Part 2: Crossing Borders

Chapter 1: Who The Psychic Reported To

The Psych Ops Battalion on Fort Fuller presided over the 4th street–Gunnery Way intersection like a castle on a hill. Merlin suspected deep dungeon levels. Sub-basement.

In any case, it meant he had to lean on the handrail for balance as he descended the concrete steps to the parking strip, twisted sideways to see past the cardboard box he carried in deference to his elderly contact from the Capital Museum.

"Have you got that all right?" Sir Geoffrey asked, already at the foot of the stairs. "Don't drop it – don't fall…"

His concerns in order of priority, Merlin thought, amused, though the old man wasn't wrong. The contents of the innocuous cardboard box were probably worth more than his life. "I got it…"

He toed the edge of the last step, thumping down in relief. Inside the box, the ancient helmet rocked palpably inside its cushioning, shifting against the equally-well-protected breastplate, both of them battered and smoothed by extreme age and river water. Sir Geoffrey's prize pieces, and Merlin wasn't sure he believed that the old man had the support of his board of directors to bring them outside the protective walls and sensors and alarms of the museum, residual things he sensed with the lightest touch.

"Next time," Sir Geoffrey said, hovering as Merlin placed the box with care upon the back seat and cargo area of the staidly reliable turf-bike he used to transport himself and his possessions to and from the museum. "Next time, I'll bring the parchments too. We'll see what you make of those, hey?"

"They're all written in Early Script though, right?" Merlin asked, stretching the shock-cord net over the box and securing the ends so it would ride safely as the old man drove the turf-bike. "I don't read that."

"Hm," Sir Geoffrey frowned. That had been a bit of a barrier with the other items he'd brought, museum pieces of Camelot's history centuries old. Merlin could read echoes of various layers – the museum where they rested to be stared at by fascinated schoolchildren, the skeptics who'd run every test imaginable to prove their authenticity. The uniquely lucky finders – the deep river currents that had caressed them for ages – the ancient users who'd thrown them to the depths. Farewell to deceased owners, tribute to a perceived deity… further back, to the days when each piece had been active in battle – though Merlin had shied away from that scrutiny, and Sir Geoffrey had been very understanding of his reticence.

Of course, it didn't do much good to listen to the echoes of men who spoke the Early tongue if he couldn't understand what they were saying.

"Perhaps if you simply repeat what you hear, and we record your voice," the old historian suggested. "Then we could translate the recordings – it would be more information than we have now, at any rate."

Rubbing damp palms down the outside of his jeans pockets, Merlin backed a step from the turf-bike as the old man lifted the safety helmet to his head.

"Recordings," he said. "Yeah…"

It wasn't like before. He had to keep telling himself that. It wasn't like the Institute – the meeting rooms here were larger, the chairs padded and able to rock and swivel comfortably. The doors weren't locked from the outside and no one came in to stare at him while Sir Geoffrey laid out his pieces and asked him questions. And when the old man said, In your own time, he genuinely meant it. Merlin was to take his time; they didn't want him overwhelmed with this project – useful but innocuous. And no one was going to jab a needle into a muscle and plunge him under helpless sedation if he refused to cooperate.

So he tried his best to cooperate.

"Have a good evening," Sir Geoffrey said courteously, seating himself upon the bike and addressing himself to the driving of it. "Enjoy your weekend – I shall contact Director Gaius to schedule our appointment times next week."

"At your service," Merlin said, smiling to make the strict truth into a mild joke. He truly enjoyed his time spent with the old historian and didn't wish a single change to his new life.

Except for… the nebulous bonds tying him to his old life. Like a spider's web of fine sticky steel.

He waved as Sir Geoffrey shifted gears and the turf-bike's motor whined a more serious intention. The old man nodded his farewell, careful and sedate, and his jacket-tails and necktie rippled in the breeze he generated, heading down 4th street toward the guarded gate of the military base.

Merlin watched him out of sight, then turned and hooked his fingers into his pockets, scuffing his way down the sidewalk in the general direction of barracks building 47. If he was lucky, it would take him an hour. Then maybe a leisurely shower and a stroll to the mess hall and he'd be a little early for dinner, but he could carry the new Charles Gates paperback Arthur had given him.

Spy novel, and it was supposed to be intense and riveting – a well-researched work of fiction showered with critical acclaim. But once upon a time Arthur had made notes in the margin that had Merlin in stitches sometimes, and drew raised eyebrows from strangers for his fits of public giggles.

The first of a series, evidently. Arthur had promised them all to Merlin in order, eventually…

Early spring sun warmed the back of Merlin's sweatshirt as he scuffed down the sidewalk past the Aviation Brigade and the Cavalry Regiment, and he fancied he could feel the heat soaking into the letters CNU on his back. Still nice to have the soft material of the hood on his neck, though; chill breezes were sneaking into the holes worn in the knees of his jeans. Left knee worse than right knee.

Buy new, Arthur had suggested.

Because Merlin was being paid now, a small stipend in addition to room and board and a money card for the Exchange and Commissary. Civilian contractor. Psychic consultant, belonging to Camelot's Psych Ops unit, but not actually enlisted – currently loaned out to the research department of Camelot's Capitol Museum, and that because Director Gaius and Sir Geoffrey were old friends, Merlin understood.

Sometimes he wondered if he was still on probation – and how long that might last.

