3.11 How Events Exploded
The small hours of the morning were never really dark in a big city, but it was late enough – or early enough – for that arrondissement of Paris to be noticeably quiet. The intermittent streetlamps reflected from the black surface of the slow-moving Seine in a way that made Gwen feel the river could be the open veins of the earth itself, carving its way deep into bedrock… or it could be mere surface-shimmer, wetting only the soles of her boots as she walked easily across.
The Wrapter Forty-six they'd discovered and decided upon rocked at its tie-off under Arthur's weight and she steadied herself to hop in after him, having no desire to test the depth of the river.
"I've never stolen a boat before," she observed. Bracing herself against the side of the raised instrument-panel before the pilot's chair, bolted to the deck, she watched as he unwound the tether from its dock-cleat and shoved the craft awkwardly into the sluggish current.
"Borrowed," he corrected, giving her another little-boy-on-holiday grin that gleamed briefly from the light of the nearest streetlamp.
She'd come to recognize what that meant. "You have? That thing off Britesea?"
He started the motor, perching on the edge of the pilot's seat, and glanced about them to maneuver the Wrapter into facing its way downstream and make sure no one alerted to their appropriation of the craft. "Course not, what do you take me for? That one was a rental."
"And blown to smithereens," she said lightly, ignoring the memory that tried to lodge in her throat. Smithereens… bodies… the search for his that had taken too long…
"I put it on the Psych Ops account," he told her, his tone inviting her to further amusement. "Sit down, buckle up… I figure three hours at most, to Troyes."
Spend the night, find another vehicle. Half a day to Marseilles, if they were lucky – then on the sea again, south and east toward the desert.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
In the silvery dawn, Arthur cut the engine of the Wrapter Forty-Six, turning the wheel over so the hull of the craft nudged and brushed the overgrown muddy bank rising high enough to hide most of Troyes from view. He knuckled his eyes awkwardly, one-handed, and leaned to stretch some kinks from tired muscles, breathing in the cool wet mist of almost-morning.
Gwen leaned over the edge to gauge the distance to dry ground, ready without having to be told, whether or not she'd actually gotten good sleep, curled up on one of the bench-seats in the rear of the craft. Deciding, she heaved Arthur's rucksack across to the steep grassy bank, then leaped herself in time to keep it from rolling back down into the water.
Arthur joined her, the impetus of his own jump pushing the quiet craft back out to drift further in the current like a slumbering behemoth. Snagging his ruck by both shoulder-straps in one hand, he scrambled to the top of the bank and rolled to put his back to the grass, heels bracing him in place and pack resting on his thighs. She thudded next to him, craning to see over the bank – roofs, and probably a road, though they hadn't seen or heard any vehicles yet.
"Whaddya think?" he asked, his voice feeling as rough in his throat after the long night as it sounded aloud. "Train or bike?"
The train was more public. More likely to present delays, traveling the route to the coast. It would diminish their funds… but they'd have to steal or lie or pay for the bikes, and navigate their own way. Faster or safer? Keep moving, or accept the necessity of waiting in stations? Break the law, or expose themselves?
Six of one, half a dozen of the other, and it wasn't like he needed an answer. This was what he did, after all – what they both did - and often without a partner to ask for advice.
But.
She put her hand on his arm, pushing herself higher, then turned with a grin that almost covered the lack of sufficient sleep in her dark eyes. "Pair of turf-bikes resting against the barn across the field."
Almost like an invitation.
"Perfect," he agreed, rolling to follow her over the bank and across the road.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
How long had Merlin been with his unit? This unit, his new unit - as if he could count Psych Ops as his old unit.
He couldn't remember. What day of the week was it. What week was it, for that matter.
Made no difference.
He was surprised, mildly surprised, nearly every time, at the lack of suspicion and mistrust from his fellows. Riding like this in the hot dusty troop transport, bouncing and jouncing, canvas flapping about them, with his hands empty in his lap and his eyes closed to blur the passing of time.
They were all thoroughly tired of riding in the transport trucks. Three days, it had been, three days of twelve hours of travel per day – which of course didn't count the stops they made. He was too tired – numb – distant – something, to care which of his companions lost patience and temper and snapped over various assigned duties – pitching tents, refueling vehicles, distributing rations… And which ones were magnetically agreeable through the whole trial.
Freya, though. Sometimes he removed himself from her presence just so he wouldn't snap – or slip, psychically – and give her second thoughts about their relationship, such as it was, with his own grouchiness.
