3.5 What Consequences May Come
Arthur's running shoes pounded rhythmically on the rubber track of the treadmill in the hotel gym. A bit of an echo, a bit of an unstable feeling beneath him, hollow and artificial. Not as satisfying as jogging the base track at a fast-steady pace. Part of him waiting for the equipment to give out, maybe. To come apart beneath him and make it necessary for him to jump clear of the wreckage.
The equipment sooner than his leg, maybe. It still didn't feel the same as the other; he thought about it the way it didn't even occur to him to think of the other, but today… Today he'd forgotten the injury. Action and reaction and instinct and strength responded when he called on it.
And run as he might, panting steadily and dripping sweat, he couldn't avoid the comparison to the situation with his partner.
Their relationship had been injured. Partially severed, and saved, but… not the same. Now it demanded thought and attention.
But.
Action and reaction. Instinct and strength responded when he called on it. No hesitation, no doubt. And it had been good. But was it enough? Tested and tried didn't necessarily mean trusted.
There was the other reason he usually preferred working alone. Because people were fallible. All the best intentions in the world, all the training and preparation and familiarity didn't mean there wouldn't be mistakes. And he wasn't so arrogant as to assume that his partner would be the one to make the mistakes, either. He was used to planning for his weaknesses and ignorance; he was not used to anticipating how that might affect a partner.
Except that… running a treadmill could be a comparison in another sort of way, too. Running and running, and not getting anywhere – not getting away from anything. What were the odds that he'd walk back into their shared room and find Merlin sitting right on the bed where he'd been when Arthur left? He seemed to be handling the events of the day well, but…
Yeah. He hadn't exactly stuck around to make sure. Honestly, he might have lost ground with Merlin today, if he wasn't consistently being the sort of partner a rookie psychic scout could depend on being there when he was needed…
He glanced at his timekeeper propped on the right handrail of the treadmill, and slowed his pace methodically to stopping. Right at forty-five minutes.
Glass of water, and a fluffy white hotel towel to mop sweat. He paced the small exercise room as his heart-rate recovered, three gulps and breathe controlled through his nose, three gulps and breathe.
Maybe a few repetitions of muscle-toning exercises in the Jamison Suite upstairs, instead of another half-hour or so at the weight bench in the far corner of the room. And maybe they could set their minds to unraveling the still-hidden knots of the case. Questions still needing answered.
Who. And why.
The sniper, and the second shooter in the hall, and Merlin said there was no contact between the two, which indicated involvement of another party they hadn't yet discovered. And he wasn't yet ready to contemplate all the ramifications of admitting the possibility that the target was-
Movement caught his attention, and he turned his head as an employee in a baby-blue polo with the hotel's stylized E leaned in the open door, a slim girl with honey-brown hair in a long curly ponytail, and no makeup.
"Are you Arthur?" she said without preamble.
"Yeah?" He wiped sweat before it dripped in his eye, and shoved his fingers through his hair to comb it temporarily aside from his face.
"Message from Suite Marnier." Her eyes were curious, but professional. Maybe she knew the significance, but she wasn't questioning beyond what she'd been told. "They want you back upstairs a-sap."
"Thank you," Arthur said automatically.
She gave him a nod and pushed upright to leave, letting the door swing closed behind her.
He caught it before it could latch, and headed the opposite way down the hall, toward the lifts. Comm-block connection to the front desk to command his immediate presence. After he'd been dismissed. Meant something had happened.
With the case? he asked himself on the ride up, toweling the rest of the perspiration from his skin as best he could. If they wanted him showered, they could tell him so, and otherwise he could keep his distance from polite company.
The lift bell pinged the arrival warning, and the doors slid open. Arthur took two steps toward the Marnier end of the corridor, glancing the other way instinctively over his shoulder.
Full stop. Morgana and their father outside the door of her suite – she in nothing but pajamas, it looked like – but. Her face in her hands, and their father's arms around her and he was speaking to her and her shoulders were shaking and the expression on his face was tenderness – fury - forced calm.
Arthur did an about-face and trotted toward them, demanding, "What happened?"
They both looked at him at once, and it was such a similar look of distressed accusation that he twisted to a halt on his used-to-be-bad leg.
"This is all your fault," Morgana said venomously. "If you hadn't brought him here…"
What? Arthur stepped closer cautiously. "What?"
"The psychic," Uther spat, as Morgana hid her face in his shoulder. "Your partner. Forced his way into your sister's room and assaulted her."
For a heartbeat Arthur inhaled, waiting for the statement to make sense – but it didn't.
