2.7 Why He Left
Arthur let himself out, closing the bedroom door, and Merlin was alone with wafting moonlight.
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?
It will take some time for protocols to relax… They'd told him. You will report everything you can learn about Camelot… Uther Pendragon and Richard Gaius, the Psychological Operations unit… the regular military… anything they learn about us or any campaign conducted against Essetir…
No. His whole being rebelled at once, much more strongly than any moment that had gone before – in the Institute, first hearing his instructions. In Ealdor, meeting a man whose first thought was to kill him, and who had set aside those suspicions to save his life, instead. And here in Camelot, because the man who hadn't killed him, hadn't forgotten or abandoned him, either – he'd made Merlin his friend.
No one had ever done that, before. And it was irrelevant whether Gwen or Leon or Percival would still have befriended him also, if there was no such person as Arthur.
But what else? What else could he do?
Maybe there was no new beginning in this false defection. Maybe his basic training here at Fort Fuller would end in a firing squad – failure – and maybe he would end up torn in several pieces over several long agonizing days instead and maybe that was it and that was all.
But he did have a choice. And it wasn't really about his own safety, was it? Never had been.
So did he owe it now to Arthur to try? To try to change, to try to make it right – maybe even to take what he'd learned from his friend the scout, and choose a different path. He owed it to himself, didn't he? And he owed it to…
Merlin pushed up from his seat on the ottoman, crossed to the desk. He pulled the little chain on the lamp and perched on the edge of the antique ladderback chair. In the wide shallow middle drawer, of course there was loose-leaf paper, thick and unlined, and ink pens.
And he wasn't at all sleepy, anymore.
Dear Arthur… No. His pen paused over the blank sheet. He had no right to use the salutation.
You've been honest with me from the beginning. Maybe that was because you thought you had no choice, with a psychic. But it was a choice. You'd be surprised how many people try to lie, even knowing I know.
The observer who came to my training at the Institute in Essetir, he didn't try to lie. He truly knew nothing about the recorder in his button. And it took me years to realize. To look beyond the distractions of The Man, and the game, but I knew you were watching me, for years.
Camelot was watching me, and I knew it was only a matter of time before you acted. When you did, I was determined to be ready for you.
That was my mission. So you see, I do know what you do. How dangerous it can be. What consequences it might carry for those you care about. I've done it before – I did it to you, and to Gwen, and to Gaius. To Leon and Percival.
I asked to defect, and you brought me right inside your Psychological Operations. Right to Director Gaius. Right to the son of Uther Pendragon, and right to his home.
The girl at the Sunrise was my contact. We met in the alley to pass information. She's a powerful psychic, she'll sense you coming from two blocks in any direction, at least.
It wasn't right, what I did, but it was necessary.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Arthur was running in sand. So much exertion, so little progress; he could hear nothing, couldn't feel the heat at all. But he felt someone's absence, and wondered if he was running toward Merlin – chasing him? – or whether he'd deliberately left him behind in Urhavi. Mission first.
What mission?
He woke in the comfortable glow of morning, groggy and warm enough for his skin to perspire under t-shirt and jogging shorts.
Vodka was like that, for him. Crash hard and fast, sleep a few hours, then awake again, thick-eyed and slow of thought. Maybe a jog would help. Not in sand.
He groaned his way out of bed and tossed sheets and covers back over the pillow – adequate, but sloppy compared to how he kept his barracks room. Military corners, there.
Then a quick wash up and change, and pad out to the hallway. Back-stair – kitchen – coffee. Was that Percival or Leon snoring like a logger? Or maybe-
Arthur blinked and rubbed grit from the corner of his eye, focused on Merlin's door as the plush hall runner passed beneath his soles. The door was halfway ajar… That door, he remembered, needed to be shut firmly or it would open again on its own – some imbalance of floorboards or framework, maybe – and Merlin wouldn't know that.
At least Morgana's room was as far away from his and the guest suites his company used as she could get. Probably she and her friend had gotten up at the crack of it, to go shopping or to a spa or gym.
