2.15 What They Resolved
Vague dim dizziness, unalarming and official and safe…
A small cylinder was tucked into his hand, and his thumb found the button-shape on one end. Meramine, he was told. Whenever you feel you need it, push the button. The machine will still regulate how much you receive and how often…
He squeezed the button.
And then again.
Drifted, and remembered the button, and squeezed. And just in case he hadn't squeezed hard enough – or maybe that he'd slept in the meantime without knowing it, time for another round – squeezed it again.
The small cylinder was extracted from his hand. Let us know when you're in pain, and we'll administer an injection through your IV line.
Too damn bad…
"Hey, Arthur, we're back. Scooped up Merlin and the women, no problem. You should have seen him, though, he was three sheets to the wind. Funnier than Tequila Tuesday at the Sunrise…"
"Glad you made it out of surgery. I told them I was a universal donor if they needed blood…"
"You look like hell, Arthur…"
"Better than usual, then?" Snicker, snicker…
Pressure on his hand that was warm and affectionate. Some part of him recognized the voices and relaxed even more deeply, even as the words drifted away.
Oxygen was cold, and smelled faintly metallic. Arthur inhaled, and the world swirled, resolving to beige and cream – monitors with moving colored lines, and an occupied chair next to him. It made sense to him to say it out loud–
"I might love you…"
Gaius sat forward into the light, lifting one eyebrow. "Indeed?"
Oh. No, not you… Not that he didn't love Gaius, he just didn't. Love Gaius.
"If you can remain coherent, we can have this conversation," the Director said mildly." "Otherwise I will resign myself to waiting until you wake again."
"Yes, sir," Arthur said automatically – then checked himself. Which part of that was he…
Blinked, and the man looming over him was a young bearded fellow in scrubs, checking the monitor, fiddling around the collar of whatever Arthur was wearing. He noticed something about Arthur's expression, and grinned.
"Morning," he said, like it was a joke.
Was it? morning? or a joke? Arthur said conversationally, "I can't feel my legs."
"Your luck holds, then," the fellow responded. "You've got seventy-two sutures to close that puncture wound in your lower leg and two-thirds of those are buried, holding all the bits of you together in there. Severe bruising of the tibia, no fracturing – we'll use some cooling treatments to reduce swelling while you're here, and when you leave we'll put you in a temporary splint because the injury was close to the knee."
Stitches… splint. Huh.
A dark green blanket covered his body, wrinkled like it had been disturbed around his right leg – which was twice the size of the other. Might be a pillow under it. Bandages, maybe.
His arms, though, draped over his middle, were swathed in gauze to his elbows. "What happened here, then?"
"Multiple abrasions," the fellow told him, incongruously cheerful, but his mood made Arthur want to grin back. Abrasions were humorous, yeah? "Few more stitches, here and there. Contusions up and down your side, you'll notice later when you get up to use the lavatory. Have you ever cracked a rib before? Those ribs down that side might hurt like that, but they're intact, no worries."
Had he ever cracked a rib before? Probably, right?
"Can you tell me what happened?" the fellow continued, a bit more carefully. "Do you remember?"
Contusions, abrasions… Arthur sighed, letting his head relax against the pillow behind it.
"Not my first explosion," he told the fellow, who snorted like that was another joke. "The boat – the water… yeah, I remember." Then a thought struck him and he lifted one hand, ignoring the wincing pull of shallow-torn skin under the wrapping. "None on my face, though, right?"
"Well-" the fellow began.
"It sounds to me like he's regaining some clarity, and lasting consciousness," Gaius said from an unnoticed position by the window, though Arthur found himself unsurprised. It was a big room, lots of shadows. Come, and welcome.
"Once they start worrying about how they look…" The nurse grinned at Gaius, and let himself out the door. "I think you'll get a few words with him this time before he's calling me back in for another shot of the good stuff."
It was awkward lying nearly prone under a blanket with no real clothes on, and his boss in the room for debriefing. The angle was uncomfortable, all his weight was on the backs of his hips, and it felt like he was slipping down through the fabric covering him.
He tried to push himself higher on the bent plane of the bed, and a twinge of vicious pain told him, huh uh. Blood swirled around the inside of his skull and drained down the back of his neck; he swallowed convulsively and thought, This is the best I got, and the Old Man better be damn grateful there's even this much.
"What's the damage?" he managed aloud.
Gaius stepped to the side of the bed, studying the monitors and equipment. "Partial severance of your tibialis anterior muscle near the proximal extremity of the bone, for the most part. The deep fibular nerve might have been affected, and we shall have to wait to see how the recovery of your foot dorsiflexion might progress."
Bloody hells. Nerves and bloody foot dorsi-what-now and wait and see sounded worse than stitches and a splint.
"No direct exposure to water til the epidermis closes and begins to heal. No weight-bearing for six weeks. Gentle therapy can begin after that – you might require a second surgery for scar tissue reduction, and Arthur… for this deep and severe an injury, it will be very difficult to return you to your previous strength and flexibility."
He'd had a minute of physical therapy for previous injuries – mostly at-home instructions for stretches and exercises - but… What time of year was it? How long til he might be cleared for fieldwork again?