"What?" he demanded again, incredulous.
"I've never trusted his kind," Uther said. "Reaching into anyone's head and twisting what they find, they always know exactly what to say and do to get whatever they want – and this time, it seems he wanted her. How fortunate she was able to fight back…"
Arthur was close enough to see scratches, reddened marks on her pale skin. Hair disheveled, and her top twisted like it had been yanked roughly. He could tell it was the only garment she wore on her upper body, and the thought of anyone grabbing her, tugging and maybe exposing-
Heat erupted in his chest and obscured the edges of his vision. What happened, exactly – because it was clear that something had. She was trembling, and clinging to their father, which was so out of character for her…
Arthur sidestepped to see inside her suite. Bedclothes rumpled and tossed, bottles and glasses littering the carpet, lamp broken – shade bent, bulb bared – other objects carelessly strewn about.
Some sort of physical altercation had taken place.
"I'm going to put Morgana in your room," Uther stated, drawing his attention back from the disordered room. "You'll have to get another – give me your key."
Arthur fished the key with its black plastic tag from the pocket of his sweats and let his father take it from him without looking at either of them.
They always know exactly what to say and do to get whatever they want…
I don't believe it. Doesn't make sense – Merlin wanted to offend the daughter of the most powerful man in Camelot in a very seriously personal way?
And, if Uther was right about Merlin… he should have been able to seduce Morgana. If that's what he wanted. A little bit like, he should have been able to get past the hotel's front desk to the penthouse, even without Arthur and his connection or either of their IDs.
But it was also true that Merlin had very little experience with women – what if he'd misunderstood the situation, or… Maybe he had offended Morgana, unintentionally, and she'd thrown a fit because she was already upset, and…
"Where is he?" Arthur said, trying to keep his tone even, and his pulse from rocketing out of control.
Uther was already starting to lead Morgana down the corridor. "Security took him into custody. It's been reported to CCI. He will confess his guilt and face the utmost penalty allowed by law, or-"
"Without a trial?" Arthur said, the pitch of his voice rising with disbelief. "But he's got the right to-"
Uther whirled on him, glaring. "Surely you're joking!" he snapped. "How on earth can you defend him after what he's done – after what he almost did. To your sister."
Morgana sobbed, bending in their father's arms, and Arthur stopped in his tracks, watching them reach the suite that had been his and Merlin's for about five minutes. Their luggage was still in there…
He turned and punched the button for the lift. If Morgana couldn't or wouldn't tell the truth about what happened, if he couldn't get her alone to question her… or if she had told the truth… The silence and subtle sense of oppressive wealth around him pressed in, and the slight chill inside the elevator was welcome. The machinery chugged and squeaked, just slightly, carrying him down past the other floors, the other guests, and pinged the end of his descent.
The concierge on duty for the Hotel Essential was an angular man with very little hair on top of his head, close-set eyes and crooked teeth, and a gold-plated name-tag reading Edgar. It was his presence and his manner that gave him authority, and Arthur used an engaging smile before any words, leaning on the outer edge of the high desk like a supplicant.
"CPO," he explained, holding his ID so the man could see it, but not study it. "I'd like a minute with the man you just took into custody from the fifth floor?"
"That's a matter for… CCI," the concierge said, his tone somewhere between disparaging and uncertain.
"Did they tell you he's one of ours, though?" Arthur said. "He's a scout."
"That doesn't mean we can release him to you…"
Arthur was shaking his head before the man finished. And a connection would need to be made with the Old Man before too long, but, "No, I just want a few minutes to question him before the constabulary arrive."
The man made a noise of consideration, pondered the request another moment and maybe just for the show and feel of exercised authority, before he relented. "Very well, sir. He's under guard in our back office. Come with me."
Arthur was led behind the massive front desk, down a short corridor and around a corner to a longer hall.
"There at the end," the concierge told him. "Also, I was told that I might expect a police response in less than a quarter of an hour, considering circumstances."
"Thank you," Arthur said, striding down the hall.
"That was over five minutes ago," the concierge added, almost apologetically.
Arthur gestured to indicate he'd heard and understood. A few minutes was all he was going to get, especially once the constables sent to deal with the charges learned his connections to everyone involved. Conflict of interest.
The door to the back office was half-glass, and he could see Merlin while he was still eight paces away. Seated, head hanging down so his hair obscured his face… minus his button-down, arms bared by his thin undershirt… hands cuffed behind him… scratches showing reddened and angry on his pale skin, too.
He had no doubt that if they scraped Morgana's fingernails, it would be Merlin's DNA they discovered.