There was only one other psychic currently stationed at Fort Fuller, and Merlin was thankful on a weekly if not daily basis that Muirden was assigned to a separate barracks entirely; that limited their accidental contact, at least.

Though his room was a tiny bed-and-desk-and-closet single, Merlin's hall- and building-mates were the newest to their post and units – recruits, or transfers – and their time and attention was mostly occupied with the various sorts of training. Classroom, fieldwork – air, land, and sea – physical conditioning and weapons skills. Large calibre, small calibre, hand-held and vehicle-mounted, explosive, incendiary, bladed. By and large they ignored him, save for casual greeting in common areas.

That was still astonishing to Merlin – that people knew he was a psychic and simply didn't care. It made it a lot easier to walk down his mental sidewalk every day with no more than a casual glance at the lit windows and facades he passed, no more than any other person might read off an individual's expression or demeanor.

Bad day, good day, in love, just dumped…

Even the senior agents with the training to shutter their mental windows or pull their curtains did so as a matter of course, and not just because they saw him coming.

Except for Muirden. Merlin fervently hoped that as another psychic, he never creeped anyone out the way Muirden seemed to. It felt like the older man was constantly sidling up behind Merlin on the mental sidewalk of his life's journey, peeking over his shoulder and slipping behind him when he tried to turn to face the man. Watching every inch of Merlin's mental self, every movement, every expression. Watching watching watching and smirking to Merlin's face because he knew Merlin could feel him doing it.

A puff of air lifted the hairs on the back of Merlin's neck, and he stopped in place.

His shadow bent toward two o'clock like he was the vertical angle of a sundial. A faint scent of spring grass wafted on the breeze, and from two points far distant he could hear the jogging cadence called by sergeants drilling troops. The soles of his boots rubbed grit on the sidewalk as he turned.

Muirden smirked at him, twenty paces behind and catching up, now that Merlin stood still.

Except his psychic probe was still sidling round behind Merlin's mind, which was disconcerting when he watched Muirden saunter up to face him.

That's rude. And creepy.

"Fancy meeting you here," Muirden commented with a sardonic lilt, tipping his head so the burn scars on the side of his face were shaded from the sun.

"Something tells me it wasn't by chance," Merlin returned dryly.

Muirden affected surprise. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You work at In-Processing," Merlin pointed out. "You live in Barracks Thirty-two, and the Exchange and Commissary are both on the other side of the post."

"The library-" Muirden said slyly.

Merlin shook his head, not letting the other man finish. "Is closed on Fridays."

Muirden shivered a careless shrug, his gaze wandering over Merlin's frame like slow spiders. "Serendipity, then."

Merlin snorted. "Why can't you just admit it? Both of us know what you're doing, and why – and both of us know that the other knows."

What he didn't know was Muirden's motivation. Whether he was scouting Merlin's perimeters mentally and actually because he was under orders to do so, or for his own amusement, or because he genuinely mistrusted Merlin as a security threat.

"And what do we know?" Muirden said, pretending confusion.

Merlin sighed and turned to stride away – but the other psychic fell in step with him, seeming oblivious to Merlin's quickened pace.

"How was your meeting with Sir Geoffrey?" he said, falsely solicitous.

Not exactly confidential, since Merlin carried the old historian's boxes in and out of the battalion building, and anyone at all on post could see them talking. Geoffrey's mind-house was a stately old mansion stuffed with books and curiosities, Merlin knew from his few glimpses, taken the first few times they worked together, just to know what he was dealing with. There was always a light on in Geoffrey's house, but always in a different room when Merlin peeped. He'd been introduced as a friend of Gaius, so he probably knew a trick or two about dealing with psychics. And their arrangement was surely as much of a test for Merlin as an opportunity – Gaius would be a fool not to quiz his old friend on Geoffrey's impressions of Merlin.

And Gaius was not a fool. Merlin never met anyone like that – someone he very much wanted to please and impress and make proud, even though he knew in the end it was impossible.

"Fine," Merlin replied noncommittally. "What have you been up to lately?"

Muirden chuckled, an evil guttural sound that said, You know better than to ask, as his psyche slipped around behind Merlin on his other side, watching watching. "They've figured you out, you know."

"That's fine," Merlin said, deliberately calm. "I'm trying to be as helpful as I can, answering questions and telling them anything they want to know. I'm grateful for all they've done for me, and I know I owe them a debt I can't repay. I didn't expect to be trusted – and to be honest with you, I don't need to be trusted. I'm not trying to… learn any secrets or maneuver for a better position in the ranks."

Muirden snorted, and Merlin paused at the crossroads corner, a thought occurring to him.

"What about you?" he said directly.

The other psychic startled, just slightly. The smirk slipped, and the eyes flashed naked intent. "Oh, me," Muirden said, trying to cover. "A psychic's life is ever about secrets, you know that."

"And you think, if you discover that I've got horrible ones," Merlin said, "they'll reward you? You'd earn more respect – and maybe get a promotion of your own? Well, I've got news for you – Gaius already knows my horrible secrets."

Some of them. The ones related to his childhood at the Institute, anyway, from before they came and said to him, Tell them you want to defect…

"What we do," Muirden said nastily, "isn't all about watching – or whatever term you use. There's so much more to it. They make a big deal about your ability – your range. But you have to see what's not there, what was there and is gone, what never was there, and never will be, what might be there someday. All of that. You have to extrapolate and analyze and theorize – and that takes experience you simply don't have."

