A/N: Sorry, kinda… Didn't really realize how long it's been since I've written on this. I blame NaNoWriMo – this year I did a sequel to last year's, so it kind of all ran together… Anyway, I want to update this fairly frequently this year til it's done. Planned up in my head, for the most part, so there shouldn't be any delays for untangling plot-knots…
Wish me luck, though!
Psych Ops
Part 3: Return to Camelot
Chapter 1: How They Improved
When Arthur finally reached the gate of Fort Fuller, he acknowledged the greeting of the guards on duty with a short nod, concentrating on the pavement four feet in front of his swinging steps, then found a bench at the end of the courtyard by the trolley-stop where he could lower himself. Take the weight off the leg, loose himself from the crutches. After this long using them, his upper body had adjusted itself to the strength and movement required, but it was a drag and a bore.
He breathed and his body cooled with the breeze. It was overcast today, providing reprieve from the late summer sun and its attendant humidity.
"Arthur?"
That was a voice he'd never expect to hear, here.
He jerked straight, staring up at his sister, just stepping up to the curb from crossing the street. She carried a large rectangular white paper bag on twine handles over one elbow, and her purse strap over her shoulder – deep purple sleeveless blouse that rippled like silk, and skin-tight denim over black stilettos.
Stab an enemy with those. Arthur would catalogue them as potential weapons. And how on earth could she stand to walk in those things…
"I was coming to see you," she finished, reaching him but remaining on her feet, frowning down at him on the bench.
He decided not to get up.
"Sorry to have missed your visit," he said lightly. "I've got plans, though…"
"Oh," she said, disconcerted. Realized where they were – looked for the trolley – it wasn't yet in sight. She pulled a stray curl from where it had blown and stuck at the corner of her mouth. "You're meeting someone?"
Years of handling his sharp-edged sister. Arthur aimed between too-casual and too-resistant, as the surest guarantee of deflecting interest. "Yeah, a little later."
He'd missed his mark. Emerald eyes skewered him, and the red-lipstick smirked. "Is it Merlin?"
Arthur breathed, holding her gaze. How? And, why?
Or – well, he had to admit. Just before the mission that resulted in his hospitalization and two separate surgeries, he'd asked Merlin to the home manor for the weekend. And it had been an event to pique Morgana's interest and remembrance.
"Not this time," he said. And then, because he was who he was and he did what he did, after all – "Why?"
She shrugged, swinging the paper shopping bag, some women's boutique store name scrawled across it in elegantly illegible black – and looked for the trolley again. "I heard he was a psychic. I thought you didn't care for psychics much. So I'm surprised you're friends with him."
Me, too, sometimes. Arthur kept his sigh internal. "Edwin Muirden." She looked at him again, and he let a corner of cockiness show. "The only psychic I knew well enough to dislike, before Merlin. But he's different."
One-hundred-percent focus, disconcertingly inexplicable. She was never interested in his friends… "Is he? How?"
Let that cockiness spread annoyingly over his whole face, as a mask. "He's a lot clumsier, for one. Did you hear they put him in basic? Train him to replace Muirden, maybe. Your information better than mine, maybe."
From his father? Who'd gotten it from Director Gaius?
"Basic," Morgana said, the tone of the single word disgust and surprise. So she hadn't known that.
"Psychics make good assets," Arthur said, shrugging. There was the damn trolley, finally. "Hey, are you taking this one?" He positioned his crutches, and balanced over his good foot and hauled himself up.
She backed to give him space, watching with the faint frown again. "No, I'm – also meeting someone. Elsewhere."
"One of your friends?" He turned the interrogation back on her. "Someone I know?"
She lifted her chin, making the few curly ends that escaped her artistically-messy bun bounce. "Not your business."
He hummed neutrally. "Good to see you, Morgana."
"Take care of yourself," she tossed over her shoulder, swaying into her runway stalk down the pavement.
