A/N: Sorry this is late again; it's long again…
Chapter 6: What the Psychic was Offered
Turf-bikes operated like the skid-cart Merlin had driven in the snow over the northern mountain border – here's the brake; here's the acceleration – and behaved totally different.
Skid-carts wallowed, clinging low to the ground even as they skewed one way or the other through shifting snow, and the size and spread of the engine and skids gave the impression of stability even when the slope tilted sheer enough to endanger that.
Turf-bikes, however, wanted to fly.
The engine buzzed against his hands and the insides of his knees and it took him a minute to master leaning into the turn, but the slender tires mocked the dirt track, looking for every opportunity to leap away, over the smallest rises. Leon and Percival exploited that tendency in ways that lifted Merlin's heart into his throat to watch, but if he wanted to keep up with them over the myriad twists and turns of the backwoods course, he had to accelerate fast enough for a few short soaring moments and teeth-jarring thuds on landing. Both men were habitually contained and serious, on-post, and not as demonstrative in the Sunrise as others he'd observed, but here they whooped.
That, he could identity with. Here was freedom.
Arthur's family – father, Uther Pendragon – owned a few square leagues of land in the country south of the capital and west of Fort Fuller. The estate owned a dozen or so turf-bikes for aiding stewardship, and for recreation. This course of multiple intertwined paths covered less than half of that land, but it was enough.
Merlin eased off his accelerator, coming around a gentle turn to see that Arthur had parked his turf-bike atop one of the hills where the trees thinned to reveal a picturesque view toward the river. Leon and Percival were engaged in a brief competitive race, disappearing over another rising curve, and Merlin chose to angle his steering bar to climb the hill obliquely toward Arthur, who was reclining sideways on the grass, head propped on his fist.
Merlin stopped his turf-bike near Arthur's, resting on its stick-stand, and cut the motor.
The silence vibrated in his ears, allowing the distant hum of Percival and Leon's turf-bikes, and hinting at grasshoppers and crickets, far enough away from the humans to feel safe.
How far away is safe?
The day was warm and the air close under the trees; without the wind generated by forward momentum and with the safety helmet firmly in place, his body was sweating slowly from every pore, attracting and keeping the dust of the track. His white t-shirt was dingy and smeared from where he'd lifted it to rub over his face, earlier. Merlin unbuckled his helmet-strap, tugged it off, and balanced it on the saddle-seat in front of him to run fingers through sweat-soaked hair, granting the breeze permission to approach his scalp.
Percival had worn a black-leather vest, understated and serviceable, and Leon had a canvas jacket over his t-shirt for protection from slips and slides; Arthur wore long-sleeved denim but left it unbuttoned. The oldest of jeans, all around, because all of them sported new stains and widened holes from scrapes and bruises, but nothing needing the first-aid kits bolted to the right flank of each turf-bike, just behind their knees.
Arthur tipped his head to look at Merlin, maybe wondering what he was doing, still astride the silent turf-bike but going nowhere.
Merlin dismounted slowly, telling himself it was for sore bones and muscles, not for any disinclination… and found himself kicking through the grass, up the few paces to the top of the hill to join Arthur.
"I bet your butt hurts," Arthur said with lazy satisfaction in Merlin's imagined discomfort.
Merlin groaned a bit, lowering himself to sitting, slightly downhill from Arthur's crossed boots. "It's not terrible."
At least soreness and exhaustion distracted him from other thoughts. He dropped awkwardly back on his elbows, then rested into the grass, prickly on the back of his neck and his arms, the sun stretching from a low position over the horizon to warm him gently.
"How about you?" he added belatedly. Because it was only polite to return the sentiment, wasn't it. "All rested up from yesterday?"
Arthur grunted his opinion of the rounds of meetings he'd endured for post-mission protocol. Merlin knew he himself was not happy to have to endure the scrutiny; mistakes were sure to come to light, then – though maybe not with Arthur.
"Resting isn't something that comes easily right now," he grumbled. "I should've turned around and taken the hit down the front of me when we blew up Urhavi. Then at least I could sleep on my back."
Merlin considered how carefully Arthur had perched in the plastic chair in the interrogation room – and his first question for Merlin just now. He twisted his head to squint up at the scout, propped awkwardly to the side rather than sprawled sitting.
"How's your butt?" he said. "I guess that's better than the alternative, if you had been hit front-side."
Arthur blinked, then his grin spread sideways. "Well… yeah."
Merlin snickered to himself a little – he couldn't help it – and relaxed to listen to the subtle chirr of grass insects, feel the weight of incorporeal sunbeams. "What about Gwen?" he asked after a few moments, but not because the silence threatened to smother. "She wasn't hurt, but… something was wrong, yesterday?"
Arthur didn't answer for another long moment, but the hesitation didn't feel personal to Merlin.
"I don't know," he said slowly. "Something…"
Something about his tone invited Merlin to roll to his side and prop up his own chin on his fist. "Something about your mission?"
Arthur's eyes flicked to Merlin, then away, and he caught a glimpse of a shadow, a shape he'd begun to suspect yesterday, when he'd told Arthur so much more than he'd ever want to reveal to Nimueh. A psychic boy in Urhavi… and then Arthur had ended their session.
"Something about the boy?" he added. Do I really want to know? What if she asks…
Arthur's eyes dropped closed momentarily. "What did you see, yesterday?"
