3.4 How Success Was Rewarded
Probably they weren't meant to get involved, Merlin thought, seated on a bare-wood bench outside the chief investigator's closed office door in the headquarters building. It was noisy and busy, tense with large emotions inadequately covered and mostly undealt with, and he blocked as much as he could without actually sticking fingers in his ears. Probably they were meant to observe and analyze and report on the murder case, and leave the chasing and shooting to the officials who were authorized for that sort of thing in this sort of situation.
Dinnertime had been and gone. Someone had given him a ham sandwich wrapped in plastic, but the bread was soggy and tasted like tin. His stomach was too tight to eat anyway, and he wasn't sure why.
Maybe it was all those large emotions. Inadequately covered and mostly undealt with, all around. Do not look up, and hurry through this neighborhood. At least the scouts in Psych Ops were trained to hide and control…
We haven't done anything wrong. This isn't a case of constructing a story to minimize mistakes and shade perception. Even though he'd been questioned by two different inspectors of the CCI like they knew law-breaking had been done to be discovered – even as Arthur was being questioned now.
Broad strokes story, stick to the facts, no psychic details to add except how he'd noticed the shooters. The awkwardness was unfamiliarity – with him, though, not with how psychic worked – and they made him try to explain, You can tell when someone is focused on you with that kind of intent, it's like they're shouting at you, half a dozen different ways. He supposed it had to do with the potential for needing to be able to to lay it out for a jury, someday in the future.
But they were taking longer with Arthur than they had with him, probably because he was the handler, the senior partner. Merlin was glad for that because Arthur was good at answering official questions, being used to that, too, and more comfortable with it than he was. For Merlin it felt like the interrogation room on Fort Araun…
"Hey!" someone said rudely.
He lifted his head toward the end of the corridor where the closed offices ended in a large room where desks were clustered and comm-block lines warbled and people didn't pay much attention to social niceties in their personal interactions.
It was Moreno, shirtsleeves rolled to hide the bloodstains on his cuffs, standing sideways to the hall like he had just paused in walking past. "We just got word from Saint Justice – the hospital? Nelson's out of surgery."
Merlin couldn't help flashing back to Lancelot in similar circumstances - the horror of crawling out of unconsciousness to the discovery of damage and loss that had occurred during that helpless state, the ugly burn of betrayal roaring out of control at friends and comrades trusted to help and save-
"Looks like he's going to be fine," Moreno added, a bit grudgingly. Thanks to you, went unsaid, blocked by professional pride.
Merlin nodded, slouching back on the bench, his spine sliding down between two of the vertical slats making up the backrest. "That's good – I'm glad."
He could stop wishing he'd been able to tackle both men to the floor, and feeling guilty that he hadn't noticed sniper earlier.
The office door opened before Moreno could turn away again, and Arthur stepped out, closing it behind him before allowing himself to lean back against it instead of striding on somewhere else. Merlin was acquainted with how Arthur could push himself to keep going and going when the situation warranted it… but he hadn't had to do that for nearly half a year, now.
Arthur was wearing a navy t-shirt with the CCI logo in white, because someone thought he shouldn't hang about covered in Nelson's drying blood. Merlin quite agreed, but he still looked tired. And troubled. But not too distracted that he didn't absorb every detail of Merlin's current state in a glance, including the discarded, half-wrapped and mostly uneaten sandwich.
"You've been sitting there this whole time?" he said.
He thought Merlin should have wandered off somewhere? Arthur had alerted to his release within seconds, when it was Merlin escaping the office. He shrugged. "Not much else to do."
Arthur grunted, and Moreno took two steps toward them. "The Minister contacted us while you were busy with the chief. Soon as we cut you two loose, he wants you back at the Essential."
Merlin didn't have to look at Arthur to feel that quiet, tired sigh. Like Arthur was being called back into the chief's office for another two hours of interrogation.
"Got it – thanks."
"Nelson's out of surgery," Merlin volunteered. "He's going to be fine."
Half a smile, but it was genuine. Moreno shifted the file to his left hand and extended his right to Arthur; the salute was exchanged wordlessly.
We owe you one.
No, you don't. Glad to do it. Arthur reached down to snag the carrying strap of his bag, next to Merlin's on the floor beside the bench. "You're going to sit there all night?" he said over his shoulder, heading down the hall as Moreno stalked off somewhere else.
Merlin shouldered his bag as well, leaving the ham sandwich – a little like dismantled skid-carts in the mountain snow, abandoned to confound the finder, sometime – and snaked through the busy main room behind Arthur toward the street entrance.