Arthur navigated the step up into the trolley, rubber nubs of the crutches on rubber step-tread, and noticed that the driver was watching his sister walk away. He didn't have the breath for a derisive snort, or the level of concern to dwell upon it long. Collapsing into the nearest free seat, he wondered if he should have worn his Psych Ops uniform – at least then he'd garner more sympathy for the awkwardness and delay. People would think he'd been… wait, no – people would know he'd been wounded in action…
Closing his eyes as the vehicle rumbled on, he focused on controlling his breathing… was that him that smelled of stale sweat, or just the seats? Or the other passengers? Couldn't arrive at the restaurant reeking of exertion, after all. His t-shirt wasn't damp, was it?
First date.
"Are you all right?" someone asked him, and he opened his eyes to look at the overweight blonde leaning forward from the next seat, her eyes raking the lightweight exercise pants that covered brace and bandage - neither one strictly necessary anymore, but lent subconscious confidence over the fear of accidental bumps or strains.
"Yes ma'am, I'm fine," he said, charming as can be. "Boating accident. Slow healing. You know how it is."
Probably she didn't, but she nodded and relaxed – reassured maybe that he wasn't going to pass out and drop his crutches on her shopping.
How it was, really was stupid. Slow healing was an understatement, and he was certain he was losing measurable muscle mass weekly if not daily. And not just in the injured leg.
He watched Fuller's Edge pass by outside the opposite window, and winced to tuck his leg further out of the public path at each of the two stops before his own.
"Brown Street stop," the driver called over his shoulder to announce, as the vehicle shuddered a bit in pulling to a halt.
"That's me," Arthur told him, to make sure the driver wouldn't pull away again before he was safely curbside.
The driver lifted his soft uniform cap to scratch curly white-hairs-mixed-with-black, eyeing Arthur over his shoulder as if judging the cost of lawsuits, should Arthur take a tumble down the steps and out the door. Gripping the crutches awkwardly in one hand, he used seat-backs and the hand-rail to hop to the descending stair, then lowered himself gingerly down and out to the pavement.
"Good luck!" someone called from the interior of the trolley as it pulled forward; whether driver or passenger, he didn't know.
He tossed the barest wave over his shoulder in acknowledgement, and situated himself with the crutches under his arms again. The good hip hurt, his hands and shoulders ached, and he was not looking forward to the trip back to his barracks room on-post. Maybe some company of the right kind would be distracting…
Pedestrians passed him as he hobbled down the sidewalk, hurrying to reach their destination because of the dinner hour, or because they didn't want to be caught near or behind him should he suddenly need help – more uncertainty than disinclination, he'd discovered in the last couple of months. And his pride had taken a hit to realize how often he'd needed to ask for help in the most ordinary of situations.
"Here, let me help you," someone said over his shoulder as he braced himself out of the swing of the door and stretched for the handle. Thirty-something professional with close-cropped hair and well-creased business trousers, swooping in to yank the door wide and hold it so.
"Thank you," he said, hating how he sounded breathless – and evidently his helper wasn't even entering the restaurant.
Ignore the embarrassment, and give a charming grin to the hostess, a girl still in secondary school, dressed in black jeans and a rose-colored oxford.
She blinked at the crutches, then focused on his face and found a smile in return. "Reservations?"
Oh how many. Big mistakes to be made. Not what she meant.
"Nope," he said. It wasn't really the sort of place to need to make reservations, usually – bar in the back, sunken seating ringed with screens to project recorded games of one sport or another, window seating for smaller, more intimate tables.
Lovely air conditioning, too.
"Window seat for two?" he added. "What time is it?"
"Half past six," she told him, grabbing laminated menus. "This way."
He followed clumsily, wishing he had made a reservation for the table nearest the window. Better luck next time.
Next time he might be off the crutches.
Six-twenty, six-thirty, they'd said. Casually. So if he was lucky tonight, it could be several more dates before he was off crutches. How many, how long til he could just ask her to his barracks room instead?...
Hm, bad idea. Think of the gossip even if they left the door open. And he wouldn't want her feeling that she needed to be their server, in the interests of keeping him seated.
