Chapter Text
The full moon was the only body visible in the endlessly black sky. It's pale light illumined the cobblestone walkways and patches of greenery outside the tall, brick buildings of the campus. The glass double doors of one academic building swung open gently, revealing a dark-featured man in a smart, tight suit. His black shoulder-length hair was pulled into a loose ponytail so that layered strands fell about his eyes, and he scratched idly at the scruff on his chin as he walked down the path towards the car park, where only one car now remained.
Professor Cenred Russo withdrew his keys from his pocket and clicked a button. The car beeped and its headlights flashed as the doors clicked open. He got inside and settled in, placing his briefcase on atop the passenger's seat and pushing his key into the ignition. Just as the engine roared to life, there was a quick, faint whooshing sound from the backseat, and Cenred gasped as he felt a metal wire dig into his throat. There was a tug from behind, and his head was forced against the headrest.
"Do exactly as I say and you may live a little longer," came a low voice from the seat in back of him.
Cenred struggled to breathe, and the fishing wire around his neck slackened slightly. He chanced a look around but, before he got very far, the wire was tugged harder, and Cenred gagged as his head was thrust backward again.
"No peeking," the voice said and, if it weren't for the piercing blue eyes in the shadowy rearview mirror and the wire across his tender skin, Cenred would have thought the darkness itself was speaking to him.
"What is this? Who are you?" Cenred asked, his voice shaking, when the wire slackened again. He didn't risk turning around this time.
The man didn't answer his questions, but instead said in a droning tone, "Start driving. I'll tell you were to go. And don't—," the wire tensed warningly for only a moment, "—try anything stupid."
Cenred did as he was told, and they sat in silence for the thirty-minute car ride, save for when the man in the backseat muttered commands on when to turn and what to do next. As they left the city behind and started driving through the winding outer limits, Cenred dared not speak, but his mind was constantly racing, trying to find a way out of this. His heart was threatening to beat straight through his chest, and his breathing was coming up shallow; and he was torn between wanting to drive as slowly as possible, that way whatever was coming would be prolonged, and speeding up, due to a morbid curiosity leaking into his brain. Every so often, he cast wary looks into the rearview, trying to determine more features of his captor, but all he ever saw were those bright blue eyes.
Finally, they had arrived at their apparent destination: an abandoned hunting cabin nearby the banks of the Thames. It was secluded, not another structure for miles, but Cenred could still see the twinkling lights of London in the distance. His wife was somewhere in there, wondering why her husband had not gotten home yet.
The wire whipped itself away, releasing his bruised neck, and Cenred let out a gasping sob. He didn't know why the simple fact that he was never actually going to make it home decided to hit him in that moment, but it did.
"Please," he breathed. "My wife—"
"—Doesn't know about your affairs, does she, Professor?" the man cut him off harshly.
Cenred stammered. "How—?"
However, something cold and thin pierced his neck, and he'd only registered it as a needle right before the darkness became all-consuming . . .
Consciousness rushed back to him with a jolt, and his nostrils burned with a lingering foul scent. He knew at once that he'd been awoken by some kind of smelling salt. He attempted to sit up, but he found he couldn't move his body. His entire form was completely restrained by, he saw once he calmed himself enough to look down his nose, plastic wrap and glistening silver duct tape. He was on a rickety table inside the hunting cabin, and more plastic sheets lined the walls, blocking the windows and door. The only sound he heard was his haggard breathing, right before a bright white floodlight was switched on to his right. He winced until his eyes adjusted to the brightness.
He felt a presence above him, and looked up to find a handsome, golden-haired man looming over him. He looked strange against the black backdrop, as though someone like him should only belong to the sun; however, Cenred saw those same icy blue eyes as before boring into him.
"What do you want?" Cenred choked out at the man's blank expression. "I don't have very much money!"
A corner of the man's lips twitched upwards in an amused, micro-smirk. "I'm not interested in what funds you may or may not have," he said matter-of-factly. "I assume your wife will need those savings for the memorial, anyway. I'm afraid she won't have a body to bury."
Cenred was at a loss for words.
In the pause, the man reached towards a small metal table to his left and picked up a scalpel, which he used to trace a thin line into Cenred's cheek. The cut stung and trickles of blood came from it, and the man collected a drop. He dabbed the blood into a sample slide inches above Cenred's eyes, and Cenred looked on in horror as the man placed the top onto the slide, causing the droplet to expand into a flat, crimson circle.
"How many students do you think take your course each semester, Professor?" the man asked as he once again slipped from view, and Cenred hung onto his every word. "I don't guess you've ever counted, because all that every mattered was the one. One girl each semester that you handpick and fail on every assignment until she begs you for extra help, which you graciously give in your office after hours.
"She's probably happy for it, too—to spend time with a cool, handsome teacher like yourself. And, in time, in becomes more than just a study session." There was a mirthless laugh emitting from the darkness. "Oh, and the brain on you! Chemistry is a difficulty topic, after all. She's bright-eyed and fascinated by you—can't believe you'd fall for her."
He appeared above Cenred's right side, his silhouette blocking out the bright light.
"And imagine her surprise when your hands are wrapped around her neck, suffocating her," the figure said with a smirk, cocking his head to the side as he took in Cenred's sweat-matted hair sticking to his temples. "They're all easy targets, really, the lot of them."
The man looked up to the wall opposite him, and Cenred followed his gaze. On the plastic hung seven printed photos in a row, all of them depicting the bright smiling faces of young blonde co-eds.
Cenred felt his breath leave him. "How could you possible know—?"
"That doesn't matter," the man snipped, looking down at him with a cool indifference. "All that matters is the lack of evidence you leave behind. The police have never been able to pin you for the murders. They have to follow a protocol, a code, but—"
The shadow withdrew again, reappearing seconds later on Cenred's left with a clean, mirrored knife held in his gloved fist. The knife caught the light as the man raised it and steadied it directly above Cenred's heart.
"Luckily, I follow a different code."
"No!" Cenred begged—yelled, although he distantly knew there was no one who would be able to hear. "No! No!" He tried fighting against his restraints, but they were too tight to allow movement.
The last thing he registered was the glinting blade crashing down, a sharp pain in his chest, and a heavy feeling as crimson oozed out around the knife and dripped down the plastic-wrapped curve of his chest.
Arthur Pendragon picked up the last heavy-duty black trash bag and tossed it over the side of his boat, hearing the splash it caused before sinking to bottom of the river but not really paying it much mind. It was too cold to care about anything else but getting to the warmth of his bed, and he rubbed his gloved palms together fiercely. The friction caused a heat that diminished the second he stopped the movement.
With a single glance at the cold, black waters surrounding him, he returned to the steering wheel and turned the boat around, headed back for the city. He could see the banks of the river on either side of him, but the land was nothing but fields and distant rolling hills in this area. No one would ever be around to see him dump the bodies, leaving the weighted bags to be carried off downstream by the current, into the English Channel and, eventually, get lost in the Atlantic.
This was a tradition Arthur had perfected over the years. He'd figured it out by himself, as it was not specifically listed in Uther's Code, which had been taught to him by his dearly departed father, a renowned Detective Inspector for the Metropolitan Police. Arthur did not kill his father: that had been cancer's doing, in the same way Arthur's mother had gone before he had any real memory of her. However, before Uther passed on, he used his knowledge of police protocol and forensic investigation to create for Arthur a strict set of rules so that he would never get caught. Through them, Arthur had been trained to kill practically since birth.
Arthur had taken these rules and lessons to heart. After all, Uther could have sent Arthur to an asylum when he was young or alerted his colleagues. Instead, he let Arthur be free to be himself—to give in to his urges, but in a way that was beneficial to society. Above all, Uther taught Arthur to kill those who truly deserved to die: the murderers that had been let off, the killers that got away. They needed to pay for their misdeeds, and Arthur saw to it.
The sun was forming a pink line on the horizon as Arthur neared the city, and light drifts of snow fluttered down from the sky. Arthur pulled a lever back to speed up the boat, leaving a slice of foamy waves in his wake.
Chapter Text
Arthur dug his toes into the dirt below him, kicking up an earthworm and squashing it in two with the soles of his canvas trainers. Distantly, he heard the back door of the house slide open, and his knuckles went white against the cool steel metal chains supporting the swing upon which he sat. Earlier, Uther sternly said he needed to talk with Arthur, and Arthur supposed that time had come.