"Yes, ma'am, what seems to be the nature of your-"
"-Just gimme a chance to check-"
"Johnny, what did you find out about the results of that-"
"-When I said that, I did not mean that you should-"
The night was a slap of cold, clean air that hit Arthur first, and he didn't pause, setting off down the sidewalk to leave the precinct headquarters behind.
"Seems like it gets busier there at night," Merlin said, lengthening his stride to keep up with Arthur and filling his lungs before breathing out the thick air of the precinct.
Electric lights, tires on the pavement, the buzz of turf-bikes accelerating or decelerating, voices raised in the carelessness of dim light or after hours or pub alcohol or any given combination.
"Yeah, that's a thing for law enforcement," Arthur said, a bit absently.
Merlin kept pace, wanting to say something and not knowing what. The hours at the trauma ward in Stansford after Ealdor were different than the hours at the trauma ward in Britesea or the hours of debrief after Aravia, but he knew Arthur wasn't one to dwell on the action of a mission, good or bad, complete or incomplete, triumph or… not. One of the rules, he'd told Merlin – no second-guessing choices made.
He condensed, he made light of, he reduced the enormous emotion to an anecdote. Maybe it was easier for him to handle, that way. Merlin didn't yet know how he was going to handle it, himself.
"You okay?" Arthur said abruptly, not having to look at him to guess what he was thinking.
Not totally unexpected. The sight of the body in the corridor – the second death in the alley, right in front of them… He had the general idea that for people in their line of work, the first dead body was significant. Does it get easier, he didn't say. Maybe it should… but maybe it should never get too easy. Death should affect an observer.
"Am I going to need to… examine the shooters as well?" Merlin said awkwardly.
Arthur blew out a sigh, adjusting the strap over his shoulder. "I think so," he said. "Probably should. Unusual circumstances-"
Murder plus ambush for law enforcement responders. Motives yet unknown.
"Is it going to be a problem for you?" Arthur added. A professional question, not a personal one.
"I don't know," Merlin said honestly. "I've never done that before." Reading a person who was no longer alive. What would that mean to their psychic house-in-the-neighborhood? Empty but unchanged? Actively decaying? Haunted? Or just – gone, a vacant lot?
"Remember what I said about caution," Arthur told him. "No one wants you… destroying your sanity over these sorts of things. Do what you have to, for protecting yourself mentally."
"Like… mind armor, instead of body armor," Merlin said lightly.
Arthur was startled into looking at him with a genuine grin. Approval, and confidence.
The Hotel Essential was just ahead of them, bright golden light and sparkling-shiny marble-and-glass, and they stepped up to the doors together.
Merlin felt immediately out of place. There was a rich scent in the air like cinnamon and coffee; the carpet was thick and vibrant and looked like it had been laid earlier today. Deep solid-color couches in intimate clusters, granite-topped tables with bronze sculptures and vases that looked worth more than Hunith's cottage. Real, fresh flowers. Attendant in a black suit with a bowtie. No, not attendant, or clerk - concierge.
Arthur didn't act like he felt any of that. CCI t-shirt and grubby trousers with dried stains – though not immediately identifiable as blood on the dark fabric – and he strode in like he owned the place.
Did the Pendragons own the place? Hm, maybe…
"Good evening, sir," the oldest male behind the ten-metre-long desk said; his mouth was polite but his eyes judged.
"If you could call up and let my father know we're here," Arthur said, not pausing as his boots squeaked on immaculate tile – Merlin speculated on the likelihood that those flecks were real gold. "We'd appreciate it. Suite Marnier. First Minister Pendragon."
Judgment vanished in favor of respectful awe. "Certainly sir, at once."
Three of the four lifts were ready and waiting, the interiors gleaming bright. Arthur leaned on the handrail and kicked one boot over the other. Merlin gripped the shoulder-strap of his bag with both hands.
"And they didn't even ask to see your ID," he quipped.
Arthur's half-grin was full cockiness.
"And if I hadn't been with you, they'd have ordered me escorted out," Merlin added, as the motion of the lift pressed his heart down to the pit of his stomach, slowly and inexorably.
"Nonsense," Arthur drawled. "You're psychic. I'm sure you could figure out a way to the top floor if you had to."
Merlin had the sinking feeling he'd just given Arthur ideas for in-the-field training exercises.
The lift pinged its arrival at their destination, and the doors trundled open to reveal a corridor that echoed the opulence of the lobby. Their boots were silent on the carpet, and no sound issued from any of the doors they passed – few and far between, it seemed to Merlin. Indications of the size of the suites?