He jerked his chin scornfully, maybe just as upset with himself for revealing too much, as he was at Merlin for provoking it.

Jealousy, then. He craved the time and attention Gaius had been giving to Merlin. And never would believe that Merlin would freely pass that regard on to Muirden to avoid it himself. In Merlin's place he would strive to ingratiate himself with his new unit; he wouldn't understand Merlin's desire to fade into the background and remain overlooked, ordinary and unremarkable.

That was his weakness. Searching out others' secrets, he still interpreted according to his own worldview, instead of trying to understand and accept differences.

"You have any reason to drop by the hospital?" Merlin asked.

The random, unconnected question jolted a little truth free. "No, why would I-"

Merlin smiled, immediately trotting off the sidewalk in the direction of the hospital complex, long sandstone buildings, horizontally striped with windows. "Good afternoon, then."

Muirden was fully capable of tagging along anyway, but possibly he'd had enough of Merlin's company for the afternoon. If that was true, it was worthwhile leaning on his jealousy in future encounters, to encourage him to leave Merlin alone.

Not that he was worried about anything Muirden might discover, even though the other psychic was the only one in Merlin's new life who even seemed suspicious of him. Gaius was cautious and habitually cagey, and Merlin had no desire to push confidences, that was stark truth. He couldn't convey back to Essetir information he didn't have.

But as he scuffed over new grass and stuffed his hands in the sweatshirt pouch-pocket against the spring nip in the breeze, he caught sight of one he was worried would discover him – the horrors that were more shameful and more recent than the games and the needles that answered the rare desperate defiance of Merlin's adolescence. You will report everything you learn about Camelot…

Arthur was out of uniform – jeans with more holes than Merlin's, canvas jacket over gray hooded sweatshirt, combat boots and mussed blond hair, and he was smoking a cicala. Pendragon's son. Whose mother had been buried before he realized she was gone.

I know I need to get out, and I know I need help. Truer than truth, and the scout had responded immediately. Not blindly, but with swift and complete commitment to his decision.

South entrance. Orthopedics and prosthetics. He noticed Merlin almost immediately, but didn't say anything as Merlin's feet kicked a slow involuntary path right up to him, instead of turning and bolting in the opposite direction. But Merlin governed his eyes, and kept them on the pavement of the sidewalk.

"I didn't know you smoked," he said, by way of greeting.

Arthur Pendragon. If he'd asserted the authority he'd claimed, as the one Merlin had technically surrendered to, Merlin was not aware of it. But he'd be surprised to know Arthur and Gaius didn't talk about him, too.

It wasn't every day he saw Arthur, but three or four times a week, usually. Sometimes just in passing that was genuine coincidence. Sometimes Arthur brought his tray to Merlin's table in the mess hall if they were there at the same time; sometimes he was there first, and waved Merlin over to join him, no matter who he was with. Sometimes he dropped by Merlin's barracks room to lean in the doorway. Just checking in, and it was totally different than Muirden's checking on. Casually – so casually it was poignant to Merlin – including him.

Arthur Pendragon seemed to know everyone on base. And though Merlin preferred the shadows of the far edges of company, Arthur included without singling him out. Everyone else relaxed and content to overlook him, but still he was never shuffled off someplace separate or other.

"I don't," Arthur said, dropping the cicala and grinding it into the sidewalk with the sole of his boot more firmly than completely necessary. "I'm… procrastinating."

Merlin looked at him, wondering, then thought suddenly, numbly – Hospital. Is something-

"No," Arthur said, reading his reaction, evidently. "I'm here the same reason you are-

Avoiding Edwin Muirden?

"I'm just… indulging in a brief moment of cowardice," the scout concluded with cynical self-deprecation.

"No you're not," Merlin said with immediate disbelief.

Arthur tipped him a look that said, Thanks for trying, but no, and angled his body to lead Merlin through the door. Inevitably the medical smells, the white tile and glass window-walls and faded cotton uniforms – no buttons, no zips, just ties – brought him back to the Institute.

"I haven't actually… been in," Merlin confided in a low voice, finding that his feet kept him closer to the back of Arthur's shoulder than he would have felt comfortable, with anyone else.

Arthur didn't seem to notice the proximity. "Me, neither. I've tried, though, twice…"

A memory came hurtling over Arthur's white-stone walls and exploded like a paint-ball in Merlin's face-

Lancelot, eyes dark and face unshaven, skin ashy under its usual rich tint, bony under the hospital-issue t-shirt, lurched up in a bed with rails to keep him safely on the mattress, gripping said rail one-handed and yelling so vehemently his throat corded, animosity and blame saturating his expression, as Gwen and an unrecognized nurse rushed between them, backing Arthur from the threshold so the door could be closed-

The patient sedated-

Merlin shuddered and missed a step, but Arthur didn't seem to notice that either.

"You've seen Gwen?" he ventured. Because outside of the battalion building where it was a rare smile and a polite, How's it going that he didn't think either of them answered with complete honesty, and the mess hall where she sat with a group of female soldiers – wave and smile and introductions, but he declined to sit with them once, and she hadn't asked again – she hadn't come to his barracks, and he didn't have the courage to enter hers.