He stepped carefully to the door, silent as he could, and shot a glance toward the bed as he reached to pull the door shut on his young friend's privacy. Maybe he shouldn't have sprung that suggestion on Merlin last night, training and missions and danger. Maybe he should've chosen a better-
Bed empty, still neatly made.
He recognized details associated with Pendragon household staff. Not slept in, then. Merlin's rucksack had been moved from the rug… He leaned around the door, expecting to see the lanky form of the psychic sprawled across the second bed-
Empty also. Pendragon corners, still tucked in.
Both windows were open, and morning breezes stirred the edges of a folded page on the writing-desktop as he moved further into the room.
Coverlets smooth, so Merlin hadn't slept atop, dropping literally and immediately into sleep without bothering about the convention of climbing in. Neither armchair showed the fuss and imprint of a person's body for all-night kind of hours.
Confused, Arthur frowned to himself – then where had Merlin spent the night, and where was he now?
In turning, his eyes fell again on the folded page on the desk, the one word scribbled across the face, the first letter drawing his attention to the rest. His name.
Arthur
Still uncomprehending, he stepped to the desk, socks on thick carpet. More than one page; he unfolded and oriented it – a letter? What the hell? Couldn't he just say to Arthur's face? They were talking just last night, talking seriously and privately, as Arthur rarely spoke to anyone.
Aside from his name on the outside fold, the composition had no heading, no indication of, this is the beginning. He skimmed, his eyes catching a sentence, a phrase, a word, searching for the meaning of the whole-
The observer who came – knew nothing about the recorder in his button.
Camelot was watching me.
I was determined to be ready. This was my mission – I asked to defect, and you brought me… my contact… pass information.
Arthur read it again, dumbly, and it still said the same thing. My mission. I pretended. I played you. You trusted me – I betrayed you. I told my contact…
It's over now. I'm finished. I don't expect I'll ever see you again – I won't try to excuse what I did, how I hurt you. Tell Gwen…
Guinevere. That's a pretty name.
Arthur let his hand fall, let his fingers tighten their grip, crumpling the page as heat rose behind his breastbone, ashy smoke and licking tongues of flame.
Damn him.
Should've put the knife through the side of his throat and left him in the shed in Ealdor. The thought choked him with shame at the reactive spite – the psychic bleeding and dying, scared and alone. Unthinkable… sickening.
But if he'd just reacted, like with the boy in Urhavi… stop him helping Camelot's enemies.
It's over – I'm finished…
Mission complete. Report to base.
Arthur surged into motion, exploding out of the room, crossing the hall in two strides, slamming into the suite opposite.
"Leon."
His friend bolted upright from pillow and covers, blinking to alertness.
"Wake up? Get up? I need your help."
"Arthur?" Leon threw aside the blankets, searching for clothing as Arthur hovered by the door, impatient. "What is it? What's happened?"
Choices, decisions. No time to consider consequences, just act on instinct. Arthur was good at that.
"Merlin is gone, and I need him back." Trying for urgent without alarming.
"He left?" Leon grabbed jeans left hanging over a bedside chair and stuffed both feet in at once, standing to yank them up and buttoned.
"I don't know how long ago."
"How?" Leon began to stuff his arms into a wad of jersey material that was probably a t-shirt; Arthur didn't wait, but strode across the hall to open Percival's door.
"Wha?" from the dim within.
"Out the window," Arthur said tersely to Leon. "Out the door – he could've gotten the security code from me or Morris or Della or-"
"Merlin's gone?" Percival guessed, sounding like he was waking up even as he spoke.
Or Morgana.
Bloody freakin' hells.
Arthur turned to face Leon in the doorway, propping one boot on the opposite side of the frame to yank the laces tight. "I don't think he's still here but I need to know he's not somewhere on the property waiting til we all go chasing after him."
"So you're going to go chasing after him?" Leon said, dropping one boot to lift the other to tie.
"How come he left?" Percival said, still groggy but upright, sleeveless undershirt and cotton sleep trousers and bare feet.