"Hey?" he said to Arthur's back, requesting the scout's attention and permission to ask another question. "The sniper in the alley. Thought one of us was psychic. I didn't think we gave ourselves away."
"Yeah…" Arthur said, and it wasn't an answer. Then they rounded a corner and came to the attention of a broad man in a black suit blocking the door to the last suite with an implacable expression. "Evening, Henry," he said to the man. "This is Scout Emrys."
"ID," the man suggested blandly.
It took Merlin a second to realize, that meant him. "Oh," he said, trying to remember where he'd put it. Wallet? Or not, because Psych Ops weren't supposed to present their credentials – but this was an official mission and they were expected. "I put it – I've got it-"
"The ends sometimes justify the means," Arthur said to Henry, nonchalantly tossing his shoulder-bag to the floor where it wouldn't be in the way of the door.
Henry inexplicably side-stepped from the door's alcove, and reached behind him to knock a clearly-prearranged sequence, now ignoring Merlin.
It reminded him of Arthur and Alice meeting for the first time, using coded reassurance or recognition or something. Don't worry about him, he's harmless, I know him. Or possibly, He really is with me, I'm not being coerced into introducing a threat to the First Minister's suite…
The door was opened from the inside, and Henry's attention was already past them on the empty hallway. Merlin caught a glimpse of readiness for threat from other doors, window at the end of the hall, air vent, ceiling tiles, and pulled back, impressed in spite of himself as he dropped his own bag next to Arthur's on the floor of the corridor. More to it than he thought…
The room's interior also reflected the same design taste as the lobby, with a degree more comfort and a shade less decorum. Three people were present; one an armed man wearing a suit and a military haircut unobtrusive in the corner by the door; Morgana in some fluffy, enveloping, comfortable cream-colored material, head and shoulders above the sofa set perpendicular to the door, half-turned but attentive to their arrival.
And the First Minister.
Uther Pendragon, on his feet and facing them expectantly as they entered. Crisply-creased trousers, shined shoes, cardigan rather than jacket but still a formal black cashmere. Hands in his pockets, scowl on his heavy face, short iron-gray hair and the faintest of scars down his forehead – familiar to Merlin only from stills published by the news.
"Arthur," the First Minister said, and his tone carried disappointment and disapproval rather than welcome or relief.
Merlin's feet stopped of their own accord. Arthur didn't hesitate, marching to his father as if presenting himself for an official debrief, but they didn't even shake hands. Didn't offer to touch one another at all, and it only felt awkward to Merlin. No one in the room expected more, between father and son.
"That clothing surely cannot belong to you," Uther continued, eyeing his son up and down. "Are you certain you're unharmed?"
"We're fine – Morgana, are you all right?" Arthur said around his father's imposing bulk.
She didn't look at him, only flicked her fingers into the air to convey Sure, I'm fine or No, really not, Merlin couldn't tell. Her housefront was average size and square, but smothered heavily in ivy and otherwise undefinable. He hid a wince for the significance of that.
"I spoke with the chief inspector at CCI," Uther stated, evidently moving past any niceties of greeting.
Merlin was distracted from their exchange, being presented with the First Minister's mental edifice. It was a bloody bunker, carved right from bedrock, thick dark granite and an age-bronzed vault-door. Massive, secret, completely locked down.
Arthur's mental castle was secure and strong and defensive, but oh-so-different. White stone invited awe-struck gawking, admiration and confidence, glimmers of torchlight or firelight through arrow-slits and sometimes chinks in the stone, widely open to the air and sky, which allowed those messages and impressions to be lobbed over…
Nothing was getting in or out of Uther's bunker. Don't come here, don't get caught staring, don't linger… the whole world can burn and I'll bloody well survive…
He struggled to breathe.
And thought of the death of the man's wife, very nearly at the precise moment he became a father.
And of Arthur's feelings toward Gwen, and how he handled those feelings.
You're going to find out a helluva lot more about me than anyone else in Psych Ops knows…
"Have you told the CCI?" Uther growled.
Merlin blinked back to the conversation on a sudden and discretely desperate inhalation. Morgana faced them from the corner of the couch, maybe watching Merlin past them, he couldn't tell.
"I answered their questions," Arthur said, brusquely emotionless. "But CCI doesn't employ psychics, save for exceptional circumstances."
Like the roommate of the First Minister's daughter being poisoned.