Without the pieces of electronic equipment stolen by the scout to share residual images, Merlin could only rely on his memory of psychic investigation. "He looked about fourteen. About as tall as Gwen. Dressed like an Aravian, but he wasn't, he sounded like us…"
Flash – A moment of memory so strong he could feel it, the rocketing terror as the boy reached for his knife, his face radiating murderous glee, and Gwen was too close but inattentive, her expression betraying indecision. Merlin couldn't breathe, in that endless second wholly convinced he was going to watch his friend, whom he loved, brutally and repeatedly stabbed, her body torn apart and her life abruptly ended…
All his might, all his strength and ability, all his heart went into that cast.
Part of Merlin's mind was perfectly aware that he could not throw knives and hope for any efficacy.
But it was Arthur's memory, and had already happened. The boy dropped, and never touched Guinevere.
Merlin's body folded in half involuntarily on the hillside, gasping to protect the emotion that threatened to explode from his chest, and he swore breathlessly, blinking away reactive tears. How does he feel like this about her, all the time, and no one can tell?
"Did you – you saw that, didn't you?" Arthur's voice said. "Hells, Merlin – I'm sorry."
The world swam back into focus and he saw his friend sitting up to lean forward as Merlin writhed for control, even though Merlin knew the half-healed injuries on his back still hurt him to move.
"It's all right," he managed, relaxing deliberately and ignoring the shakiness that lingered. "It doesn't hurt, it just… feels."
He pushed up on his elbow, more fully facing Arthur, who re-arranged himself with a grimace, and seemed determined to wall himself off again behind that high white stone.
No, no, Merlin's psyche mourned. I know. I know how you feel. About her. And anyway, hadn't he been told there was no official interest in her, no questions would be asked that he'd have to duck and hide. "Her name is Guinevere," he said aloud. "That's pretty."
Arthur huffed in wry agreement. "Evidently I don't get to say that, anymore. Her name, I mean, not that it's pretty." Though it is…
"She was upset about the boy?" Merlin went on, venturing to glance at his memory of Arthur's memory again. He hadn't caught upset from her – just the uncertainty, and looking to Arthur for the decision, what to do with the boy. "Was it because of me? Because I'm psychic?"
"Because we gave you a chance and you joined us?" Arthur added, and didn't seem to notice the cringe of guilt and dread that skittered along Merlin's skin. "No – I think it was because I killed him."
Merlin made a thoughtful noise, considering what he'd felt from Gwen in the battalion hallway yesterday, what else he knew of her. She was determined and focused – not girly – and she was a scout.
"I mean, she took really good care of me after the explosion," Arthur went on, his attention on the drying-to-yellow grass his fingers plucked at restlessly. "All the way back to Camp George."
Camp George. Dammit. Now he knew a name, and he might have to say it to Nimueh… would it matter, if Arthur and Gwen had already left the camp safely?
A moment later, Merlin's mind caught up, reminding him of and exploring the expression on Gwen's face yesterday, when he'd teased her about having to drag Arthur wounded across the desert…
"Oh," he said, straightening.
Arthur repeated the sound, mocking him. "Oh? What does that mean?"
Merlin pushed off his elbow, considering, listening briefly to the competition of two turf-bike motors in the distance. He hadn't been reading her at the time, looking at her face and into her eyes rather than at her mental home-front and into the windows. So surely it would be all right to share his thoughts? If it helped Arthur understand? And wouldn't really betray Gwen?
"I think," he said slowly. "It's to do with Lancelot? He got hurt pretty badly on a mission, and… decided to blame her, at least partly, or even just that he needed a new start without her? I imagine, after that, she's probably inclined to be pretty… skittish."
Arthur's movements stilled, and he lifted his head to stare toward the horizon. He repeated, "Skittish…"
Maybe he'd said too much. Because if Gwen felt nothing for Arthur beyond professional concern, or mild regret that she couldn't, didn't match his interest, there would be nothing to be skittish about…
But there were. Feelings.
He couldn't answer whether it would be better for her or Arthur or both, to deny that and look elsewhere til they found something with someone else, or try to see if something might work between them… It was Merlin's opinion it would, but no one was asking, and it needed to be their decision to act on, anyway.
But the grin that spread slow and sure over Arthur's face reassured Merlin – and brought a little heat to his cheeks when the scout turned that look on Merlin as a sort of thanks for that…
"You've – you've got a lot of land here," Merlin blurted, to change the subject before Arthur could think to offer some reciprocal advice on girls and feelings and relationships. "Is it all just… trees, like this?"
"No, there's… a sawmill by the river. Back down the track where we came in the gate? If you take the east fork you pass through Fennbridge and the river spills out eventually into the Gray-douse Estuary. But there's greenhouses and hay-fields and a dairy barn – down-wind." Arthur smirked. "I should've offered a tour, I suppose – I want to be a good host."
Dairy barn. Sounded idyllic… except he had a suspicion it was probably dirtier and smellier than he'd expect, however they kept the milk sanitary for use.
"I've never been hosted before," he realized. Not even far back, before the Institute; he didn't remember going to anyone else's house visiting. "That means you're… an incomparable host."
Arthur threw his head back and barked out a brief, genuine laugh that brought a grin of triumph to Merlin's face. He rarely heard Arthur laugh.