He chanced a look up at his father, who had changed out of his work clothes, but the jeans and polo he now sported couldn't exactly be called relaxed. They made Arthur feel disheveled in his striped T-shirt.
"Good evening, son," Uther said, squeezing into the vacant swing hanging next to Arthur. "You recall I wanted to have a discussion with you?"
Arthur nodded, feeling small. He felt a pit in his stomach as Uther looked behind them, towards the copse that separated their neighborhood from the one behind.
He let out a heavy sigh before saying, "You'd been spending a lot of time in the woods these days, Arthur. Far too much time. I was curious to what you'd been up to."
He looked down at Arthur's feet, clocking the smooshed worm that Arthur was still toeing.
"I went back there last night after you'd gone to sleep, son," he continued when Arthur did not confess. "I found the bones."
Arthur swallowed hard. He suddenly felt hot, and he could not look into Uther's intensifying stare.
"That dog was stupid," he muttered in ways of an excuse. "All it did was dig up our garden and bark—all the time. And I'm not the only one who hated it. It bit Merlin! He had to get stitches."
Uther nodded patiently, listening to what Arthur had to say.
"The owners have been looking for that dog for days, son. You've seen the posters," he said calmly. "And there were more bones in that grave than just Spike's."
Arthur's palms had gone numb against the metal.
"Have you ever wanted to kill something other than an animal?" Uther inquired, tilting his head to the side as though examining his son.
Arthur shrugged noncommittally. "Yes," he answered honestly, knowing it was best to do so. "But—but not anyone in particular," he added hastily, as though this would make it better.
"Just anyone?"
Arthur nodded, staring down at his lap.
Uther let out another heavy breath through his nose, and Arthur felt his father's hand clasp his shoulder comfortingly.
"It's okay, son," Uther said, and Arthur finally met the eyes he'd inherited. "We'll figure something out."
Arthur's breath fogged in front of him as he opened the door of his building, and he was grateful for the relative warmth of the hallway on the other side. It was already well into the morning, and he could smell burning bacon and hear Saturday morning cartoons blaring from the flat on the other side of the corridor from his before he'd even gotten up the stairs. The distain he felt for the unruly children in that flat knew no bounds, but they never annoyed him very much after a kill.
He was relaxed when he closed his door behind him and shrugged off his coat. From his kaki trouser pocket, he produced the delicate slide filled with the sample of Cenred Russo's blood and grinned satisfactorily at it. After taking a moment to revel in the swarming memory of his latest playmate, he crossed the room to the closet and located the black safe in the corner.
Gingerly, he dialed the code and the safe sprung open, allowing him to reach through and pull out a narrow, polished wooden box. As though the box were the most fragile thing in the world, he opened its golden latch and lifted the lid, revealing the thirty-six identical slides to the one he held in his other hand. He placed the newest slide in the first empty display notch.
Arthur ran his index finger down the row, basking in the ridges between each thin piece of glass, his ears heightened to the lulling clinking sound they made as they knocked softly against each other. With a content smirk, he closed the lid of the box, keeping his former playmates in the dark while he turned in for a nap and nice two-day weekend alone. That's when there was a rhythmic knock at the door.
Shit, he thought, letting out an annoyed breath and letting his shoulders drop in defeat. He wasn't wondering who was at the door or why, but rather when they'd go away. He stood stock-still for a moment, holding his breath, hoping that whomever had come to call would leave. However, the knock came again.
"Coming," he called in a singsong tone, willing cheerfulness into his voice, as he reverently placed the box of blood slides into his safe and closed the closet door.
He made his way to the main door and meant to open it a crack, but the person on the other side forced it wide open.
"Finally! It's fucking freezing in this hallway, Arthur!" the raven-haired man shouted almost immediately.
Merlin had one hand stuffed into his bulky coat's pocket while the other, gloved in thick fabric, clutched a plastic grocery bag hanging at his side. He bounced up and down slightly in the chill of the fresh snow the morning and brought, and Arthur felt the same frigidness hit him like a wall. He hadn't realized how much toaster his flat had been to the corridor. He hugged himself and rubbed warmth into his bare arms, cursing Merlin inwardly for letting the heat of his apartment escape.
"Merlin?" Arthur asked, genuinely confused. "What are you doing here?"
Merlin rolled his eyes. "Seriously?" he asked, sounding somewhat let down. When Arthur only blinked at him, he shouted, "Shoot 'em up movie marathon today! We've been planning this for a week!"
It dawned on Arthur, and he opened his mouth in a long, "Oh."
"Oh, is right. Never mind, I knew you'd forget," Merlin said, holding up the bag in his hands, beaming from ear to ear. "So I took the liberty of getting the steaks and boos. Now, are you going to let me in or am I going to have to force my way passed you?"
Arthur stepped aside, gesturing his arm towards the living room to usher Merlin in. After all, he had no choice. Well, he supposed he did have a choice: He could have just as well slammed the door in Merlin's face and told him to leave him to sleep. Perhaps he might have if it was anyone but Merlin; however, kicking Merlin out would only earn Arthur a week of the cold shoulder that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.
It's not like Merlin wouldn't come around in the end, of course. They'd known each other too long to try to brush the other off for good. They'd been neighbors since Merlin's family moved next door to the Pendragons when Arthur was seven-years-old, they went to all the same schools, they knew all each other's secrets—well, apart from one. Merlin had been there for Arthur when Uther died, just as Arthur had been there when Merlin's parents passed away; the first of which being Merlin's father. After that death, Merlin spent nearly all his time at Arthur's house, and Uther became somewhat of a father figure to him. Merlin famously said Uther was the one who made him want to become a cop.
No, there was definitely no getting rid of Merlin, who was currently shoving the frozen steaks into the icebox for later.
Of course, it wasn't like Arthur minded having Merlin around. Besides Uther, Merlin was the closest thing Arthur ever had to family, much less a friend. Everyone else Arthur had ever been friendly with or romantic with was simply a means to and end—a way to look normal, as Uther had trained him to do. However, it was different with Merlin: Whether the man had grown on him over the years or if there was a certain soft spot Arthur felt for him, Arthur did not know.
But he found Merlin amusing when his eyes lit up about a case he was working on, or when he forced Arthur out of his lab midday to get lunch at a pub, or when Merlin came up with a slew of new and creative curses whenever he was frustrated. Arthur laughed whenever Merlin bit nervously at his fingers nails right before Thelma and Louise decided to drive off the cliff, like he had expected the ending to somehow change, even though they both had seen the movie dozens of times; and he shook his head when Merlin proclaimed, "It always gets me," in a meek self-defense.
Arthur didn't have emotions for anyone or anything but, if he could, he'd have them for Merlin.
Hours later, after they blew through Thelma and Louise, Bonnie and Clyde, Desparado, and at least five steaks between the two of them, Arthur even found himself not watching the telly, but Merlin. His eyes traced the delicate curves of Merlin's neck whenever he knocked back a sip of his beer, making his adam's apple tremble slightly. He snuck peeks at Merlin's long, thin fingers tapping against his knee along with the background music of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, as if he knew the notes by heart, which he probably did because it was his favorite film. He looked at Merlin's violet-tinted blue eyes, highlighted a more pale blue by the light of the television, as they became slightly glossy because of what was happening on the screen. Arthur found it all very entertaining—all very human.
To Arthur, Merlin was the pinnacle of the human race, it's finest example: bewildering, yet simple; logical, but so full of emotion; lighthearted, but stern and focused when he needed to be; and totally and completely out of Arthur's realm of understanding . . .
"Bang! I got you!" Arthur shouted happily, his index finger pressed hard against Merlin's tufts of dark hair. He pulled his thumb like a trigger a few more times, making whooshing sound effects.
"Did not!" Merlin protested, rounding on him.
"I did, too, Merlin!"
"Arthur," Merlin said, rolling his eyes. "Butch would never kill Sundance!"
Arthur let out a huff and scanned the bramble around them. Through the trees behind Merlin, he could almost see the subdued red color of the back of his house.
"And why not?" he challenged, folding his tiny arms across his chest and raising a brow.
"Because they're mates," Merlin said, looking hurt.