"The crime scene was an ambush," Arthur stated. "CCI will investigate the gunman in the hallway, and the sniper's presence on the top floor of the building – how long he was there today, whether it was rented in advance and to whom, and so on. But I think-"
"You think Sara was killed because someone wanted to set you up?" Morgana interrupted, incredulous. She stood from the couch and Merlin could see that her garment was an elegant, luxurious bathrobe, fuzzy collar tickling her ears, cuffs muffling her knuckles, belted shapelessly around her middle.
"It does sound quite conceited when you say it like that," Arthur responded, throwing charm into his tone and the first quirk of a smile, and it seemed an entirely involuntary defense to Merlin.
"I don't believe this," Morgana declared, striding around the couch on her way to the door.
"Although, with the poisoner dead, there's very little they can do to establish motive," Arthur explained to his father. "Unless they can catch the person who orchestrated events and hired the shooters."
"And only the word of your psychic to go on that poisoner and sniper are one and the same," Uther pointed out disparagingly. "Or that the two men weren't in league, and that's all."
"I'm going to my suite," Morgana concluded to the room at large, ignoring them both. "I don't want to see anyone til noon tomorrow."
They both watched her go. Yeah, but are you going to be okay, was all over Arthur. Beginning to mix into, Have you talked to Sara's family, I can go with you…
The bodyguard at the door reached to open it for Morgana, and she swept out. Behind her, the door closed slowly on hydraulic hinges, and shut with a whispered click.
"And this is he," Uther said.
Merlin turned – and suddenly the bunker bristled with anti-personnel weaponry. He froze in place.
"Scout Merlin Emrys," Arthur said, with a gesture for belated introductions.
Uther didn't offer to shake his hand, either, for which Merlin decided to be eternally grateful. "Scout," he said, sneering in a well-bred sort of way. "Barely."
"He's passed the classes and tests," Arthur said mildly. "Director Gaius swore him in."
Eleven and a half hours ago.
"If you find our competence lacking, why did you request us?" Arthur inquired, his tone deceptively even. That white stone was blindingly pure and straight, so Merlin struggled again to draw breath without his eyes tearing up.
"Morgana." Uther flicked his fingers in the same, I'm not going to explain gesture Morgana had, and turned away. Anyone but the First Minister could be said to be pacing. "She was distraught. Insisting that the person responsible be caught immediately."
Arthur swayed minutely, his head turning a degree toward Merlin for the first time since they stepped in the room, as if the release of Uther's focus on him meant Arthur could acknowledge others, too. And in that moment Merlin glimpsed deeper – an unspoken understanding of his father that Arthur carried and covered… Love and worry expressed with the overbearing weight of entitled privilege. Strings pulled, favors demanded, exceptions made… One governmental office leaning on another and another because of a father's concern for his daughter.
Ah. Yes.
"Well, the threat has been neutralized for tonight, anyway," Arthur said. "Tomorrow we can continue assisting the CCI to find answers concerning motive and the possible involvement of other conspirators, if they like." If that's what you want…
Uther grunted, scowling at the plush carpet as his shiny expensive shoes crushed it with each step. Silence lengthened til Merlin felt sure he should suffocate soon.
"They said we've a suite here?" Arthur hinted finally.
Another inattentive grunt.
"Suite Jamison," said the bodyguard at the door, extending a hand to reveal keys with square black tags, with white scrawled lettering The Essential.
Arthur stepped past Merlin to take the keys from the man – built like Percival with Elyan's height. "Thanks, Matthew. Father…"
If you need anything? It was good to see you, even though… the circumstances… You know where we'll be…
"Good night." Arthur hesitated half a second longer; Merlin wondered momentarily why he expected the older man to return the sentiment if his own son didn't.
Then Arthur was swinging the door open and Merlin hurrying through behind him. Hydraulic hinges. Click.
Arthur was all business, scooping up his bag and striding down the hushed hall. Which room was Morgana's, then? Shouldn't she have someone to stay with her? Merlin remembered Morgana's blonde friend and the jungle of her psyche, and shuddered.
"Jamison," Arthur repeated, like he was filling the silence so Merlin wouldn't.
They passed Suite Michelle – Merlin mentally pronounced it Mee-chelle - without hesitation, and Arthur anticipated the lock on the next door before the plate etched in flowing cursive was in view. Suite Jamison. Insert, twist, shove open.
Lamps were on in their suite, bathing the room in warm light. Entryway like it was its own flat, closed closet doors and an elegant little table-with-mirror-and-coathooks; Arthur dropped both keys unceremoniously on the gleaming surface. Further in there was a desk – an armchair – and a breakfast nook past two enormous beds swathed in burgundy duvets, turned down to show crisp snowy linen. Merlin could've flopped sideways on either one and only his toes would hang over the edge. Window alcove, half-hidden behind tastefully-striped drapes, bathroom in gleaming gold-taupe-navy.