"That's why I like you, Merlin," Arthur told him, pushing by careful degrees to his feet.
Triumph turned over in his chest like some deep-sea creature, seeking the depths of his belly. He countered lightly, "Because I give you compliments."
Arthur, dusting grass off his jeans, shot him a look – You're deliberately misunderstanding, and I won't allow that – and extended a hand to pull Merlin to his feet. "No. Your sense of humor – it's refreshing."
"Oh." Merlin tried to retain sarcasm, but… he couldn't remember if anyone had ever said anything like that to him before.
Certainly not in Essetir, but even in Camelot it was more like, Thanks Merlin you've been helpful. Or, Hey this was fun let's do it again sometime and a See you later! that was more hopeful than threatening.
"But you – you like everyone," he pressed, trailing Arthur to the parked turf-bikes. Percival and Leon had come to a stop below them on the road, watching and waiting as their motors buzzed idly. "I mean. Except for Muirden. And Greg?"
"Not at all," Arthur returned, swinging a leg over the saddle of his turf-bike and reaching to buckle his helmet on. "I'm polite to everyone, it's good form. But I only like a handful of people – and so happens, you're one."
The deep-sea creature dove for the depths of the pit that cracked open inside him, and he faltered.
Arthur, oblivious, gave him a wide grin, settling safety eyewear in place, then released the stick-stand and coasted obliquely down the hillside to join Leon and Percival before starting his motor. Percival gave an exaggerated wave intended to hurry Merlin along – Let's go, we're leaving, we're hungry for dinner…
He wasn't hungry at all. To be one of Arthur's many acquaintances, to be a charity case shown obligatory kindness to, was one thing; it meant little and could easily be replaced. Then Merlin was only hurting himself, letting the relationship carry on and develop, letting himself become attached. But Arthur had said…
I shouldn't have come. What now?
Merlin swung his leg over the turf-bike he'd been allowed to borrow for the afternoon, lifting his helmet to his head and settling it in place. Maybe if he had an accident – brain damage, amnesia – he lifted the stick-stand with his heel and rocked forward, letting gravity pull him down toward the others. No – with his luck, he'd only end up breaking multiple limbs… The evening would be ruined, they'd have to cart him to the nearest trauma ward, he'd have months of healing and be no better off, the next time Nimueh found him.
And Arthur would probably blame himself for the accident.
So Merlin hung on grimly as the turf-bike shuddered over the rough hillside, down to the track to pull in behind the others, squeezing for acceleration. Percival glanced over his shoulder, grin wide and white below his safety eyewear in a face brown with dust and sweat. There was a drying scrape-trickle on the back of his left elbow that hadn't been there earlier, and Merlin had never caught any sense of surprise or danger from him.
Maybe because he'd been too far away when it happened. Maybe because Arthur had been too near.
He was content to linger in the rear of their foursome in spite of the dust, and Arthur led them in fits of acceleration-then-easing-off, down the cooling track, through the lengthening shadows of chestnut trees, around the hills to the great cement-block garage.
There were four overhead doors, though only one was currently rolled up along the ceiling; lights were on inside and Merlin coasted his turf-bike back inside where they'd started out hours ago, giving him pointers and letting him practice a bit before they headed out into the wilds of the estate. Bump up from old gravel to smooth concrete floor, and the motors echoed twice as loud from walls made of gleaming corrugated metal.
Two big transport-trucks were parked in marked areas, beside a row of remaining turf-bikes still propped on their stick-stands along the near wall. Merlin followed Percival into the painted slot for his machine, shivering slightly in the cool of indoors after being in the sun for hours.
"What did you think?" Leon asked him, just before he switched off his engine – the last of the four, and then it was poignantly quiet. A reddened mark showed at the corner of his jaw when he unclipped the chin-strap of his helmet – maybe it had rubbed a bit raw when he hit his head, or something.
Merlin lifted his own helmet and dismounted the turf-bike to follow Arthur to the equipment rack where the helmets were stored, along with various pads, jackets, and gloves for users' convenience. "It was a whole helluva lot more fun than skid-carts."
Arthur snorted, meeting his eyes to share the memory with amusement, and replacing their keys on wall-board hooks.
"We'll take you to the national races sometime," Percival offered, wedging his helmet into place and contorting his arm in an attempt to see the scraped elbow. "They've got exhibition contests, and fellows flip these machines end over end in the air like it's nothing."
"They've got those contests in the winter, too, for skid-carts," Leon added, mildly teasing.
Merlin considered deliberately taking those machines airborne, and then curving and turning so 500 pounds of metal and moving parts was overhead… He shuddered, and Arthur threw out a companionable elbow – It's okay; I understand – even as he turned toward the sound of another vehicle approaching the open overhead door from outside.
Leon whacked dust from the thighs of his jeans in a desultory way, following Arthur, and Percival abandoned the awkward study of his scraped elbow. Merlin trailed them again, feeling the residual buzz of now-quiet motors from fingertips to armpits. Dirt was packed in the lines of his palms and around his fingernails, and the rest of him was a shade tanner from the dust. He wondered if his face looked just as smudged and grimy as the others – and if it made him look fiercely capable, or just slightly pathetic.
Chester Morris, the estate steward, was waiting for them in the gap between vehicle and driver's door, standing up on the running board of a third transport truck to watch them over the bonnet.