Bones and joints and muscles were beyond stiff, the morning of the fourth day. There wasn't much room to stretch with everyone's stuffed rucksack under the benches opposite or vying for footspace between the rows. Hector crossed his boots atop his ruck, arms crossed just below the chinstrap of his helmet dangling on his chest. JT's head tilted back against the canvas wall of the transport, jaw dropped and snores intermittently audible. Beside him, Charlie was trying to flick tiny bits of detritus into his open mouth, without much enthusiasm or success.
Beside Merlin, Freya had relaxed into a mid-morning catnap. He had to cock his head slightly every now and then to avoid bumping his chin on her helmet with every hole and rock under the truck tires in the unpaved Aravian roads.
He'd figured out how to sleep in Camp George without losing the back-of-his-psyche guard for any incoming threats. It wasn't too difficult to adjust for a mobile, outside-the-wire position, but he wasn't about to release consciousness in a hot dusty moving vehicle filled with the smell and restlessness of twenty other soldiers.
It was almost a relief to sense city coming into view, as the truck shifted to descend the last ridge. And destination from Gwaine, unseen in the cab of the truck with the driver, but straightening attentively.
Want to ride up front with the big boys? Memory perfectly supplied the lazy, satisfied way Arthur had drawled that question after a day of riding turf-bikes on the Pendragon estate in the Camelot countryside.
He didn't think Gwaine would mind much if he tagged along on the second sergeant's mental evaluation of the Aravian city as they approached – slowly, through a series of smaller hills and rough washes – no road here ever straight, of course.
There was no wall protecting the city entire from the rest of the wild countryside. There were patches of deliberate agriculture, rows marking the deep green of cultivated gardens and groves, and a few temporary communities not unlike Camp George, the peaks and slopes of patched canvas joining creams and tans and deep browns. Janada was easily five times the size of any of the towns they'd patrolled around Camp George, but the construction was just the same. Stone and light brick, mortar and plaster, the buildings up to three stories the colors of the desert. Brightened considerably with door- and window-curtains, awnings, mosaics on doors and walls and floors maybe centuries old.
The hospital complex was an educated guess, on the edge of town and encircled by its own fifteen-foot wall. The unseen mapped railway angled into the opposite side of the city from the north to the west – or from the west to the north, depending on one's origin and destination.
The others gradually, lethargically alerted to the difference in driving across the desert, and navigating city streets. A hundred cautious paces from the corner where the incoming road turned to approach the hospital, the captain in charge of their mission called a halt to the convoy, and Gwaine's intentions read, Orders. Psychic.
Merlin was on his feet before the driver had braked to a complete stop, startling Freya awake but not fully alert. He squeezed her shoulder through the tough uniform jacket – she'd remember the reassurance – and waded awkwardly through the truck to the exit at the back.
"Sorry," he explained to confused looks and irritation. "S'cuse me…"
"Dammit, watch your big choker boots…"
"Hey, that's the psychic, what-"
At least no one shouted or fired a weapon anywhere in earshot, and they were all dull from three-going-on-four days of travel.
Merlin ducked through the canvas attempting to keep the dust out of the back of the truck, paused to consider if he should have brought his rucksack with him instead of or in addition to the rifle swinging over his shoulder, then placed his boot on the back bumper and jumped down to the ground, the weapon's barrel banging against his ribs in unwelcome reminder.
Gwaine was waiting, one hand casual on the rifle slung over his shoulder on its carrying-steadying strap – usually he preferred to rely on the handgun. He grinned to see Merlin – teeth white in unshaven, dust-grimed face beneath the rim of his helmet.
"You were keeping track of me?" he called out, pointing to his temple.
"Keeping track of us," Merlin corrected inoffensively, trotting to join him – and keeping pace as Gwaine strode to the head of the convoy. "What's up?"
"Captain wants a dismounted detail on point," Gwaine said. "Including you, my friend."
An extended mission, north to Janada – the big international nondenominational hospital being evacuated due to a credible threat made by the Isyad…
"Yeah," Merlin said intelligently, and followed.
He still felt vaguely silly patrolling on foot with the other soldiers, as if he'd never quite learned the basics of clearing each new area they prowled into, whether he should train his weapon to the right or left, to roofs and upper windows or to doorways and alleys on street level. His troop fellows did so like it was instinct and he could recognize what they were doing and why they were doing it as they did it, but…
Well, maybe it looked totally normal to everyone else that he let his rifle dangle and trotted right up the middle of the route. If he could tell that no one was watching or waiting with any intent.