"It's not really late," Arthur said, heading for the bathroom without dropping his bag. He hadn't fully faced Merlin since… the precinct. The lift? "I was told to keep up exercises for the leg, so I'm going to head to the gym on the first floor. There's a pool, and a media room, and a game room, whatever you feel like doing."
"Oh," Merlin said, caught a bit off guard. I thought we might… talk about the… "Is your knee-"
Bathroom door shut decisively between them, and Arthur clattered noisily behind it, doing whatever – changing, probably, if he was headed for the gym.
Merlin sank onto the edge of the nearest bed. There had been rather a lot of unexpected exertion today. Arthur hadn't shown any sign of discomfort or weakness, though… Except maybe in regards to the emotions of family…
Family is complicated.
Merlin remembered the first days of reunion with his mother. Yeah, complicated was a generous term. And he hadn't quite reconciled the apparent fact that he and Hunith both seemed more comfortable with some distance between them, and light minimal contact. She hadn't yet settled to contented happiness, though it was better now she had the cottage in Newmarch, and the part-time job with a local accountant.
Arthur yanked the bathroom door open, revealing himself in a plain gray t-shirt and sweats with the drawstring knotted and dangling, and running shoes.
We don't have to talk about that, Merlin thought. Just…
"Don't wait up," Arthur quipped, giving his bag a toss across the room to thump and bounce on the bed Merlin wasn't sitting on. He gave Merlin half of the disarmed-before-you-know-it smile, pocketing one of the room keys, and was gone before the door's weight had drawn it closed.
Click.
Merlin sat for a few moments longer, considering. Ten minutes til ten wasn't very late. Charles Gates number 3 was in his bag. Or there was the media room, or the game room, or… probably there was room service and a menu around here, somewhere. He'd never done that, it might be interesting, appetizing… expensive. They might charge it to the room, in which case who would pay for that? Arthur's dad personally, or some governmental expense account, or would they check out one morning only to discover that Arthur was supposed to pay – or Psych Ops? – or he and Arthur both? He could walk to a pub, maybe, he had a little money in his wallet, the front desk - the concierge could give him directions… Maybe still quite expensive, for this area.
It came to him that he was hungry, actually. Empty, lacking… sustenance. It came to him that they'd walked past a vending machine on this floor, hadn't they? Set into a discreet alcove just beside the lifts, next to the ice machine.
Well, it was a start. Maybe he could find something to snack on, and send his psyche searching for something to fill the mental and emotional gap – to focus on pursuing even the minimal contact he'd made with each of their assailants at Morgana's flat building earlier…
Merlin remembered to grab the key with its black plastic tag before letting the door swing shut behind him. He took two steps toward the conveniences alcove before realizing that the hall was not unoccupied.
Morgana stood before the vending machine, slouched in her fluffy cream robe, toes showing bare underneath. She stared into the depths of the machine, and it took him several long moments of standing uncertainly in place before he realized, she wasn't moving her head like she was actively searching for a selection.
He pocketed his key and moved toward her, ready at any moment for her to huff irritation and stalk away – if she needed to pass him in the hall, he'd have to step to the side…
How thick that ivy was, chimney to foundation and everything in between covered in layers.
She gave no sign of noticing him, even when he arrived beside the vending machine, interior lights faintly illuminating the smooth skin of her face, and cleared his throat.
"Morgana?" he ventured, receiving no reaction. "I'm… Merlin Emrys. Friend of Arthur's. From Psych Ops."
Only her eyes shifted, bright green but red-rimmed. Of course – she'd probably been crying. Upset.
"Hello, Merlin," she said evenly.
And that was all. Her eyes remained on him, watchful and waiting, and her focus and attention made him feel too-warm and awkward, just when he'd most wish to be cool and confident.
"I'm… sorry about your friend," he offered. Terrible shock. And if Arthur was right, Morgana's roommate had been sacrificed to give someone a shot at them.
His fault. Because probably a skilled sniper could have taken Arthur at any given step off Fort Fuller, but in company with a psychic, another distraction had been planned. Merlin almost hadn't identified that niggling sensation of being watched til it was too late.
"I am too," Morgana said, betraying no emotion.
"At least you know, the person who did it got what he deserved," Merlin added.