"She doesn't talk about it. About him," Arthur clarified, yanking open a weighty metal door and ushering Merlin into a stairwell. Their boots echoed on the textured steps, and Arthur was setting a pace that didn't linger. Once he decided, he did. "Scout Thompson and I are preparing for a mission, so… we've been focused on that."

Merlin made a politely neutral noise. The part of him that wanted to behave like the friendship was genuine urged questions both interested and concerned against the backs of his teeth. But that was also the part that balked at pursuing information. Because Arthur would tell him, he knew, even though he shouldn't.

They reached the landing and Merlin was closer to the second-floor door, and when he opened it for the two of them they came out into a corridor that ran the outer edge of the building. Tinted glass from ceiling to floor, interrupted only by a handrail-

Being used at the moment by a twenty-something soldier in casual drill clothes and a bristle-short haircut. The right leg of his sweatpants rolled above his knee to show cuff-covered stump and the skeletal support apparatus of a prosthetic limb. An older man in medic's cottons accompanied him at a slow watchful walk.

And past Arthur and Merlin breezed another muscular dark-skinned soldier – in uniform, coffee mug in one hand because the other ended at his elbow, sleeve tucked neatly to expose old scars. He smiled at Merlin and didn't slow his pace.

"Which-" Merlin cleared his throat. "Which way?"

"It's this way." Arthur turned in the other direction.

Merlin followed, glad that his mind couldn't hurl memories back at people. The moment in the snow when the sniper's gun had cracked its deadly threat, far too far away to be stopped by any means. And then of course there was the nightmarish Fifteen degrees pitch that's not good I'm going down…

They turned down an adjacent hallway, dimmer for being interior and away from the natural daylight, and then Pendragon's steps faltered slightly. Merlin moved out from behind him to guess the reason-

Someone sat crouched on their heels at the base of the corridor wall, elbows tucked in, hands spread to hide the face. Merlin's eyes adjusted, and recognized the knot taming black curls just above the collar of the black Psych-Ops uniform jacket.

"Gwen?" Arthur said, concern and question in his voice as he quickened his pace to reach her, and Merlin didn't need to be psychic to know.

He lagged a bit, so she could greet Arthur first.

"Oh," she said – blankly, but with tears in her voice. Then- "Pendragon…" and she reached her elbow to the corridor hand-rail to pull herself to her feet.

"What's the matter?" Arthur demanded, hovering close but not offering to touch her. "What happened?"

She shook her head, leaning back against the wall, but glancing to the closed door beside her. A door which would be no barrier to Merlin's examination if he should wish to risk it. He didn't.

"Today was a bad day," she said, trying to keep her voice even, with a noticeable effort and limited success. She kept at it, though, which was something Arthur admired about her, too. "He's still in pain, sometimes. Phantom pain, you know."

Arthur nodded, and Merlin experienced it like a scent in the air, or the reverberation of an echo. He flexed his fingers, gripping his wrist to feel the tendons shift. All present and accounted for.

"The nurses say…" She paused for composure's sake. "He's uncooperative. Um… angry. And that makes it harder for them to fit… for him to… I, I think he's still in denial, you know? Like if he doesn't accept it, then it won't be real. It won't be… permanent."

Merlin had to consciously block the memory of that splintering, crushing pain. Before he knew he meant to, he blurted, "I could talk to him?"

Both Gwen and Arthur turned to him – her eyes limpid with unshed tears, and his jaw tight.

"I'm a psychic, not a psychiatrist," he rushed. "But I – I could maybe try to… I mean, if I…" I'm the only one who could understand, who could know exactly…

"No," Arthur said immediately, as if he could comprehend in a heartbeat the entirety of what Merlin offered. He looked at Gwen and shook his head, repeating, "No. Unless you truly think it could help Lancelot."

She reached out, and Merlin let her catch his hand. "Thank you," she said, and it was heartfelt. "And I'm sorry. I don't think it would do any good even to ask him. He-"

Gwen gave her head a little shake, but Merlin didn't need to be psychic to connect the dots.

"He blames me," he said, wishing it could be otherwise. But pain wasn't rational when seeking a target to assign blame.

"No," Arthur interrupted, his voice husky and his eyes locked on her face. "He blames me."

Out! Get him out of here! I never want to see his face again!

Gwen made a noise of contradiction, hugging her elbows more tightly, her eyes on the floor as a tear rolled over the curve of her cheek. "No," she said thickly. "He blames… all of us."

Somewhere distant and out of sight, a comm-block warbled the alert for an incoming call. Through the door just beside and behind Gwen, Merlin could feel the rhythm of Lancelot's unconscious breathing, slowed and evened with sedatives, again.

The curtains of Gwen's mind-house fluttered, and somewhere in the unseen depths of Arthur's white-stone castle, fire blazed sudden and hot.

"He can't possibly blame you," Arthur said flatly. His hands were in fists.

Gwen shrugged. "It doesn't matter, probably. I was there. I was involved. And maybe he can't… maybe it would be easier for him to… put it all behind him if I'm not…"

Arthur ached to be able to put his arms around her, and she longed to be held, and neither of them moved. And Merlin was glad to know what he could do to help them both, lifting his arms to wrap around her shoulders. Her sigh was cut short by a sob as she squeezed his ribs and leaned against him, her face against his chest turned toward Arthur.

Freedom hurt. At the Institute, he'd been disconnected, but now he knew that freedom meant discovering how it hurt when connections severed, by choice or by circumstance. And, he'd discovered to equal parts dismay and delight, sometimes connections were made without conscious intent.