"You look filthy, sir," he observed cheerfully. Probably closer to forty than thirty, he was wiry and energetic and freckled; his mental housefront was straight and clean and unshadowed. "It was a successful outing, then?"
"We have proved ourselves once again masters of the realm, and kings of men," Arthur declared, striding to the truck and yanking the passenger door open. Percival elbowed Leon to share amusement at their friend's choice of language, and gave Merlin a little-boy grin over his shoulder that was both unique and rare.
Merlin stumbled. Was he one of Percival's few genuine friends, too?
The truck's bed had no sides, only a pair of crates lashed down, leaving room for them to hop on the rear of it. As Morris ducked into the cab and slammed the driver's-side door, Arthur paused at the open passenger door and looked at Merlin.
"Want to ride up front with the big boys?" he offered, lazily insulting his other two friends. Percival made a rude gesture, not even pausing on his way to the back of the bed, but Leon slowed and half-turned.
"You probably should," he told Merlin seriously. "You're going to be sore since you're not use to riding those turf-bikes so long over rough ground."
Really shouldn't… Want to.
Merlin ducked his head and kicked through the grass to the cab, sliding up to the padded bench seat as Arthur made way, then stepped up and folded himself onto the seat more carefully. He closed the door with casual carelessness, but Merlin noticed that he leaned slightly forward rather than relaxing back, and winced once again for the undisclosed state of the scout's back.
If he couldn't ride the way he wanted as long as he wanted, why had he asked them to join him for the activity this weekend?
Bloody hells. He'd done it for them, hadn't he? To enjoy their enjoyment of the land and the weather and the ride. He'd done it for Merlin.
Morris worked the gear-shift, and the truck lurched forward; the grassy, sweaty hot-engine-oil smell that filled the cab wasn't at all unpleasant. Merlin inhaled deeply, subtly, intending to make a deliberate memory.
"You've been down to the village this afternoon," Arthur said to the steward around Merlin, buttoning his denim shirt in a desultory way. "Shopping?"
"Yes, sir." Morris spoke with easy confidence in his relationship with… Merlin supposed it was a relationship with his employer's son, not his employer. Though probably he treated the whole family as a collective employer.
"We're not going to need half that for the weekend."
It wasn't really a question, but Morris answered readily anyway. "No, sir. Your sister arrived about an hour after you did, and she has company planning to spend the summer here. Della gave me a list anticipating many more temporary guests."
Arthur grunted. "The one long-term guest – male or female?"
That white-stone wall seemed to rise and lean forward, menacing strength, and Merlin had to bite his lip. He didn't feel much like smiling, but unsettled nerves must still be managed.
"Female, sir."
Arthur grunted again and the stone wall retreated to normal position and size, and Merlin spoke to him without thinking.
"You're older than your sister, aren't you?"
"Why?" Arthur eyed him suspiciously, and didn't seem at all aware of the protective sense he threw off.
Merlin shrugged and shook his head. No reason. But now the steward was giving him curious looks, and he thought he'd like to avoid having to say, I'm psychic. Because he truly didn't think it would occur to Arthur to say it; maybe thinking the detail irrelevant, or maybe thinking it Merlin's place to mention if he chose.
"How long have you had this job?" he said to Morris, deflecting attention. "It's – what do you call it – an estate manager?"
"Yup." The man's eyes sparkled; he looked pleased and happy with the position. "I was born and grew up in the capital. Dropped out of school to work two jobs, delivering for a document-handling company, and the corner grocery after-hours. Kept my head down and my nose clean, and I thought I had it made when I was promoted to district manager of the grocery. Then one day I got a better offer from someone I'd never even met – I didn't know he was one of our customers because the delivery was made under another name."
Merlin looked at Arthur, who was watching out the window. "You?"
"My father," Arthur said, in a tone Merlin had never heard from him – quiet pride. He never said much about his father, and Merlin never asked – for reasons pertinent to both of them. "The steward we employed while I was growing up wanted to retire, so…"
"So I moved to the country," Morris finished. "Never looked back."
Merlin tensed against the motion of the truck as the estate steward directed it up the unpaved track, over a hill. Wish I could say the same…
His second look at the Pendragon mansion was just as astonishing as when they'd arrived from the train station to drop their bags inside the front door. Just now, though, with the amount of dust smeared into sweaty skin and raggedy clothes, he was glad the steward steered them around the landscaped evergreens shadowing and framing the south wing, to the rear entrance.
Arthur, arm outstretched along the bottom of the passenger-side window, tapped his fingers in restless thoughtfulness, and Merlin focused instead on their destination.
The tall double doors of the rear entrance were made both neat and discreet by a flanking pair of trimmed yew hedges. The windows of ground-floor rooms allowed for plenteous light through tiny angled diamond panes that wouldn't show anything to the outside save light and shadow. Subtle gray stone, each piece exquisitely matched, gave a sense of solidity without being gloomily overbearing.
Morris parked the truck - Merlin felt the vehicle shift with Leon and Percival's dismount – and reached for the door-handle at the same time as Arthur did, flipping the keys into a more comfortable grip. Merlin hesitated, wondering if it would be polite or inappropriate to offer the steward some help carrying the boxes or bags of his shopping indoors at least.
"Want an extra pair of hands or four, with this lot?" Arthur said, before Merlin could decide. He stepped aside once more to let Merlin slide free of the cab.