One of the hotel's gray-uniformed security guards stood opposite Merlin within the room, arms crossed over a bulging gut, glaring extreme disapproval through thick glasses, out from under a flop of mousy straight hair.
Arthur reached for the doorknob just as Merlin shrugged his shoulder up to the side of his face in a way that made him pause… and realize. It wasn't sweat or blood that the psychic was wiping awkwardly on the shoulder of his shirt.
And, how had Merlin not felt his approach from several floors away? He'd be astonished to know he wasn't showering fiery darts of all sorts of emotions through several major cracks in his walls, at the moment…
Then Merlin looked up, through the glass of the door, right at Arthur. Without surprise – because, psychic – but the despair all over his face was just as startling as the blood trickle-over-smear down from his nose. That look made Arthur shore up those stone walls inside his head, as tall and thick and strong as he could make them, before he opened the door.
Merlin's reaction had alerted the security officer, who pushed upright from the wall and dropped his arms.
"CPO," Arthur told him, flipping the ID he hadn't tucked away, between two fingers, just enough to establish the fact of his possession of it. "CCI's on their way. I have a few questions for the accused before they arrive."
"Oh, but-" the guard protested.
"Edgar at the front desk okayed my clearance," Arthur reassured him, holding the door open and angling his body to subtly encourage the man to exit. He was used to taking orders, and was already moving to obey, before Arthur even finished, "Few minutes privacy would be appreciated – you can keep an eye on, from the hallway here, yeah?"
"Ah – yes?"
"Thanks very much." Arthur leaned to close the door firmly behind him. Then he faced Merlin – and felt the need to cross his arms over his own chest, and back away til he felt the wall solid behind him.
Merlin shook his head and whispered miserably, "I didn't. I wouldn't."
No one is going to believe that.
And, it won't matter at all, if anyone actually does…
"What happened?" Arthur said.
"I don't…" He didn't stop shaking his head, and his eyes were wet, but he held Arthur's gaze like it was his only lifeline. "I don't know. One minute she's asking me in and sharing those little bottles of wine from the fridge in the cabinet, and… and so on, and the next minute she's kicking my face and screaming for help."
Arthur's fists clenched beneath his elbows. He said deliberately, "What happened between those two minutes?"
Merlin's knee jigged frantically for a moment before he seemed to notice it. A shiver rippled through his frame, and he moved his head as if attempting to shake some sense loose. "I kissed her?"
Why wasn't the psychic climbing the walls to get away from the brother of the girl he'd… Briefly Arthur contemplated giving the psychic a second bruise to match – or a third and fourth. He ground his teeth to keep quiet and see what might come pouring out of the accused into expectant silence.
"I'm not… I know I'm not… But I'd never, with a girl who wasn't interested," Merlin blurted. "Who wasn't clearly, insistently interested. I know it doesn't make any sense, her and me. She said she didn't want to be alone, and I thought – after this morning, I thought she shouldn't. But I cannot explain why she-"
"So she attacked you?" Arthur said, infusing his tone with as much sarcastic incredulity as he could. Because, yeah, he had little experience observing his sister socially, but he could see her flirting, seducing, playing with guys.
Except, Merlin was so far from what he expected her type to be. And, given the situation with the murdered roommate.
"Kind of?" Merlin wasn't focusing on him, his attention was scouring those few moments; Arthur was acquainted with that mindset, searching a memory for details missed as it happened. "She was scratching herself, too, I tried to stop her hurting herself – I backed off when she started throwing things, and…"
"And?" Arthur demanded.
Merlin's head twisted like he was trying to hear something far away. "Is she taking medication?" he said in a different tone. "There were… two bottles of pills. And… with the wine, maybe it was…"
"Some kind of pharmacological mix-up?" Arthur said with exaggerated derision.
"I did not hurt her," Merlin insisted, letting his head swing doggedly on his neck. "I did not come on to her, and definitely not in any way that would make her feel like she had to defend herself violently. A simple, we're done here Merlin, get out. Would have sufficed."
He was exactly right, too. Arthur could hear Morgana's characteristic tone through Merlin's choice of phrasing. The psychic knew her at least that well…
They always know exactly what to say or do to get what they want…
Question. What was that. Exactly. If he had played Morgana – if he was playing Arthur right now… Why?
Muirden was creepy, always hinting at what he knew or could find out about anyone's secrets. Gaius' job pretty much declared that he handled his people in whatever way was necessary to achieve what was best for the kingdom. Alice seemed a perpetual peace-keeper, which was a noble goal on the instinctive level, but could also be labeled manipulative, at worst.