He was nearly felled headlong by another diner's injudiciously-timed push-back from a finished dinner – apologies, reassurances – til he found his seat and lowered himself into it. Gingerly, balancing between crutches and table – not the sturdiest – and the small-seated wooden-back chair whose curled points jutted straight into his kidneys. The hostess hovered like she felt responsible for catching him if he went down, but didn't really want to try.
And then-
"Arthur." There she was, white cotton top with a lacy little collar and a completely unusable pocket guaranteed to draw his attention where it shouldn't go on a first date. Casual denim, comfortable shoes he'd seen before – earrings he didn't think he had. And the black curls and the dark eyes and the entrancing curve of her smile-
Heat rose in him like coffee percolating, and he lurched trying to stand up and not having the balance or the correct angles for his knees.
"Oh, no, don't – sit down," Gwen said hastily, slipping past the hostess-
Knowing smirk, dealing menus with a half-heard, "Server be with you in a moment."
-And seating herself. Color rich in her round cheeks, eyes suddenly shy to find herself across a tray-sized restaurant table from him. She didn't move her chair closer; if she did she'd probably knock into his knees, which would be painful.
"Hey," he said, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself like she came! was his accomplishment, and also unaccountably nervous.
"I'm late; I'm sorry," she blurted, eyes flicking over the menus lying half atop each other like-
Nope, can't think like that. Cuz CPR doesn't count as first kiss.
"You're perfect," he disagreed, offering her the best of his charming smiles - too much? too soon? too suggestive? - it didn't help. Didn't settle her.
What would?
"So I keep thinking…" His fingers played with the menus, spinning them right-side up for each of them; her eyes followed without rising to his. "How many ways I could screw this up."
That caught her gaze, and her attention. In place of charm, he offered a crooked grin, and honesty.
"It's a change. It might be a change. It could be nothing, who knows?"
If it turned out to be nothing, he was pretty sure part of him would die. And if he screwed up so badly there was nothing left to fall back on either, a bigger part would follow.
"Could be something. Doesn't have to be. Just, here instead of the Sunrise, and you and me instead of the whole crowd."
She seemed to relax back in her chair. "Yeah? Strange, I wasn't nervous at all til I started getting ready, an hour or so ago…"
Because, the question of what to wear. And what to say. And what to expect from the beginning of a potentially-exclusive, potentially-romantic relationship.
Just your company, he thought. Just your time, to look in your eyes and make you smile. That's a win for me.
And, not to think of her in that little cave-room home they'd made for a week in Aravia. Not to think of bare skin glistening wet and curly tendrils dripping onto the curve of her neck, starting to turn when he walked in on her bath… Not to think of her wrestling a skid-cart over snowy mountain passes or hiking desert ridges…
"How did the Old-Village-Homes interrogation go?" he said. A distraction for them both.
And the look she gave him shifted. A bit stern – but it was a question that gave her footing, as he intended. "That's classified, how do you know about that?"
Cocky version of the grin, and she'd know how to respond to that, too. "I am just that good."
She snorted into a sip of water from her glass – and had to excuse herself to the waiter who showed up to take the order – thirty-something woman, thin as a rail, hair dyed a deep burgundy with black tips. Beer and a burger for him – tea and a chicken croissant for her.
"I told Gaius I was going to stay in the loop on the Tosoldat case," he added, a bit more seriously. "He agrees that's the guy we need to catch if we're ever going to get the Aravia situation resolved for good."
She made a noncommittal noise, not disagreeing, glancing toward the restaurant's front window. "If he was going to be easy to pin down, we'd have already done it."
He didn't make the obvious smart-ass comment about Psych Ops' best scout decommissioned to recover from injuries. "Been thinking about getting Merlin back on that."
Brought her eyes back to his, and the rest of the place - people, noise, smells - disappeared when she looked at him like that. "Do you hear how he's doing? Are you that good?"
Not much to do but sit on his ass and listen. And he was a scout, after all. "Haven't seen him since they've gone to field maneuvers," he said. "That'll be another six weeks."
"Yeah," she agreed, maybe thinking of her own training. "I miss him. I wish I knew whether he was having a hard time, or whether him being psychic makes things easier."