"Very difficult is what I do best," he told Gaius lightly.
One eyebrow lifted higher than the other, but Gaius changed the subject as if he accepted that conclusion also. "Who knows that Merlin came to Camelot on mission for Essetir?"
Arthur was only briefly grateful for the redirect. Blinking, he tried to reorganize his thoughts – like a locker check at school, or surprise inspection of his barracks room… with Gwen watching. Or Gaius himself.
"His handlers," he said. "His contact…" Mentally he followed the chain of information. "Me, then you… and Alice. Hunith."
"Not agents Oldham or Percival?" Gaius checked.
Arthur reviewed his memories of that morning – how many days ago was it? – and the few things he'd told his friends before leaving the estate. Merlin left, I'm going after him…
"No," he decided. "Why?" There was something he wasn't quite grasping, something he'd glimpsed or guessed, but it was slipping, now.
Gaius leaned, squinting at something on the monitor. "In the beginning," he said. "When we first began to watch. When Captain Lancelot's night-flyer was sent to record Fort Araun. Do you recall what I said?"
"You said you saw a gifted child tortured by our enemies." It was a phrase Arthur didn't think he'd ever forget – no matter how much he might want to, after Merlin's betrayal.
Gaius slid his eyes over to Arthur without moving otherwise. "It was the first step toward destroying the asset, his usefulness to Essetir… or appropriating him."
"Yes, but…" Arthur felt a little stupid for not following. They're already basically appropriated Merlin, hadn't they? He'd promised to cooperate if they rescued his mother…
"I have direct oversight of his contact Nimueh, and as far as his handlers are concerned, he might as well have genuinely defected months ago," Gaius declared, quietly but significantly. "After the events of this weekend, they cannot help being convinced that their plan to spy upon us through him did indeed backfire on them. And I'm told that his primary handler was aboard the Interceptor, and did not survive."
Flash of memory. One that felt like he was seeing it for the first time. Interceptor, grande calibre weapons aimed, wake curling white and violent from the bow, bearing down – like he wanted, like he intended – dive deep before… Fire ripped through the world, heat slammed into him, light blinded and burned and unmade the vessel and the men… and then hit the Wrapter.
"Bloody hells," he said slowly, replaying and examining his mind's recording. "I didn't tell him to do that. I only thought, our boat – and if the Essetirians assumed we were dead…"
Another memory overlaid the inferno and destruction – a clinically sterile room and a wolf-faced man discussing sedation and isolation for a frustrated kid.
"As far as Camelot is concerned, there is no reason to question his defection," Gaius said, almost gently. "Those who know better have no reason to want to see Merlin punished the rest of his life. His only reason for following their orders is gone, and it is a relief to him. And he has some very compelling reasons to want to follow our orders."
Arthur's mind crawled through the imagery of a gray corridor lined with prison cells, and came to the sunlit door at the end.
"You want him cooperating with us," he said thickly, "with his freedom."
"It is always better so," the old man observed, but there was the trace of a plea in his voice. "He is willing to cooperate nonetheless…"
"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur said, buttoning up a little. Subordinate to superior. "If you've orders for me to classify the information to the contrary and toe the line of your decision…"
"No," Gaius said simply. For a moment he looked about him, then dragged the visitor's chair closer and rested in it, slightly lower than Arthur in the bed. "You made first contact. You brought him in, you sponsored him."
Each reminder sent a twang of hurt through his chest, like an untuned guitar recklessly plucked.
"You feel betrayed," Gaius continued, "and rightly so. Therefore it is fitting that you decide. His information and his exertion for Camelot will be trustworthy, whether he is kept guarded, under lock and key, or… not. You must decide whether he should be given a second chance with freedom. To prove his loyalty when he has a choice."
Arthur stared at him.
It would be so much easier for him if Gaius were to decide, and inform him what the expectations were for the future. He could shrug his shoulders over the psychic's lifelong incarceration or he could grit his teeth at the decision to allow freedom, mentally consigning consequences and responsibility to someone else's account. Nothing to do with me anymore, whatever he does, if he's true or if he's not…
Bloody hells, though, now it would all be on him. The choice – the judgement – a man's life and future and freedom. And if he was wrong, as he'd been wrong before…
"Damn you," he said to Gaius.
A smile threatened the old man's wrinkles. "Quite. However, you need not rush the decision. His mother is being cared for and he is temporarily housed in one of the barracks guest-rooms here. The other scouts are back to Fort Fuller and you'll be given the choice in a day or so if you want to be transferred to our facilities or remain here."
All the scouts had returned to Fuller?
"Transferred, please," he said.
Another quirk of amusement. "That was an easy one," the old man commented. He leaned forward to pat Arthur's bandaged forearm gently, rising from his chair as he did so. "I have every confidence in your ability to make the best decision. Rest up – I will remain to make the transfer trip with you at the earliest convenience."
Rest up… Hells, Arthur was sure he was never going to be able to sleep ag…
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Visiting hours began at 8:00 am. Gwen was at the naval base hospital main entrance at ten-til, getting directions to post-op patient rooms. Maybe, if she was lucky, she could catch one of the nurses to chat about his condition.