"Please believe me," Merlin whispered. "Please…"
Arthur didn't think there was a thing he could do unless Morgana amended her story. "If I say I believe you," he said slowly, "that's the same as saying, I don't believe my sister."
"Your sister," Merlin echoed in soft despair.
The victim.
"But why?" Merlin added. "Why would I? Your sister – his daughter – why in hell would I… Ask her for anything? Assume, or pressure, or… anything? Why?"
That was the question, wasn't it.
The answer from six months ago crawled malevolently into his mind. Because. Scout of Essetir. Get close. Find out. Spy.
Arthur had spent the last six months determined to trust, again. But now… Nothing he could think of made any sense at all.
"You'll be placed under arrest unless charges are dropped," Arthur told him. "You'll have a lawyer assigned through Psych Ops, unless they opt for a court martial. Or you make a full confession, in which case there wouldn't be a trial, only sentencing."
Merlin made a little sound of involuntary pain in the back of his throat, as the remaining color drained from his face, along with all hope.
Still. Six months ago, Merlin had agreed to face charges of espionage and life in prison cooperating with Psych Ops on the barest sliver of trust, if Arthur saved his mother. You only just avoided prolonged incarceration, why…
Arthur held very still, taking a deliberate mental step back from the immediate present. If the truth was in a mix of pills and alcohol. Would they take blood samples from either individual involved. Would Morgana submit to that.
Was she taking prescriptions, and for what. Possible side effects… Her mindset also to be taken into consideration, after what happened to her roommate that morning.
After what happened. To her roommate.
Who'd unintentionally ingested something fatal – he had yet to see the lab write-up of her examination – that was perhaps meant for Morgana. Swiftly he reviewed what he'd seen of his sister this evening, and tempered the spark of panic with reassurance, maybe she was affected, but not fatally.
If she was the target, it was not for anything so simple as assassination. They'd have been very careful of anything Morgana had access to – or anyone who had access to her, today.
So…
Without moving, or looking away from Merlin – the psychic – Arthur took another mental step backward from the situation.
They had intended to dig deeper into the case tomorrow. Piece together a conspiracy more complicated than a homicidal citizen willing to tamper with one girl's groceries… and at least one individual who remained unknown and at large, someone who might have planned and… instigated the whole thing. Seiz-9 was a weapon for a professional hired for a job and a reason.
Now there was no way Merlin would be allowed anywhere near the bodies or personal affects to discover anything.
Motive enough for someone to engineer this accusation, to immediately discredit Merlin and significantly cripple their efforts to investigate further.
Using Morgana?
Well, they had used her roommate…
Arthur opened his mouth, and Merlin's brows lifted hopefully, and-
Unwillingly, he stepped backward yet again. Big, big picture.
If this whole thing had been aimed at this asset Gaius felt might be key to a global defense against the Isyad. The murder to bring them from Fort Fuller, the scene and the folio set up to draw one or the other into position for the sniper. The back-up shooter in the hall when the element of surprise was lost, and psychic didn't matter anymore. And because both men died leaving the job undone, the psychic and his handler free to investigate…
This. Contingency. Plan B.
But. If Camelot was going to be able to prove that. To get ahead of whatever came next… didn't their enemies need to believe they'd succeeded. To relax from the offensive. To take scrutiny and antipathy off the psychic…
All this, in the flash of a moment. In the few blinks of those big, desperate blue eyes starred by eyelashes wet with tears blotted awkwardly on his shoulder.
Arthur knew what he had to do, and hated it. Drew his walls tight and high.
"Confess," he said, slipping the word past Merlin's defenses like an assassin's blade. "Quit making excuses. Quit whining about how everyone should believe that you'd always act with honor, toward a Pendragon. My best advice? Don't argue. At all. Admit she's right, and beg forgiveness and leniency. Do your time like a man."
Merlin swallowed, wilting.
Arthur pushed away from the wall and reached the door in two strides, yanking it open. Merlin flinched away, his gaze in the vicinity of Arthur's knees.
"CCI's probably here," Arthur said insouciantly.
And slammed the door behind him.
Two constables – hats and buttons and moustaches – passed him on his way back to the front desk, barely glancing at him. The night was nowhere near over – statements would be taken from Merlin and Morgana for certain, and the arrest would be made official. The psychic would be held in a local lock-up overnight, and probably they'd want official statements from him and his father, Henry and the overweight security guard, whatever attendant had gotten the connection from Suite Michelle's comm-block, at the front desk.