Arthur didn't see why that was an excuse. "Okay," he said patiently. "But what if Sundance was going to rat Butch out—go to the police and turn him in? What then?"
"Well, Butch would reason with him. Get him to stop," Merlin said like it was obvious. "Doesn't matter, anyway; Sundance would never do that—not to him."
"Arthur!"
Arthur was just about to say something when he heard Uther's calls coming from the back porch. If he found Arthur playing pretend guns again, Arthur would be a dead man. Uther only wanted Arthur to think of killing during their lessons . . .
"Stop staring at me or I'll cut your balls off!" Merlin snapped at once, obviously having the primal sensation of being watched. Now, that was a feeling Arthur could understand. However, Merlin's voice cracking when he said it was lost on him.
When Arthur brought his attention back to the screen, he saw the duo's final stand in Bolivia. A sentimental Butch was telling Sundance they ought to head to Australia, right before running headfirst into a firing squad.
"And don't you dare start laughing at me," Merlin demanded, accusing Arthur of something he had not yet done.
To this, Arthur raised his palms incredulously and stuttered a little, feigning an innocent expression.
However, Merlin was already looking back at the TV, his eyes shining as he tipped the neck of his beer bottle towards the screen.
"I know it's silly, and I know it's coming, but still," Merlin defended as the credits rolled. "It's sad how they just died like that. Maybe they would have done well on the straight and narrow if not for those bandits—gits."
Arthur stood up, making his way to the fridge for another beer. He looked at Merlin up and down for a long moment, taking in the way Merlin's eyes were hardening with immense effort as he tried to regain control of his emotions. Merlin had to put up a front so the world wouldn't see how vulnerable he was; Arthur had to put up a front so the world wouldn't see how vulnerable he wasn't.
"Merlin, it's a movie," he said, leaning on the open refrigerator door. "It's how the producers wanted it to end. It's not the bandits' fault; it's the writers'."
Merlin gaped, seeming offended. "That's not the point! Don't blame the writers for everything; you'll take all the magic out of it."
Arthur was just about to tell Merlin he was being stupid when his mobile went off. Merlin watched it dance on the coffee table before him but made no move to answer it. Arthur walked over, saw the familiar number on the caller ID, and picked it up. He listened for a beat before saying, "On my way," and hanging up.
He looked down at Merlin apologetically. However, Merlin eyes were filled with a mixture of disappointment and scorn.
"There's a body over in Elephant and Castle," Arthur told him.
Merlin ran his tongue over his teeth and nodded quickly.
"Right—While I get to act like some low-life junkie, all the boys and girls in Homicide get the real business," he said, jealousy leaking into his tone.
"Don't forget their lab geeks," Arthur reminded him as he began packing his kit. He had taken a position as the Metro Police's forensic blood spatter analyst years ago, knowing it was best to keep the police under his watchful eye. Besides, the crimes scenes he'd seen over the years gave him ideas and taught him to learn from others' mistakes.
When Merlin didn't respond, Arthur looked up and let out a breath.
Why did Merlin have to be so emotional? Arthur didn't know how to deal with it, and he assumed patting Merlin's back and saying "there, there" wasn't the correct response to this predicament.
Buying himself more time to think, he looked back down at his bag and zipped it shut.
"Green doesn't look good on you, Merlin," he muttered, hoisting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He pointed to the coffee table, which was only a mess when Hurricane Merlin blew through. "You'll clean and then lock up?"
Merlin nodded again, wordlessly.
Finally, Arthur thought of the right tactic: "Don't look so glum. You'll get promoted to SCD soon; I can feel it. One day, you'll be joining me—"
There was another vibration, this time coming from Merlin's pocket. They both furrowed their brows as Merlin produced the cell phone and looked at it quizzically.
"It's dispatch," Merlin breathed, dumbfounded.
Arthur curiosity was piqued, too. "Well, go on. Pick it up."
Merlin did so, listening to the other end before responding and ending the call. Once he did, his face lit up brighter than the forgotten television.
"They want me at the crime scene," Merlin said, not able to keep the excitement out of his voice.
"They what?"
"Holy fucking fuck! Arthur!" Merlin proclaimed, jumping to his feet. "The body—they think it's Mordred Barkley."
Arthur knew that name. Mordred Barkley was a notorious drug dealer, one whom Merlin had been after for months. Yet, Barkley somehow always eluded the police. However, he did not escape Arthur's prying eyes. Arthur had tried going after Barkley before, but as far as he could tell, the man didn't fit the Code. He wasn't a killer. Although, it seemed he fit someone's code.
"You're joking," Arthur said ambiguously.
Merlin suddenly became all business. "We'd better get over there," he said, taking the remote and flipping off the telly without first bothering to stop the DVD. "This could be it, Arthur. This could be my way into SCD."
Arthur nodded. "Then we had better get going."
The Shopping Centre was closed down completely, and a police barricade had been set up around the perimeter of the entranceway to keep away the masses of curious onlookers. Arthur and Merlin flashed their IDs and ducked under the tape, heading towards the small crowd of officers and detectives huddled beneath the awning hanging over the double doors. Arthur looked around, a vague memory of a trip to the Shopping Centre with Uther coming to mind. He would have never guessed there'd be a murder amongst all the pink.
As though he could feel the new presence, a tall, dark man turned around and shot them both a handsome smile in greeting.
"Arthur," Detective Chief Inspector du Lac said with a nod of his head. His eyes moved then to Merlin, who was walking a few paces behind Arthur. "And, Merlin, good to see you again."
"What do we have, Lance?" Arthur said, bypassing the greeting as he snapped on his sterile rubber gloves.
"Another one of the Slasher's," Lance told him, a businesslike shadow suddenly passing over his face. "Same MO, same wounds as the others."
"They said it was Mordred Barkley?" Merlin asked, tilting his head to the side. Arthur heard how strained his words were and saw how tensely Merlin was carrying himself.
"That's right," Lance said with another inclination of his head. "Come see for yourselves."
He led them closer to the double doors, where Arthur saw the usual constables and detective inspectors of the Metropolitan Police. Among the inspectors were Percival Roden, Leon Charles, and Mithian Augustus, and, squatting down low on the ground beneath them was the head of forensics, Gwaine Faron. He was leaning over the naked dead body of a man in his mid-twenties. The victim had a single knife wound to the chest and various deep cuts on his wrists, and his face was slashed beyond recognition.
"Shit," Arthur heard Merlin hiss, no matter how hard he was trying to keep his cool. "How do you know it's Barkley?"
"Tattoo on his chest, in the exact location of the entry would," Lance pointed out, and Merlin and Arthur tilted their heads to get a better look at it, a three-pointed spiral over his heart.
Merlin nodded. "Yeah, that's him. God, he was mad for that tattoo—showed it to everyone."
At this point, Arthur was next to Gwaine, taking photos of the wounds for later inspection and swabbing blood samples, even though he was sure they would only find the victim's blood.
"Same song," Gwaine told Arthur, nodding down towards the body. "He was killed somewhere else and dumped here, just like the other three we found around the city."
Arthur pointed to the chest. "Single stab wound to the heart, killed him dead," he said, mimicking a stabbing gesture. "Rest of the wounds are postmortem."
"Even the make over," Gwaine supplied, casting a look at the mangled face.
"Drug dealers, hookers, junkies," Leon said from his place looming over them. "Could be a vigilante wanting to clean up the streets."
"What, like he gets off on murdering petty criminals?" Merlin said, wrinkling his nostril in thought.
Percival gave a snort and folded his muscled arms across his chest. "I'd say we send this guy a fruit basket."
However, Gwaine shook his head. "He destroyed a work of art, mate," he said, looking pointedly at Barkley's bare crouch. "It's a sad day when a monument of that caliber can never be erected again."
"Always classy, Gwaine," Mithian muttered in disgust as Gwaine gave a laugh.
"I wouldn't mind showing you how classy I can be, Mith," Gwaine shot back with a grin.
Mithian rolled her eyes and said something undoubtedly snarky in return; however, Arthur wasn't listening. He was looking down at the flesh, which had turned a sickly pallid color from the mixture of death and frost. His eyes traced the wounds on Barkley's face, and an empty feeling pulled at his gut. He felt strange, like he was somehow standing next to himself, a step out of sync with the rest of reality. The wounds were familiar, and not just because they were painted the same on the previous three victims . . .