He couldn't keep this up forever. Instinct said, this was just as temporary an arrangement as the Institute. What was he going to do when… and how would his inexperienced soul survive when…

"Want to get a drink?" Arthur suggested, his voice layered with words and feelings that remained inarticulate.

"With you?" Gwen said, disengaging and dabbing the corner of her eye.

"With us," Arthur said, giving Merlin the barest of glances, assuming in a way that made Merlin feel safe and comfortable, warm and wanted.

And guilty.

"I mean, not just us two," Arthur amended. "It's Friday, it'll probably be packed at the Sunrise, but Leon and Percival for sure."

Gwen looked down, thinking – but already nodding. "I've got to change…"

"You want us to-" Arthur started.

"No, I'll meet you," she answered without needing him to complete the question, when Merlin himself hadn't so much as glimpsed Arthur's intention.

Familiarity, he had discovered, sometimes came damn close to psychic – the sort of deliberate familiarity that came from caring about a person in a deep and special and lasting kind of way.

He thought about that, walking behind the two scouts as they made their way out of the hospital wing, where the sun's retreat left the air too chill for lingering salutations.

"See ya in a bit?"

"Give me about an hour."

Arthur shuffled his hands in his pockets, his shoulders lifting the hood of the sweatshirt beneath his canvas jacket up around neck and ears as he strode out, leading Merlin in the general direction of the installation's gate. "You need to detour to your barracks for a jacket?"

Merlin fell in beside him, wondering if this was really a good idea. Maybe it would be better to excuse himself and spend the evening with Charles Gates and his fictional characters. And if Arthur's feelings were hurt and he pulled back…

"No, I'm good," he said instead. "I've got layers underneath."

"Thermal underwear?" Arthur suggested with a grin. "We'll walk fast."

And of course, it was nowhere near as cold as huddling up to the scout's back at the top of a snowy mountain at midnight with only a skid-cart cover to reflect their heat back at each other.

"You got your ID?" Arthur added.

Merlin couldn't help smiling to himself, reminded also of his friend's instructions the very first time his Essetirian military identification did himself or anyone else any good. "Yep."

"Good. Dunno if they let you drink much in Essetir…"

"They didn't," Merlin told him.

Arthur didn't bother trying to hide the side of the smirk on his face as they walked. "Don't order any drinks, then," he said. "Don't pay for any, either. And don't worry, I'll look out for you."

Part of him wanted to scoff at the idea. Freedom should be independence and he should resist these connections as much as possible. Part of him marveled that it felt so natural for Arthur to assume, and Merlin to acquiesce. A deep and uncertain part of him wondered if it was psychological, for him…

"Leon and Percival," he started, to distract himself.

Arthur glanced at his face. "Have been asking me when we were going to get you to join us."

"They have not," Merlin said immediately. Both older men were reserved when he was around, nearly to the point of being wary – glancing at Arthur for nonverbal cues on how to treat Merlin, keeping deliberately to casual and impersonal topics.

Arthur gave him a longer, keener look, his step never faltering down the sidewalk. "Percival knows, too," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "He's in Records."

Which meant he probably realized, early on or just recently, that Merlin's had been fabricated for a new identity. And Leon, of course, had been there Merlin's first day in Camelot.

"So the… careful way they treat me," he said, half-thinking he shouldn't, should just keep his mouth shut, keep his foot out of it when he didn't know how to handle this sort of association. "Is that because I'm Essetirian, or because I'm psychic?"

"You're not Essetirian anymore," Arthur stated. "Citizenship, remember? Your oath?"

Damn that thing. He'd stuttered over the I swear's, wanting to mean them. Meaning them, except for… he couldn't mean them, if he deliberately betrayed.

"Anyway, it's neither," Arthur went on, lifting his head to squint. Merlin realized they could see the floodlights of the gate area, the guardhouse and the drop-barriers and the break in the ten-foot chain-link fence topped by angled lines of barbed wire that surrounded Fort Fuller. "What you picked up on is them trying too hard to be casual and not spook you."

Merlin's feet stopped functioning. But it was cold, and while Arthur noticed his pause, he didn't so much as slow.

"It's usually the other way around?" he said breathlessly, to answer Arthur's amusement at his reaction. "I spook people?"

"I mean. Psychics aren't common, but we've had a handful stationed here at one time or another. Muirden's creepy, but-" Arthur shrugged, hands still fisted in his pockets. "You're not."

And maybe neither he nor Gaius had said how very different and other Merlin was, as a psychic.

Arthur tested whether he could see his breath in the air, as they approached the exit. Two serious-faced soldiers, long rifles cuddled comfortably in the crooks of their elbows, nodded to them without speaking. They weren't the only people out and about, and probably for hours into the evening the foot traffic would be steady. Friday night, after all – and any difficulty would lie in getting back onto post. IDs tacitly sufficient, but the guards were always understandably more vigilant with the incoming than the outgoing. As long as they weren't obnoxiously drunk or rowdy in a disturbing way, they didn't need to fear arrest or temporary detention.

"I haven't been off Fort Fuller since I got here," Merlin commented, aware of the edge of the fence as they passed, the sharp points suspended on the wire above.

Arthur made a sound to indicate interest, whether he'd been aware of that fact or not, but Merlin didn't elaborate.