Room 104.
"It's been a quiet night?" Gwen said casually to the attendant on duty at the nurses' station - blonde wisps falling out of a ponytail, a roll of pale eyes.
"So far… knock on wood."
Gwen shared a smirk with her over the superstition – but then at least she knew Arthur hadn't had any emergency scares after surgery. He'd blinked at them languidly when Leon and Percival had shown up to report that Merlin and his two female companions were safely in custody, but she couldn't be sure of any comfortable degree of recognition in those brief moments.
You stay, Leon had told her, and Percival nodded. We'll return to Fuller and take care of whatever needs it.
"Room One-oh-four?" Gwen said to the desk attendant, by way of asking permission as she rounded the curve of the high counter.
"They're in with him, I think," the girl said vaguely, back to her paperwork.
Gwen slowed, uncertain what was meant by that, and decided to wait on one of the corridor chairs, contoured yellow plastic.
The comm-block connection at the desk chimed an incoming contact, and the attendant answered unintelligibly. Distant noise of serene machinery, someone's shoes squeaking on the linoleum, around the corner and out of sight.
The door opened, and she tensed to rise at the sight of the bearded nurse in dark-blue scrubs.
"I think you'll get a few words with him this time before he's calling me back in for another shot of the good stuff," he was saying to someone in the room. Grinning, relaxed, and shut the door.
At least he wasn't hitting the panic button to call for a rapid-response emergency team.
"Oh, hey," he said to Gwen cheerfully. "Are you here for-" He jerked his thumb at the closed door.
"Yeah," she said, deciding not to get up yet. "How is he?"
"Undecided," the nurse told her, making it a joke. "Are you his girlfriend?"
"No," she said immediately – and then realized that such a claim might gain her more accurate information… right up until someone said girlfriend to Pendragon, which would be highly embarrassing. "He's in my squad."
"Uh-huh," the nurse said, like he was agreeing to be convinced. "Well, I think it's your Director in with him now…"
Debriefing? So soon? She reconsidered her reaction – yeah, given the givens of the circumstances, Gaius would need to know how to report on what happened. Dead enemy combatants recovered in neutral territory would rise to the attention of the highest levels… Which included Uther Pendragon, coincidentally enough. She wouldn't have been surprised to hear that the Old Man spent the night in Arthur's room…
"He can be pretty sullen and uncooperative when he's in pain," she tested.
That wasn't her experience with Arthur. But she could not shake the déjà vu that warned her, he'd be angry-injured, shocked by the damage, by the necessary and emergency changes to his life, short-term and long-term. He'd yell at her to get out and throw things and rage at the unfairness of a mission gone wrong…
That would break her heart. And she wasn't even dating this one.
"Sullen? nah," the nurse disagreed. "He's on the strong stuff, so I guess he isn't feeling the pain yet, but he was super-casual about the accident and his injuries – about which I cannot be specific, if you're not family or fiancée."
"Neither," Gwen said, smiling. First girlfriend, and now fiancée? But super-casual sounded like Pendragon dealing with strangers. Would he let her come in? Would he let her see him, or would he smile and reject?
She probably deserved that.
"The surgeon might poke her head in to check on him a little later after breakfast," the nurse told her. "Or I'll be around if you have any questions I can answer?"
"Thanks," Gwen said, relaxing back into the shaped plastic of the chair.
He nodded and strode to the station-desk. Around the corner, out of sight; she could hear him begin a conversation with the attendant.
Gwen fisted her hands and jammed them under her armpits. Helluva couple of weeks. Forget the spa day – she needed a tropical vacation. Somewhere she could lay in a hammock for hours at a time and drink cocktails made by someone else and brought to her on a tray. Read trashy romance novels and nap, and go inside for an unscheduled mani-pedi. Water therapy. Jungle tour by tram. Dancing that was meant to be watched, not participated in… She released her fists to press her fingertips into her eyes, and moments later heard the latch of the patient-room disengage.
Gaius, wearing a gray suit and waistcoat at this hour of the morning even after a night like last night, let himself out of the room leaving the door half-ajar. He didn't look surprised to see her.
"Thompson," he greeted her.
She felt the need to justify her presence, since the others had returned to report in at Fort Fuller. Mission accomplished. "I'm still on leave?"
He nodded, accepting her reasoning. "If you'd like a few days' extension after this interruption, you may have it and welcome."
She shifted past him where she could see inside the room to the patient on the high narrow bed. One leg twice the size of the other under a dark-green blanket. Head of the bed tilted upward, thin pillow – his head turned inattentively toward the window. She couldn't tell if he might be asleep or not.
"Is he staying, or going back to Fuller?" she asked.
"He requested to be transferred back. Today or tomorrow, I'm assuming." Gaius watched her watch Arthur, and he probably knew she wished she was closer. "Medical leave for two months. Then reduced duty for another six, at least. Then when he's medically cleared for duty, I will re-evaluate him before even beginning to consider a field assignment."
Good. That might give her close to a year before she had to decide what changes might be necessary in her own life and career. Because she couldn't go on a mission with him again – not in the foreseeable future. She was undeniably compromised. And if… if there might be something more that developed – well, she'd transfer rather than risk losing anything she had with him.