"Arthur?"
Arthur snapped back into the moment, realizing that he had been staring blankly at the body for several minutes now. He looked up at the others, who were giving him curious expressions, especially Merlin.
Arthur cleared his throat. "He's not a vigilante," he said at once, straightening himself out. "Junkies and prostitutes are notorious for putting themselves in bad situations. They're easy targets."
"But Barkley was smart. That's how he eluded me for so long," Merlin said, gesturing towards the body. "He wouldn't just get into someone's car one day. That doesn't make sense."
"Then maybe it was someone he knew," Lance offered. "Merlin, you've been on his tail for months now, haven't you? Is there anyone who would want to kill him?"
Merlin chortled. "I've got a list of people who'd want to off him. He was a right fuckwad," he said, but then a thought apparently struck him. "Mind you, there was rumor of a new supplier . . . Maybe something went wrong? Maybe they had a disagreement? Do you think—?"
"Hmm. Wouldn't explain the other victims," Lance said.
"Oh. Right," Merlin said, crestfallen.
"All this standing around better be getting us somewhere," came a sudden voice from behind Lance, and they all turned around to see a very pretty woman walking up to them. Despite the elegant grace in which she carried herself, there was an intensity in her gaze and posture, demanding the respect she had so well earned. At the first sight of her, Leon, Percival, Mithian, and Gwaine scurried to appear hard at work, and Merlin turned a bright shade of scarlet. Lance and Arthur, however, only offered her pleasant smiles.
Superintendent Gwen Smith ate, breathed, and slept law enforcement. Though she never talked much about her family, legends circulated that her mother had been a noble inspector who died in the line of duty when Gwen was just a girl, her father was head of the Prime Minister's security detail before his retirement, and her brother was a highly successful private investigator.
"Just theorizing, Super," Lance answered honestly before giving her details of the crime scene, both of them speaking in rapid-fire French. When she was caught up to speed, Lance turned to Merlin and said in ways of introduction, "And this is Sergeant Merlin Emyrs. He's been in charge of the hunt for Barkley for nearly six months now."
"Six months?" Gwen asked, her gaze boring into Merlin now, and he turned even redder. "You know a lot about him, then?"
Merlin nodded hastily. "Oh, yes! I know who he hangs out with, where he goes, what he does—he was always clever about covering his tracks, making sure we never got a scrap of evidence, but he didn't take a shit without me knowing." His eyes went wide, apparently realizing what he had just said. "Ma'am," he added, trying to cover up his mistake.
Gwen, however, didn't seem to be affected. She merely nodded curtly. "Good, we'll need someone like you," she told Merlin. "Maybe if we can retrace his final hours, we can find his killer. I want you to find out exactly what he was doing when he died, Emrys."
Arthur noticed the muscles in Merlin's saw tighten as he tried to suppress a smile, but his eyes were positively gleaming.
"Yes, ma'am," he told her, battling with the corners of his lips.
"Great," Gwen said, now facing the others. "Gwaine, Arthur, get what you need and have the coroner wrap up. We can't keep this place closed off all day."
When they nodded to her, she began to stalk away, but she turned back on her heels and looked directly at Merlin. "And don't call me ma'am."
Merlin gaped, watching her go.
"And she actually put me on the case, Arthur! Me!"
"I know, Merlin. I was there," Arthur reminded him for the fifth time as they rode together for the station.
Merlin was bouncing up and down in the passenger seat, his grin now uncontrollable.
"I need to find this lead, Arthur," he said as though it were the most important thing in the world. "I need to find out how Barkley died—and who killed him. That's the only way Smith will notice me."
Arthur shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. "You will."
Merlin nodded. "Shit yes, I will! I will."
Suddenly, Merlin's smile faded as the reality of what he'd just said crashed down on him.
"Blimey, how am I supposed to do that?"
Arthur almost wanted to laugh, as he did every time Merlin ricocheted from a positive thought to a negative in a second flat. Arthur thought that, unless Merlin was careful, he would one day get emotional whiplash.
"You know all his friends," Arthur reminded him. "Someone's bound to know what he was up to that night. Just put on your best junkie act and you'll get answers. And . . ."
When Arthur didn't go on, Merlin pried, "And? And what?"
"It's just a thought," Arthur told him.
"Then think it out loud!"
"The bodies are being moved," he clarified. "They aren't killed in the same locations we found them."
Merlin nodded fervently, catching on, "You think, if I find the place Barkley was killed, I can find the murderer?"
"I think it's a place to start, anyway," Arthur told him.
Merlin sat back in his seat and, when Arthur cast a glance at him, he could practically see the cogs turning behind Merlin's eyes.
That night, when Arthur returned to his flat, the kids across the hall were squealing and screaming playfully, and he suppressed the urge to ram through the door and kill their parents for not teaching them the tranquility of silence. He went through his own door instead, rubbing his eyes in frustration when he saw the mess Merlin had left behind still on the coffee table. It was late, but Arthur wouldn't be able to get to sleep without the room being spotless. First, he would need fuel.
He went to the fridge and bent over, searching for the last remaining beer bottle, when something he had seen just processed in his head. He straightened out quickly and slammed the refrigerator door shut, his eyes scanning the magnets holding up the two photographs: one of himself and Uther after a fishing trip up North, and one of himself and Merlin from their days in uni. In both of the pictures, the faces were scratched out, torn and etched so that the slashes resembled that on the body Arthur had seen earlier that day.
He plucked one of the photos from its magnets, staring down at the scratches with an elated smile on his features. He supposed any normal person would have been angry, perhaps even scared, that a killer had broken into their flat for the sole purpose of scratching out a couple of pictures; but Arthur felt something within himself flutter. The dark creature inhabiting his mind uncurled itself from its slumber and gave an approving nod.
At once, he knew this hadn't been a threatening gesture. It was a note from a colleague, a message from an admirer . . .
An invitation to play a game.
Chapter Text
When Arthur walked through the main entrance of the building, constables, sergeants, and inspectors alike swarmed him, going straight for the box of donuts between his hands. This was customary at the beginning of every week, as a way to lift the Monday blues from all his colleagues, and Arthur gave them happy smiles as he joked and laughed with each of them in turn. There was a chorus of "thanks, Arthur" from each face bobbing in and out of view as they took a pastry from the opened box; and Arthur heard the normal "thanks, Arty" from one of the veteran inspectors, who called him that no matter how many times Arthur tried to politely correct him.
"Hey, save some for my mates in forensics," Arthur told the mob genially, and each person surrounding him gave a laugh before bustling off to their designated department. When Arthur passed the reception desk on the way to the lift, he saw the mascara-streaked face of a tall blonde woman that he instantly recognized as Morgause Russo, Cenred's now widow. He smirked to himself as the lift doors closed before him.
After making his way to the top floor and giving the last donut to an expectant Gwaine, Arthur settled into his private lab, which overlooked the desk-littered floor of the SCD Homicide division. He peered at the office out of the window of the tiny room, happy to be away from the chatting people and ringing phones. He let his fake smile slip from his face, relaxing his exhausted jaw muscles.
Finally, he was able to get down to work, and the first thing on his list was deciphering the killer's message to him. He was trying to tell Arthur something, which meant there must have been more clues in the crime scenes. Arthur pulled up the digital files of the victims on his computer, scanning over the pictures and reports. The first had been six weeks ago, a prostitute identified as Vivian Jones. Her corpse had been found near the Peter Pan statue in Hyde Park. The second victim, a heroine dealer called Jonathan Helios, was found two weeks later on the walkway directly across the Thames from the Eye. Then, a week later, came Freya Tyler, a junkie whose body had turned up on the steps of the National Gallery. Last, of course, was Mordred Barkley, in Elephant and Castle.
As far as Arthur could tell, the only detail that connected these people was the way they died. He considered, for a moment, that it could have been something to do with drugs, but Jones didn't fit the pattern. That's why she had been killed first. The killer didn't want to lead Arthur down the wrong path, but he wasn't making it any easier for him either.
The door to the lab swung open without warning, and Arthur scrambled to close down the windows on his screen before looking over his shoulder and finding Merlin.
"Hey," Merlin said cheerfully, jumping up and sitting on Arthur's desk. "Guess what?"