Her eyes shifted back to the vending machine, but she made no move to insert money or punch a lever to make a selection. Her hands were empty, but maybe the fluffy robe had pockets. She whispered, "What he deserved…"
They stood for another long moment just like that, and for Merlin at least, the awkwardness grew. He was no expert on Morgana's character or personality, but she didn't seem all right to him.
"Can I buy you something?" he asked. "What would you like?"
She blinked – then tipped her head back and closed her eyes, swaying in place. He straightened in alarm, ready to catch her if she collapsed.
"I don't know," she said with a touch of despair, her voice soft and throaty from the position, but remained on her feet.
"Are you alone in your room?" he asked, concerned. "Do you have a friend you can call to stay with you? Were you given anything, any medication? Maybe earlier, to calm you down?"
She dropped her head to stare at him again, and he had the odd feeling she was looking right through him. Am I that transparent. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
"Would you?" she said. "Come sit with me? Stay with me?"
"I…" No. Shouldn't. Inappropriate. "I'm not sure I'm the best one to ask…"
She angled her body, ducked her head, and he found himself following when she stepped away.
"Maybe Arthur – or your father?" he floundered. Did she have her own bodyguard too, even just for today? Arthur wouldn't; he was fully capable of his own self-defense, but maybe Morgana should have a female bodyguard, at least for the companionship…
"Arthur," Morgana repeated, her lips curving sourly as she glanced back at him. "Yes, because he's so good with sympathy and commiseration and comfort and feelings."
Merlin huffed agreement, shrugging an unspoken apology for the suggestion.
"And my father is… not any better," she continued. They reached the door marked Suite Michelle, and he saw that it had been held ajar by the bolt, turned to extend past the jamb. She pushed the door open for him to trail her inside.
He stood on the threshold, keeping the door from closing on itself, feeling his pulse warm.
Her room was different. One enormous bed, uncovered and rumpled. Across the foot of it, a small delicate lounging-bench. Desk in the corner, armchairs and breakfast nook, so on and so on, and all of it washed in a low peach-colored light.
Morgana stopped at the foot of the bed with her back to him and the open door, unbelted the fluffy cream robe, and shrugged it off her shoulders. He swallowed dryly as it slipped to the floor – to reveal a skin-close tank with straps as thin as yarn in a delicate blue, the only garment interrupting the slope of her bare shoulders – and a pair of cotton pajama pants tied so low at her hips that a strip of pale skin was visible. He couldn't look away – bloody hells, you idiot, she's not interested in you, and definitely not now – as she moved to the cabinet on the back wall. Bending to open one of the doors – an elegantly-concealed refrigerator – she straightened and turned with a small bottle in either hand.
The door bumped his shoulder, and thudded against the protruding bolt behind him.
Morgana stepped to the lounge-bench and curled up on the far side, twisting off the cap of one of the bottles, and extending it to him in invitation.
"I really shouldn't, you know," he said.
"I don't want to be alone," she said simply, and gave the bottle a little swing.
She probably shouldn't be alone… but he wasn't the solution… except there didn't seem to be a ready alternative.
"Arthur's in the gym downstairs," he said, crossing the room and stopping just short of the lounge-bench, his boots soundless on the thick carpet. "You could come to ours if you don't want to be alone. I know he's… Arthur, but-"
She rolled her eyes, momentarily withdrawing the offered drink so she could twist the cap from hers also.
"Under the circumstances, he'd try his best for you," Merlin finished.
"I don't want him trying," she said, and took a swallow of whatever alcohol the little bottle contained. "I don't want his best. I want you."
She didn't mean it like that, he told himself, even as his body moved around the end of the bench and lowered him to sitting with barely a foot of upholstered fabric between them. He took the bottle she waggled at him with more command than invitation.
Can't tell a Pendragon no, after all. Right? Oh, but Arthur would be so mad if he knew…
"Maybe you have someone you could call?" he suggested again, twisting the cap from the bottle – then twisting it right back on.
Not the blonde with the jungle in her psyche. He had girls he could call – Gwen's friends Becca and Jennifer, but probably not for her. Morgana Pendragon wouldn't trust strangers with any degree of vulnerability. She was only trusting him because… why was she trusting him?
She took another long swallow, gesturing loose sarcasm for the suggestion, and told him, "You don't know what it's like."
"No, probably not," he agreed. Wondering if this was her first little bottle – and if not, how many she'd had. He looked around surreptitiously, but saw no other empties discarded.
"To be me," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "To be a Pendragon. Practically perfect in every way…" She spoke mockingly, and he felt it was a reference to something he wasn't familiar with. "Everyone watching. Everyone judging…"
Merlin grunted, half-amusement and half-agreement. Probably why Arthur had developed that lady-killer smile and charming persona in the first place.