"My sister and her guest cannot know," Arthur said in a low voice, and both his friends stilled. "Please. Avoid them. Be rude if you have to…"
She would guess. She would assume, and she would tease, especially if she sensed that he didn't want her to know, and he hadn't had the chance to run background on the blonde – years older, and unsettlingly elusive.
"You've got it, Arthur," Leon said, and Percival disappeared into the depths of his shaded guest room, rummaging for clothing, presumably. "Do what you've got to do."
Arthur turned on the ball of his foot in his sock, heading back down hallway to his room, not quite jogging. Make haste deliberately, a state of mind he slipped into effortlessly. Another mission.
Change clothes, tie his boots, pack a nondescript rucksack. Student, traveler, overlooked. A multipurpose knife, a flashlight, a first aid kit. The crumpled letter, because it was evidence.
Down the front stairs by twos – no sign of Morgana or her friend – pick up the comm-block in his father's study and clamp it between ear and shoulder as he reached to unlock the gun safe.
"Hello?"
"Gaius?" he said, angling to keep the open doorway in sight as he chose his weapon and its ammunition. "This is Arthur Pendragon. Listen, something's happened…"
"My home number is for emergencies only." The old Director's voice held a note of stern question.
"I think this counts." In short sentences, Arthur explained why Merlin was at his house for the weekend, and the gist of the note he'd left. The crystal-clear and diamond-hard truth that the defection had been a deliberate ruse for which they'd all fallen.
So completely it made him ill.
"And he's not there now? He didn't stay to-"
"I've got Leon and Percival searching the property," Arthur interrupted, sliding his handgun into an inner pocket of the faded blue ruck, double-checking his wallet – ID and cash card. "But no. The note means he's gone, and I can only think of one place. Back to Essetir and the Institute. You better put a check at the borders, have him apprehended for questioning or something."
Gaius didn't even scold Arthur for daring to tell him how to do his job. "But I'm not sure that makes-"
"There's one more thing." Arthur didn't have time to debate theories. He was not going to let the sneak, the snitch, the traitor, reach his true handlers with the mountains of information they'd trusted him with, knowingly and unintentionally. "His contact at Fuller's Edge. Remember the base-bunny Leon said he'd been with in the alley behind the Sunrise? Her."
"Psychic as well?"
"Yeah, and according to the note, she's good. I'd put Gwen on it if I was you. Here's the girl's address, got a pen? If this wasn't planned, then maybe she doesn't know he's done a runner yet." Giving her up? Cutting ties? Loosing dead weight, or tossing a live grenade into their laps?
"Her address?" Gaius said.
He repeated it, then let an expletive express his feelings momentarily. "I checked on her after the first night we were there and she was interested, but there weren't any red flags. Didn't dig deep enough into the cover, I guess – that's on me."
All of it was on him.
"Pendragon, do not blame yourself for this," the old man ordered. "I pointed you at him. I had my doubts – I knew he was still unsettled-"
Arthur remembered that Director Richard Gaius was psychic also. Not so remarkable that rumors kept the fact at the forefront of everyone's impression, but a fact nevertheless.
"Well, now we know why," he said darkly, slinging the ruck over one shoulder. "Don't worry, Gaius. I'll catch up. He will answer for this."
"Arthur, don't-"
No time. He disconnected and left his father's study, marching swiftly to the kitchen at the back. Upstairs he could hear at least one of his friends methodically searching, though it was subtle and nonverbal.
Entering the kitchen, he pulled up short to discover Morgana and her sharp-eyed blonde friend lingering over cups of coffee and a plate of pastry crumbs on counter-stools at the end of one of the long prep-islands.
Walls up. Mission mindset. Something he'd been working on long before the military perfected it, and the reason was pressing her lipstick-red mouth shut in familiar disapproval, narrowing her green eyes.
"Good morning," he said neutrally, moving for the pantry. Energy bars, dried fruit and nuts, jerky packets to be stuffed into the ruck. "Fine weather, is it?"
