long cover doesn't mean forever, after all."

"So you're eager to get back to Camelot," he said. "Back home? Friends, and family?"

"Not really," she hedged.

He watched the last of Drysell's buildings disappear from peripheral, behind them.

"Gaius," she added, still hesitating. "Was a new Director when I left – how is he to work for? My contact was limited to dead-drops, no in-person…"

"He's fabulous," Arthur said, honestly but grinning. "And by that I mean, terrifying. Inspiring, demanding. He's usually at least three steps ahead of me. I wouldn't take that job for love or money, but…"

She hadn't looked at him. Smiles flitted, more than once, but-

"Hey," he said to her. "This fiasco is all on me. Not you, and not Gaius. I made the call to bring Essetir's psychic to Camelot, I vouched for him, I included him, I was going to…"

I was going to partner him. Missions when I could say to someone I trusted, this is what I need, when we're scouting a mark.

"Yeah," she said. "I know. I remember partnership."

"Partnership is overrated," he said immediately – and just as swiftly regretted it, thinking of Gwen. She'd been amazing in Aravia and indispensable in Ealdor. "Anyway," he added tightly, "You'll get time off now, right? Fifteen years worth of accrued leave? You can go to the seaside."

"Isn't that where we're headed now?" she returned, her tone accepting the olive branch.

He snorted, remembering the close-forested little inlet where he'd left the Wrapter. "It's shore, at least."

"Where, exactly?" she asked, businesslike again.

He answered with the understanding that she knew her maps, and watched her check the side mirrors, too.

"They'll be following," she said.

"I figure."

"I doubt they have time to get ahead of us for roadblocks," she went on. "But we can't take this thing to the water's edge. We'll have the hike the last little bit-"

"Less than two hours," he said.

"Taking Hunith's condition into consideration?" she checked, and he nodded.

Jouncing brown-and-green blurring in those mirrors. No turf-bikes yet, though he'd send them first, to locate and track a mark in a stolen delivery truck.

"This road out of Drysell makes the coast our most likely aim," she offered, thinking aloud. "You plan depends entirely on timing, and whether we have enough of it to stay one step ahead."

"You have another idea?"

She hadn't argued the night before, when they were outlining getaway plans. But she was probably more familiar with the territory and Essetir's possible responses. If she had second thoughts, he needed to know.

"Hiding the truck will take time," she said. "And once they find it, they'll know we're on foot. Did you consider driving around to Bollport? We could hide the truck there like a needle in a stack of needles, and steal a different boat to take down the Humboldt and then southeast along the coast?"

He shook his head slowly, resisting. "Also takes more time. And there are more opportunities for things to go wrong. I'd rather go straight and fast."

"We have a psychic to smooth things for us in Bollport," she said.

Back to that, are we? He navigated a steep hill and a sharpish curve before he responded, doing her the courtesy of considering her suggestion without undue prejudice.

It was true that hiding the truck would waste time. And ditching it where they left the road would be a neon arrow pointing after them. And Hunith might move more slowly and tire more quickly than he anticipated – or someone could take a fall or twist an ankle, hiking rough forest. And the Wrapter wasn't as fast as some of the military watercraft they could potentially call on. If he'd been alone, he'd have left the truck in Flint and hoofed it on from there, leaving pursuit to try to deduce his direction.

He snorted softly to himself, acknowledging the irony of flip-flopping his thinking from pursuer to pursued, in a matter of hours.

"What do you think?" she said.

"Let's get through Flint before we decide," he answered.