"You're doing it now," she accused.
"I'm not," he defended.
She narrowed piercing green eyes. "Drink that bottle, and then tell me that. And I'll believe you."
Shades of Arthur in the alley. Say it again, and mean it.
Merlin flipped the cap toward the waste-basket, and drank half the bottle at once, cold and tart. "It isn't easy," he said to her. "I know. Today was my first."
"Your first what?" she demanded.
"My first time seeing someone like that. Alive only moments ago, and then… gone. So fast. No time to blink. No time to stop it happening, stop whoever is responsible…" The wine in his stomach spread warmth through his chest. Up toward his throat, out into his arms, down his thighs. "Morgana. Even though we caught the ones responsible, even though he's dead. And tomorrow we'll keep trying to figure out why… It's okay that you're not all right. You don't have to be perfect. You can be shocked, and angry, and… devastated that this happened to your friend. You can miss her, you can be furious at how unfair it is…"
She stared at him. And whispered, "Are you reading me?"
He huffed. "No."
Tears welled in her eyes, and spilled down her face. Then she shifted closer to him on the sofa, reaching out both arms and diving face-first into the side of his neck before he could so much as stiffen. She sobbed, and clutched him, and he tried to console her with one arm around her shoulders, the bottle still in his other hand. She was warm, and soft, her hair smelled intoxicating…
"Ssh," he said inanely – hadn't he just told her it was okay for her to fall apart. "It'll be all right. I promise. You're not alone – you're all right. We'll figure it out, we'll fix it…"
He must sound so stupid. The death of her friend couldn't be fixed. Almost desperately he finished off the bottle so he could drop it noiselessly to the thick carpet and turn to absorb her grief more fully.
Just let Arthur come looking for him now, looking to make sure his sister was all right…
She sniffed, finally beginning to calm. And the sensations of holding her in his arms began to shift out of his control. She wasn't just soft and feminine, she was… curvy. Dressed so very casually; the small thin tank top was all she was wearing on her upper body. He could see that; he could feel that, too. Vulnerable – needy – pressed against him. He shifted to encourage her to separate from him. His blood was melting, draining downward, and beginning to pool and smolder.
Morgana stilled, and something told him she was aware of him, too. One hand slipped from his shoulder, slowly over the muscle of his chest, and he shivered. She found the buttons on the front of his shirt, and fingered them. Slid one button-hole over its button…
"Merlin," she said softly.
"Mm," he managed, watching her free another button and all his nerves skittered something excited from that point on his sternum outwards. Downwards. And he'd have to stop her before she could… unbutton another.
"I can't… thank you enough."
Another button slipped free, and he couldn't remember why that was a bad thing, only it was – and her hand continued to explore.
"No one sees me. No one cares about… about me. But you…" She shook back her hair and fixed her eyes on him from so close. Her eyelashes were starred with tears, brilliant sparkling emerald. "You do. You don't have to…"
Her hand slipped lower, and anticipation leaped up, seizing every inhibition in a vice-tight grip.
"Morgana," he said, fully intending to warn her that this wasn't… wasn't… wasn't something. Something important… wasn't this something important? Something momentous, he could feel it.
But she tipped her chin just so, and her eyes dropped to his mouth, and her hand was just on his hip, perfectly fine… That question deserved an answer, begged for an answer – and it couldn't be no. He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. Explanations be damned. Easier to ask for… than…
Her mouth was warm, and supple, and sent sparks shooting through him. She gasped and arched closer, pressing herself to him in an intentional and unmistakable way and it was overwhelmingly magnetic. Her other hand pulled at his button-down and her body warmed the thin undershirt he wore beneath it, rubbing it minutely over his skin as she parted his lips and tasted him.
Like a tidal wave of heat and wine-flavor.
He kissed her back, trying to keep up, trying to give whatever she was craving, trying to reveal whatever she was seeking.
She pulled back, flushed… aroused in a way he'd never experienced. Never with him, for him – offering and it was unthinkable, ungentlemanly to refuse. She whispered, "Isn't it hot?"
He was pulling the sleeves of his button-down off his arms before it occurred to him, what if she takes off her shirt, too? The air itself ignited and any clothes was too many clothes on either of them-
She kissed him again, so deeply and thoroughly he was drowning in her scent, eager to obey any suggestion she might make. When she pulled back, it took him a moment to blink focus into his vision – to begin to think, She changed her mind-
But that smile. Catlike, satisfied, confidently committed. Promising.