Ambush?
Gwaine, keeping pace with Merlin, glanced at him twice – not questioning, just checking. The others – from another squad, another transport truck, their sergeant somewhere behind Merlin's left shoulder – were silent save for boots on the ground.
City didn't sound much at all like Camp. Turf-bikes, a few trucks, and so much shouting. Maybe because it was all Aravian and he couldn't understand the words… Frustration and belligerence and antipathy. Fear of loss, and uncertainty over basic necessities for the future.
"You're slow," Gwaine observed with deliberate cheer.
"Thanks," Merlin snarked, aware that his nerves were inexplicably keyed up.
"Any particular reason why, today?" Behind his peripheral, Gwaine communicated with the others in a series of hand-signals Merlin didn't bother trying to decipher.
"I don't know yet…"
If he looked at a map of the city, he might be able to deduce each era by its new construction – each century, it may be. Perhaps the people had built new walls each time they expanded – past the rubble of destruction from wars and maybe a few earthquakes. Over the rubble.
Down a cross street on the left Merlin could see the skeleton of a building that had been bombed or burned out, another like a cardboard construction that had been dropped on an upper corner before being righted, each story crumpled down into the one beneath. Evidence of violence years old – decades old – when there was open and outright warfare. Never built back up. And the continuing conflict meant complications for the hospital.
Merlin didn't realize he'd stopped walking til Gwaine stepped around into his field of vision.
"Something to report?" he said, too casually. His gloves were missing the fingertips, and dirt grimed the nail of the forefinger caressing the trigger guard of the rifle cradled in his arms.
"It's not… anyone's fault," he said, bewildered. "It's one side damaging the other, damaging the other."
"Repeated retaliation," Gwaine summarized.
"Yes, but – then everyone gets drawn in and it's more complicated than just two sides," Merlin said.
Gwaine grinned, his eyes invisible behind sunglasses. If he'd washed his face at all over the last three days, Merlin couldn't tell it. "Welcome to the sandbox."
He swung about, sauntering on, and Merlin followed. The rest of the dismounted detail followed, watching windows and doorways and roof-ledges along the barrels of their rifles. They looked nothing like the actor who'd portrayed Lawrence Leclair, creeping down the upstairs corridor of a sumptuous mansion with his handgun and his scripted success.
Another regular-city block, and they'd be inside the hospital courtyard, through a door-less gate and under a crumbling archway. The main building was visible – the stone matched more neatly, more modernly, than most of the city he'd seen with his own eyes, the doors higher and wider and metal-and-glass.
He thought of midnight-slick pavement and bright trauma-lights, an automatic door and the antiseptic smell of a waiting room. Arthur propped up in a corner, stocking-footed and lightly snoring. And elsewhere in the building, Lancelot losing his arm and his job and his future…
Gwaine back-stepped, checking that the transport trucks would clear the gate-overhang, and moved to one side to let the vehicles follow the rest of the detail clearing the hospital courtyard. Merlin sidled along beside him, instinctively keeping distance from the hospital and maintaining proximity to his second-sergeant like the serenity of his psyche – a beach-hut with careless grass roof and shady, sprawling verandas all around; no windows and a shadowed doorway - was a shield for Merlin's.
Together they watched the trucks circle the courtyard and come to idle in a row facing the open gateway – for a quick getaway, Merlin recognized, after they'd parked. Together they watched the soldiers disembark, handling their weapons as they deployed to various tasks – one unit venturing inside, another heading to a worn stone stairway leading to the wall. Perimeter watch.
A third unit coalesced around the captain, who caught Gwaine's attention and hand-signaled his own intentions of… oh, finding a working comm-block to connect to Camp George and report in. Maybe receive any adjustments to their orders that might be relevant, before liaising with hospital administration. He and his men followed the detail that had entered the metal-and-reinforced-glass main doors.
"So," Gwaine said, in the easy way he had of checking Merlin's ability against his own calculations. "What d'ya think now?"
The second sergeant stood with his feet apart, weight rocked back on his heels, arms crossed over his chest in a way that let him rest the tip of his forefinger inside the trigger guard. Merlin couldn't see if the safety catch was engaged or released, and didn't look.
Because he could tell that Gwaine was wary, in spite of his attitude. Deep-in-enemy-territory wary. Why would someone issue a threat against a hospital instead of just detonating it, wary. And then why wait, wary.
