Chapter 19: Who Monitored Whom
Gwen read Arthur's signal as he jogged toward the lifts in pursuit of Tosoldat – I'm going up… implied, after him; I'll take care of this.
Also, You stay here. Guard retreat. Implied, Make sure he doesn't get past you, maybe a hint of the warning he'd given her on the phone from Essetir. Be ready to pick up my pieces if I have to retreat…
And Arthur disappeared up the steps even as the stairwell door closed placidly on its hydraulic hinges behind him.
There were four lifts in the alcove, two facing two. One taken by Tosoldat, three others unaccounted for.
Gwen hit the call button between two on one side, then darted across to hit the other also. One dinged immediately and she leaned into the space the sliding door opened, lifting her foot to unzip her boot.
"Oy!" she yelled at the pair of security enforcement tense and ready at their station at the front doors of the museum, grand glass and dark beyond. "This is some extreme entertainment!"
They exchanged a glance. The female, with short tight curls and wide light eyes, jogged to Gwen. "Ma'am?"
Bloody hells, I'm not that old.
Gwen wedged her boot in the grooves of the sliding lift door so it couldn't close and wouldn't therefore be called away to another floor to aid and abet terrorism. Another lift across the alcove dinged and slid open.
"We gotta keep these here on the first floor," Gwen ordered, unzipping her other boot. "My partner just chased a target up the stairs, we have to be ready for-"
The officer obediently lodged a boot of her own – still on her foot – in the way of one sliding door, stretching around to hold the other – ding! - open indefinitely also. Good enough.
How long before Tosoldat left the fourth lift? And, were the four backup terrorists in the basement the only other hostiles in the museum? Gwen wondered if she shouldn't take this last lift up anyway, checking each floor as she went, to see if Arthur might need an actual hand.
The agitated murmur of the crowd abruptly crescendoed to specifically terrified screams and-
A gunshot splintered echoes, shocking and unmistakable, around the open five stories of the glass-enclosed lobby chamber. Then, quickfast, three more, maybe from as many as three different weapons – but that was all, and didn't continue in a fire-fight.
Law enforcement, she believed. She hoped. Which meant something had happened with Morgause Renard down here, not Arthur and Rynok somewhere above them.
"What the hell?" blurted the officer holding open the two lift doors opposite, feeling at her hip for her own holstered weapon.
Gwen didn't have a chance to assess, or reassure.
One of the museum display cases just on the edge of view from their alcove exploded in a shower of glass with the impact of something heavy.
Shards scattered. More shrieks, more panic.
All Gwen could think was, Merlin said he would fall…
Arthur.
She dashed out from under the second-floor balcony, focused on the broken body that had hit and smashed the glass case – male, evening-wear…
Frantic motion overhead jerked her to a startled halt and she flinched to discover – Arthur, of course Arthur – clinging to one of the massive advertising tapestries draped in the open space between the glass ceiling five stories up and the second floor. He twisted, kicking desperately for balance, tried to peer over his shoulder at the ground – how far away-
Before he let go and dropped.
He landed heavily but rolled to protect the structural integrity of his body – he'll be fine-
Instinct still had Gwen dashing into the broken glass – pain sparking through her sock because of the boot left behind to thwart the serenely-closing lift doors – and skidding to her knees beside him.
Blinking. Gulping air.
Whether he recognized her or not – whether he was in pain or not – he gave her a lazy, cheeky grin and the whole world slotted into place.
Well, all right then.
"Hey," she said to him. Getting tired of kneeling over you to check you're still alive… I'll keep doing it, though. "Are you hurt?"
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
No, don't.
There was no time for Merlin to urge Morgause Renard to be careful with the service weapon she'd grabbed from the constable. To put it down, not to threaten… not to use.
He wondered for a split second why she didn't know. How a psychic could be unaware that law enforcement were reacting to shouts of Gun! Gun gungun get down! the way they were trained, to eliminate the threat.
For your own sake… no, don't.
Was she unaware because of what he'd done to her, in the jungle of her psyche that she'd pulled him into? with the echo of the sword that both their minds had made real enough, long enough?
Or maybe her attention was focused elsewhere.