Arthur leaned back in his chair and feigned consideration. "Hmm. You've finally managed to touch your nose with the tip of your tongue?"
Merlin pursed his lips in annoyance. "No!" he said. "I think I'm close to finding out where Barkley was killed."
Merlin looked rather pleased of himself, but Arthur only furrowed his brows. That couldn't be possible. The killer had stood in Arthur's kitchen not forty-eight hours ago, and Merlin was closer to finding him than Arthur was?
"How?" Arthur asked, trying to sound casual.
"I'm glad you asked," Merlin said tauntingly, puffing out his chest slightly. "I put on the junkie act and went to his flat, where he normally makes the deals; but, of course, he wasn't there. But his girlfriend, Kara Donavon, was. I acted dumb, and she cried while telling me everything about the last time she talked to Mordred. Apparently, she'd called him right before he got out of his car to meet his new supplier. That's the last anyone heard of him. So, while she went to the toilet to get some tissues, I—um—"
Merlin looked sheepish now, giving a soft shrug.
"I nicked her mobile," he said, almost apologetically, but he waved it away.
"So, you do think it was the new supplier who killed him?" Arthur asked.
Merlin shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe he was only pretending to be a supplier to lure Barkley in. He could have pretending to be something he wasn't when he killed the other ones, too. Like you said, they're easy targets. Anyway, I'm having the tech boys downstairs trace the number on Donavon's mobile. They said they'd be able to triangulate the location Mordred was in when he made the call, or something. They said they'd be able to let me know by the end of the day."
Arthur gave an exaggerated frown and nodded, looking impressed. "That's great, Merlin. Good policing."
Merlin looked at his lap and grinned. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't have gotten the idea if not for you. So—thanks, I guess."
Arthur shook his head, staring blankly at his darkened computer monitor as though it would provide him with an answer on how to find the killer before Merlin did.
"No, you would have figured it out on your own," he said. "You don't give yourself enough credit."
When Arthur looked back up, Merlin was giving him a strange look. He had the softest of smiles on his face, his eyes searching Arthur's features as though he were lost in thought, and a little bit breathless. On occasion, Arthur had caught Merlin giving him that look, but he never knew what it particularly meant. He wondered if it was a look every functioning human gave, and Arthur just couldn't find it in the extensive list on the topic of functioning human expressions contained in his recollection.
Arthur gaped a little. "What?" Leaning forward to look into the reflection on his computer screen, Arthur checked his face for any leftover food particles or something of the like. "What is it?"
Merlin gave a choked laugh, shaking his head at the floor. "Nothing."
Shortly after, Merlin excused himself and headed back downstairs, and Arthur went back to scouring the digital files.
There was blood, thick and royally red, flying through the darkness. It splattered the walls and soaked into the sheets. It matted a once shimmering sheet of golden hair. It dripped, trickling one droplet at a time, off a slender hand suspended limply off the side of the mattress.
He heard crying. The sound was distant at first, an echo from far away, but it was blaring now. A child, a little blonde boy, his face splashed with crimson, sobbing on the carpeted floor . . .
Arthur woke with a jolt, sweat making his hair stick to his forehead and his breath coming out labored. He stared up blankly at the dark ceiling above his bed, flashes of the dream coming back to him. Who was that woman? Arthur never saw her face. But why had she been killed? Who was the crying boy? Most importantly, why had Arthur had a nightmare? In all his life, he could not recall a time when he had a bad dream. It unnerved him.
On his nightstand, his mobile continued to ring, piercing the night, and Arthur realized it's what had woken him. He reached for the light it produced, squinting his eyes as he brought it closer and answered it with a groggy hello. He listened for a few seconds.
Suddenly, he was wide-awake, sitting upright in bed and listening avidly.
"You what?"
The arcade looked familiar to Arthur. It had been shut down for over a decade now, and apparently no one bothered to remove the outdated games and busted up machines. Layers of dust came off the tarp covering the gaming systems, and Arthur had to suppress a sneeze as he walked through the floodlit room. Uniforms were bustling around while forensic officials scoured the room for evidence. Then, in a clearing in the center of the room, stood Lance, Gwen, Merlin, who was practically bouncing up and down with pride, Leon, Percival, and Mithian in a circle. Gwaine, Arthur could only assume, was at their feet, inspecting whatever they were all huddled around.
Surely enough, once Arthur approached, he saw Gwaine crouched next to a puddle of thick red. There was a photograph of Mordred Barkleyin the center of the ooze. However, white scratches and tears obstructed the face in the picture. Gwaine was using tweezers to pick the photo up, and they all watched as the backside dripped with blood, falling back into the puddle. He bagged the photo for evidence.
"Make sure we dust that for prints," Gwen was saying.
Arthur bent down next to Gwaine, unpacking his kit and snapping on a pair of white rubber gloves.
"The blood looks fresh," he said, taking a sample of it in a vial. "It hasn't been here for more than twelve hours."
"Twelve?" Lance repeated in shock. "But the coroner put Barkley's time of death at three days ago."
"You don't suppose it's someone else's blood?" Leon offered. "Perhaps a new victim?"
Arthur shook his head, smirking up at him. "I said it looks fresh," he said, "but it isn't. Look—" He pointed a white finger down at the puddle. "It isn't clotting. It's been preserved. When we take this sample back to the lab, I'll bet you anything it's Barkley's."
"You're sure?" Gwen inquired, and Arthur didn't take it too personally.
"Blood never lies," he answered.
"The killer is saving blood? How?" Merlin asked.
"The wrists are always cut pretty deep," Gwaine said with a shrug. "Could be getting it from there. It would be the fastest way."
Arthur nodded his head, agreeing. That's how he would go about it, anyway.
"Okay, but," Merlin said again, "Barkley was killed three days ago, but you said the blood was only here for twelve hours. So . . . that must mean the killer didn't leave this here when he killed Barkley. He came back."
"Looks like it," Arthur said.
"Well, that's sick!" Merlin shouted, disgusted. "Why would he do that? So we could find it?"
To leave me another clue, Arthur thought.
However, he shook his head and said, "I don't know," as he repacked his bag and stood up.
A sudden silence fell throughout the room, and the tiny group looked around to see a middle-aged, auburn-headed woman striding towards them. The crowd had practically parted for her. She gave off an air of the utmost authority with her head held high and her shoulders back as she treaded. She scanned the entire room in a way that reminded Arthur of a bird searching out its prey.
He had known Chief Superintendent Annis Corcoran his entire life. While Uther was on the force, she had been Chief Inspector, but she worked her way up the ranks shortly. She had also been one of Uther's oldest and best friends. Arthur had many memories of her coming over for dinner or poring over a case with Uther in the living room late into the night while Arthur eavesdropped on their murmurings and theorizing from the top of the stairs.
"We'd better go catch her up to speed," Gwen told Lance, and the two braced themselves before leaving the group and meeting her half way. Leon and Percival, too, wandered off.
Merlin looked around the arcade, seeming to recall a fond memory. "God, do you remember this place?" he asked Arthur. "Your dad used to take us here all the time."
At once, Arthur knew why the room was so familiar. As a child, he always hated the place—the loud sounds, the noisy kids running about uncontrollably, the overwhelming smell of burnt pizza. However, Uther forced him to go, saying it would help Arthur learn to fit in with his peers. Young boys, after all, played in arcades. Still, Uther always cautioned Arthur away from the more violent games.
"Yeah, I do," Arthur answered, remembering the flashing lights and buzzing sounds of the room in its prime. He also remembered something else: "You always kicked my ass on that dancing game, do you remember?"
Merlin's cheekbones and ears turned a bright shade of pink at this, and he cast an embarrassed look at Gwaine, who was laughing uproariously.
"Well, I wouldn't say that," Merlin tried to save face, looking down at his shoes, but Gwaine continued to laugh. Arthur didn't realize what he said was so funny.
"Oh, come on, Merlin. Don't be so modest," Gwaine said. "I bet you still have a few moves left in you." He mimicked a quick dance, making Merlin flush even more.
"Yeah, and I bet you could show us a few moves yourself, Arthur," Mithian said flirtatiously, and Arthur gave her a quick smile but didn't respond. He never understood flirting; it seemed so undignified.