"Arthur, what are you doing?" Morgana raised her voice to demand. "Percival was just through here like his butt was on fire and all he said was, Have you seen Merlin?"
Arthur opened another cabinet for an insulated drink container and headed for the coffee pot, assuming he already knew what her answer had been. No. Dump the rest of the coffee into the container, and he could find water or something else later along the way to refill it with.
"War games," he said succinctly, aiming his most charming smile into the air between them. "Face paint and camo. Don't mind us, it'll probably take all day, as big as this estate is."
Morgana rolled her eyes, fingering the edge of the delicate china cup in front of her.
The blonde said, deliberately sardonic, "You're playing hide and seek?"
His fingers threaded the cap onto the stainless-steel bottle by touch, and he let his smile tip from charming towards dangerous, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah?"
Morgana made a dismissive noise, but the blonde held his gaze, not losing any of the confidence fueling her arch amusement at their expense.
No time. He slipped the coffee into the ruck, slinging it over one shoulder and stuffing the other arm through, and hooked the toe of one boot around the door to shut it behind him.
Through the back hall, out the door.
The sun was already halfway to midday – I'm going to sleep til noon… - but the air was cool and clear, yet. There were footprints in the gravel-dust – those Morris', those Percival's, but not the psychic's. Maybe he had gone out his window after all?
Morris' truck was nowhere in sight. Arthur took off on instinct, a stubbornly-paced jog he could potentially keep up all day if he had to – but he wasn't going to.
Over the hill and the vehicle garage was in sight. No psychic, though, and no Percival.
How long had it been since he'd been on a double-time road march in full gear with a stuffed ruck? His breath puffed on a regular rhythm with his heart-beat – in-in-out-out.
Dammit, Merlin…
Tire tracks were visible in the gravel-dust here, coming and going, and some were yesterday's. None of the doors were open – the rolling overhead doors or the side access door, but the code for that lock was also readily available from anyone's mind – Morris, or Arthur himself, or either of the other fellows.
The rolling doors could be opened partway from the inside and pulled down to closed again externally, and that was what Arthur figured the psychic had done. Because one of those doors was unlocked on the inside, and the number-three turf-bike was missing. The one the psychic had used; Percival always took number-five because the suspension had been reinforced. And Morris would have made sure they were all refueled and ready.
Dammit, Merlin.
Gloves and helmet, and he strapped the rucksack down behind the saddle-seat of turf-bike number one. Grabbing the key, he straddled the machine and kicked the stick-stand out of his way. He walked the turf-bike backward from its place and started the engine, ducking his head to clear the half-open garage door. He left it that way and gunned the motor.
Cross-country toward the gate, because the whole property was securely fenced. Arthur knew the way like the back of his hand, and his quarry would be taking the track…
But he was psychic. Did that mean he could anticipate what Arthur would do, and adjust his own plans accordingly?
What did you think I'd do, reading that damn note? Why the hell didn't you simply shrug a cold shoulder and walk away, after Ealdor? Why come here and pretend like this and then rub it all in my face?
Maybe the Pendragon estate had been the jackpot for the psychic-scout of Essetir. Briefly the possibility of the note representing trap-and-bait crossed his mind.
But the jouncing of the turf-bike over rough ground threatened the stitches still holding the healing flesh of his back closed. Pulling and stressing tender skin and muscle, and he grit his teeth. Half a league to the front gate, which would roll easily aside at the touch of an interior button. Couldn't close it from outside, though.
Wide freakin' open.
Arthur squeezed the accelerator, feeling the rush of air chill him through the denim button-up and the t-shirt he wore beneath.
No point for Merlin to try for as-the-crow-flies, once off Pendragon land. It was another league-and-a-half to the crossroads, and Arthur ignored the slewing of his tires in the track to push his speed as much as possible, riding the turf-bike with his whole body attuned to balance and control.