"Certainly not," Morris exclaimed, giving the driver's door a vigorous slam and speaking over the bonnet to his employer. "You wanted to try your hand at pizza, then? You'll need a good bit of cleaning up first, if I may say so – and you'll find everything you need in the first refrigerator. I've already advised Della to clear out and leave you lot alone tonight."
"Thank you, Chester," Arthur said, gently ironic. He signaled something to Leon at the side of the flat bed, beginning to loosen the straps securing the cargo, that made him abandon the effort with a shrug.
On the other side of the truck, the steward scolded Percival. "Oy! None of that, now – you're a guest. Go on in."
Arthur gave him a smile betraying the wry gratitude he felt for his family steward's service, and Merlin's breath caught, stiffening his limbs just enough that Percival rounded the truck and caught up, and Merlin was the last man through the door. No one else seemed to notice anything amiss, though, and he was glad for that.
He barely remembered the small home of his early childhood, but there was an impression of a square of linoleum and a worn gray rug, hooks on the walls for raincoats or umbrellas, the sense that there had been considerable tripping over snow-boots or rain-boots before he was lifted past, and into the kitchen.
The Pendragon back hall could have housed a small gathering of thirty or so, comfortably. Walls lined with closets and cupboards and hooks for storage convenience, woven indoor-outdoor rugs with subtly stylish patterns, sturdy-comfortable patio furniture, planters and hanging pots of greenery.
And Arthur didn't so much as pause to toe off his boots, but led them straight through.
"Hope no one wants anything odd like pineapple or anchovies, because we're not having that on any pizza made at this house…"
Merlin followed Leon and Percival, following Arthur to the back stair. It was open through four stories to a glass-dome roof and probably someone skilled – Arthur – could have parachuted safely down the center of the space. Climb fifteen steps, take a right turn, climb fifteen more. Look down and marvel at the mosaic pattern of the imported-tile flooring, but don't lean out too far. Mind the parachuters.
Above the sound of their boots climbing stairs – clump-scuff – Merlin heard the light sound of female laughter, and immediately paused to look up.
Two girls, coming down. Two women, he amended the thought – the first with a long thick black braid over the shoulder of a delicate pastel button-up, descending carelessly and looking back at the other. The second was blonde, wearing a dark-plum jacket, with long ringlets and striking black eyeliner – and she was looking right down at Merlin.
Mind the jumpers…
"She was wrong and I could tell she knew it but of course she wouldn't admit it, not in front of everyone," the black-haired girl was saying. Her lips were a vibrant and unnatural and magnetic scarlet.
Arthur halted at the corner of the turn, hand on the outer railing, one foot propped on the step above him in anticipation of continuing his climb, leaning to the side out of their way.
"Good afternoon, ladies," he said clearly, interrupting her without offense. "Morgana – welcome home."
"Welcome home," the dark-haired beauty repeating mockingly, passing him without pausing. "This isn't my home any more than it is yours, Arthur. And why is it, every time I see you and your… friends, you're all filthy and smelly as street orphans?"
She spoke over Leon and Percival murmuring polite pleasantries. Merlin flattened himself against the wall side of the stair, uncertain what he should do or say and she glanced at him as she thudded past – pastel shirt accentuating curves, jeans that left little to the imagination of her shape, wicked black heels that she was perfectly comfortable in.
Somewhere above, he heard Arthur introduce himself. "Hello, nice to meet you, I'm Arthur Pendragon…"
And the blonde's sardonic response, "I know…"
So the black-haired girl with red lips and high heels and fine features and arresting green eyes was Morgana – Arthur's sister.
Looked nothing alike.
He didn't think he was breathing. Not even capable of… What was breathing?
From far away, "This is my friend, Merlin…" and the black-haired girl glanced back up at him.
For an involuntary second, vision flickered to psyche. He stood on the sidewalk of his mind looking up a grassy green hill at the very image of the Pendragon mansion – which never happened, people never looked like where they actually lived. The image dropped like a veil, like a painted curtain the moment she broke eye contact and continued down the stairs, leaving him gaping at a cozy hunting lodge complete with exposed-log corners – a chic city flat building – a rose-covered cottage with mossy roof…
He blinked, disconcerted enough to grip the wall with flattened palms and damp fingertips. That didn't happen. That never happened before, it didn't work like that, a person's mental housing didn't change, not like that. Not that fast, and not to something so entirely different.
Except, she was a Pendragon, and her brother's mind-house was a bloody castle, for heaven's sake…
Briefly he felt the desire to meet their father to see what his mind might be housed in – then remembered: Uther Pendragon.
Never mind.
But the blonde stepped down into his view, deliberately blocking him from watching Morgana round the corner, and her eyes, blue or gray or something shifting in-between, caught Merlin's intentionally – caught and held. There was a light there, almost manic with glee, that rocked him back on his heels and had him scrambling for composure even as he froze perfectly still.
There was no house on her lot, in his mind. Massive old trees stretched and twisted out of the ground, webbed with connecting vines, grass-plants whispering and waving nose-high.
A jungle.
Her mind's habitation was a jungle – and the grasses hissed and sliced against the wind as if something large and predatory moved within. Merlin wanted to turn tail and flee down his sidewalk to more civilized territory, but for the fear that he would find himself surrounded by this wild and thoroughly lost.