But he didn't actually want to talk about Merlin tonight. Just to thaw a bit of uncertain-territory ice.
"Your brother's navy," he decided upon for the switch. "How does that training compare to ours? He's older than you, or younger?"
For a moment he thought Gwen was going to call him on it, bringing up the topic of the psychic defector-traitor, and then dropping it just as abruptly.
But she didn't. "Younger by a year. I guess the training is comparable, just more-"
"Water-oriented?" he guessed, and she twinkled at him.
And turned the conversation right back on him. "What about your sister – she's younger, isn't she?"
First date. Between friends, fairly long-time acquaintances, coworkers. Partners. They'd lived together, for the love of Camelot. And it was still the polite dance – how much could safely be revealed, what layers would be maintained for the time being, what depths left unplumbed til later.
And then she said, "And my father is thinking of replacing the carpet in the living room with some kind of tile, he wants me to help him choose when I'm home next month."
"You're taking leave?" he responded, washing down a bite of burger with a swallow of beer.
"Yes…" The word drew out into inexplicable uncertainty, and she busied herself wiping fingers on her napkin, one by one, very carefully and very thoroughly. They looked clean to him. He noticed the silver ring she wore on her pinkie finger; that was new.
"Vacation time?" he said lightly. Because, scout.
And so was she. He watched her decide what, and how, to tell him. "Because of the interrogation. They're setting up an op they want me in on, and leave before I go."
Condensation made the beer bottle slippery, and a bolt of discomfort shot through his leg to tighten his grip. "Long-term?"
The confidence in her dark eyes scooped him up entire, heart-soul-body. "Half a year. Maybe more. Part of the Tosoldat thing, could be peripheral, could be integral…"
"Two weeks leave?" he said. Two steps out from the cliff ledge. If he looked down, he'd begin to fall.
Can't possibly go with her as partner. Too much therapy, not enough time.
Six months was a really long time.
No wonder she was nervous about tonight – I bet she considered calling the whole thing off.
But she didn't. That's something.
"Yes." She set her jaw, and didn't look away.
So we have a month, he didn't say. Somehow he managed a wry half-a-grin. "I should say congratulations? You're excited to go?"
"On leave?" she said, faintly sarcastic, but relieved. Because he knew how it was, knew how it felt. Anticipation, not excitement. Not usually dread, just – there would be action and danger, fast decisions upon which the whole mission hinged. But there might not…
Alice had been in Essetir fifteen years. A dozen encounters with her mark. How many minutes or hours did that translate to? How much effort in those minutes?
"Let me know if you need anything," he tossed out, careless as a life preserver. When he could feel the tempest begin, way down somewhere he rarely acknowledged.
She hesitated, maybe feeling some instinct to brush off a shallow offer, but not quite able to deny… he meant it. And she might have something in mind. An extra slicker, a recommendation for where to get her best pair of boots repaired, a good word with Leon's folks in Supply… Someone to talk to…
Bloody hells, I'm going to miss you.
"You'll be brilliant," he told her, forcing himself to address chips and dipping sauce. "If you can discuss details, I'm all ears."
It's all I've got bloody left, these days.
"Shouldn't have said even that much," she said ruefully.
"In that case, we better discuss our childhoods some more," he suggested – and she rewarded him with a wide genuine smile. "The first time you… rode a bicycle."
"Down our sidewalk," she said, relaxing once again.
He was getting pretty good at mapping emotions and the level of tension attendant, he thought. It boded well for a second date.
How many dates could he fit in four weeks? Maybe he should crutch himself over to Psych Ops battalion building more often, run into her at the cafeteria. Even if for friends-only encounters. Shared lunch.
"My dad was hanging on the back of the seat," she continued, "and I was pedaling, and I looked back to tell him how well it was going, and he was half a block behind me. I was so mad he let go without warning me first."
He could see it, too. Tiny bunchy pigtails with pink bows, and a scowl of righteous indignation.
"What about you?" she said.
"My first bicycle had a headlamp. My sister was jealous, and painted it over with orange nail-polish so it wouldn't work."
Gwen snickered, as he'd intended.