The roar of the motor reverberated inside his helmet and he breathed deliberately, focused. Long shadows of old oaks passed over him, shadow to shade to squinting against rising sunlight. He couldn't help thinking of how the psychic had confused his pursuit in Ealdor – hid in the hotel so they'd waste time searching for it the morning he actually left… But he'd know better than to expect Arthur to underestimate him, wouldn't he.
So, the crossroads. Which direction?
Left was into the village. Too quiet on a Sunday morning, the turf-bike motor would be noticed – annoying, and memorable. Would the psychic realize that, or care?
Arthur called up the wider map to memory. That road, once out of the village, twisted and wound to the northwest. Nowhere near a border, though potentially a psychic could lose himself in the heart of Camelot for months or maybe years or ever.
But that wasn't his intention.
Straight led more or less, eventually, to the Essetirian border. Plenty of opportunities to stop along the way – other crossroads, or rail-stations. The ID they'd given the psychic when he took the oath of citizenship was sufficient for purchasing tickets, though there might be more intense questioning on the Essetirian side. Not if he called his handlers to report success, though.
Damn you, Merlin.
Rage and hurt threatened to choke him. It was a risk taken so rarely, and he'd been so sure it was the right thing to do. So sure the psychic needed someone to connect with, and why not Arthur? Aside from that, it genuinely felt like the younger man belonged with them. Unsteady in the moment, but once he got his feet and his confidence under him, a comrade.
A partner.
Right. Right turn. That was east, and led in a meandering sort of way to the coast. He'd told the psychic that yesterday – only yesterday? The river to the estuary, and finally the open sea.
Last year he'd moved through the predawn of a border town known for its vacation resort and mentally reviewed the enemy's response to this same missing psychic – what they might expect from him on his own, what might work since they didn't know he had help, and how they could circumvent and succeed.
I know I need to get out, and I know I need help…
Still felt true as truth, even in memory.
Arthur caught air coming over the last hill and lost his breath, jarring down and slewing slightly in the gravel, approaching the paved crossroads. His hip throbbed in rhythm with his heightened heart-rate, and his helmet rubbed at the remaining scabbing behind his ear.
Instinctively he scanned the roads in all three directions, decelerating to a point beneath the posted street-sign, but there was no traffic. The road itself showed dust from the gravel track, trailing up and over the pavement in a wide fan, and no clear turf-bike track in any direction.
He cut his motor.
Straight to a rail station and a ticket, probably. There would be a record of the purchase, station attendants to remember the psychic; he had to know they'd mobilize to apprehend him, after that damn letter. Except a fugitive could hope that speed would be an advantage over any pursuit that was slowed by the need to investigate every possibility; he could bypass the first four stations to board a train at the fifth and expect that anyone following would have to delay to search and question at each of the four previous stations…
Only, he'd called Gaius to have the borders monitored.
Possibly a psychic could hitch a ride unknown in a transport truck, hidden in the cargo – but now they'd be searched before leaving Camelot. Maybe he could ride the train til it neared the border and find a slow-down place to jump, and then cross over on foot. He could do it. But would he?
One of the corner properties facing him caught his attention, with obviously-disturbed earth and new mulch in extensive flower beds. There was a woman in a folding lawn-chair in the shade of one of the smaller maple trees, halfway from the shy cottage to the crossroad, book closed over her thumb, watching him.
With his bootheel he kicked down the stick-stand, and lifted his helmet off in dismounting.
"Morning!" he called to her, moving across the conjoined streets casually but quickly – though not for fear of traffic.
She didn't move, or seem much flustered to be caught watching him. "Morning?"
"Your flowers are lovely," he offered, crossing the distance.
"It's good weather for them. A little rainy, not too hot…"
"You've been out here for a while this morning?" he ventured. It looked like a considerable amount of work; certainly she'd want to enjoy the effects… "Maybe you saw my friend come through here? On a turf-bike like mine?"
"Yeah, I saw him," she said, lazy in the back of her lawn-chair, but smiling. "Looked a bit lost, he did… I asked him if he needed directions."