When the gunshots shattered the air, splintering tension and uncertainty into shock and panic, Merlin cringed as her body jerked and broke and ended, before she even collapsed lifelessly on the ground.
Her eyes were blank, dead, gone.
Why didn't you know they were going to shoot, to protect everyone else?
No time to react, to consider, to reason.
In the next moment the whole museum – all human history represented – took an inaudible gasp as-
Arthur fell.
Merlin's body jerked around to see, to witness – I knew he would fall, how could I forget - as a man's body impacted on one of the display cases in an explosion of glass.
He knew which case, and what it held. The one man's sword, the herosword the kingsword the weapon that judged and the symbol that fought - and to think that even after Merlin had used its image to defend himself psychically, Arthur had died falling on it-
No. There was no sense of despair, no loss – there was triumph… and vindication.
Merlin had only to take one step, and then he could see that Arthur was suspended in midair, dangling for balance from one of the lobby advertising tapestries. His heart rose exultant in his throat - he'd known Arthur would fall.
But of course Scout Arthur Pendragon would catch himself.
Then his friend let go of the fabric, dropping mostly controlled to the floor and rolling to a sprawled stop.
Gwen darted out from under the balcony overhang where the lifts were located, focusing on Arthur.
The shrill crowd glittered, splintered, some turning toward the shattered glass and the terrorist's body, some to Renard and the blood spreading toward their shoes, some still cowering in the after-echo of the gunshots. The female constable whose weapon had been snatched gestured widely for people to keep their distance from the body – making sure if she was dead, not just in imminent need of medical attention. Others were heading toward her from elsewhere in the crowd, at least two with their service weapons in hand.
People had died. At a gala. And many important officials were here – no media because campaign and election, but-
Noise washed over him, around him; Merlin stood and observed and didn't have to advise. Somewhere someone was on the comm-block, connecting to backup enforcement, emergency medical; someone here was authoritative in military or constabulary services and would give necessary orders. Tension was collapsing into reaction but the guests mostly had the attention they needed – water, air fanned in their faces, permission to sprawl over surfaces and recover their emotions. Catering staff was uncertain and shocked, but they had their own supervisors and decision-makers.
Freya was on her way, but he had a few minutes before she arrived.
"Merlin!" Gwen called urgently, and he was already moving across the lobby to join them.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
As Arthur let go of the tapestry and dropped, the floor came up faster than he'd calculated. Fortunately his leg-joints remembered to buckle, and he tumbled to a stop feeling battered and bruised and uncertain enough of breathing to focus on it.
Someone slid into a hazy view of electric lights and darkness beyond distant dome-panes and he blinked up at Gwen – white collar, hair pinned out of her face, jaw set in dark-eyed determination. Her hands explored his body with swiftly gentle efficiency and he surrendered completely to her touch without moving.
"Are you hurt?" she demanded, an edge of something not unlike fear or despair in her voice. "Arthur. Where does it hurt?"
"Mm," he managed, squeezing air from his lungs and it hurt. " 'M'okay…"
She shifted, looking over her shoulder and his head rolled to see-
A stranger, sprawled unnaturally over the remains of one of the museum display cases. Blood-trickle showed down the corner of his nose, the side of his mouth, the angle of his jaw from his ear. Eyes half-open and unfocused, unblinking. Equilibrium shifted, though Arthur didn't move and he realized the stranger, dark-and-silver hair and desert-weathered skin, was Tosoldat.
That was all right, then.
Dead? I killed him? Is that all right?
"Merlin!" Gwen shouted, and wrestled out of her jacket. Screams settled to agitated chatter, confused in the flutter of tapestries overhead trying to settle.
Arthur coughed; fireworks bloomed in front of his vision and he tasted rust. Merlin appeared behind Gwen in time to take an empty jacket sleeve and help her use the garment to cover the dead man's face.
And Scout Arthur Pendragon was lying on the floor, after announcing to the whole gala that their golden girl was an enemy psychic.
He blinked up at Merlin, whose snowy white staff-blouse was unmarked with the red of blood he'd expected from bullet-holes. No; perception was wrong; it wasn't Merlin who'd been shot.