At his side, Merlin had gone tight-lipped and uncharacteristically silent.
"Yeah, he was alright," he told Mithian curtly.
"Oi! I bet you could show me moves I'd never dreamed of, Mith," Gwaine said, wriggling his eyebrows.
Mithian gave a snort of laughter. "Oh, sweetheart, you definitely wouldn't know how to handle it."
"Alright, everyone, listen up!" Annis' voice carried throughout the room, and quiet fell again. All eyes turned to face her. "Good job tonight, all of you, but it's not over yet. If there's a scene like this for Mordred Barkley, there's bound to be three more of the like. Get out there and find them!"
The rallying speech was over and the noise level grew once more as people began packing up. Eventually, Gwen drifted back to the group, her kind smile focused up at Merlin.
"I told the Chief this was your find," she told him, patting him on the back. "She's very impressed, Merlin. Good work."
With that, she was gone again, and Merlin couldn't wipe that beaming grin off his face.
Chapter Text
It was Thursday, and the lift doors chimed open, allowing Arthur to step into the crowded Homicide office. In the previous days, they had only been able to find one other kill room: Vivian Jones'. A pint of her blood and her defaced photograph were found in an electrical shed on a dirt bike path outside Chiswick that Arthur knew well. Again, the scene had been created after the murder took place.
As Arthur walked through the aisle in between the desks towards his lab, he caught sight of a head of raven hair standing at one of the previously unoccupied desks. Merlin had a large cardboard box on the desk's top, and he was unpacking knick knacks, electricals, and office supplies from it. Arthur grinned as he changed path and strode towards the desk.
"I went downstairs to tell you good morning, and they said you were no longer with them," he said, catching Merlin's attention. "Look at you, moving up in the world."
Merlin grinned wildly, seeming in that moment to create his own light. "What can I say? The Chief must have really liked my crime scene. I've officially been put on the case. Well, Lance is head, obviously, but he said I'll be working really closely with him."
Arthur reached across the desk and patted Merlin on the upper arm. "That's great. I'm proud of you."
Merlin bit his bottom lip, looking down awkwardly at Arthur's hand. "Cheers, Butch."
The lift chimed again and Lance burst into the office. "Alright, don't get too comfortable, everyone," he shouted over the noise level in the room. Everyone stopped what they were doing and listened to him. "There's been another body found in Wembley."
While those who were relevant to the case started packing up to leave, Lance turned to Merlin and said to him, "Merlin, you're riding with me."
"Yeah, alright," Merlin said. Lance started briskly towards the lift and Merlin followed, shooting Arthur a keen smile from behind. Arthur gave him a surreptitious thumbs-up.
The grass was dew soaked under his shoes as Arthur walked out onto the pitch. He scanned the layers of stands that stretched up to the top of the stadium and encircled the entire field. On a landing halfway up, he noticed a refreshments table set up for the inspectors, some of whom where standing next to it, chatting and munching. Close by the table were Gwen, Lance, and Merlin, interrogating a smart looking man in a three-piece suit, who was no doubt the stadium's manager.
Arthur walked the length of the field, hoisting his bag further onto his shoulder, towards the small group congregated around the home goal. Placed directly inside the net was the pale, naked corpse of a young man.
"Wow," Arthur said, stopping short as he caught sight of the body. "This is a dream come true."
The others gave him perplexed glances, obviously wondering why he was so awed by another victim.
"Standing on the pitch," Arthur went on, looking around at the stands again. "My dad used to take me to matches here all the time when I was a kid."
The confused faces turned into smiles, and some of them chuckled at themselves for not understanding what Arthur had implied in the first place.
"I didn't realize you were such a football fan," Percival said, and Arthur suspected the man would want to talk football with him quite a lot in the future.
"Who's not a football fan?" Arthur joked. However, he supposed he wasn't a fan for the same reasons as everyone else. He just liked to see the injuries and the watch the players beat on each other. There was always so much blood in every match.
It didn't take long for Arthur and Gwaine to give the body a once over. After all, they knew exactly what they were looking for at that point. However, Arthur noticed something peculiar about this corpse. Apparently, the others had, too.
"The face is much less scratched up on this one," Mithian observed. "I wonder why."
"Yeah, and there are more cuts on the wrist, look," Leon said, pointing.
Mithian nodded towards Arthur. "Got any theories, Boy Wonder?"
Arthur shrugged, giving the body another scan. "It looks like the killer's getting bored," he said.
"Well, he could always stop leaving bodies around for us to find, couldn't he?" Percival said, "if he's so bored with them."
Arthur shook his head and smirked, trying to keep the darkness out of his eyes.
"It's like, if every football match was the same," he explained, trying to put it into words Percival would understand. "You'd get tired of watching because you'd know what's going to happen—and the players would get bored performing, too. The killer needs change. He's trying to vary up the method, see if it satisfies him more.
"He wants excitement. That's why he left the body here," he continued, looking around the stadium once more. "Think of how much security this place has—how many guards, cameras. And he snuck in and left a murder victim in the home goal. Think of what a risk that was!"
He was aware that his own excitement had slipped into his tone, but he couldn't help it. The others were giving him those curious looks again, but they nodded like the idea made sense.
"You freak me out sometimes, Pendragon," Gwaine said lightly, breaking the silence, and the others chuckled.
"Alright, let's get this body bagged and out of here," Leon told them, and Gwaine waved over the coroners who were on standby.
Arthur stood up and looked behind him, seeing Merlin walking in his direction. He met Merlin midway across the field.
"Hey, just coming over for a progress report," Merlin said, and Arthur told him about the difference in the wound pattern.
"You don't think it could be a copy cat?" Merlin theorized, but Arthur shook his head.
"I don't think a copy cat would risk something this grand on a first attempt," Arthur reasoned, this time making sure to keep the thrill out of his voice. "I mean, this is Wembley. This is a crime scene someone builds up to, not starts with."
Merlin agreed, and he cast a look towards the body as the coroners were lifting it onto a gurney. Suddenly, his expression became shocked.
"Merlin?" Arthur asked, watching his friend as he took a few steps closer to the body, looking directly at the face.
"I know him," Merlin said sadly.
"What? You do? How?"
"He—His name is Richard Daegal," said Merlin, trying to compose himself. "I busted him a few times."
Arthur didn't know why Merlin was so upset over some delinquent. "He's a junkie, then?"
"He was a good kid," Merlin told him. "A little down on his luck, is all. I always hoped he'd get help. I hadn't seen him in over a year, so I thought maybe he did, but if he's here . . ."
"Merlin," Gwen called from the stands. "Can you come up here?"
Merlin cleared his throat and gave one last look at the body as it was zipped up. Without another word, he started back towards Gwen and Lance.
"Are you alright?" Arthur called after him, not knowing how to deal with Merlin in his grieving state. "Do—do you need a hug?"
"Fuck off!" Merlin called from over his shoulder, but he didn't sound particularly angry, so Arthur let him be.
When Merlin reached the landing in the stands that Gwen and Lance were situated on, he saw them looking at a small telly that had been rolled in.
"Wait, rewind that again," Gwen was saying, swatting Lance with her eyes fixed on the screen.
"I am, I am," Lance said agitatedly, fiddling with the remote in his hands.
"What have we got?" Merlin asked them, and Lance paused the video.
"Security footage," he filled Merlin in. "I think we finally caught the bastard."
"What?" Merlin stammered, his eyes lighting up in disbelief.
On one hand, he was happy they were so close to finding the killer. His head was still swimming from the shock of Daegal's body, and he was eager to give the poor kid justice. However, he'd only been on the case for a day. He couldn't deny that he was a bit disappointed that it could be over so fast.
"Play it again," Gwen demanded, and Lance clicked the play button as the three of them crowded around the screen.
All was still for a moment, and then Merlin noticed a middle aged bald man appear out of the lower right side of the frame. He was pushing a wheelbarrow, inside of which was the huddled mass of Daegal's corpse. The man looked up at the stands over his shoulder, as though checking to make sure no one was there; and he eventually arrived at the goal, where he took the body out of the wheelbarrow and laid it down on the pitch. He checked the stands again before turning back to the body and repositioning it. Just as he cast another look upwards, Lance paused the video, allowing all three of them to get a good look at the man's face on the grainy screen.