"And what did he say?" Arthur tried to imagine the encounter – whether the psychic felt consternation to be noticed and therefore probably remembered, or whether he'd deliberately caught her attention.
"Said yes, please… So I told him what to expect in every direction."
Arthur kept his snort inaudible.
Obviously, the village – the northern border – the coast. He'd have known that before he even stopped… so why had he stopped and spoken to her?
"And he went…" Arthur said leadingly.
She tipped her head, with a clear why-does-it-matter-to-you look on her face. Why should I tell you.
He gave her his most disarming smile. "He's my cousin, actually. And he's just gotten in trouble at his school – not his fault, but it feels like a big deal, and he's confused and upset. And young."
"You're young," she retorted. And if she didn't have her own children at home any longer to help with yardwork and sit with on a lovely Sunday morning, of course he'd look like that to her. Finally she jutted her chin toward the northern fork. "He went yonder."
"Thank you," Arthur said, shifting to leave.
North, like he thought, to one of the rail-stations, and Arthur would have to hurry to search each one before the psychic could board a train further down the line, and…
Obvious. Didn't require asking a local. Even if it was just to be polite, a fugitive didn't have the time…
What'll they do when they realize you're not where they left you?
Yesterday morning I hid in the laundry room in the hotel basement… they'll probably spend another hour searching the motel before wondering if I've actually left the premises…
Arthur consulted his mental map of the area again. Two leagues further, there was another turn-off to the east. It was rougher terrain and angled to access other rural roads, and pass Fennville to the north, but…
"Have you lived here long?" Arthur said to the woman.
"Longer than your family," she returned, fingering the pages of her book. "If you're the Pendragon boy."
He grinned involuntarily at her use of that term. "I hope your day is as lovely as your garden."
She snorted, but pulled her lips unsuccessfully against another smile.
Arthur hurried back to his turf-bike. Mount – secure helmet – free stick-stand – start engine.
Right turn. Ash Creek toward Fennville at the Gray-douse Estuary. And he could gain a good hour on the psychic, he hoped.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*…..
Gwen was packing, to spend the term of her leave at her father's house in Alton. Week and a half, at least, and if she was lucky Elyan could get a weekend off. They were at dock in Britesea; she'd checked.
Her barracks door was ajar, having not-quite-closed behind her when she returned from washing her hair earlier, and she'd ignored it, not needing the privacy because she was already dressed.
Jennifer leaned on the doorknob, keeping feet in rubber sandals on the hallways carpet. "Hey."
"Hey," Gwen returned.
"We'll miss you," her friend volunteered. "I mean, we just got you back. And rumor has it Psych officers are going to be busy now, with your intel from Aravia… They can't cancel your leave, but for the rest of us…"
Gwen sighed, rolling the t-shirt she slept in and stuffing it into a corner of her duffel. "I should say sorry?"
"No, but…" Jennifer glanced down the hall, and slid inside the door. She was dressed down, in a pair of gray sweats hiked up on her calves and a turquoise t-shirt, honey-blonde hair tousled on her shoulders. "I hoped yesterday was going to be therapeutic for you, but…"
Yesterday was the spa day, the idea of which had twisted Merlin's mouth in wry mockery. The pedicure, the facial, the hot-rock-and-oil massage. The reason she'd only washed her hair and hadn't taken a full shower – to keep the lavender-and-tea-tree-oil scent on her skin one more day.
All three of them slouched in comfortable spa-chairs, feet in various stages of soaking, rubbing, artistic polish-painting. Tentative questions that Gwen had avoided and not because of the attendants working on their feet – so smoothly her friends had let the awkward pause lengthen, before turning to the obviously-substituted topic of Jennifer's new-but-progressing relationship with Leon.
"It was therapeutic," Gwen assured her, rolling the knee-length yoga pants that completed her impromptu pajama set for the duffel.
Except for the fact that every detail her friends had murmured and giggled over – every physical attribute, every endearing personality trait, specific things said and looks given by Leon… inevitably led her memory to comparable details of him.