Merlin squinted up at the soldiers who spread out on the wall looking outward, some down on one knee and sighting along their rifles, just in case. Another pair of them visible on the hospital roof, checking-checking-checking. Which was routine… and yet, not.
Reluctance gripped Merlin's heart and dried his mouth.
Janada itself wasn't dissimilar to Camelot, really. Same psychic effect of a large city, same milling emotions even if colored more strongly of fear and discontent - but at the same time, the people considered their lot matter-of-course, the way the people of Camelot considered their own inconveniences of traffic and scheduling and statistical crime. Different, but the same.
The hospital, though.
People were like houses, to him. But conversely, if the hospital was a person, it was… sick. Cancer, and virus, and flu. Malnutrition-corruption-contagion.
"There's a hospital on Fort Fuller," he said aloud. "Trauma wards in… Stansford. And Britesea."
"I've been," Gwaine acknowledged pleasantly, without giving indication, as visitor or patient.
"This is…"
Maybe because civilians? Maybe because their illnesses and injuries were the unnatural result of the insidious war of terror? Not soldiers facing enemies, or families caught in accidents or natural disasters, but this… other. The menace of deliberate and indiscriminate destruction, faced and fought by people like Gwaine – Gaius, and the scouts – Arthur.
He concluded, "Different."
"So grim, mate." Gwaine shifted, a casual uneasiness when his eyes skipped over a hundred relevant details of their surroundings. "Different how?"
"Hard to explain." He did his best, gesturing toward the hospital with his free hand. "I don't want to go in there. Something tells me not to go in there."
"Disinclination," Gwaine suggested, with an incongruously sharp glance, "or danger?"
Merlin bit his lips together. "Both."
Half Gwaine's attention shifted to the members of his troop, scouting the perimeter of the hospital courtyard. "What do you want to do about it?"
Several more soldiers appeared cautiously at the roofline of the hospital, and it took Merlin a few moments to realize Gwaine was addressing him – and waiting for an answer. The second-sergeant looked at him again – and something about Merlin's expression caught his gaze.
"I mean, if you were in command. What do you think we should do about it?"
Just him alone, he'd have given the place a wide berth, and keep on going. Avoid, pure and simple.
Abandon.
That's what they were sent here for anyway, right? To evacuate.
"What's our mission timeline?" he said, instead of answering directly.
"Captain's supposed to find that out," Gwaine said. "Then we get orders. Depends how many patients, in what condition, what kind of escort we need to provide through town to the rail-station. Start tomorrow with daylight, if I had to guess. Gives us time for a squad or two to scout the route and a couple alternatives, for hospital staff to organize and pack and classify who's critical, who's ambulatory, so on."
Merlin hummed, unhappy and frustrated and… impatient. "We shouldn't wait." Heavy eyelids pulled him down into a darkness that didn't want to articulate his aversion. "We… shouldn't wait."
"Get 'em out of the hospital a-sap?" Gwaine said.
Merlin nodded without really intending to, and opened his eyes a little reluctant to see what his second sergeant made of him.
Gwaine swung away, loping toward the hospital doors where the captain had disappeared, and Merlin could not guess – without checking – whether Gwaine was merely reporting a psychic reaction, or whether he might endorse or downplay, either one.
"Choker! Could use a hand unloading!" someone shouted from the rear of the nearest transport truck.
That was him, of course. But Freya, he thought, was also helping to stack crates of rations and jugs of drinking water, to unfold meters upon meters of tan canvas, inserting poles through and into pockets and joint-knuckles sewn for the purpose. He jogged past the vehicles to lend a hand with a task that demanded very little mental exertion.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Marseilles was bright under the high sun, breezy and crisp, fast and confidently Mediterranean. Puffy clouds moved lazily between sea and sky, and the backs of Gwen's hands were feeling sun-burned from riding the handlebars of the borrowed turf-bike.
They buzzed innocuously through the foot-traffic – busy locals and awe-struck tourists – down toward the harbor, and parked anonymously at the end of a row of rentable turf-bikes buttressing a busy café with a wide veranda shaded by baked-clay half-noodle roof-tiles.
"I need clothes and things," Gwen informed him as soon as the engines were switched off. He had his rucksack but she'd left everything at her hotel in Paris when she'd gone to deal with whatever arose from that ad in the paper last night.
"I'll get a boat," Arthur offered, dismounting with an easy bend-and-swing movement that balanced the weight of his ruck on his back, boots firm in the crushed-shell gravel underfoot.