"I wasn't allowed to ride at night anyway," he added.
"But it's the principle of the thing," Gwen defended. "Elyan would never let me finish a tower with our building blocks. Even when our father yelled at him not to touch them, he still found ways – bouncing a ball or stomping on floorboards or even creating a breeze…"
"Dessert?" their server offered hopefully, appearing beside their table.
I'm having it.
"Oh, no thank you," Gwen's mouth said. Her eyes, though…
"Let me take a look," Arthur proposed, reaching for the half-size specialty menu. What could he talk her into sharing with him?
Whatever it was, he'd take it.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Civilization felt a little strange to Merlin after three months of living out of his rucksack. Ragged and smelly and ingeniously using every thing for secondary purposes.
Hang a full-size towel on the rack beside the sink? Revolutionary. Barefoot on relatively clean carpet? Unheard-of.
All of it better by far than any given day in the Institute, which was starting to seem long ago and far away, like the memory of a bad dream.
Merlin's body melted into the coverlet of the narrow barracks bed, the pillow puffing up around his ears as he relaxed by gentle degrees. The aches had washed away with the grime – finally – and now he just felt heavy and warm.
His outstretched hand identified slick cover and dry pages under fingertips and thumb, the paperback left lying on his bedside table. Charles Gates. Number Three. Of how many? Dunno, writer's still profiting…
Arthur hesitated to give it to him. The white stone castle had hesitated at his request, maybe trying to remember if he'd written anything too personal in the margins of this novel. Anything too revealing.
He tightened his grip and felt the pages give, rippling past his thumbnail like memories passing too fast for more than a glimpse.
Arthur was… Arthur was…
Pale as the sheets and kept alive by the monotonous beeping of the equipment, post-surgery. Sitting up in the hospital bed – memories of Lancelot, crippled and screaming blame – with that wry sideways grin and an invitation to lose to him at cards. A trembling grip and a drop of sweat over granite jaw, maneuvering himself from bed to wheel-chair or back again… and then that same cocky don't-care grin.
The slow thump of awkward movement came to him almost subconsciously, tremors through concrete and carpet and wood and the softness of his bed. A subtle baseline to the chaotic noise that filtered the barracks, counterpoint to the ever-present reservation wafting over or through those white stone walls. Second-guessing. Like the tang of smoke stinging vision unclear.
Hobbled steps slowing. Should warring with don't really want to broadsided by wish I wanted to and hamstrung by might be dangerous.
If I'm wrong again…
A major regret, for Merlin. That his actions caused his friend to doubt himself.
He could hear the voices shift and adjust like stream-water encountering a new rock in the middle of the flow – "Pendragon! Bloody hells! You look awful! Hey, I'll race you to-"
Merlin struggled to get upright. Arthur wouldn't turn back now, knowing Merlin would have heard that audible confirmation of his presence. Muscles protested and he rolled to an elbow rather than fail to sit bolt upright at once.
"You lot think you're funny…" Arthur's growled curse preceded him, followed by an obscenity that brought howls and laughter and a tired grin to Merlin's face in time for his friend to appear in the doorway, bracing himself and keeping his weight on his good leg, attention still momentarily caught by Merlin's neighbors in the corridor. He looked drawn and thin – but determined rather than weary.
"And no crutches," Merlin's mouth said before he knew he intended to.
Arthur looked at him, hanging off forearms propped against the doorframe. Just looked, for a moment – Merlin wondered what he saw, after three months of field training, was he thin and drawn – then smiled, and it was close enough to genuine that it made a difference to Merlin's feelings.
"You look like hell," Arthur said with satisfaction, as if the comparison made him feel appreciably stronger and fitter.
Merlin scowled, which was the correct reaction, judging from Arthur's expression. "I had mud," he informed the scout, "inside my ears."
"Gross," Arthur said, stepping to Merlin's desk chair with intentional evenness, lowering himself with the deliberate use of both leg muscles, and no leaning or sliding. "I don't want to know that."
"What do you want to know?" Merlin said. A bit stupidly, a bit unintentionally. He was tired.