I'm not going to scout the rest of my life anyway. I certainly don't want to die doing it – though I know he would, if it came to it. I could see him taking Gaius' job in another twenty years… though he'd hate the idea, now.
"I think I'll stay the week with my brother," Gwen told Gaius. That would give Arthur time for an initial recovery, and adjustment to temporary physical restrictions and reduced ability. "But I'd like to see him before you return to Fuller?"
Gaius shifted to allow her free access to the room. "I want to speak to the surgeon if she comes while I'm away," he told her. "They know that at the desk, too. I expect he'll have other visitors today…"
A bit of a warning? Heads-up, don't expect too much privacy?
"Yes, sir," she said. "They were talking breakfast before too long, also."
Gaius made a pleased-interested noise, and moved away toward the elevators. Gwen returned her attention to the hospital bed and its occupant, slipping further into the room.
His blond hair was grimy-messy, dried after a soaking with seawater. Bruising spread more visibly this morning, and his skin color seemed to be trying to blend with the gauze wrapping his forearms. Bleached hospital gown lying skewed on his collarbones to allow wires to snake inside, keeping up with the regular muted beeping that mimicked and monitored his heart. Slow and steady wins the race…
At least this time she wasn't searching for spring water to wash his skin and hope against infection, tie the bandages tight enough to stop the bleeding because stitches weren't happening til the end of the journey…
Young and vulnerable, asleep. And at the same time, she had not forgotten what he looked like in their one-room home in Urhavi, stripped to bathe…
She stood watching him long enough for the position to wear her out and remind her there should be a chair handy. Then he stirred, and his breathing changed – he tipped his head toward her on the pillow, and his eyes opened. He looked at her for a moment before recognition followed realization and a sleepy-unguarded grin spread sideways on his face. Her heart tripped several beats-
You're beautiful, and you smell intoxicating-
Before he also remembered, and pulled his expression into something a little more professional.
"Thompson," he said, to greet and acknowledge her, and his voice was rough. From sleep, or just from the weakness of lying nearly prone. Luv…
"Oh," she said, involuntarily taking a half-step closer. "Not today. I'm not – we're not in uniform."
"Mm," he agreed, lazy-slow with the residue of the strong stuff in his blood. "I'm not in anything at all."
Omigosh. And that thought fired all the blood in her face – You're not wearing any underwear, are you?
"'Cause," he continued, without taking special notice of what he'd actually said, or how it might have been taken, "hospital gown don't count as clothes."
Doesn't exactly count as naked, either.
"How do you feel?" she said, focusing on what his reaction might be once those painkillers wore off.
"Pissed off. Confused. It's way too early for this-"
Without intending to, she made a sound that disrupted his flow of speech and he blinked at her, frown lines forming between his brows.
"I'm sorry," she blurted. "I didn't mean to interrupt. By all means, get it out – what you're feeling…" She gestured to the mound of his right leg beneath the blankets.
"Oh, you meant my partially-severed tibialis anterior," he said, his face clearing even as she grimaced at the description. "No, it's not – it doesn't even hurt right now and anyway I've got a recovery schedule for that."
"The rest of your mission?" she assumed. "We saw the explosion, if you wanted to know-"
"No, that part went according to plan." His eyes unfocused toward the middle of the room, as if reliving – or maybe remembering Urhavi, also.
"You set your own boat to blow?" she said in blank disbelief.
He gave her a rueful grin. "Sort of."
"Then what did you-"
"Merlin." He huffed. "Gaius says…"
Pausing, he gave her a single glance that absolutely floored her – and he seemed oblivious to the effect. It was transparency, honesty – confident, reliant partnership. Like they were still in this together. She didn't dare define in what, exactly, since there wasn't really a mission… in the whole venture concerning Merlin? or more?
"Gaius says the official line can still be, Merlin defected this winter in Ealdor. Because he succeeding in extracting his mother, and he did it with our help, Essetir will have no choice but to discount any intel he gave them. So Merlin could cooperate with us from here on out… as a free man. And not as an incarcerated traitor. Which he deserves, because he is."
"Is he, though?" Gwen said, frowning. "Of course his case is unprecedented, but I'm trying to think how we handle anyone who passes information to our enemies because they're being coerced… But he took steps to end the coercion himself? and he confessed it voluntarily? and the information they got was useless, and therefore irrelevant?"
He scowled at her. "You want him to walk free unpunished, too."
Did he mean that was what Gaius intended? "You're angry about that?"
He pouted his lips for a moment also – and it was adorable; she bit her lip to keep from smiling, or petting his hair, which he wouldn't appreciate. "I'm mad that the Old Man left it up to me. He'll charge Merlin if that's what I decide – maybe a court martial, even – and put him in prison for the rest of his life. Or I guess he can cooperate like he was doing before, living in the barracks and consulting…"
"He was much better than Edwin Muirden," Gwen said encouragingly.
Arthur gave a hard sigh, letting his head fall back on the pillow. "And if he ever skips out again, if he ever figures it worth his while to sell secrets again…"
"That's no likelier than any other soldier or scout who swears allegiance," she argued. Because if Arthur stood on the offense and charges were leveled – she fully believed he would come to regret what could never be changed back.