"Edgar," he said engagingly, leaning over the high ledge to get the man's attention again. "I would very much appreciate being allowed to use your comm-block. Reports need to be made to my superiors without delay – you understand."
The concierge hummed disinclination to cooperate – then relented, to show it was a choice and a privilege Arthur should remember to be grateful for. "Here you are, sir."
"Thanks." Arthur turned his back and punched the numbers. The Old Man at home. Maybe even already in bed, and asleep.
"Gaius." Snapped, but didn't he have to know it was an emergency?
"Pendragon," Arthur responded, identifying himself. "Scout Emrys is being arrested for assaulting the daughter of the First Minister."
A throb of silence. "What?"
Arthur reported, in abbreviated fashion. The murder that was something more, the killer who shot himself in the presence of a psychic. And tonight. "I want a blood test done on both of them, but I don't see anyone agreeing to that. If she doesn't recant, if my father won't allow charges to be dropped-"
Gaius snorted his assessment of the likelihood of that possibility, and Arthur didn't disagree. The Director knew the First Minister well.
"Damage control, then," Arthur suggested. "I'll try to see about any medications that might be affecting her, try to talk my father into accepting…"
"Some kind of deal," Gaius agreed. "I'll see what I can do."
Arthur replaced the block, and turned to see one of the stern-faced constables marching Merlin through the lobby. Cuffed and bruised and wearing only the thin undershirt against the cold wet night, gathering the attention of staff and guests alike, present in the lobby.
He couldn't help thinking of restraints and sedation and white-uniformed guards… Every step of the way he watched Merlin and felt the psychic attention fixed on him, though Merlin's eyes' stayed on the ground. Please… please…
There's more at stake here than your feelings. Dammit. Sorry.
Out the door, and swallowed up in the black-and-glare of the night, and there was a moment of breathlessness before the murmur of gossip sprang up through the thick scented air of the grand room.
Arthur stalked to the lifts and rode upward again. Morgana's room was a crime scene and his own had been reappropriated for her haven, and he'd have to find a shower and a bed somewhere else.
The second constable was guarding the open door of Morgana's suite when he arrived. Back-up and scene technicians not there yet. On their way if charges were pressed – and surely they would be.
"CPO," Arthur said to the constable, using the man's momentary shift of attention to his ID to duck past him in the doorway. "The victim is my sister and the accused is my partner."
"Sir, that doesn't mean you're authorized to-"
"I'm not touching anything," Arthur reassured the man. "I just want a quick look around."
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave – you haven't been cleared for-"
There were the little one-serving wine bottles, and only two of them that he could see in a swift glance around the room. 50 mililitres. Not enough for more than relaxation. Slight loosening of inhibitions. But there-
"I know, I know, I'm leaving," Arthur said, crouching and leaning to be able to read the labels on the two little white bottles. "But I'm on another active case with CCI, it might be connected to this one."
"If that's so, then I'm going to need confirmation from my superiors, sir, I can't accept your say-so-"
"Of course," Arthur said, straightening and summoning charm with an effort. Authority in spite of his working-out-wear and dried sweat. "I'll leave, then, til we can sort out our jurisdiction…"
The constable ushered him to the corridor, and he was only vaguely aware when the man stopped again at the crime scene's doorway. He tread the thick hotel carpet and breathed the subtly-scented air and heard nothing but his own pulse in his ears.
The description on the bottle-labels meant nothing to him, not the proper scientific name nor the popularly-assigned one, easier to pronounce and recognize. The prescriber's name was tucked away in memory, in case it became relevant, but Arthur was focused on the name of the patient the medication had been prescribed to. Morga… But the last letters hadn't belonged to his sister. Morgause. The blonde friend, the one weekend Merlin had visited the Pendragon estate – and fled to cut ties with his handlers in Essetir, the only way he thought he could.
Henry was stationed at the door of Suite Jamison, and Matthew hovered barely three paces away. Both father and sister within, then; Arthur nodded for Henry to issue the private-code knock on the door.
The latch disengaged, but the bodyguard had to snatch at the handle to open it before it closed and locked itself again. Arthur slipped inside as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit him, and moved no further into the room.
Morgana lay curled on her side in the bed Arthur had meant to use, tucked small beneath the cover. His bag was still there on the foot of it, unzipped and showing the clothes he'd hastily stuffed in when he headed to the gym.
Damn the gym. Damn the rehab, and the leg, and the instinct for avoiding problematic relationships…
He sighed, bracing himself to face his father's scowl as Uther hovered over his daughter from the desk chair in the corner. Declining to enter the room proper, and uncertain whether Morgana had actually fallen asleep – they'd have to wake her, when someone came for her statement – he shifted his weight to get his father to stand and join him in the entryway of the suite.