You will be contacted by someone who can maintain a casual relationship without raising suspicions… He wondered if this person would come onto post, seek him out to demand answers and cooperation. Eventually, he supposed. He couldn't avoid it forever – but he also couldn't help glancing about to see if anyone was noticeably loitering around the community side of the gate, as they sauntered down the approach. Nothing was built to either side of the fence for two hundred yards, for safety reasons, but he couldn't tell that anyone was waiting for him, particularly. Or taking any notice of him, particularly.

"If you're worried that maybe Essetir has gotten some scouts this side," Arthur said, a little too casually, "if you're worried about them finding you…"

Finding implied neutralizing. Like the company of soldiers had tried to do with the sniper in the mountain-crossing. If they couldn't get him back, it made sense they'd want to punish him at least, and make sure Camelot couldn't use him – against them, or at all.

That was why Camelot had sent Lancelot to begin with.

And after Merlin's mission ended, and he was back in Essetir – provided he wasn't caught and executed here…

"Don't," Arthur concluded, giving him another smirk in profile. "You're with me. No one's getting to you, tonight or at all."

Merlin's throat clogged. You're too late. When we met, you were already too late…

And whether the scout sensed anything of Merlin's reaction or not, he slowed and gave Merlin another uninterrupted look.

"That doesn't sound like you're going to let me have any fun," he said lightly, to deflect the attention.

Arthur threw back his head to let out an uninhibited shout of laughter – something Merlin had come to recognize and value as both genuine and rare. It made him smile, every time.

"Let's see if you still call it fun tomorrow morning," he said, grinning. And pointed to the tangle of neon advertising The Sunrise.

Because, he was made to understand upon his entrance, that was the traditional closing time of the establishment.

The bar was thick and hot and dim, the quality of the light somehow pink and yellow, and he paused on the threshold. Maybe smoking wasn't allowed indoors, but the smell sure drifted in through open doors and on patrons' clothing, and mixed with another smell – something with a heady tang he immediately assumed was alcohol, laced with the grease from the grill in back.

Tinny music jangled, and there was a rhythmic roll-crack!-roll from gaming-boards he could see in the back. Boots on wood-plank flooring, voices raised in laughter, in conversation. The place was pretty well packed, and for a minute he worried it would be like walking down a street where every house had doors and windows open, every inhabitant out on the lawn hollering every thought at everyone else on the block.

Arthur paused just ahead of him, half-turned to gauge his reaction and wait him out. As if he understood Merlin's hesitation was not just for shyness or unfamiliarity – though that was part of it, after all. And a not-quite-subconscious fear that no one wanted him here, after all.

He was unwelcome; he should excuse himself and retreat back to the barracks on post…

Coward.

"Okay?" Arthur called to him, shifting instinctively out of someone's way.

Merlin lifted his chin. "Fine."

Arthur gave him a sideways grin of approval that steadied him. "C'mon, I see Percival in the far corner…"

Everyone could see Percival in the far corner, Merlin expected. What would it be like to find oneself always the largest man in the room? It made him wonder why the muscular soldier had been assigned to Records. Wasn't that a waste of natural ability?

Percival and Leon were holding a booth in the back corner, circular to seat more than seemed possible at first glance. Arthur stopped a waitress wearing a tiny apron over tight jeans, a black t-shirt with the bar's Rising-Sun logo, and pink curls springing incongruously from a black cap of hair. Merlin couldn't hear what he said, but he held up fingers as he spoke, as if placing an order. The waitress gave Merlin a friendly nod before twisting away through the crowd, back to the swinging kitchen door tucked nearly behind the far end of the bar.

Arthur flicked his fingers as invitation for Merlin to continue following, and they traded greetings as they slid into the booth seats with Leon and Percival. Hey – how're you – have a good day? – can't complain – I heard you got a mission – can't talk about that, you know…

"How's Lancelot?" Leon said, more seriously, enunciating so he didn't have to shout over the noise.

Arthur shook his head and shrugged at the same time; Merlin self-consciously avoided Leon's gaze.

"That bad, huh?" Percival commented.

"Gwen's coming," Arthur said, like that was a partial answer at least, twisting on the bench seat and lifting himself up to look back toward the door.

"Good," Leon said to Merlin. "She needs this."

"How about you, then?" Percival called out.

I need this?

But the big soldier wasn't finished. "You been managing to avoid Edwin Muirden?"

Merlin couldn't help an immediate, involuntary grimace – and both other men grinned. We get it; he's creepy, you're not.

"She said give her an hour," Arthur said, settling back into place as the pink-curled waitress arrived beside their table, tray loaded with dishes, and four opened bottles of beer flanked by sweating glasses of ice water huddled in the middle.

"Yes!" Percival approved, rubbing hands together as she unloaded chicken wings smothered in a crunchy-saucy orange, side of celery sticks, potatoes halved and piled with toasted cheese, bacon and green onions, basket of chips and a rich mottled green-and-cream dip.

"To the weekend," Leon suggested, picking his beer up by the neck with his first three fingers.

"Hear, hear," Percival said, clinking his bottle against Leon's before drinking. Arthur did the same and Merlin copied him.

"Here's what you do," Arthur said, leaning close to speak to him privately. "Keep eating, but don't stuff yourself. Drink at least half as much water as you do beer. And if the room tips and doesn't stop, let me know 'cause that means it's time to go home." His grin invited Merlin to laugh rather than feel embarrassed or naïve.