He lifted one arm – grimacing at the discomfort – to point a finger at her. "He swore, knowing it was all a lie."
"Was it?" She studied him as he let his arm fall. Ealdor – Aravia – those were missions. His job, and he did it well. He loved it, and he loved Camelot, but this time… "Was it all a lie, Arthur? I can't believe that…"
And he didn't either, she realized, as he met her gaze and let her see him. Not quite like Merlin's psychic neighborhood, but not so very different, either. If Merlin had been like Nimueh - playing and playing, and when she was caught shrugging and smirking over how close she'd come to fooling them all entirely and successfully – maybe it would be easier for Arthur. He could decide quite swiftly not to trust, to recommend incarceration and throw away the key, and know it was right, and never second-guess.
But Merlin was not at all like Nimueh. Merlin was not a mission, and Arthur cared.
So the problem was, sifting and sorting – what was genuine, what was pretense… what was truth.
The timbre of sound from the hallway altered slightly, and Gwen – thinking of the surgeon's expected visit – stepped back toward the door and glanced out. Merlin himself had arrived, just moving slowly into view at the curve of the nurses'-station, eyes down.
Gwen shifted so he wouldn't see her until he came to the door – he was psychic, likely he knew where they were anyway – and met Arthur's eyes again. "He's here – I think he's come to visit you."
Arthur's expression smoothed into passivity, and he made a motion with his hand toward the side of the bed. She didn't understand til the bearded nurse in blue scrubs breezed past her, syringe in hand.
"Is this what you're after, then?" he asked Arthur, sounding amused. "You were due for another dose half an hour ago, I thought for sure you'd squeeze that button to call-"
"Just…" Arthur motioned to the fluids-line feeding into a vein in the back of his left hand. "Just, hit me."
Gwen cringed in sympathy, hating to think that they'd been arguing, even mildly, while he'd been hurting physically, too. "I'm sorry."
"It's not you," Arthur told her, watching the nurse insert the tip of the syringe into a side port of the tube and inject its contents, before clipping it closed again.
"Anything else?" the nurse said, rolling the syringe into a disposal box fastened to the wall. "Extra pillow or blanket? Your mug of water is there – drink it – and breakfast's on its way. And the surgeon, and your transfer orders – and maybe a bath?"
"Hell, no," Arthur said, laying his head back.
"No to the bath? Let me know on the rest," the nurse said pleasantly. His teeth flashed white in his beard as he grinned at Gwen, passing her in the doorway.
She stepped to the bedside again, watching the meramine run its course through Arthur's bloodstream – the gradual relaxation, his eyes losing intensity and his smile losing clarity.
"It isn't fair," he informed her. "For Gaius, to make me do this."
She couldn't help smiling, and reaching to straighten a lock of hair on his forehead; he didn't take any notice of her touch. "Maybe not – but I think it's wise. Then you can't resent what he chooses, either way."
"I resent," he claimed. "And… I shouldn't've told you that he made it my choice."
"What?" she asked, amused in spite of herself.
"You knowing, is gonna affect… what I choose. 'Cause I care what you think…"
Contrary to popular opinion about dashing, insouciant Scout Arthur Pendragon… He thought her viewpoint was important.
"I care what you think, too," she told him softly. He blinked heavily, raising his eyelids with an effort. "I know you'll do the right thing, even if it's harder. Even if it hurts more. But you don't have to do it alone."
"Mm," he agreed, giving up the struggle to keep looking at her. "Rain check."
"On what?"
He slurred something she could have sworn was, first kiss.
"Yeah," she whispered, visually tracing the bruising and scabs dotting his skin, seawater-darkened blond hair; it scared her how deeply she could care too, if she let herself. "Rain check."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
"Ask it," Alice said to Merlin. He focused, and realized she was watching him in the reflective gilt of the hospital's elevator wall. "I know you want to, and you know you want to. Just ask."
Hm… not so much. Instead he said lightly, "Are you my guard?"
She twisted to look him in the face. "What?"
He shrugged. "They put me in a guest-room on the third floor of the barracks. Straight down to a paved courtyard if I went out the window. When I opened my door this morning, there you were – with breakfast. And you came with me here…"
She sighed. "Maybe you're my guard."
His turn to be startled. Why would she need-
The floor-alarm dinged, and the elevator door trundled open – revealing Director Gaius in his habitual dark gray three-piece suit. He never looked startled, but Merlin hadn't been keeping track of whose houses were closest, and Alice made a little sound of surprise and something that might have been pleasure, or pain.
Half the red geraniums in the window boxes of her comfortable cottage were blooming expansively, and half were drooping dramatically.
"Gaius," she said, and stopped, like she didn't know what else to say.
"Welcome home, Scout Monroe," Gaius said mildly. "It was a long assignment, but very well accomplished. You are to be congratulated on your success."
"Success," Alice said. "Is that what we're calling it."
Moments passed – neither of them moved. The elevator door stayed open, and Merlin felt uncharacteristically invisible. He didn't know whether to appreciate that or not – he couldn't guess Gaius' reaction to the revelation of his betrayal, his precipitous departure and somewhat violent return.