"What?" Uther demanded in a voice calculated to leave Morgana undisturbed.
My clothes are in here. Merlin's clothes are in here.
"He insists on his innocence," Arthur said neutrally. His father growled in the back of his throat, and even though it was kept quiet for Morgana's sake, the sound sent ice up Arthur's spine. "Father, think about this logically for a moment. Even though the courts reliably side with the victim, a trial means… cross-examination. Investigators trying to prove he's right, and she's at fault, even partially. He said, she said. They'll bring up the trauma from this morning-"
"Which he used to his advantage," Uther snapped. "Whose side are you on?"
"Morgana's," Arthur said firmly. "She's got medication in her room that wasn't prescribed to her, and probably alcohol in her system. They'll want blood tests and depositions, she'll be made to talk about this over and over and in front of strangers, it'll make the news because of… of who she is."
"I don't want that." Morgana's voice, almost unrecognizable. She sounded like she had a bad cold, and was only half-awake. A chill of fear shot through him – maybe she should be taken to the hospital, maybe they should check those medication, and side effects, and dosage in her system…
Uther spoke with soothing authority, "Morgana, love, you don't have to do anything you don't want to do – you don't even have to think about that now."
She rolled in bed just enough to be able to see them. "I don't want… all that. To happen. I never want to see him again – I want him gone. For good. And all of this, just over."
"She'd have to take the witness stand," Arthur murmured.
"What do you suggest," Uther muttered savagely. "You have a friend or two who can make him disappear?"
Not knowing how serious his father was about that line of thought, Arthur kept his expression neutral with an effort. "Maybe you could work something out with Director Gaius."
Realization lit in his father's eyes. "Yes. Of course. That's a… very good idea."
"For tonight…" And tomorrow, and this week… Arthur stepped forward to gather up his bag. They'd probably throw out Merlin's things; he couldn't care about that right now. "I'll get another room. Take some official leave. Be available for whatever you need."
Morgana turned back to the pillow, going small and still under the coverlet.
Uther didn't even look at him, focused entirely on his daughter, as Arthur passed their father and let himself out of the room.
Well. He still had an investigation to pursue, didn't he. And even less time to waste, now, than before.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin woke to a subtle disorientation.
Latrine and body odors, the sounds of restless men in close proximity gave him a first subconscious impression of – the barracks? the field-camp? But there were undertones of harsh and insufficient ammonia, the clang of heavy doors meant to lock and hold. Less rough banter and more genuine antipathy, that made him expect close sterile walls and white uniforms and ready syringes.
Not bars and brick and concrete with grimy corners.
He blinked at peeling paint and bare light bulbs protected in cages of knit wire; he shifted on the hard bench that had been his bunk when he could not longer hold himself upright, and didn't move further. His body ached with cold and discomfort. His heart ached with worse, and instinctively he checked-
Awake or asleep, those white stone walls were tall and tight. And distant.
She was asleep; he couldn't tell anything else about Arthur's sister. All that ivy… and after another day or so, he wouldn't be able to sense even that.
He was distracted from the attempt by the realization of the mental neighborhood he occupied, clarity advancing and increasing in unpredictable waves. Even without risking eye contact, he knew that the men around him were crumbling, littered, soiled and rotting and defaced – suspicious bars on grimy windows, rubbish left out in bare yards as if the owner no longer cared who knew what had been tried and discarded. A little like the more aggressive tattoos on hands and faces and necks. A façade, a camouflage all its own, placed for the purpose.
"Sleep well, pretty boy?" sneered the man in the corner, big and dark as a mountain cliff – or a five-story slum-flat. Light could come on in any given window at any time, moods changed swiftly as if many different people lived there, each called upon to handle different situations in a learned flash-
More than he needed to know. More than he wanted to know, more than he intended to see-
"I'm surprised he was able to keep his eyes closed at all," grunted the weasel-faced many in the corner. Shifty, layers of clothing that hadn't seen the inside of a washer in far too long – bare-walled rooms with paper peeling off paint peeling off paper, battered table and chairs with broken spindles… "First-timer. Jumpy as hell."
Why was this happening? It made him think of the night he'd exploded the gas tank of an Essetirian cutter, and all the neighborhoods everywhere had disappeared for a time. Now it felt like – it felt like he was in the middle of a crowded city, and all the dwellings everywhere were leaning in on him and he couldn't look away.
"Choker," he said without thinking, without moving. That was the term for a military rookie.
Their attention added to him, rather than dividing more or less equally amongst each other.