The beer wasn't good, exactly, but he did like the way the heat spread from his belly outward, down his throat and across his face. They stripped down to t-shirts, and Merlin tied his sweatshirt around his waist so as not to lose it. They made free to eat from communal plates with their fingers, and each story was funnier than the one before. Merlin made Percival snort beer from his nose and nearly had Leon falling on the floor when he imitated the look on Arthur's face when they first met – the exact circumstances of which were still confidential, but understood.

Gwen arrived, diverting Arthur's attention. Her hair was down and curly – her makeup subtly enhanced from what Merlin had seen her wear before, her clothes tighter, her heels higher. She had – or found along the way from the door? he wasn't sure – two friends with her, and somehow they all tucked into the booth together, with Merlin and Leon stepping out to make space and retain the end seats. Gwen between Arthur and Merlin, the other two – Jennifer and Becca – between Percival and Leon.

The waitress brought another order of chips and chicken wings, fried pickles, and beers all around. And somehow the girls' presence, good-natured and contributively humorous, made the stories that much more hilarious.

And the room didn't tip exactly, but swirled just a little at the edges when he turned his head, and it felt good to relax and let himself sprawl a bit and handle the beer bottle more than he swallowed – third, or fourth? – and just watch the others. Perpetual smile to see them enjoying themselves, and no one avoided looking at him. The girls smiled back and Gwen nudged and leaned on him even though she was focused on Arthur, and he reached past her to flick Merlin's shoulder in a comradely way.

Hello, Merlin.

He turned his head to see her at the bar, lounging on a stool with one long leg stretched down to the floor before he realized – no one else here knew his name, and… she hadn't spoken out loud.

Dark hair in a hundred sleek braids like mythic Medusa, lips an impossibly perfect red smirking at him, eyes deep with ancient knowledge. Skin tight electric blue sleeveless shirt, short fluffy black skirt. Elbows hanging off the bar, nails as red as her lips. As red as the strappy stilettos.

I've been waiting for you for a long time, she added. Her eyes knew that he knew what she meant, and a plumb line of ice dropped right down his middle. She cocked her head. Don't make me wait any longer.

He watched her push upright and sway past their booth, around the corner to a darker, smokier corridor leading to the bathrooms.

Merlin's neck creaked as he glanced around the table a bit desperately, looking for an excuse… Coward. And no one was paying him any attention. He leaned into Gwen's cascade of curls and murmured, "S'cuse me…"

She shrugged, snickering at something Arthur had said, and Merlin slipped from the booth.

Probably the strange psychic woman had timed her address perfectly to come at a moment of distraction for the rest of his table. He paused at the hall to look back – none of them seemed to notice that he was gone.

At the end of the hall, past the two doors marked for patrons' use, was a rear exit, held ajar by a hand with red nails.

Merlin felt the metal-mesh door-shield bite into his palm as he pushed it further open; she leaned against the exterior brick just next to the door like she'd leaned on the bar, and he gave her a wide berth, facing her from the middle of the alley that separated the Sunrise from whatever building was behind it. He let go of the door and she didn't catch it, smirking at him.

He noticed there wasn't a handle on this side of the door. Have to go all the way around to get back inside – and then answer questions if anyone at the table noticed his detour.

"So you're Merlin," she said aloud, sounding fascinated and patronizing at once. "The prodigy. Inside Camelot's Fort Fuller and Psych Ops so deep you found a Pendragon's pocket."

"And you are?" he said. Goosebumps lifted atop each other all up his arms, but he left his sweatshirt tied at his waist. The cold helped to clear his head.

She smiled, her eyes narrowing. "Don't you already know?"

He didn't want to so much as glance at her mind-house. He had the idea it was more like a spider's web – a sticky trap for the unwary.

"You can call me Nimueh," she added, her lips looking completely satisfied to have him decline the psychic offer. "You give me what you've got, and I send it on to Cenred."

Report.

"I haven't got anything," he tried, testing.

"Bullshit," she said. "I've been at this a lot longer than you have, pretty boy. I can get what I need – it might take longer and hurt more-" her eyes brightened – "but I can."

He didn't echo her coarse statement of disbelief, but he doubted. He could immediately retreat into a labyrinth of his own and it might take her years to find anything relevant, or true. But, on second thought, if she reported that he refused…

"They've been careful, and suspicious," he said. "Asking me every question in triplicate – I've had to give them everything He expected."

"No more?" she checked.

He shook his head, not taking his eyes from her. "They gave me an ID and an allowance, and they have me working with a contact from the museum, researching artifacts. That's it. Oh, and there's another psychic who keeps tabs on me."

"Muirden?" she guessed, with a mocking laugh. "If you're half as good as I've heard, he won't be a problem for you."

Well, damn.

"But you're not giving me everything," she said, straightened and stepping forward to touch one fingertip to his breastbone, nail a sharp curve through his t-shirt.

"What do you mean," he said. "I haven't seen Gaius more than a handful of times for a few moments." Though he was certain the canny old man was watching him through the mirror-window of the interrogation room – so much like the Institute it was eerily familiar - a goodly amount of the time.

"We'll wait for Gaius," Nimueh said confidently. "But who could have foreseen your success with him."

Him who? Merlin's mouth wouldn't form the words.

She pronounced with satisfaction that made him feel ill, "Arthur. Pendragon."