"The manager identified this man as Maurice Alator, the stadium's custodian," Gwen said, "and, evidentially, the London Slasher."
Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the black and white face on the screen, and something churned in his gut. He remembered Arthur telling him about how risky it was to leave a body in such a secure place, and Merlin was confident that such an intelligent serial killer wouldn't forget to turn off the security cameras. He saw Alator carry the body out himself, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something didn't add up.
He turned to Lance. "Can I see that again?"
As it turned out, Maurice Alator had a record, involving a few days in jail for drug possession and one instance of prostitution. In addition, he had been charge with assault in 1992 after a house party became too out of hand. The facts didn't look good, but Merlin still wasn't convinced these details made Alator a stone cold killer.
He took a copy of the security video and watched it at least two dozen times over the passed twenty-four hours, and he noticed something peculiar about the man's actions. Each time Alator glanced up to the stands, he was looking in the exact same location. It was as though someone was standing in that spot, just out of view of the camera, telling him what to do. Merlin had that idea when he saw Alator glance up just before repositioning the body, like he was checking to make sure the unknown person was happy with the job. Also, even though the footage was grainy, Merlin was sure the expression on Alator's face was that of fear.
By the next morning, he was sure Alator wasn't a killer, but another victim. He told Arthur his theory and showed him the video, and Arthur agreed. In fact, Arthur seemed exuberant about it, and Merlin assumed he was only happy that Merlin would get to work on the case a little longer.
However, before he could bring this concern to Lance's attention, Gwen put all the inspectors on interview duty. In order to find Alator, Merlin spent his entire morning talking to people who knew him: distant family, people who worked at the stadium, and Merlin saw Lance speaking with Alator's parole officer. Although, there wasn't much Merlin could decipher from the interviews. From what he got, Alator was a very quiet man without many friends or close relatives, nor did he have a spouse or children.
"Yeah, he kept to himself a lot," said the woman now sitting in the seat next to Merlin's desk. She was clutching her purse in her lap and casting uncomfortable glances around the room, but she smiled brightly and bashfully whenever she made eye contact with Merlin.
She was extraordinarily beautiful, porcelain skin contrasting her long, black hair. Her pale blue-green eyes gleamed with intelligence, and she spoke in a dignified, lulling Irish tone.
"And how did you know him, Miss Montgomery?" Merlin asked, jotting in his notepad as she answered.
"He used to be mates with my dad back when I was little," she said, looking as though she was recalling a bad memory. "He—um. He would get violent sometimes," she continued with a strong nod. "I remember he used to fight with my dad a lot. I never knew what it was about. Actually, I don't think dad really knew, either. Maurice just had a short fuse . . ."
Arthur walked through the room towards his lab, glancing around at the guests being questioned by various inspectors. His eyes went right towards Merlin's desk, where he was interviewing a pretty woman who seemed to turn red and laugh loudly every now and again after Merlin spoke. Arthur didn't really know why, but he felt the dark dragon inside his mind rear up on its hind legs and sniff the air warily, trying to pick up on the woman's scent.
He was so focused on Merlin that he almost walked straight into Mithian.
"Oh, hey, Arthur, I was just looking for you," she said with a pleasant smile.
"You—you were?" Arthur asked, a little thrown off guard.
She chuckled and placed a more-than-friendly hand on his arm. She looked at him hopefully. "Yeah, I was about to pop downstairs for a cuppa before my next interview. Fancy joining me?"
Arthur looked over her shoulder at Merlin's desk. He didn't want to go with Mithian; in fact, he wanted to stay in his lab and keep a close eye on Merlin's conversation with this woman. However, Uther's normalcy lessons kicked in and Arthur was saying, "yeah, sure," in an amicable tone before realizing he had done so.
"Great!" Mithian said, beginning to chat as she led Arthur back towards the lift.
"And your dad—he's not friends with Alator anymore?" Merlin questioned.
"No, no, my father passed away a few months ago," she told him, looking sadly down at her lap.
"Oh! I'm—I'm so sorry," Merlin hurried to say, risking a comforting touch on her bare arm.
She smiled into the touch. "Thank you, you're very kind," she said. "But, no, they had a falling out years before my dad's death."
In the background, something caught Merlin's eyes: Mithian laughing and touching Arthur's arm. He felt his chest constrict, and he tried not to seem too angry as he returned to his notepad.
"Why's that?"
"Well," Miss Montgomery said, swallowing hard. "One night, after they'd had a few beers back at ours, my dad fell asleep on the couch and Maurice came after me. He—um. He tried—"
Merlin noticed her eyes had welled up, and she wiped frantically at them. He looked around his desk awkwardly, searching for a tissue he might offer her, but found nothing.
"I'm sorry," she excused herself with a forced laugh, shaking her head. "Anyway, my dad stopped him and, after that, they never spoke again."
Merlin nodded, having no more questions. "Okay, well, thank you, Miss Montgomery. I think that will be all," he told her professionally. "I'll phone if I have anymore questions. And, um, if you think of anything else, you can call me." He handed her his card, which she held between her delicate fingers and studied.
"Of course, thank you," she said, meeting his gaze. "And, please, call me Eve."
In the background, Merlin watched Arthur follow Mithian out of the office, off to god knows where. He bit at the inside of his lip, trying to suppress the urge to jump up from his desk and scream at Mithian. It didn't matter, anyway: Even if he did, he was sure Arthur would still be oblivious.
When he looked back at the woman sitting next to him, she was giving him a fond look and batting her eyelashes at him.
At once, he gave her a handsome grin. "Yeah," he told her. "Yeah, of course. Eve."
Arthur was glad to be home at the end of the day. In truth, he was just happy to be away from Mithian. She seemed to believe that having tea with him in the cafeteria meant she could invite him to dinner. He managed to get out of it, and she seemed somewhat crestfallen at this. However, she let it slide and decided on a "rain check," leaving Arthur hoping for storms every day of the week.
After he put away his bag in his bedroom, he started for the kitchen for dinner, but was stopped when he caught sight of a photo album sitting on the coffee table in the living room. He furrowed his brows at it, wondering how it could have gotten there when it was meant to be on the self.
Another message? he dared hope, and he paced towards the table with growing anticipation.
He sat on the couch, looking down at the brown leather cover of the album with a mixture of excitement and wariness. After preparing himself, he flipped open the cover to the first page of columned photographs. There was a picture of his mother smiling tiredly and holding his infant form in a hospital bed, pictures of his first steps, and so on. There was nothing different or singular about the photos on this page, so he turned to the next . . .
And to the next . . .
Just when he started to lose hope, he caught sight of a picture that had been tampered with. It depicted Uther and a miniature Arthur standing outside the Shopping Centre in Elephant and Castle, right in the spot Barkley's body had been found. The faces in the photo had been scratched away.
Arthur turned the page avidly to a picture of himself, Merlin, Uther standing next to the Peter Pan statue in Hyde Park. This photo had also been ruined, as had the one of he and Uther in the stands at an England National match. As he flipped through the pages quickly, he noticed each location of every crime scene was in this album, the faces scratched out in all of the corresponding pictures.
However, there were other pictures of the like, at least eight more. Three of them, Arthur realized, must be where the remaining victims were murdered; but what about the other five? Would they soon find bodies in these places, too?
Arthur closed the album, his elbows resting on his knees as he placed his balled fists before his lips. The killer was leaving a trail for Arthur—going back in time and scattering bodies throughout his childhood memories. Did this mean Arthur knew the killer? Was he someone from Arthur's past? That meant, fortunately, Merlin was right: Alator was innocent.
He kept his shadowed eyes fixed on the cover of the photo album. He had to check out the remaining locations the killer had given him. Maybe, just maybe, the Slasher was trying to arrange a meeting.
Chapter Text
The heavy curtains were pulled down, blocking out the steady rays of sun that illuminated the city on an unseasonably warm day. Merlin would have much preferred being outside at the moment, but instead he stayed focused on the hazy room in which he now sat, shuffling slightly on the lumpy sofa in apprehension of revealing his secret.
Around him, sat a half a dozen other people, most notably Tristan and Isolde Frank, who faces were obstructed by a layer of smoke as they curled up together in the fraying arm chair across from Merlin. Then there was a young blonde girl named Elena Burk sitting on his left. He had seen these three many times before and knew they had somewhat of a friendship with Daegal.