"What?" said the short round man at the end of the bench Merlin had tipped prone on, sprawling too close to Merlin's boots and scratching through thickly-curled hair like denying shampoo was a habit.
"Choker," Merlin repeated. "I've just been through training. I don't look it, but I am capable of decisive self-defense. If it becomes necessary."
The big man snorted like a boar. "You're in here, means you can kiss a military career goodbye."
"I'm in here for assault," Merlin informed him, trying to stretch his way toward equilibrium. They weren't going to leave him alone; he needed to establish the impression of physical ability, at least. But there was nothing to be done about the regret that smoldered down his throat and deep in his chest. "Means they'll probably promote me."
"Assault," whispered the weasel-faced man. "Who'd you assault? You've got scratches. And not one bruise on your knuckles."
The weather shifted, in the mental neighborhood, like wind kicking up to disturb the litter, exposing memories all around. "I got close to the wrong girl," he said. "All that decisive self-defense means nothing when you can't hit a girl."
Grumbled agreement. "My old lady had a mean right hook," the curly-haired man offered, scratching away.
Beyond the bars, an iron-gray door with wiring implanted in the glass of the window shoved open to admit a mustached man in a constable's uniform.
"Emrys," he grunted, unlocking the barred door of the holding cell, with keen glances to make sure he wasn't rushed, even though none of the others moved.
Merlin lifted himself from the bench and shuffled forward – they'd taken the shoelaces from his boots - heart rising toward his throat. "Yeah?"
"You're being transferred."
He paused. What did that mean?
Green shutters, red posies, white picket fence. Closed windows, opaque curtains, perfectly trimmed grass. Average; guarded. Merlin couldn't tell what the man's attitude was toward him personally, what he might expect of circumstances.
"What about the charges?" he said, passing through the gap the man opened for him in the bars.
"Pending," the constable said noncommittally. He shifted to keep Merlin in the corner of his vision as he locked the cell again – not because it was logical for Merlin to make any kind of break for it, through violence or subterfuge, but just because it was instinct, for someone like him.
Arthur would have done it. Merlin wouldn't have thought to.
He wasn't sure if he was supposed to open the door separating the holding cell from the rest of the headquarters office, so he didn't, resisting the urge to rub some warmth and comfort into his bare arms as the constable reached to usher him through.
It wasn't the same address as the CCI office where he and Arthur had been witnesses and very nearly heroes, just last night. Carpeted floor instead of tile, which muffled the noises of voices and equipment and comm-block alarms slightly. The whole front was a row of windows that he hadn't noticed in the dark, and daylight flooded them now with an angle of shadow to suggest close to midday.
So long had he slept, this morning?
Well, it had probably been closer to dawn than midnight, after he'd been searched and made to urinate in a lab receptacle, when he was finally abandoned to the cell and its inhabitants and whatever relaxation he could manage, after all.
Then his eye was drawn to an all-black Psych Ops uniform waiting on the other side of the main desk, and for one moment he hoped – before he recognized Leon, alerting to his arrival and turning to face him. And the expression on the broad honest face of the Logistics officer was… chillingly blank.
Oh, hells… Leon, I didn't do it.
"Merlin Emrys, as requested," the constable said, pointing out a patch of floor where Merlin should stand.
Wordlessly, he obeyed, casting gaze and psyche around the room – and farther – for any sign of Arthur. Confess, his friend had said, with that implacable look. Except, they hadn't given him anything to write his version of events on, they hadn't recorded an interrogation session – they'd ignored him when he tried to impress on them the need to check whether Morgana was all right.
Leon – but not Arthur?
"You've got a copy of the transfer order," Leon said mildly. "I've got to sign a receipt of custody?"
The constable made a noise of affirmation, shuffling paperwork to find the correct sheet, spinning it on the desktop to face Leon. "You bring cuffs with you?"
Merlin was aware of the looks he was getting from the rest of the room – officials and civilians alike, and it made him feel queasy. Queasy and uncertain to think, they'd brought Leon here to deal with the situation?
"That won't be necessary." Leon sounded professional, and didn't look at Merlin as he signed
Merlin leaned up on his toes to look past the desk, check if his friend had brought a bag – extra clothes – maybe his own luggage from the hotel? There was an olive-and-beige regular-army rucksack at Leon's feet. It looked full; Leon laid down the pen and bent to lift it to his shoulder, handling it like it was heavy.
"Personal effects," the constable said, passing a sealed envelope to Leon.
"Thank you," Leon answered.
"No, thank you – for taking him off our hands," the constable returned. "One less scumbag for us to deal with."