The psychic offered a tremulous smile. We did it. We're done.
Yeah, no. No quick-done-and-out, not when their presence was public, on home soil.
All his muscles protested when he tried to sit up, several joints and myriad ligaments and tendons. More than a few vertebrae, and veins, to say nothing of capillaries. What was he missing? A handful of organs, an artery or two…
"Don't try to get up," Gwen cautioned, and somehow Merlin had dropped to one knee beside him, hand spread over Arthur's expensive shirtfront, while Arthur had been facetiously self-cataloguing. She lifted her head, glanced about, signaled to someone he didn't bother looking for. "We'll get an emergency transport, a back-board and a neck-brace and-"
"Hellno," Arthur rasped. The son of Uther Pendragon, prone on the floor, after all this? "I'm fine, I'll be fine."
Abdominals protested and Merlin's hand resisted, and something twinged like bloody hell in his skeletal structure. Arthur agreed with his body to let it rest a moment more.
"Pocket," he said to Merlin, still trying to catch his breath after the slamming fall. "Inside. jacket. Pocket."
"What?" Gwen said, and he watched her lips form the word. CPR? Didn't count. First kiss… except his mouth still tasted like rust, and he'd not kiss her like that.
Merlin slipped his hand inside Arthur's jacket, finding that pocket and the stiffened card and sliding it out, oblivious – and Arthur felt the satisfaction of watching him realize the significance of what he held.
Psych Ops ID. CPO, Scout Merlin Emrys.
Member in good standing.
'T's not like we flash these around… except when we need to.
Merlin's whole face ignited with hope and purpose. You shouldn't have to. And both of you want her with you. Merlin's lips quirked in a wry grin, and he showed Gwen what he held. See what Arthur was carrying… for me.
"I'll see to clearing this up then, shall I?" he said, like it was the best privilege ever.
Arthur's hand managed to rise in the air and offer itself, and Merlin clasped it like a comrade, just as Arthur intended. You're a good man, a valuable asset – go do this thing, I know you can – my friend. My very good friend.
Merlin pushed to his feet, expression unchanged, fiercely confident. "I know you're giving me a crap job because you can," he said lightly, "But, as it turns out, I don't hate you."
"Yeah," Arthur said, settling for a moment of stillness before he tested his body's willingness and ability to obey his commands again.
Seemed like it might work, this time.
"Take it easy," Gwen cautioned, reaching to support him.
Merlin bent to retrieve whatever artifact had been housed in the glass case Tosoldat had demolished, landing on – some long hand-combat weapon. Straightening, he gave a whistle intended to gather attention, and gestured a series of signaled commands – oh, the law enforcement security – before moving away, glass crunching under his boots.
Arthur's upper body hunched over his lap, unhappily upright and that was good enough for now. He said to Gwen's concern, "You're brilliant."
She relaxed onto her heels, cheeks bunching with the smile of relief. "Don't sound so surprised."
He knew he hadn't, because he hadn't been surprised. Taking her hand, he held its softness against his cheek. "Mm. I knew I couldn't let myself wonder or hope, I knew I had to focus on full-frontal-solo-assault. But I knew you had my back-"
"Me and Gaius," she corrected. "And Merlin, and Gwaine and Freya."
"Hells," he managed. "Guess I have a whole team now, huh?"
She huffed a laugh, fingertips lightly stroking the back of his jaw, and he was content.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Freya had never been to a gala before. Still hadn't, actually.
But it obviously wasn't supposed to be like this. People in evening wear sprawled on the ground in shock – some few giggling hysterically while a companion tried to soothe them, women with tear-smeared makeup rocking in place, some sobbing, many staring blankly into the mess of their own thoughts. A few argued and gesticulated like that gave them a feeling of control over the night's events.
Freya skirted them, hoping to avoid blurting anyone's feelings aloud; everyone was all over the place.
Emergency lights flashed from the street outside the glass-bound lobby, reflecting from the thousands of bits of shattered glass scattered on the floor where Scouts Thompson and Pendragon slouched together. Gwen's jacket was spread over another man's face – dead, then – and a med-tech squatted before them in conversation that didn't look urgent. Other security personnel attended to traumatized guests; catering staff gathered in a corner, uncertain of their purpose.