She moved on, following Morgana, down to the tile – purposeful and confident click-clack of aggressively feminine footwear – and Merlin dumbly lifted his eyes to Arthur, left unmoving at the top of the stair.
Shining white stone, subtle internal glow of undying fire. Safety, and refuge.
Merlin breathed again, even as he tried to resist that pull. Not for me. I shouldn't be allowed in. If you only knew…
Arthur's eyes said both, All right there, Merlin? and at the same time, That's my sister. Merlin.
Yeah, okay. He gulped air and dropped his eyes and focused on not tripping, up the steps to the guest floor. Reminding himself that he was filthy and tattered, and nothing to turn a girl's head, anyway. What did she think of me was probably irrelevant – probably she forgot him the moment they were out of sight.
Maybe it was just… girls can be different? Gwen had a very nice mental house, with cheerful flowers in window-boxes, and quaintly-carved shutters she never closed, and lace curtains – and the white picket fence was just for show. Just for a layer of self-protection that didn't diminish the friendliness of the whole, but then she seemed a very stable personality otherwise, also. Becca and Jennifer, too…
"This will be you," Arthur said to him.
Merlin stumbled to a stop on the hallway carpet, just before he would've run into Arthur, who'd stopped facing him.
Uncomprehending, Merlin turned to look over his shoulder – two side-by-side doorways left open, motion and activity and Percival and Leon could be heard in either one. Merlin faced forward again, and Arthur turned the knob of the door he'd stopped Merlin at, shoving it open.
"All of the guest rooms have ensuite bathrooms," Arthur said to him.
His rucksack was waiting for him on the rug, a large oval thing with concentric stripes winding ever inward – or outward, depending on perspective. An enormous fluffy-looking bed with six pillows backed up to the inner wall opposite a massive wardrobe, a writing-desk beneath the window, and an open door showing dim white and shiny tile… And then he realized, he was only looking at half the room. Behind the door there was a second such bed and two well-stuffed armchairs flanking an ottoman beneath a second window.
"Who am I sharing with?" Merlin said blankly. His whole barracks room could have fit in here… five, maybe six times.
Arthur snorted. "No one. Leon and Percival always say the same thing, but I won't let them. When we camp it's share everything but sleeping bags and toothbrushes, but when we're here…"
"Sure, because you don't clean up, after," Merlin blurted.
Arthur gave a sudden unreserved grin, pushing upright from the doorframe where he'd rested his shoulder. "No. Nor do I pay those who do."
"Spoiled brat," Merlin suggested, even as his friend turned and sauntered away down the hall.
"Say that again after you've been in the shower," Arthur countered over his shoulder, disappearing around a corner.
The other two had left bedroom doors open like they habitually did in the barracks, but Merlin suddenly felt too exposed like that. Leaning against the inside of his closed door, he untied and unlaced his boots, first thing. Then, seeing the state of his socks – sweaty and dirt-colored – he peeled them off also. Tiny white sock-lint pieces clung to his bare feet and he imagined those bits rubbing off on the rug, the polished hardwood floor as he made his way to the bathroom door with his rucksack in hand, trying not to think of clouds of dust sifting off him.
And – the bathroom itself was comfortably the size of his barracks room.
Bloody hells, did people really live like this every day? How could Arthur grow up in a place like this and still choose… barracks? that tiny shed across from the B-n-B in Ealdor where they'd met? whatever accommodations Camp George could boast, in the sandbox?
Herringbone tile in clean white, and that would show every dirty smudge he left. Pedestal sink, beveled mirror, claw-foot tub, white wicker chair and footstool with fat cushions. A linen cabinet larger than the entire closet he couldn't fill in the barracks. He could stay here a fortnight and use a different towel every night and not run out; he opened the first one that came to his hand to see if it might have an embroidered monogram.
Nope, just pure fluffy white. And then-
Glass-walled shower with… four shower-heads? Enough controls to operate a vehicle, and tile the cool green-gray-blue of tropical water under light cloud cover.
Merlin shed his filthy clothes and stepped into a shower he could have performed a song-and-dance in, and not felt cramped for stage-space. And, as it turned out, the four shower-heads spraying simultaneously made sure there were no gaps in water coverage anywhere. Inset shelves for soaps and shampoos in glass bottles with copper pumps – pale blue-green that smelled of eucalyptus and tingled on his skin.
He leaned his head back and spread his arms to let water trickle off each finger, down to the drain, closed his eyes, and moaned aloud, "I'm never coming out of here…"
And maybe they never would run out of hot water, either. Spoiled brat, nothing. More like, guilty pleasure… but as minutes passed, it became more guilt than pleasure.
Tomorrow was a late morning and a leisurely trip back to Fort Fuller. And maybe all week before he'd be asked to leave post again with their group, but… If he didn't present himself to Nimueh for questioning, might she come after him. Might she report back to Essetir that he was avoiding, and might they decide to…
Merlin shook water from his hair, blinked his eyes clear, and shut the water off decisively.
Water trickled, away down the drain. And he shivered.
Hastily dressing, he let himself out of his room in time to catch up with Leon and Percival – all three of them fragrantly damp down the back stair, and no girls in sight to appreciate how well they cleaned up – to the kitchen.