It took Merlin a moment to realize, scumbag meant him. And before he could untangle his emotions for sufficient clarification, Leon – who didn't argue with the label – turned to the door, telling him, "Let's go."
He followed Leon numbly through the busy room – as he had followed Arthur the previous evening – and out the door. It was brightly sunny, but cold enough to raise immediate goosebumps.
"Leon," he said. "What-"
"We don't have time to stand and talk," Leon said, faintly apologetic. "The train leaves in half an hour, and you still need to change."
Good to know clothes were in his immediate future. And bootlaces. "Yes, but-"
Leon set a swift, vaguely martial pace. Merlin noticed that, in contrast to the way Arthur prowled; he supposed a scout would not want to make people think military.
"I haven't been told everything," Leon said, too casually. "I gather you managed to offend the Pendragons in a nearly-criminal way."
"Nearly," Merlin blurted, not knowing whether to feel hopeful, or offended himself.
"I'm not asking." Leon splayed his fingers like he was asking Merlin not to expound. "You've been demoted. Out of Psych Ops, back to Division Twelve."
Which was the main unit functioning out of Fort Fuller, but they were…
"Charges aren't being pressed," Leon went on, "but that's not the same as charges being dropped."
"But Division Twelve is-" Merlin began.
"Currently deployed to Aravia. Yes." Leon stopped two steps after Merlin did, swinging the weight of the rucksack around to eye him like he thought Merlin might spin and sprint in the opposite direction. "We've train tickets to the port. You're to join your unit without delay."
Merlin felt like the sidewalk had opened to swallow him into a nightmare mirror-world, and he was still falling. Without delay.
So I'm out of Pysch Ops. And I'm being deployed. And charges can still be brought-
"I think Gaius made a deal for you," Leon said, with an air of relenting. "Whatever it was you did or didn't do, if you keep your head down and your nose clean, in time-"
In time he could work his way back to Psych Ops? They'd never trust him again, not really. But I thought I was supposed to be… an asset. Working off my debt, or making it up, or…
No. Arthur told him, not like that. Because he believed in the mission, or else…
Now he really had to decide. If he believed in the mission.
Or else…
"What about Arthur?" he said numbly.
"I asked that," Leon said, reaching to nudge Merlin's shoulder, urge him to start moving again – and twice he bumped into people he never noticed, coming or going or whatever, on the sidewalk. "I couldn't tell whether he was mad, or in trouble, too – he's on an extended leave of absence. Gaius wouldn't say how long. That's why I'm here, instead."
"A leave of absence," Merlin repeated, and it still didn't feel real to him. "You mean he just – left for vacation?"
You know him better than that. Leon's thought was clear and bright and stern, though his expression never changed; he wasn't aware of the shout-out from the highest dormer window above the wrap-around porch partially hidden behind a stately walnut tree.
"It is odd," Leon allowed. "He doesn't like to take time off unless it's recovery after a mission, and he's told to. All this medical leave made him impatient – he was so eager to get back to it…"
Merlin's memory flashed to the intensity Arthur had displayed, tracking him down after his confession. And the uncertainty he'd rarely glimpsed, afterward. If Arthur believed his family betrayed, if it seemed to him that Merlin had fooled him again, had broken their mending trust… would that be enough to douse the intensity enough to just… take a break?
The sharp-edged thought splintered through his chest.
"What about the case we were meant to be working?" he said, a bit desperately. "What about – what about Arthur's sister? Is anyone making sure that-"
"I wasn't told anything about that," Leon interrupted. "I'm sorry, Merlin – we really do need to hurry to make that train…"
Merlin tried to rub the chill from his skin, clomping along after Leon in untied boots. Tried to respect his friend's compassionate detachment. He really didn't know any more than he'd been told – probably because Merlin was psychic, and they were handling him in not telling Leon anything else.
He couldn't help comparing his current situation with the last-minute notice Essetir had given him, of the life-altering mission in Ealdor. It hurt to think that Camelot would do the same, to think Gaius or Arthur shared anything in common with The Man. Mistrust was like smoke in his lungs, making it hard to breathe and leaving him with a light-headed feeling of imminent devastation.
Do I accept the changes as inevitable? Do I fight back – and how? What other options do I have?
He checked Arthur psychically – and was convinced that the distance was physical, not emotional. Not even in the capital of Camelot, anymore. Gone. Somewhere west… and Merlin was headed far east.
Aravia. The sandbox. The Isyad, and permanent field conditions – a new unit, and real combat, not simulated situations.
Bloody hells.