But the question made Arthur pause. Just the faintest moment of hesitation, before he tossed off lightly, "How to get fit and make a million in less than twenty-four hours."
Merlin humphed. Maybe he could stretch his ability – and the law – for the second…
"You stuck it out, though, didn't you?" Arthur added, referring back to Merlin's field-training. "You're not quitting?"
Not any more than you are… Except, Arthur told him not to choose based on anyone else's expectations or responses. Not even if you do…
Merlin said lightly, "Nope."
Arthur's grin twisted sideways. "Gaius told me they're going to make you sit the classroom stuff, but they won't let you test out."
"Gaius told me that, too," Merlin admitted. "A bit disappointing, 'cause how will I compare my scores to anyone else's if I don't have scores?"
Arthur grunted agreement, and Merlin knew he'd prefer to crow over better scores than Merlin's. "If they can't quantify your ranges, how can they tell you're not cheating…"
Merlin shrugged like it didn't matter.
"That all Gaius tell you?" Arthur asked, leaning back without moving his feet, so his knees bent forward a little more; he watched the muscles of his left leg, defined and padded by the sweat pants he was wearing as he did so – maybe a habit after weeks of physical therapy.
"Out loud," Merlin said, trying on a bit of impudence for size. Arthur's gaze and one brow shot up, though his chin stayed tucked down. "I also know that things are going well with Alice, and that Gwen's gone."
Blue darkened, but not at Merlin's presumption. "Yeah, we talked before she left. And you shouldn't be eavesdropping on the old man's love life."
"You can tell he's happier, can't you?" Merlin countered. "Anyway, I had messages from Alice when we got back from the field, and she said it right out."
Arthur relented enough to share amusement at the winter romance of the Psych Ops Director-in-Chief. "Good for them," he allowed. "What else did Alice have to say?"
Not so subtle. But at least he cared.
"My mom's doing okay. Settling in. Newmarch is a nice place, her neighbors seem decent, the rooms at the cottage are comfortable." He didn't like the tone of Arthur's expression, or the shade of the white stone castle, so he avoided looking at either, and added, "Evidently there's a slice of the sea visible from one of the upper windows. So there's that."
"Hey-" Arthur started.
"And it's a good thing she didn't stay here," Merlin went on, knowing Arthur would know he meant, Fuller's Point – not the military installation. "Since I've been in the field. Busy, and unavailable."
Dammit. Not convincing enough. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of how Arthur must feel, knowing he was psychic. Because scout sometimes came damn close.
"But you didn't hobble all the way up here to discuss the mud or my mother," he said, hoping it didn't sound as belligerent as it felt.
Maybe I did came right over the top of the white stone wall, and Merlin couldn't tell if Arthur meant it to.
"Well, I didn't come up here to bore you with complaints about therapy, that's for sure," Arthur said, eyes on his knee as his fingers subtly massaged muscles higher up in his leg. "If you don't mind me asking, I've got a question about your range."
"Gwen's fine," Merlin said immediately, and Arthur's gaze pinned him like an arrow.
"Good to know," he said blandly. "But no. I was going to ask about Armen Rynok. Tosoldat."
Psychic didn't mean perfect memory. He remembered the name from the one intensive session he'd undergone with Arthur after the Aravian mission, but not much else. The cities where the factories made the parts Arthur brought back, maybe.
"Yeah?" he said hesitantly.
"Can you tell where he's at?" Blunt and honest, and Merlin appreciated that.
"I can't," he said immediately. "I don't know him at all, I haven't got any object associated with him closely enough."
Scout Pendragon pressed his lips together and nodded. "Those bits I brought back-"
Merlin forestalled him. "Too much time has passed, too many other people handling them in the meantime." Maybe why they hadn't asked him these questions officially. Or maybe he was still on probation with Gaius.
"Hm." Information absorbed. "Could you tell if you were in the same city as him?"
"Possibly. I don't know. Depending on the size of the city, and proximity, maybe?" It wasn't the sort of thing Merlin practiced, really, at all. He never looked for anyone, like that.
"So… we'll have to wait for one of the other scouts to report some kind of contact," Arthur concluded.