And in the middle of it all, Merlin. Tall and solid, shoulders back and head up, hands spreading the tails of the black staff-jacket where they were propped on his hips. Presiding over the chaos like he was in charge, and one hand grasped the blade of a museum-piece sword below the cross-guard against his pant-leg – negligently, just holding it for safe-keeping.
Her heart thudded against her ribcage, and he turned to look at her – I'm in love with you – and smiled.
It could have been air she walked on, not broken glass, right up to him.
"Hello," he said simply, and the one word meant everything. I wasn't worried, I checked you were safe and successful, I trusted you could do this thing and you did. At the same time as We won, too, and Somehow I'm handling all this shit and it was unexpected but I've got it. Everything well in hand.
And not a little of, I'm glad to see you, love.
She didn't hesitate to rise to the toes of her boots, to reach him so he didn't have to bend down to her, and she kissed him, thoroughly and fiercely. He matched her emotion, arms circling her ribs as hers did his shoulders and his mouth was warm and generous and they belonged together.
"Mm," he managed, a sound that was lazy surprise and sensuous approval.
"Yeah," she agreed breathlessly.
It's over… or maybe just beginning.
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
"What are you listening to?" Freya asked him.
She'd lingered very close in spite of the psychic distress of the crowded chamber – and now that help had arrived, it seemed even more crowded – busier, with focus and intensity. Additional constabulary officials and emergency medical personnel, though actual cleaning up wouldn't happen til daylight hours tomor… er, later today.
People first, property second.
But she hadn't stopped touching him – holding his hand, leaning against his arm, brushing fingers over his sleeve or his shoulder-blade – since she'd emerged from the basement to join him. She hadn't blurted a single inappropriately-appropriated thought the while, and maybe that was why. And it was comfortable – nearly sub-conscious, unintentionally proprietary, not physically arousing, but emotionally bonding.
Together togethertogether.
He liked it. Kind of a lot if he was being honest. And it was a little frightening in an exhilarating way. Which was maybe a little of why he liked it.
Similar to the whole night, maybe.
No one had actually asked him for advice or direction. And he hadn't needed to excuse himself to anyone before giving it unsolicited, either.
"I'm… monitoring," he said to Freya. "Not listening."
Lots of hysterical, influential witnesses. Lower-level law enforcement tasked with gathering contact info and a brief statement of the basics, who witnessed which part of the evening's disaster. Formal statement to be dictated and signed at a later date.
"Monitoring who?" Freya wondered.
Everyone. Maybe. Not deliberately and not invasively, just… monitoring.
"Catering staff taken care of," he told her. "Three cases of trauma-induced medical emergency en route to a care center. The rest of the guests being… legally triaged?"
Glad someone else had to handle that, actually – and he understood Arthur handing responsibility off to him a little deeper. Willing to step up if necessary, but glad if someone else doing it instead made it unnecessary.
Not at all like a mission, action and danger that Arthur would immediately volunteer for.
"Avoid the bureaucracy," he advised Freya lightly.
"Amen," she responded.
"Of the four in the basement," he went on, knowing she'd know what he meant, better than he did, maybe. "Two on the way to the morgue. Two on the way to lock-up with minor injuries."
She made a noise that was a little too detached, but he understood without having to comprehend. Later, maybe.
"Bomb experts questioning Gwaine yet," he added, in case she was wondering. "They'll be done with him in a minute."
"A minute?" she wondered, feeling the crease at the bottom of his jacket lapel in a way that pressed her knuckles to his ribs.
He kept his hands in his pockets nonchalantly and let her. The way she touched him was so different to… Nimueh. Or Morgana. Not that he wanted to compare, but sometimes inadvertent thoughts couldn't be helped. There was no artifice in her touch – and when there was, she looked into his eyes with that little smile that made sure he noticed that she meant him to notice how she was touching him, that she wanted to notice his reaction.
"Five minutes," he amended, and reconsidered. "Eight and a half."