She watched him stride away, taking a moment to stretch the ride from her hips and back, and could find no hint of the evening's exertions or the night's long river-journey in his stride or bearing. Admirable, was the word she settled on, and a sentiment she could indulge as long as he was headed away from her and didn't know she was looking.
Something romantic was going to be the most likely cover for the two of them, here and now, and she wasn't going to examine underlying emotion too closely, but of course they didn't want to stand out like vacationing lovers. She eyed the row of shops; not too much I-heart-Marseilles, and there were a couple that looked pragmatic enough for toiletries and underthings as well as colorful skirts and playful blouses.
Their own Notre Dame was visible at the top of the city-hill, mother with child in arms in shining gold. Terracotta roofs and window-shutters painted turquoise and teal, and the turn of phrase and vowel formation of the shop assistants just that much different than Paris.
And when she passed the café to head down to the marina office, bleached-canvas shopping bag hooked over her elbow, her gaze naturally caught on his familiar silhouette. Standing outside the open-fronted building, disdaining the shade of its overhang, feet planted and arms crossed and rucksack pulling his weight comfortably arrogant over his heels – with his back to her, and sunlight streaming down the lenses of her protective glasses.
How many people could she recognize from that distance, and that situation? And why did her heart twirl like a child promised ice cream to see him?
She was yet five paces from joining Arthur when she realized she also recognized the sun-browned man conversing easily with him as they surveyed a row of sizeable speed-craft bobbing gently opposite the flotilla of hulls sprouting the slender mast of at-rest sailing vessels.
"Bonjour!" she greeted, in the same tone she might have said his name – Cartwright! – though she wouldn't be so careless unless she knew there was no danger of ruining cover for either of them. There were other touristy sea-goers and looky-loos ambling to and fro around them.
"It's a Ten-Via," Cartwright said to Arthur, before acknowledging Gwen with a wide grin. "Thompson. Long time no see."
So they could play it straight. "What are you doing so far from home?"
"The Old Man," he said, like that was explanation enough. And maybe it was. Cartwright angled his head in invitation, stepping down the path toward the main dock of the marina.
Arthur extended a hand, wordlessly offering to carry Gwen's bulky canvas shopping-bag. He had his rucksack, though, and they were meant to give people a perfectly forgettable impression; she tucked her fingers inside his hand and his expression glowed briefly brighter than his general enjoying-the-hell-outta-myself demeanor.
"I was posted here three days ago," Cartwright went on. "Told to keep an eye out for familiar faces who might need some assistance with transportation. Since retirement is bullshit and even Greg knows it."
"Three days," Arthur repeated, quirking a significant eyebrow at her.
She remembered three days ago; Mason was dying across a courtyard full of shocked pedestrians while she sat on a trolley-bench. "I mean," she told Arthur dryly, "Gaius is psychic."
"Ten-Via," Cartwright repeated over his shoulder, his pace careless-loose but covering ground, as he gestured to one of the bigger, faster yachts. "That'll get you over to Sardegna by nightfall, then south to Alexandria tomorrow night. Then you'll have to wait on the trains…"
"A straight shot," Arthur commented, amusement glinting in eyes the color of the sea and the sky. Half that boyish smile showing when she glanced at him, focused on the slow-crawling mass of the harbor past the flock of moored sailboats.
"Not quite," Cartwright said sarcastically.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
So now they were on temporary orders.
Because the comm-block connection to Camp George couldn't be completed; shrug, technical difficulties, operator error, lines down somewhere, whatever. Therefore, holding pattern for all three squads – proceed with preparations, make no definitive move, try again to report their arrival and receive an updated itinerary. Coordinate with local railway officials, commandeer conveyance if necessary. The captain evidently hadn't reacted to whatever Gwaine had told him about Merlin's disinclination with any sense of hurry to empty the hospital. Little wonder, really.
Merlin wasn't clear if they were meant to guard the patients and staff along their rail-journey in the days to come, or pile back into troop transports and return to base. Maybe the drivers and a skeleton guard contingent would make the trip back alone, or… just hold here til the train detail returned from seeing their charges to safety.
Couldn't just leave the trucks, after all.
Couldn't just hop on the train and ride on to disembark somewhere like Alexandria and abandon…
Merlin's bootheel turned on a loose cobblestone and he stumbled, the muzzle of his rifle dipping and swaying. They'd had noon-rations and stale water and a minute in the shade of the tents they'd propped up like a tiny perfect mountain range beneath the looming square of the hospital building, but the tension of abandon-abandon wouldn't clarify or dissipate.