Both other men had clearly been frequent guests. Merlin hesitated in the doorway of the kitchen to take in gleaming pale-silver appliances, three refrigerators, two long prep-islands, each with a sink at either end. Side by side dishwashers, bottom-and-top ovens, including a massive brick fire-oven Arthur was already tending, supervised by a girl with a blonde pony-tail wearing an apron over jeans, bent over what could only be a text-book on the counter, eyes sharp for their movement in her kitchen. Merlin smiled at her; she didn't smile back.
"Merlin, this is Della, our cook-chef-baker-kitchen magician," Arthur called out. "Della, one more of mine. Call that one Merlin."
She grunted, her eyes dismissing him, and turned a page of her textbook.
He ended up on a barstool, watching fascinated more than participating, in preparation or in conversation – teasing, joking, lighting on one topic then the next. Girls in general – Della lifted a stern eyebrow and bit her lip to keep from smiling – books, movies, bosses, family…
Merlin swallowed envy past the tightness in his throat and held his grin even after it hurt.
Refrigerated packages of pizza dough, popped open and unrolled. Packets of sauce squeezed and spread. Then a full dozen prepared containers of toppings – triangle-sliced ham, crumbled sausage, real bacon bits the size of the ball of his thumb. Sliced mushrooms, olives, three colors of peppers, four kinds of cheese…
His stomach growled and his mouth watered even before the aromas of baking pizza filled the room.
"What are the ladies going to eat?" he said into a lull… that became a silence when the others looked at him quizzically.
Leon recovered first, turning to Arthur. "He means your sister and her guest."
Ladies, Arthur mouthed with a roll of his eyes, turning back to the large slit in the brick oven where four enormous pizzas had been slidden, all at once.
"They ate already, Merlin," Della spoke up for the first time. "Filet mignon and red wine in the dining room."
"Oh," Merlin said inanely, feeling wrong-footed.
"The family only eats together if Uther's here," Percival leaned over the counter to murmur to him.
"Isn't that too bad?" Merlin responded in a similarly private tone. Family that didn't so much as touch, or pause to greet each other with genuine feeling, after months of separation, after dangerous missions… "Doesn't she know what Arthur does for a living?"
"As little as possible," Arthur answered, acting like it was no big thing – for Merlin to ask, for him to overhear and respond. For the fact itself.
But it wasn't really an answer, for Merlin.
"Confidentiality," Leon said to him; Della turned another page, reabsorbed in her reading.
Merlin mouthed Oh, and nodded, but… Well, who was he to criticize how other people protected their families from their choices?
Then the pizzas were done and they were piling plates – steaming, drippy cheese and sauce – and adjourning down another hall. Merlin felt slightly odd carrying a dinner tray over soft Oriental runners, past vases that were probably as old as Geoffrey's artifacts, wooden paneling and oil paintings – originals, masters – and then into a room that was also a disconcerting shift.
Rows of plush chairs whose seats folded up when not in use, whose arms ended in basket-holes for condensation-clad drinks, all facing a screen as big as a shower-curtain all spread out.
Movie theater.
And it only took him a minute – and the meeting of a twinkle in Arthur's eye – to realize the movie that was rolling was a film adaptation of the spy novel he'd been reading.
Lawrence Leclair crept along the upstairs corridor of the O'Rourke family mansion…
Merlin grinned, and snickered when the others booed out loud or made sarcastic quips – C'mon, Arthur, that's cool, how come you can't do that – No, don't kiss her now, you fool… And thought he might make himself sick, or die laughing – which after all, wouldn't be a bad way to go.
Then they made popcorn and poured vodka-and-cream and rolled the sequel.
Definitely die happy…
Arthur said nothing to dissuade them cleaning up the kitchen – Della nowhere in sight, presumably gone home hours ago. Merlin wiped the counters and made sure all the crumbs of food ended up in the waste-bin, not the floor, and they trooped for the stairs again, leaving dish-washers humming and lights turned low in their wake.
"Bloody hells, I'm going to sleep til noon," Percival groaned, stretching so his joints cracked and he seemed too large to fit through his bedroom doorway.
"At least it will be quiet, then," Leon suggested – then covered a yawn. Merlin meant to laugh – Percival was always quiet – but he found he was too tired.
"Don't wait on me for breakfast," Arthur told them, lingering by Merlin's door. "Make yourselves at home…"
"G'night," Merlin managed, and two doors closed – but Arthur didn't retreat, this time.
"You too tired for a word?" he said, tilting his head toward Merlin's room.
"Course not," Merlin said automatically, opening the door and gesturing for his host to precede him.
Incomparable host.
Arthur wandered in, glancing around like it was his first time, finally ending up easing himself back into one of the armchairs. Merlin, not trusting himself not to nod off in the depths of the other one, in spite of the polite white lie, perched on the ottoman, feeling the soreness in his bones from riding the turf-bike. All of him ached for the sumptuous depths of the enormous bed, and the comfort of oblivion, postponing any thoughts about what now, or need to answer.
Outside the window, the night was black, and the light that spilled in from the hallway was sufficient without being overwhelming. It came to Merlin how absolutely silent it was, here in the country. No barracks-neighbors, no vehicles in use for leagues, maybe.
"So…" Arthur said, having a hard time approaching his subject, if he had one in mind, specifically. "Having a good time? Enjoying yourself?"