She pulled her bare feet up on the bench and hitched herself, onto the bed with its rumpled covers and luxurious sheets, pushing back toward the pillow and every movement was sultry invitation.
He turned as she went, devouring her with his eyes, enthralled with the demure sort of sexiness she was exuding. She reached the headboard and pulled her heels up one more time – then let her knees fall to either side, shaking her silky black curls loose down her back. Her body arched like it wanted contact with his, helplessly, uncontrollably…
Merlin pushed up from the sofa, crawling up the bed to reach her.
She lifted one foot as he reached the vicinity of her knees – and kicked him in the face.
Her heel smashed into his nose, crushing his lip against his teeth so hard he flipped over to his back, blinded momentarily with the pain. He tasted blood in the wine-flavor lingering from his drink and her mouth, and struggled to right himself, to clear his vision.
"Morgana," he managed, gasping. "What-"
She screamed.
Full-throated, to her lungs' capacity, and the wrongness of it seized every nerve in his body. He rolled off the side of the bed, disoriented and staggering to find balance.
She scrambled for the bedside table – a water-glass, heavy cut crystal and half-full – and flung it at him. He ducked, catching it against his forearm, heavy enough to bruise, too heavy to break when it hit the carpet.
"Hey!" he said indistinctly; blood trickled over his lips. "Morgana – stop, what are you-"
Lamp. She fumbled for a grip, then swung that at him too – hampered by the cord and plug. He dodged, reaching to snatch the base of the lamp away from her, and the shade glanced off his shoulder, popping loose and flipping away behind him. The hot bare bulb was a fleeting thought, and he yanked the plug free from the wall, tossing the lamp out of her reach.
She screamed again, only slightly less stridently, then suddenly flailed against herself, slapping and scratching and twisting the little bit of tank-top she wore.
"No, stop!" He lunged for her again, trying to trap her wrists before she hurt herself.
She snarled and fought him, and he felt the sting of her nails distantly – what the hell is going on? He retreated a few steps; she didn't follow, but hurled more objects at him from the bedside table. Leather-covered notebook fluttering pages. Heavy fine pen that scored his jaw as it flew past.
Two bottles of medication, clattering pills unseen inside.
"Morgana! Calm down!" he tried. "No one's hurting you! Just let me-"
She tackled the comm-block, curling around the handset as she braced herself with her back to the corner.
"Help! You've got to help me! Please, he's-" She gasped, and sobbed, and screamed full-throated again, the sound worse than fire-alarms for ratcheting adrenalin.
Bloody hells. Someone was going to-
See. Judge. She would be so embarrassed when she realized that her reaction-
The door whooshed open, off that bolt that had stopped it shutting when they entered – and it was Henry, bodyguard's weapon ready in a sure, two-handed grip.
"No," Merlin said, gesturing to placate his alarm. "She's-"
"Oh, help me!" Morgana shrieked to Henry, pointing an unsteady hand – at Merlin. "He tried – he tried to-"
Henry's Weston scrutinized Merlin unwaveringly.
Dammit.
"No," Merlin said again. "It wasn't – I didn't – I think she-" The pills. The alcohol. The events of the day… surely something would explain-
"Down on the floor," Henry growled, uncompromisingly antagonistic.
A rush of sound preceded the arrival of First Minister Uther at the door. "What is it – what's going – is she-"
"Get down," Henry ordered, moving closer in a way Merlin recognized. Ready to pull the trigger at any moment, even as he shifted position. "On your face, hands behind your back."
I'm not even armed – I'm not threatening anybody! Merlin's hands were out, were up, were empty, and he was going down on his knees anyway. "Something's the matter with her," he insisted. "She's not behaving-"
Rationally, was going to be his next word. Recommendations for a doctor – or a therapist – to follow.
"Daddy," Morgana moaned, scrambling over the bed to get to Uther. A sob lurched out of her, and Merlin twisted, hands and knees and still descending, to see her throw herself into her father's arms. "Daddy, he – oh…"
Uther was purple with fury, glaring down at Merlin.
Could the First Minister order his bodyguard to shoot, and never mind asking questions at all?
Merlin pressed his nose to the luxurious carpet, lacing his fingers over the back of his neck. He was still sweating, panting – trying to follow the fast-flying words above him.
You're all right, I've got you – sonuva bitch, how dare you-
His wrists were squeezed; cold sharp steel clanked tightly around one, then the other at the small of his back.
Make sure those are tight – you bastard, I'll see you burn for this…
Merlin inhaled carpet fibers, and burned with confusion.
And shame.