What about him?

"He was the scout sent to Essetir, the one you surrendered to, wasn't he?" she said, curling her fingers one by one into the soft material of his shirt. Her grip pulled at his armpits and shoulder-blades as she stepped back, and he was forced to follow.

"Yeah," he admitted, because it wasn't admitting anything if she already knew. "But – if you think I can get anywhere close to Uther through him-"

She gave a negative hum. "Don't push that, whatever you do. We have other resources focused on Uther. But Arthur… What kind of scout is he? What kind of man?"

As she spoke she untangled the tied sleeves of his sweatshirt, just slightly lower than his belt buckle. It occurred to him that he could protest, he could resist, he could step back – and then he didn't. Curious, maybe – his blood felt like it was running a little faster.

"They say maybe he's military because he rebelled against his father when he was young. Or maybe the military is a deliberate move in a political career…" Neither of which was true, but fairly common rumors.

"And what do you say?" she prompted, pulling the sleeves of the sweatshirt over her own bare shoulders as if she was a lady and she was cold and he ought to have offered it like a gentleman.

"I don't know," he said. "He got me out of Essetir. And that team didn't know I was supposed to – they actually tried to stop me, right?"

"Hm," she said, hooking fingers behind his belt, pinching the skin of his belly slightly with her nails. "What about his father?"

"You just said-" Merlin started, feeling confused and distracted, reacting like she was tickling him – but not quite.

She teased loose the tightening strap of his belt, freed the tongue of the buckle to click and clatter. "What about their relationship? What does he think about his father?"

"He doesn't," Merlin said. But then that was the truth, and maybe it implied more than he'd intended? So he added, "Anyway, why don't you read him, if your cover lets you in the bar where he drinks with his friends?"

"His mind is like a stack of bricks," she said, tugging denim so the button would slide out. Each reverberation of touch and movement sent agitated skitters along his nerves and it wasn't pleasant but it was new and he was curious to find out what she was doing. "Dry and boring."

Merlin opened his mouth to contradict – and then didn't.

"I hear," she whispered, sliding his zipper down as showers of sparks fluttered coldly over his skin, "that he's got a mission soon. I want… details."

"I don't-" he started, but she tugged the open sides of his jeans suddenly toward her, sliding her hand inside and-

Abruptly, involuntarily, all conscious thought ceased. A curtain of black spangled with colored light dropped over his eyes and he had to brace himself on the brick to either side of her shoulders and he didn't want her touching him there except his hips disagreed and the rest of him was leaning into her and-

"Merlin!" Arthur exclaimed.

Then he felt the shuddery echo of the door. And realized she had one long bare leg curled over his hip, the short fluffy skirt no impediment, only just hiding them from view. She tucked her head into his off shoulder, giggling madly, and Merlin gaped at Arthur's consternation.

"Hey, enough," Arthur said. Her leg slipped down his, and he snatched at his belt so his jeans wouldn't sag with the movement, and – oh, Arthur was talking to her. "Not him, okay? Pick someone else?"

She tossed her braids so they further obscured her face, already heading away down the alley. Still giggling, sauntering on those red stilettos.

Merlin swayed and stumbled a step, trying to get his pants fastened again. "Arthur. It – it isn't…"

"Base bunnies," Arthur said inexplicably, his body propping the door open as he watched Merlin. And waited, and his tone was patient and apologetic. "Girls that have a thing for guys in uniform, and hang out in the places we frequent like vultures... I'm sorry, I should have said something to you."

Merlin's belt finally slid back where it belonged, and he stared at Arthur, as disconcerted as he'd been to hear Nimueh say his name to begin with. "What?"

Arthur grimaced uncomfortably. "If you want to meet a nice girl to get to know, I can think of a couple names for introductions. Gwen would know some, too… Just, this isn't it. This isn't… what you're looking for, Merlin, trust me, hooking up in an alley behind a bar. It's not worth it. And… well, we're still trying to be careful that you're not vulnerable to any retaliation from Essetir, yeah?"

Merlin was gaping again, no words came to mind or mouth.

Turning the corner at the end of the alley – I want details, Merlin – she was gone, but Arthur leaned a little further to gesture in her direction.

"I'm not saying her, just… let's be careful, huh?"

The heat from the bar flowed palpably down the dark smoky corridor, washing over Merlin standing outside the back door. "Arthur, I-"

"Come back inside," Arthur said abruptly, jerking his head to emphasize the command. "And don't worry – I won't say a thing to the others about this."

Merlin stepped over the threshold, and Arthur let the door shut behind him. Following the scout's silhouette back down the hall – hair a red-tinged gold in the reflection of neon – Merlin realized that she'd taken with her the sweatshirt Arthur had let him keep after they'd crossed the mountain border together.

A/N: Kay. Sorry this took so long. I had part 1 pretty firmly in my head, just needed to write it out, but this part isn't… coming as readily. And since I'm posting as each chapter is complete instead of writing the thing entire and then posting chapter by chapter, I'd rather take longer and make sure each chapter is right, and what I want… since I can't come back and make changes. Or since I don't want to have to…

This part will have more Merlin pov. Probably stay in one pov for a whole chapter, and go back and forth between him and Arthur…

I'm not crazy about the title of part 2. So any suggestions will be welcome and seriously weighed…

And yes, I know that the title of this chapter is the same as the last one… intentional, I assure you.