She made another noise of mild interest, surveying the movements of the slowly-diminishing crowd as he did.
Wonder if this means the election will be postponed. Wonder if they'll reschedule this last campaign effort. Or if the revelation of Renard's treachery means everything gets upended to be sifted through…
"Like a desk drawer," Freya said absently. "Put all the paper clips back in the same compartment. Throw out the rubber bands that have snapped…"
An inappropriate giggle pushed against the bottom of Merlin's throat, and he swallowed it, because a bow-legged, white-haired man was approaching them – him – and he didn't recognize him, but he knew.
"Excuse me," the older man began. "I'm-
"I know," Merlin said softly.
Representative of the museum's administration. Because Sir Geoffrey wasn't here tonight, thank heaven. But, authorized to take charge of the probably priceless artifact dangling from Merlin's fingers. He lifted the sword delicately, and the man's eyes followed it, ignoring Merlin to ascertain that the piece was undamaged after its secure housing had been smashed, deliberately and carefully gloved hands reaching to reclaim.
"Tell Sir Geoffrey," said Freya at Merlin's side, "that Emrys took good care of it."
Merlin shivered and turned to her, even as instinct anticipated this lieutenant conveying the sword to a safe holding place til it could be displayed again – and probably no mention made of this recent addition to its heroic, violent history.
"Emrys, right you are," the man said briskly, and carried the sword away on open, gloved palms, drawing surprisingly little attention from the people he passed.
"You don't know Sir Geoffrey," Merlin said to Freya.
"What?" she said, blinking up at him.
Never mind.
Across the chamber by the door he glimpsed Moreno in conversation with the district captain they'd reported the details of the sniper-chase to, the conclusion in the alley and the things he knew because psychic, that there wasn't any corroborating evidence for.
Moreno noticed him – mentioned him to the captain, who turned to find Merlin with his eyes. He raised a hand in acknowledgment, which Moreno returned; the captain nodded, and both refocused on their conversation with each other.
"So are you ours?" Freya said, shifting as if she'd like to be excused to sit down somewhere. "A ground-pounder? Military camo? Or are you Psych Ops, and we're going to lose you to the black uniform?"
"Mm," he said. That was complicated. Pressure on Gaius to retire would be retracted, pressure to return and deal would be applied. JD Gregory was a good man, but… no. And Gaius would want him back, Merlin knew, for many varied reasons, not all of them readily apparent. "You look good in black."
Freya snorted her opinion of what he meant by the remark – then checked herself, looking at him thoughtfully.
Well, maybe. Someday. Maybe someday he and Freya could be as good in the field as Arthur and Gwen.
Speaking of whom…
Awareness bloomed from subconscious attuned to monitoring various facets of the situation, and he shook himself to full wakefulness. "They've got enough to go on, tonight," he said to Freya – her eyes went past his shoulder to watch Gwaine amble up behind him, unheard in the slowly-waning distress of the remaining crowd. "They're going to release us. All we'll have to do is-"
"Report for duty when so ordered?" Gwaine suggested, joining them. He stretched like the still-healing sniper shot in his arm was aching, among other things. "There might be a trolley or two still rolling about but the last trains have gone hours ago – I'm so tired I could comfortably sleep under a bridge, but I'd rather not. Any suggestions from the psychics?"
Freya opened her mouth to say, Share a hotel room? delayed by, Who's still got money or access to it since… escaping Aravia after the last mission.
"Arthur's going to suggest a CPO safehouse," Merlin said.
Then blinked. Bloody hells, he was tired too. Where had that come from?
Gwaine leaned into his space, studying the depths of his eyes – what does my house look like? windows to the soul? – and frowned.
"Did you take anything?" he asked, and turned immediately to Freya. "Did he take anything? What's he on?"
In prelude to her answer, Freya slid her hand between his elbow and side, warm and strong along his ribs and it was right where Renard's psychic beast-claws hadn't ripped into him, and he flinched.
She flinched too. "Bloody hells," she said, looking pale and young and anxious under the gem-lights of the museum. "Oh, Merlin."
"What-" Gwaine started to say.
"I'll be fine," Merlin told them, because it was true. His injury had only occurred in his mind, unlike others tonight.