"Twelve years is a long time," Alice added.
Merlin suddenly thought of her story of her friend and their complicated relationship, how she'd left Camelot rather than working on it, and volunteered for the assignment as an escape. You can retreat, and protect yourself… or you can risk offering to figure out something else with him.
"Not much has changed," the Director said, in the same pleasantly noncommittal tone. "But perhaps you'd like to share a cup of coffee and a comfortable chair in the lounge?"
"To debrief?" Alice asked. Breathless – hopeful – wary.
Twelve years was a very long time. Merlin felt it, and it had been less than twenty-four hours since he'd faced one who used to be his friend. In one of those rooms down the hall behind Gaius – toward the end, he thought – and he felt the same as Alice sounded.
"Certainly," Gaius said agreeably, and stepped onto the elevator.
Alice shuffled Merlin aside to make room, and he ventured to step out onto the tile of the floor. Maybe they wanted him to remain where they could keep an eye on him, and maybe that would be awkward.
"I'm just going to…" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate his intention.
"Good morning, Merlin," Gaius said, the same exact way as he'd said it a hundred times in the corridors of the battalion building. "Remain available, if you please – debrief applies to you as well."
His heart sank like a chunk of exploded engine through deep, cold water. Yeah, it did – and it wouldn't be anywhere near as pleasant as the intense hours he'd spent giving Arthur information about the pieces he'd brought back from Aravia. He hoped they still believed he'd told the truth about that, because he had – as much truth as he could possibly discover.
Arthur's door at the end of the hall was the only one that was open – and as he scuffed slowly toward it, a tall bearded nurse in dark blue scrubs appeared from another door and sailed through Arthur's.
Merlin paused, hesitating – the girl at the nurse-station desk gave him a sharp glance, but he avoided meeting her eyes and she didn't ask if she could help him. He wasn't bleeding or screaming – externally, anyway.
He rubbed damp palms down the sides of the jeans he'd worn since Alice insisted on one more load of laundry… night before last. Seemed like longer.
The nurse breezed out again, giving him a friendly-dismissive glance. As if he was perfectly within his rights to loiter in any hallway in the base hospital, instead of… well, he really wasn't sure what his status was. Loose custody? No one had placed him under arrest, that he remembered. And they would have made damn sure that he remembered.
Right in the middle of his dithering, Gwen appeared in the doorway of the room – not looking back, as if her leave-taking was done. She gave him a tired smile, wasn't at all surprised to see him, and didn't look for handcuffs or guards.
"Hey, Merlin," she said, like they'd met for breakfast in the cafeteria after night maneuvers.
"I'm sorry," he blurted.
Then surprise showed – softened to comprehension – and disappeared.
"How's your mom?" she asked, without addressing his apology.
"I don't know what you know," he said, feeling a bit off-balance by her reaction, but undeterred. "Or how much I'm supposed to say, but…"
"Don't worry about it," she told him. "I'm cleared. I know enough to say – really, don't worry about it."
"You're not mad?" he ventured. Leon and Percival didn't seem angry, but he wasn't placing any bets, either. "I mean, I didn't…" He took a breath, and held her eyes. "I didn't tell her anything about you – she wasn't interested – she underestimated you…"
Gwen's expression shifted, subtly-amused with a bit of an edge – but not at his expense. "Nimueh, you mean? Yeah, I met her… and really, Merlin. I get that you're sorry, and I can tell you mean it, so look, okay? Really look hard and deep."
Her eyes were dark and bottomless, and he was quite certain he didn't deserve more than a glimpse. Solid as a rock. Unchanged, determined – we are friends. Not were. Not could be, possibly, maybe…
She was his friend. Friends understand. Friends forgive.
"Oh," he said involuntarily.
And she stepped to him, wrapping her arms around his ribs and laying her head against the front of his shoulder. He caught the echo of a memory before he completely disconnected from her psyche – the corridor outside Lancelot's hospital room and how she'd been feeling guilty and rejected and uncertain of other friends, namely Arthur. She was just giving back what Merlin had given to her, then – something extra, something bonus, something impulsive. Unrequired by his mission for Essetir, and she knew it was therefore genuine.
She squeezed him, patted his back twice, then stepped back, still smiling. "All right? So how's your mom?"
He blinked so the tears would reabsorb without giving themselves away – and just like that, it was fine between them... No wonder Arthur loved her.
"Exhausted," he admitted. "Unhappy. I haven't seen her this morning, we haven't really talked…"
"Ah," she said wisely, and mentally tipped him a glance at a series of her own parental memories – man and woman, dark-skinned and lighter, tight-curled hair and tighter clenched fists and fast angry words and overwhelming frustration. "I hope your talk goes well."
He winced – but for his situation, not hers. Years past and old scars, there – momentarily he wondered if that was also why she was skittish, and whether Arthur knew this about her…
"I think it probably depends on what's going to be done with me," he said, sheepish. Damn how awkward he'd made everything with everyone.
"Hm," she said. "Have you seen Gaius since you've been back?"
"Yes?" he said. "Just now, by the elevator – he went to get coffee with Alice."