It was kind of a question and kind of not; Merlin shrugged. "Up to Gaius I guess, isn't it?"
"And he's not asked you?"
The barracks bed was built a bit high so storage drawers could fit underneath it; Merlin's toes barely grazed the carpet, the way he was sitting. He scuffed them anyway, watching his socks wrinkle and then smooth out again. "He probably knows what I'd say," he said vaguely. "He's psychic."
Arthur snorted, shifting his weight in the chair again and Merlin's attention diverted.
"Why are you asking?" he said mildly. "I thought you were still months from mission-ready, anyway."
The scout bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. "Weeks."
And he was rearing to go at this particular target because… of Aravia? Unfinished business interrupted by Merlin's dash for freedom and its unlucky end? Maybe because of his injuries in the explosion – the first explosion, the Aravian one? But Arthur didn't seem vindictive like that; here he was chatting with Merlin in a barracks room blocks from his own while still recovering from Merlin's mistakes…
"That's her mission, then, is it?" Merlin said without thinking.
Arthur straightened like there was a hidden pin in the chair, eyes flashing a warning Merlin's mouth ignored.
"And the sooner the target gets tracked down, the sooner she's home again?"
Light flush, but the blue gaze never wavered. "Merlin…"
"I'm not wrong, am I?" Merlin added, ducking his head to hide his smile.
"Anyway, he's about the biggest concern we've got going, likely I'll be assigned to some aspect or another of the case when I'm back at full speed," Arthur went on, confidence with a bit of defiance. "So might you be, if you don't wash out of the Psych Ops training. Start next week?"
"Don't remind me," Merlin groaned. They all said how the three-month basic mil-quals field training he'd just completed was a walk in the park in comparison. They all thought it, too, which made it more certain than just teasing a newbie.
"Do you hate me now?" Arthur's grin widened and his eyes danced – and when Merlin dared the rude hand gesture, his friend laughed out loud.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Pulse pounded through his body faster than the pace of his feet. Heat flushed face and body, sweat streamed and soaked t-shirt and shorts, and every time he planted his left running shoe, he focused and hoped. Hold. Steady. Endure.
"C'mon, Pendragon, this is a lousy-slow run," Percival growled, back-pedaling down the track ahead of Arthur, to face him as he jogged.
I know. Dammit. But we're not sprinting… He glared at his friend in favor of saving his breath.
Percival grinned. In spite of the perspiration making his scalp shiny through his quarter-inch haircut, he didn't seem to be breathing hard.
"That's not fair," Leon said, keeping pace at Arthur's side, hands in relaxed-loose fists. "Last week he was gripping the sides of the treadmill. He's doing great this morning."
Exaggeration? From Leon?
"Shut up," Arthur puffed. This was a terrible idea. He shouldn't have asked either of them to come… but then he'd be alone with his thoughts, pounding down the dust and pebbles of the track, focused on the next tiny square patch of ground. Thinking of Aravian mountain paths and a dark-skinned girl half-hidden behind her waja – and the curves glistening from her sponge bath in the setting sun.
Arthur's knee buckled slightly, and he slowed to adjust his pace.
Percival fell into position on his other side. "Does it hurt?"
"No," Arthur said shortly, struggling to keep his voice even and not pant like an overtaxed puppy. "I need this."
He was aware of their traded glances across him, and ignored them.
"Are we trying to beat Merlin's time?" Leon asked mildly.
"He passed his road test," Percival volunteered. "All sets. Though it was… a near thing."
"We're timing me, right?" Arthur managed, squinting into the sun to gauge their position on the 5-kilometer track. At least it was deserted during the lunch hour.
"We are…" Another glance traded. "If you think you can step it up, scout, you'll make the run at – qualifying time."
It wouldn't be official. Sweat dripped from his hair into his eyes and he broke the rhythm of his body to swipe at it.
"The Old Man will… take it from us." Leon sounded confident, the assertion undiminished by his need for breath.
Arthur focused on the tight ache in his chest and swallowed it. The knee and all attending soft tissue was sound. Just weak and lazy from recuperation.