Turning, he led them toward the double glass doors just as a law enforcement underling – tall, gangly, frazzled in an energetic way – paused briefly beside them. "We've got enough to go on, tonight – the DAC in charge says you can go home if you keep yourselves available for further questions if need be."
"Yep," Gwaine said, so the underling would take his leave. "Got it."
"What about you?" Merlin said to him, following. "Do you need a once-over by medical?"
Gwaine made a face, squeezing his arm gingerly through his sleeve without breaking stride; shards still crunched under their boots. "Not unless it's a cute female and I'm guaranteed some meramine."
"Do you still feel demoted, sir?" Freya said in throaty amusement as he leaned into holding the door open to the outside – for her, then Merlin.
"Ha, ha," Gwaine said, but he didn't sound as grim as his psyche had felt, before he'd joined them. "I wonder if we rank high enough to be allowed access to the bomb squad's report."
"I don't want to know." Freya shuddered delicately beside him, fingers still curled into the inner tendons of his elbow. Like roots that would begin to sink in, link and flourish…
Merlin inhaled deeply of the dark and chill and quiet of night, stretching his lungs, and the glass door swung slowly back into place. Compartmentalization.
At the curb, three emergency trauma trucks remained parked in a line, lights flashing distantly over the lines of portable crowd-barriers keeping a few people back from the museum entrance, attended by a handful of constables. It was a business district and late at night – but there was a café at the corner whose staff was watching in ignorant awe, among others.
Two of the trauma trucks were empty, their attendants occupied within the museum, mostly still calming and monitoring what shocked guests still remained. No one was being transported anywhere anymore and the three who had already been taken to trauma centers would be fine, and that was as much of a win as anyone could expect, in Merlin's opinion. The two empty vehicles would eventually convey the bodies from the entrance chamber to the morgue – the downstairs terrorists would be dealt with through the back access of the building.
Gwen was seated in the open back of the third trauma truck; halfway down the steps, Arthur was sprawled in a comfortable-as-possible position where he could see into the bay of that vehicle. Not alone; a short broad man squatted like an affable toad next to him, in conversation that allowed both of them to monitor Gwen's care at the hands of a blue-gloved professional.
Gwaine hesitated at the top of the stairs. "You wanna say yes to the safehouse?"
"It's too late tonight for me to care one way or the other," Freya said tiredly. "Or too early?"
And it would take some time for all of them to come to terms with what had happened – what they'd done – what they'd been forced to do. All five of them, seeking whatever solitude could be found with their own thoughts and emotions in a two-bedroom walk-up three streets northwest, conversing lightly and only when necessary. Freya and Gwen in one room, he and Gwaine in the other, and Arthur would volunteer for the couch in such a way that no one could argue. The girls take turns in the bathroom, the kitchen sink doubling for washing-up, and coffee in the morning…
Military ops not that much different from Psych Ops, on the whole. Don't second-guess decisions made in the chaos of the moment. But admit and learn from any mistakes revealed in debriefing objectively.
"Gaius is going to want to talk to all of us at some point," he realized aloud.
"We're not Psych Ops," Gwaine reminded him.
Not yet, he didn't say.
"But he's officially retired?" Freya said to him. "Who's in charge now?"
Not for long. He didn't say. To answer both questions at once – or not.
"House sounds better to me anyway than hotel," Gwaine said – because, privacy - bending and letting his body thud down to rest on the top step. "They can come find me when they want me."
Who? Well, whoever. The explosive-ordnance team, investigative constabulary, military rep, Psych Ops admin…
"Let me know when you're ready to go," Gwaine concluded, flapping a hand to indicate he thought Merlin wanted to talk to Arthur – or should, whether he wanted to or not.
Freya made a small questioning noise, gently squeezing his arm.
"I'm fine," Merlin said. "You can wait with Gwaine. Ten minutes, tops."
She let go, sinking to a seat and leaning on her knees with her arms loosely wrapping her shins.
"Thanks for stabbing that last one for me," he heard Gwaine say lightly as he descended the few steps toward Arthur and his companion.