"Alice?"
"The long-cover scout Camelot had in Essetir keeping tabs on my training," he said, making light of it.
"Your hostess," she said, in a tone of enlightenment – and maybe Arthur had said as much to her on the phone in the corner grocery before they left Drysell. "Well, maybe I'll go introduce myself."
"Yeah," he said, shifting so she wouldn't think she had to stay and talk to him, or invite him along. "I'm going to…"
"He's just gotten a shot of meramine," she told him, with a special keen sympathy that wasn't psychic, but maybe feminine and probably also Arthur's friend. "Probably he'll sleep for a while? And he might be groggy…"
Treat him like he's drunk. Maybe we'll talk later…
Whatever she saw in his expression, she grabbed his arm and it wasn't a suggestion when she said, "Go in and sit down and wait for him. And I'll see you later."
She gave him a little push as she started down the hallway, and he could tell without looking when she glanced back over her shoulder, just before the corner. She slowed, intending to make sure he obeyed before she left the floor; he slipped through the doors so she wouldn't worry.
If he wasn't asleep, Arthur was doing a very good job pretending – mouth dropped half-open, unshaven for another day, grubby where he hadn't been antiseptically cleaned. Bandaged forearms, IV line and needle taped in place, hair a very light disheveled brown. Bruising spilled down the side of his face under a pair of butterfly bandages at the very edge of his temple.
Merlin sighed, knowing that his friend hadn't fully recovered from the injuries of the Aravian mission – then cleared his throat, and it sounded very loud. "Arthur?"
Not even a flinch. If not for the machines beeping steady comfort – and the barest movement of his chest under hospital gown and blanket… If not for the presence of the white-stone castle.
Merlin crossed to the window and propped himself up on the ledge, crossing his arms. Mind your dreams… It was an unconscious sleep. The stone walls were chinked and slightly grubby also, but Merlin was satisfied to find them in place. Better than their absence that had panicked him yesterday on the shore – and if they made Arthur feel safe, unassailable, then Merlin was content to observe the outside. He'd been shown the inside once, and it was enough.
"I'm sorry," he said again, aloud. The beeping didn't falter, so he went on. "For all of it. For what I told them – for what I didn't tell you. For making you suspect, and doubt – then, and now, and for however long… I'm sorry, I should have reacted faster. Maybe I shouldn't've changed the plan like you meant it to go, maybe it would've been better…"
"Can't do that," Arthur rasped, startling Merlin.
He leaned forward, watching the scout blink drowsily and try to lick his lips. How clear was he – speaking a disconnected thought without intention, responding to a comment remembered from hours ago like it was minutes? or even to a dream? Did he know he wasn't alone – and who was with him? Merlin held still, held his breath, and waited.
Arthur's eyes stayed open longer – and found him, briefly but with recognition. "Can't do that."
"Do what?" Merlin repeated.
There was no animosity, no defensiveness – maybe he didn't immediately remember the sequence of events that had landed them here? Merlin couldn't help feeling the difference between Arthur who said, Are you too tired for a word? and Arthur who said, Move slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.
"Second guess. Mission choices. When you debrief, you can… analyze. Learn, from… mistakes. But in the moment, you hafta accept. You made the best choice you could."
His heart was throbbing high in his chest, and his lips twisted into a smile that couldn't help hoping, even after everything. "So – no heartfelt confessions during a mission," he said softly, and managed a smile he didn't quite feel. "And no second-guessing afterward. Check."
"Mm." Arthur closed his eyes and laid so still, Merlin thought he might have gone back to sleep. But he didn't – after a moment he blinked again and eyed Merlin up and down as if waking to find him for the first time. "Why are you here?"
"I… last night, when they found us, they said you were still in surgery." Merlin stumbled over his words. "This morning…"
"This morning someone could have told you I was fine," Arthur said. His fingers grasped the fabric of the hospital blanket over his legs fretfully. "I hate this thing already. They won't let me walk on it… and therapy… and it'll be months…" His eyes dropped closed and his throat convulsed as he swallowed, and Merlin knew he was to be blamed for this also. But Arthur looked at Merlin again as if he'd already forgotten it. "Why are you here?"
"If I – if they stopped me coming, I'd've asked, how you were this morning." Merlin frowned, uncertain. "No one stopped me, so…"
"Why are you here?" Arthur enunciated each word, holding Merlin's gaze.
I don't understand what you're getting at. He tried flippancy. "Because I don't have anywhere else to be?"
Arthur slammed an abrupt fist into the lowered side rail of the bed, and his eyes blazed. "Why are you here?"
Maybe he meant Merlin to read him. Maybe he thought this was the last place Merlin should be – or maybe he wondered why Merlin was free to wander into his hospital room at all.
Here in the room? Here in Britesea instead of in one of the battalion building's dungeon cells on Fort Fuller?
Here in Camelot, rather than anywhere else.
Merlin didn't look away. Because they sent me, and I loved my mother too much to say no. Because I promised if you helped me save her, I'd surrender. Again. For real, this time.
"I did something wrong," Merlin said steadily. "I'm going to make up for it."