But this was the last thing, the last test, the last obstacle to clearing for field duty. He'd barely slipped on the range, though marksmanship from a seated position was different, and the prone position difficult to maneuver into. Psych eval – piece of cake. Formality, and they knew it – any scout worth his pay could pass with any score he or she predetermined, especially since Muirden wasn't administering those anymore, and the Old Man too busy for such clerical work. He'd see the reports, of course, and read them… And the obstacle course could be managed if the rest of his body was made to compensate for the knee. He wouldn't be bragging on his scores this time, but he'd passed.
"Speaking of Merlin, is that him?" Percival asked at his right, through the measured in-in-out-out of his breathing. Arthur was down to a shorter, more desperate in-out-in-out.
He glanced up – the track ahead of them was opening around a curve, underbrush giving way to brown grass, and the roofs of the tan-and-brick buildings of the main post. There was a man's figure that appeared to be waiting for them.
"Looks like him," Leon answered, sounding slightly puzzled.
Why was he – where was he supposed to be-
"Ten," Percival reported. "Eight – five – three two one – and done."
Arthur let off rapidly as they passed the finishing line, slowing to a walk and snorting like a bull in trying to breathe through his nose. Jelly legs, damn them.
"That was good," Merlin called, trotting to join them. His black hair showed beneath the edges of the soft-cap, too long for regulation troops, but the rest of his uniform was still infantry-camo, not Psych Ops black. Not yet.
Soon, though, Arthur suspected. Would they graduate him with the rest of this year's class for Psych Ops?
"Wasn't it good?" the psychic continued, reaching them.
"It was pathetic," Arthur growled, still rambling in a small circle and willing his limbs not to tremble.
Percival wiped sweat and grinned; Leon paused in stretching hamstrings to catch Arthur's shoulder, his curly hair damp at his scalp, too. "It was damn good, Pendragon, for what you went through."
"Note to self – avoid the injury next time," Percival commented, giving Merlin a comradely whack on the arm so he didn't feel self-conscious over his role in the injury.
Can't do that, Arthur had told him. It happens. Everyone gets over it faster if you make fun. Make light of it.
"Next time," Merlin agreed, with a faint sarcasm Arthur wasn't sure he meant. "Next time his boat runs out of gas and an armed patrol tries to run him down and he stands there and fires a Weston at them."
The knots in Arthur's chest were loosening gradually. "Next time."
"What are you doing out here?" Percival asked, lacing his fingers atop his head and bending backward, as Leon leaned over his knees to continue stretching.
"The Director." Merlin's eyes were on Arthur. "There's a briefing? in an hour? He said we should come."
Arthur didn't respond, only turned his steps across the field in the direction of the barracks.
"D'you know what it's about?" Leon asked, as they followed.
Doesn't he. Psychic. Arthur didn't look back.
"He didn't say," Merlin hedged. Almost painfully truthful, every time. Trying to be so transparent it was embarrassing – but Arthur never said anything.
Hopefully it would all smooth out on its own. Over time. Everyone getting comfortable again with each other…
"He didn't have to," Percival hinted. "If we guess, will you tell us how close we come?"
"We could narrow it down by continent," Leon suggested.
Arthur knew the flustered look Merlin would be wearing, and figured turn-about was fair play. The psychic was easier to read than most, especially for trained scouts.
But he figured Gaius knew that, too.
"He said – just me and Arthur," Merlin admitted.
Field work?
"In that case, I'm going to headquarters now," Leon said. "It was a twenty-four minute run, Arthur – I'll tell him so."
Percival gave the big grin that transformed his reveal-nothing expression into little-boy eagerness. "Congratulations, Pendragon. Send us a postcard from your field assignment, do."
"I need a shower, first," Arthur said, feeling the tremble of anticipation low in his gut. It had been too long… but he was ready.
A/N: So I wrote this a while ago. And I didn't like it much for a beginning, I felt it would be better to toss us all in the deep end of action leading to plot… But I wrote it. And I figured, better to post it than delete it… And in any case, there are hints of the complication to come...