Stabbing. stabbing? Maybe she'd tell him later. Or maybe it would take some time.
The short, broad-shouldered man with Arthur rose to his height as Merlin approached, loosely familiar, and of course scout came through loud and clear. "Emrys?"
He couldn't dredge a name from memory, and wouldn't look for it psychically. "Sorry," he said awkwardly, extending a hand. "We've never been introduced?"
The scout looked down to catch the side of Arthur's glance as if to exchange – told you so; yeah you told me so – but reached to grip Merlin's hand without hesitation, regardless what Arthur had told him about Merlin.
" 'S'right," he said easily. "I'm Fletcher. Happened to be in the capital office when…" His gaze went vague momentarily over Merlin's shoulder at the museum above and behind, pouring light down the stairs into the night-darkened street. "No, I guess I didn't just happen to be in the office when Director Gaius connected on the comm-block."
Scout's intuition. And another one who said Director Gaius without second-guessing official statuses. Merlin liked him.
"Safehouse is ready for you, though," Fletcher continued, again glancing down at Arthur. "I'll take over here. Til today actually starts, that is."
"Thank you," Merlin told him – needlessly; just doing his job, already thanked by Arthur and probably Gwen also.
With a breezy how-d'ya-do to Gwaine and Freya, Fletcher continued up and into the calming chaos of the museum foyer. Maybe not all cleared away even by an official start to the day. Museum reps in polite disagreement with law enforcement about when the property would be returned to their control. Sir Geoffrey would be woken, and summoned.
Arthur didn't turn around and didn't say anything, and Merlin lingered on the step above him, watching the blue-gloved med-tech bend over Gwen's bare foot where she was curled on the folded carry-bed in the back of the trauma truck.
He was reminded a bit of Arthur lounging on the hillside of the Pendragon estate, listening to the turf-bike engines racing each other, and Merlin had climbed the hill to join him. Maybe because Arthur was thinking of that, too – or maybe Arthur was thinking completely different thoughts.
Was he welcome to sit and join. Would he instead remind Arthur of that moment in the hotel security office, his regret and his apology. Would Merlin feel again the desolation of heartless abandonment – or the fierce glory of accepting his identification warm from Arthur's pocket.
How long had he carried it – retrieved as it must have been from Suite Jamison.
Did it matter.
Carefully Merlin stepped down to the concrete stair where Arthur's elbows propped him up and… it felt like the day in the hospital in Britesea when Arthur told him, his reasons and motivation needed to be for the job, not for any one person.
Arthur still didn't look at him, or speak. The white stone of his mind-castle was high and sturdy and brilliant, nary a chink – but inside the courtyard was open and spacious.
And the gates stood open.
From Merlin's position he could see nothing of the interior save a narrow slice of the inside of the white stone wall… but the gate stood wide open. He could approach; he could enter.
"I trust you too," he said to Arthur – who startled and winced, twisting round to face Merlin - making him reconsider the abruptly personal nature of the comment. "I mean. No one can be absolutely trustworthy all the time, I don't think…"
But trust didn't imply the knowledge of existing absolute trustworthiness, did it. It was a hope, a chance, a risk.
And the gates were open.
"You fell kind of a long way," he added, observing that Arthur's casual-seeming sprawl was just as careful and maybe a little stiff as the afternoon on the hillside after the Urhavi job. At least nothing had exploded, tonight. "Are you all right?"
"Bruises and sprains," Arthur groused mildly, returning his attention to Gwen in the trauma truck. "I blame you – you gave me the idea, telling me I was going to fall."
Merlin opened his mouth to object, he hadn't seen this, he'd seen other falls – and then didn't.
"And you?" Arthur added. "You're moving a bit slow. Favoring your left side."
Merlin's turn to shoot a startled glance at the side of Arthur's face. How did you…
Arthur's starchy collar was open and bare, hair disheveled, the immaculate image of a tuxedoed gentleman shifted just enough to show scout undercover. And he'd noticed the mild discomfort that disappeared almost completely when Merlin held still.
"It's not… real," he said lamely – and Arthur focused his gaze on Merlin again. "It's… psychic. Somehow."