He hadn't complained. But maybe Freya had nudged their second-sergeant with a nod or a wink.
Ahead of him Gwaine swung about without slowing pace to eye him as if expecting some psychic explanation for his clumsiness. Since the daylight had dropped too low to reach down into Janada's alleys and narrow roads, the light would be too dim for anyone to notice Merlin's flush.
Choker. At least Freya didn't blurt out the reactive derision of their squad-mates. Not that he'd mind; he knew she wouldn't mean it even if psychic made her speak aloud the words others thought, sometimes, but she'd be upset to think she upset him…
Dammit, focus.
Something startled a flight of pigeons from a nearby rooftop – flat as boxes, and used as an extra storey, for gardens and tent encampments and storage. On point, JT paused, holding a fist in the air til he was certain the cause of avian distress wasn't of any concern to them, then prowled onward, their boots all echoing from the crumbling stone structures around them.
No one said anything. Merlin resisted glancing over his shoulder where Freya was keeping even with Hector behind him. He'd volunteered them for this duty, he was afraid – scouting routes to the train station from the hospital. Maybe this was Gwaine's solution to the vague disquiet of the psychic in his unit – volunteering for action and the anticipated cutting-edge of danger.
So it would be his fault if anything happened…
Nothing would happen. He was making sure of it. Elsewhere in the city people cried and raged and stared dry-eyed into the middle-distance, toiled and sighed and slept and bargained and feared and planned and prepared… but along their route, nothing targeted them.
"Four blocks west," Gwaine said, angling his voice to carry no further than the members of his unit. In his off hand he carried a protectively-coated square of map, fuzzy-lined with folding, but rarely had to glance at it. "Three north, across the market-"
"That could be problematic," Freya murmured. Whether it was her own or someone else's observation, it wasn't incorrect.
Gwaine continued without giving note to the interruption. "Down that road and around the curve to the station."
Merlin stepped off a crumbling curb, scuffed through a dust-puddle he wasn't supposed to pay attention to while he was watching windows and roof-edges for snipers, and from the corner of his vision caught JT again alerting to some unknown stimulus for an abbreviated second.
"Going back, though, I want to cut a block to the north, then straight east for five… Straight-ish."
Hector snorted.
Martine suggested hopefully, "Sir, if we find a café that's serving dinner-"
Half an instant before it happened, Merlin felt it coming. An instant of individual intent so catastrophic, so devastating, so deliberate he flinched, ducking under his shoulder and twisting in place to discover-
Distance lengthening, stretching back to-
The unmistakable full-body punch of an explosion, detonated chunks of masonry and stone propelled violently high in the air to fall-out for several blocks around the epicenter. Flame and ash and dust whirled through the air, followed by the rumble of expanding kinetic reaction. Fires ignited and damaged structure collapsed.
His ears rang with death and pain and shock – survivors discovering limbs partially severed, flesh peppered and impaled with debris blasted across rooms, through crushed walls.
Numb confusion enveloped him. The mindless agony of tortured wails, shrill screams, clumsy response rolled him submerged.
Pressure on his lips forced them apart, breathed life into him, separated him from the ruin of dozens and dozens of human lives-emotions-feelings-pain. He blinked at the awkward knocking of Freya's helmet rim against his as she pulled back from tiptoe, still clutching handfuls of the front of his uniform jacket. Her eyes were dark and wide with shock.
That doesn't count, he thought dumbly.
But it was enough that he was able to wrap the tattered edges of his psyche close-tight-safe.
All right? she said. Her lips were dry and colorless and beautiful.
Yeah… all right.
Across the street, Hector swore an incomprehensible blue streak. At his side, rifle dangling uncertainly, Martine glanced over to address Gwaine who appeared next to Merlin. Sir? Sir, what do we do.
Gwaine looked at Merlin, stunned but beginning to comprehend what Merlin was going to tell him before he could even get the word out. The threat had been realized.
"Hospital."
A/N: Apologies. Haven't got a good excuse for the delay except ennui… Just haven't felt much like composing. A lot of editing – which isn't done – on original work, and beta-ing in occasional sprints. I tried to read a couple of books, and succeeded with one. But mostly I've been eyebrows-deep in Prime and Netflix, tbh… Lazy me.
Oh, yeah – there's rl, too. Work. And baseball. And volunteering…