Arthur ducked his head slightly, and his eyes narrowed. "Too right you are," he said, dangerously quiet. "From a cell? You think you do your best work behind a table in a room with an observation window?"
Deliberate memory set alight and hurled over the castle walls to smash and blaze - On the screen, the boy inexplicably erupted, out of his chair, round the corner of the table – retreating in a scramble as two men in dark coveralls rushed him. The boy was lifted, kicking and writhing – and slumped suddenly boneless in their grip to be carried from the room, like a grotesque parody of a sleeping child, dangling limbs and lolling head. "…Problems controlling him… We'll return him to an isolated unit for a while…"
He flinched as his heart caught in his throat and his eyes blurred, but he blinked them clear. Deserved that. Took the trust of a good man, and betrayed him…
"Gaius thinks we ought to let you have yard privileges at least," Arthur said, hard and bright.
"That would be welcome," Merlin said, trying to be stoic.
"Community service," the scout said.
And all of a sudden, the whole world held its breath. The decision between stabbing and saving. If that seems like something you'd be willing to do – something you'd want to do.
I want to choose my own destiny.
"What?" Merlin said, stupidly breathless.
"No charges. No jail time. No record. As far as anyone else is concerned, your work with us has been genuine-" Arthur's voice twisted slightly dark on the word – "and this mission a double-blind secret. To apprehend your contact and release you from your coercion."
Merlin didn't understand. In a moment, Arthur would bark out a cruel laugh and call for guards – tell him it was a stupid line from Charles Gates' book 3.
"You'd train," Arthur said, in the same voice he'd used in Alice's house. Bury it in his heart – provided he has one. "They'd train you like a choker. Merciless and miserable – up at four in the morning for a ten-mile run in the rain. Every day and twice on Sundays, and that's not even Psych Ops training, that's just regular army."
"You mean I…" It hurt to hope. But Arthur wouldn't deceive him only to hurt, he wasn't like that. Merlin never meant to be like that. "You mean I could…"
"Might be easier, in the cell," Arthur said offhandedly. "Warmer, drier. They might give you books."
"No!" Merlin blurted, snatching to hold on to the buoyant exhilaration of a second chance. "No – I want the training. The army – Psych Ops, all of it. I'll show you, I'll prove it to you – that I'm sorry, I'm really, really-"
"No," Arthur said, a harsh chop of a word beheading Merlin's hope.
Merlin gulped.
"No," Arthur repeated. "You cannot join and commit because you're trying to make something up to someone. Trying to prove something to someone. Only take this offer, only do this thing if you can give yourself wholeheartedly to the mission. To Camelot. Gaius could retire – Leon could get married. Gwen could take a promotion and a desk job – Percival's got a desk job anyway. If they transfer you, you've got to do the job better than your best in your new unit, even if they think you're an Edwin Muirden. You've got to do the job because the job matters. Not anything else, not anyone else. Not yourself, not your mother."
Fathomless, unflinching blue.
You didn't mention yourself in there. Because you think you're going to die on one of these missions – because you know you could and you accept that unswervingly…
Dammit, Merlin couldn't help but respect and admire Scout Arthur Pendragon.
I did it for you, you know. I did it because of you. It was clumsy and short-lived and I needed your help anyway, but I got out, after all.
"I wrote you a letter," Merlin said.
Arthur's mouth twisted. "I read it. It's at the bottom of the sea, now."
Merlin pulled back fractionally, wondering if Arthur had gotten so angry-
"It was in my bag," the scout went on. "I should've grabbed the gun and tossed you the bag on shore, but-"
"No second guessing," Merlin's mouth said, completely independently of his brain.
Arthur grinned – a genuine, joking-with-a-friend expression that Merlin's memory snatched and stored, because it didn't happen often, and he knew it. Rare, and valuable – not to be prompted deliberately, and if Arthur gave that to him… then he would hope. And work hard. And commit wholeheartedly.
And that letter was probably already dissolved into the cold seawater.
"I can do that," Merlin said. "I can do all that. Train and work and cooperate. Whatever you need." Camelot – Gaius – you. All synonymous, now.
"We'll see," Arthur said – too casually, and that hurt, but Merlin understood it. "You're going to hate me for the offer, soon enough. You're going to hate yourself for accepting."
"Maybe," Merlin conceded. "But I thank you anyway for the chance to choose my own destiny-"
Surprise lit Arthur's eyes as if he remembered the truths Merlin had blurted in cold desperation in the pre-dawn dark in the doorway of a garden shed and the faint light of kindling burning in a coal-pail.
"And if I ever tell you I hate you," he added, "you'll know it's just the rainy early mornings and the ten-miles runs, and that I don't really mean it."
The smirk slipped off Arthur's face. "Bloody hells – therapy. I'm going to have to be right there beside you on those runs before too long, to get back into shape." He scowled deliberately and pronounced, "I hate you."
Merlin grinned, nearly perfectly content. He didn't have to be psychic to know exactly how Arthur meant that.
We're not finished, yet…
A/N: An extra-long chapter to finish off part 2! You're welcome… Also, Psych Ops is going to be on hiatus til I finish my NaNoWriMo '21 story. No idea right now how long that might be – sorry, kinda…