Scout Pendragon. Arthur.
"Yeah, but… me and Leon?" Jennifer hesitated, broad face plain without makeup, but earnest and all the closer, for the lack of social pretense. "I thought later, maybe you were quiet because we were reminding you of Lancelot, and I know that's been a while, but…"
"Oh! no," Gwen said definitely, checking her travel kit of toiletries for all the sorts of casual accessories she'd missed in Aravia. "I mean, it still stings that it ended the way it did, and I couldn't do anything about it, or anything for him, and I do miss…"
Did she, though? Miss Lancelot asking her about her day, making plans to meet, making her feel special and wanted and cared for, that connection with her was valuable? Because hadn't Arthur done exactly that, in an unobtrusive but dependable way, after Lancelot, and in Aravia?
And dammit, stop comparing. You've never actually had a relationship with Arthur.
Scout Pendragon.
Had she turned down a relationship with him?
That was good, though, because it couldn't have lasted, and while she regretted the sort of end the relationship with Lancelot had, she never thought that would be permanent, and she didn't want it back, even if he came to terms with his new disability, or even if somehow they could go back to before it happened. But with Arthur... she wasn't sure she could lose that and remain unaffected.
"Something happened in Aravia," Jennifer guessed suddenly. "Something confidential?"
Glancing down the path in Qauyl at the end of the day and watching him toil upward to her – seeing the grin light up his dirty face and crinkle the skin beside his unusually-blue eyes… Snatching glimpses of gleaming-wet-bare skin as he took his spit-bath… Feeling the heat and exhilaration of his eyes on her bare skin, that last day…
His breathing at night that meant she was safe and not alone. The supplies he brought that meant she didn't go hungry. His assumption of her full participation in the infiltration of the mountain fortress.
"He saved my life," she said aloud, without thinking. "And then, it…"
The whole world blew up. And even cocky-arrogant Pendragon, Mister I prefer it fast and impersonal himself, dropped defenses and pretenses in the clarifying pain of his injuries.
You're beautiful, and you smell intoxicating.
And then they came home and he gave her that look in the hallway of the Psych Ops battalion, like they'd brought the spirit of their time in Aravia home with them.
"It was that close?" Jennifer questioned soberly. "Yeah, that takes a while to get over, doesn't it. Looking Death in the face and feeling mortality… I'd be heading home too, if it was me."
"Yeah," Gwen said, turning her back to dig a nest for the toiletry kit in her week's worth of packed clothes.
Jennifer misunderstood, but it was probably better that way. As much as Gwen wanted to collapse down on the bed beside her friend and confess everything and beg for advice… She couldn't, not with someone who knew him too, and had to work with him routinely on a professional basis.
"Say, but didn't he-" Jennifer began, but cut herself off at a shout from the hallway. "Comm-block connection for-"
"Thompson."
"Gwen, for you," Jennifer said unnecessarily, moving herself and the door out of Gwen's way.
"Who is it?" she asked Raquel, holding the receiver at the end of the hall. Could be her father, or her brother, or – him? He said he wanted to talk, and she blew him off…
"It's the Old Man." Raquel widened her eyes at the thought of the Director making this call on a week-end morning.
Something they overlooked in one of the debriefings? But she'd assumed that there wasn't anything so imminent as to require weekend attention.
"Hello, Director?" she said, reaching the comm-block unit breathlessly. "This is-"
"Thompson, I need you for an immediate operation."
She stilled at his tone, finding her cool-calm mission-focus without hesitation. "Yes, sir."
"Street dress. In-country. Your command. I'll have a squad assembling at battalion, and details of your objective upon your arrival. As soon as possible."
And she'd miss her train. And perform the op smelling like lavender-and-tea-tree-oil. But his tone held an urgency like she'd rarely heard. "Of course, sir. I'll be there at once."
A/N: So this is going to be it til after November. NaNoWriMo, you know. Wish me luck? And then maybe a little better impetus and inspiration with this when I return to it… cuz I don't abandon works-in-progress. Promise.