"Can't you tell?" Merlin said, letting his tone sound incredulous. "Arthur – you've got to know I've never done… anything like this. Anything like any of it."
Arthur looked away, vaguely embarrassed, and drummed his fingers on the upholstered arm of the chair. "I've been… thinking."
Merlin found the activity demanding at the moment himself, but he made an interested noise, rather than a sarcastic one.
"Muirden was creepy. I don't think Gwen wants to partner on another mission." Arthur spoke slowly, and Merlin absorbed the seemingly-disconnected sentences as nothing new or surprising. "Gaius wants to be sure we can trust you, and you… should have more."
"I have plenty," Merlin said, puzzled. "I have-"
"You've been in basic," Arthur interrupted, his eyes finding Merlin's face though his face was turned further toward the middle of the room. "You've left all the life you've ever known behind you, for something new. You've made it through the initial trials and requirements. But that's all… temporary. What's next?"
Merlin wet his lips, dropping his eyes away from Arthur's face. His own thoughts from the Institute, anticipating…
"I don't know if you want…" Arthur gestured like that could help him express himself. "Quiet, and peace. A little home, a little job…"
"You're making fun of me," Merlin said.
"What I do is dangerous," Arthur said bluntly, his eyes blue coals in the shadows banked over his face. "It's… deadly dangerous. In Aravia, if we'd been caught, it wouldn't have been prison, or even a clean execution. They could've literally ripped me to pieces, and made it take days to die, and recorded the whole thing. Which is nothing to what might've happened to Gwen."
Merlin's mouth went dry, and the rest of the world disappeared.
"You have to know that, first of all. Each mission is rated for percentage expected success. I never look at that part of the debriefing. Failure means… well, failure. I'm not asking, Merlin, I'm not. Just like yesterday – no disappointment between us, ever. I'm… offering."
He waited, and Merlin realized he should respond, and he felt caught in a surreal dream. Vodka in his blood and popcorn kerneling in his belly. He said intelligently, "What?"
"You'd have training. And I mean, tough training. But you could do it. I think you could handle it – you might even enjoy it, I think."
"Training?" Merlin repeated, and couldn't repress a shiver for what that meant, in his experience.
"For missions. Psych ops." Arthur watched him.
Understanding approached him like a monster wave, sucking confidence out from under his feet and towering dread high over him, threatening to crash down at any moment, sooner or later. "You mean, you want me to-"
"Partner. With me. Maybe. I mean… sometime, maybe. Train for a scout, maybe, if you… if that seems like something you'd be willing to do. Something you'd want to do." Arthur's fingers worried the seam that wrapped the end of the chair-arm, but his eyes never faltered.
Reaching down from the white-stone parapet, lifting Merlin right up to the top of the wall to show him – a flag-stone courtyard, glowing with the light of a campfire in the center. All around greater walls rose high, promising vast and endless possible rooms, but here was the heart. Dinner dishes left lying on the stone – a handful of cups, plates and some stacked – the intimate camaraderie of cooking out, of light in the dark and warmth in the cold, come join me…
Bloody. Freaking. Hells.
"I…" Merlin couldn't manage, couldn't even figure whether Arthur had shown him inside on purpose, or on accident because of the night. "I…"
"Just think about it." Arthur surged to his feet, striding immediately for the door. "Think about it as long as you have to, and whatever you decide – no disappointment, Merlin. On my life. Nothing changes for you and me."
He let himself out, closing the door, and Merlin was alone with wafting moonlight. Crickets and tree-frogs sounding close, through the windows left ajar to the night breezes. The bruises under him, and the bile rising in a tightening throat.
What a monster you are.
What an evil, two-faced, lying traitor you are.
Can't do this. Can't do this anymore.
But what else?
A/N: "Guest", if you're still reading, I'd like to respond to the comment you left on the last chapter. Normally I do this privately, but if you don't sign in with an account, I have no way of doing that…
Yes, I write Arthur as more attuned to Merlin's wellbeing than he was shown in canon – in general, but in particular for this story, too. Partly b/c, while I enjoyed canon-Arthur's character, I was really done with that aspect of him by the end of the series. Like how I was done with 'keep the magic secret' – you won't often find that in my fanfic, either. So that's the basic reason – I felt that we kept seeing hints of caring!Arthur in-canon, but not ever enough. Therefore I write it – if I'm writing in-canon, I choose to emphasize that understated side of Arthur, as visual fiction doesn't really allow the viewer to get the full effect of what might be going on inside their head. Also I feel like 'keep the magic secret' was an obstacle to Arthur fully achieving his legendary personality/character, knowing Merlin was more than just an odd person, truly appreciating everything Merlin was and did for Camelot and for him… so in canon-divergent stories where the magic is known, Arthur is allowed to relax that part of himself that seems to need to keep Merlin in line as a servant with the teasing/mocking/abuse, and really treat Merlin like an equal.
However, for a/u's, there's lots more leeway to form a world wherein that wasn't ever really part of Arthur's character, the particular details of his canon situation that resulted in those more negative attitudes and behaviors. To explore an Arthur who is more comfortable admitting that caring about people and looking out for friends is manly, and good leadership. A/u's are also good for exploring other facets of other characters which might have been glimpsed in-canon (or not at all) and can be brought out through manipulated situations…
Otherwise, I'm not sure what to tell you – if you like arrogant-childish-bully Arthur, probably look elsewhere?