"Morgause?" Arthur said, a bit grimly. "What did she do?"
"I think she… pulled me into her psyche." Merlin rubbed at the grit on the museum step beneath his boots, feeling the night breeze touch his scalp through his hair with fingers almost as real and gentle as Freya's. "I could still… hear everything going on, but inside… she was trying to kill me, I think? Or at least…"
"Your ability?" Arthur said quietly, and made a thoughtful noise. "I think she did the same to me."
"What?" Merlin said, startled again.
"There was a moment when I was fighting Rynok," Arthur said, too off-handedly. "It was like I was experiencing her perspective instead. Looking at you, pointing the gun…" He looked away from Merlin, spreading the fingers of his right hand as if remembering – and it clearly unsettled him.
"She was never going to be fast enough to shoot me," Merlin said, softly earnest. "I did wonder – why she didn't realize security would stop her. Maybe because she was preoccupied… distracting you."
Arthur snorted. "Well, we're the ones still standing."
Merlin couldn't help trying for humor. "We're the ones sitting on the museum steps."
"Whatever." Arthur pushed a little awkwardly off his elbows – wincing again – and gained his feet.
The med-tech had finished with Gwen and left her in the back of the trauma truck alone – a state of affairs Arthur was clearly going to rectify.
He paused on a lower stair to turn back and say, "You'll be going to the safehouse with us for tonight? And Gwaine and Freya?"
If you'll have us, Merlin didn't say. No offhand jokes - instead, fact and promise. "Of course."
…..*…..…..*…..…..*…..
Gwen straightened as Arthur approached, only a little the worse for wear in his formal evening tux, looking as comfortable to saunter away from Merlin as he had been to have Merlin approach – so she could hope that relationship was improving. Again.
But for Arthur – X-rays? MRIs? Just bruises?
He fetched up at the back bumper, eyes more occupied with the equipment and supply compartments of the back of the trauma truck than her, slouched over her bare bandaged foot on the hard mat of the folded bed, locked into place so it wouldn't roll away with her.
"Can I come inside?" he said.
A mild enough request, but he didn't move to set his foot on the bumper or find the hand-grip on the truck-frame.
And for the life of her, Gwen could not keep her thoughts from splashing straight to the gutter, in memory of how Arthur used to say things unintentionally carrying the most rakish innuendo, to her and apparently only to her. Not for a while; she'd rather missed it. And maybe with a little encouragement, he might start saying those sorts of things on purpose…
So she leaned a little forward, ignoring the heat in the skin of her face; the night was cool and she'd survive. "Well, I mean," she drawled deliberately. "Not right now."
His eyes fastened to her face, surprised and uncomprehending – but only for the briefest moment, before he got it. And grinned the naughtiest, most engaging grin she'd ever seen on his face – is that a promise? – hiding none of it from her, as cheeky and self-satisfied as she felt to voice the joke.
"So you're all right?" he said only, allowing the moment to slide into their past.
"Three stitches," she answered lightly. "Try not to step on broken glass if you can help it. The needle for anesthetic is worse on the bottom of the foot than the actual cut."
He shuddered theatrically, grimacing. "But it'll be numb now a few hours? And then what – crutches?"
"No, just a limp. Stitches out in a week and a half, or thereabouts." For a moment she busied herself stretching her holey, bloodied sock back over the tan bandage on her foot, then yanking the laces of her boot wider so she could slide her foot inside.
He waited while she did it, and when she looked at him again, his eyes were very blue, smiling at her in spite of the exhaustion of the mission complete and the subsequent adrenaline crash. "Need someone to wait on you hand and foot?"
"No," she said candidly. And before the smile or the offer could dissipate, she added, "But I might enjoy it anyway…"
He made a pleased noise and offered his hand up to her, like she was a princess in a fluffy gown and spangly veil over perfect curls in a balcony. "Care to play safehouse with me?"
Gwen snickered, and accepted his help climbing down. Just for tonight? anytime? not when those three are coming to?
She responded wholeheartedly, "All right."
A/N: One more chapter, should be it… If there's anything that struck you that should be resolved at the end of this longer-than-intended trilogy, let me know!