Elena tried passing the blunt to Merlin, but he politely refused. "No, that's actually not why I'm here," he told her.
"Then why are you here?" she asked, a plum of blue smoke drifting from between her lips after she took another hit.
"To—um," Merlin started delicately. "I need to ask you three some questions—about Richard Daegal."
"Yeah, we heard about him," Tristan said from across the cluttered coffee table, idly stroking his wife's forearm as he held her. "Saw it in the news. Shame."
"He was too young, if you ask me," Isolde agreed, shaking her head grievously. "What kind of sick bastard preys on kids?"
"I'm hoping to find out," Merlin told them, leaning in.
"You?" Elena laughed. "What can you do? No more than the rest of us."
"Um, actually, I can," Merlin said, almost guiltily. There was no going back now. "I'm—um, I'm not a junkie . . . I'm a cop."
"Oh, Hell, no!" he heard a man shout from across the room. He jumped up from his seat and raced for the door. The walls trembled when the door slammed shut behind him.
The rest of the people in the room were sitting rigidly now, looking at him with terror in their eyes. Next to him, Elena tried to hide her blunt at her side as though Merlin hadn't seen it before, but the spiral of smoke gave it away regardless.
"It's okay, I'm not here to bust you!" he told them hastily, holding up his palms to show he had no tricks up his sleeves. "I just want to solve Richard's murder, is all—and to make sure you lot stay out of harm's way. You can trust me."
The others saw the honesty in his expression, and they relaxed infinitesimally.
"Well, how would we know what happened to him?" Isolde said, a bite to her tone now.
"Yeah, we haven't seen him for ages," said Tristan, his voice cooler than his wife's.
"I did," Elena said, taking another hit, and Merlin had to admire her nerve. "Saw him the night before he turned up dead."
Merlin gaped at her. "What? And you didn't think to tell the police?"
She shrugged timidly. "Well, I'm telling them now, aren't I?"
Merlin let out a breath, trying to get passed the betrayal in her eyes. "Okay, Elena. I need to know everything you remember about that night. Did he talk to anyone else? Say he was going somewhere after he left you?"
"I saw him leave with someone, yeah," Elena told him.
"What did he look like?"
"Dunno. I never actually say him," she said. "It was dark out and the headlights were bright. Richard said it was some new dealer he'd talked to before, and he asked me to come along but I had to get home. He got in the car with him, though."
"Good, this is really good," Merlin assured her, trying to get more details out her. "Do you remember what the car looked like?"
"Yeah, it was one of those old estate cars—with the wood paneling," she said, recalling the memory. "And, um—I remember, when it drove away, one of the tail lights was out. That's all I remember though, sorry."
"No, you've been brilliant. Honestly, a huge help," Merlin said, getting to his feet. He needed to get back to the station.
He reached into his pocket and produced a couple of business cards, brandishing it at the others before placing them on the coffee table. He knew they weren't going to take them, but it was worth a try.
"If any of you see anything, please phone me, alright?"
They all averted their eyes.
"And look out for yourselves. Don't do anything stupid."
Without a goodbye, he left.
Arthur had the dream again, the one of the woman and the crying child soaked in blood. He didn't know what it meant or why it was plaguing him, but he couldn't get the image or shake the echoes of the cries from his mind the entire day. He tried focusing on the locations the killer left him in the photo album. He managed to get to two of them that afternoon, but there was nothing helpful at either place. The first had been completely empty and the second contained another pool of blood and Helio's picture.
But no killer.
Arthur was in his kitchen now, and darkness had fallen outside as two steaks sizzled in the frying pan before him. He stared into space, images of his nightmare leaking into his consciousness, and it wasn't until he smelt smoke did he realize he was burning the meat.
There was a rhythmic knock at the door that signified Merlin's arrival, and Arthur heard muffled voices and laughter coming from the other side of the door. Had Merlin brought someone along? Why didn't he tell Arthur? He knew how much Arthur hated surprises.
Curious, Arthur unlocked the door and opened it to two widely grinning faces and an overwhelming amount of black hair and blue eyes.
"Hey, Arthur," Merlin said, still laughing at a joke Arthur had apparently missed.
Next to Merlin stood the beautiful woman whom Merlin had interviewed in the station the other day. Arthur clenched his teeth at the sight of her, his eyes burning into her as the dark creature within him roared and demanded that Arthur put this woman on his table, but he contained himself; although, his knuckles were turning white against the doorknob.
"This is Eve," Merlin introduced them. "Eve, Arthur."
Arthur gave her a toothy smile, his jaw clenched. "Eve. Nice to meet you."
"Merlin invited me over for dinner," she said apologetically. "I had no idea he meant at someone else's flat. I hope this isn't too much of a bother?"
"No!" Arthur said, keeping the frost out of his tone. "It's fine. Isn't it, Merlin?"
A warm smile spread across Eve's face. "Why, thank you, Arthur." She held up a bottle of red as Arthur stepped aside to let them enter. "I brought wine."
"No beer?" Arthur hissed at Merlin under his breath. Beer and steaks was their tradition. Nowhere in that mix was wine.
Merlin shrugged innocently. "She wanted wine."
"Well," Arthur announced, looking pointedly at the hobs. "I'll just put on another steak then, shall I? I hope you like your meat well done, Eve."
"Actually, I prefer rare," she said. "But it will do."
Arthur gave her another tight-lipped smile.
"Oh, you and Arthur will get on famously, then!" Merlin exclaimed. "He likes his meat basically still mooing."
Three hours into the evening, Eve and Merlin sat together on the sofa, Eve sitting forward while Merlin's leg was folded beneath the other and his arm disappeared behind her on the top of the couch, his body angled to face her. Arthur sat on the chair on the far end of the coffee table, overlooking the stack of dirty plates and utensils that no one had offered to take to the kitchen and staring at his two guests with an unamused expression . . .
Not that they noticed.
"And she completely forgot that I was waiting at the train station!" Eve finished her long, boring story with a gesture and an elated smile on her face.
"What?" Merlin laughed, looking as though he'd been hanging onto her every word. "How long did you have to wait?"
"Three hours!" she told him in a yell. "Finally, I just decided to walk. God, it was a nightmare." She placed her long fingers in front of her eyes and shook her head shamefacedly.
"Well, I'd never forget to pick you up, Eve," Merlin told her, causing Arthur to roll his eyes. This dinner had completely thrown him for a loop: He always thought Merlin was gay. However, he didn't blame him in this instance. Arthur tried very hard to hate Eve, and the creature inside of him begged for her slow death, but she was actually quite charming. The fact that he actually kind of liked her made Arthur dislike her even more.
"That's very sweet, Merlin. Thank you," she told him, her tongue rolling as she said his name, and they shared a long look before Eve broke it to pick up her wine glass.
"So, Arthur, Merlin tells me you're a blood splatter analyst," she said, swirling the crimson liquid before taking a long pull. "How'd you get into that?"
"Spatter," Arthur corrected her. "Yes. I just sort of fell into it. My father was an inspector on the force, and I was always drawn to forensics. I picked it up in university and the focus on blood patterns just made sense to me. Blood is . . ."
My life.
". . . my job."
"It sounds very interesting," she said with a grin that reminded Arthur a little bit of a shark.
"And what about you?" inquired Arthur. "What do you do?"
"Oh, I get my own share of blood," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm a nurse at King George's—in the trauma ward."
"Eve's mad about her patients," Merlin cut in. "She's always talking about them." He eyed her fondly. "She really is too good to everyone. Saint Eve."
Eve gave another loftily laugh. "Oh, please, Merlin, you both do more good than me."
"Not really," Arthur said with a shrug. "We usually find the bodies after they've been killed."
He meant it as a joke, but both Merlin and Eve's faces fell solemnly.
"Well, I'm going to put these dishes in the sink," Merlin said after a beat, standing up and clearing the mess. "Arthur's a neat freak. I think he'd OCD."
This elicited a giggle from Eve, and Arthur wondered how it was so easy for them to joke.
"And then I'll pull the car around, yeah? Shouldn't be five minutes. Won't forget to pick you up, I promise!"
Eve nodded pleasantly, and Merlin said a quick goodbye to Arthur from over his shoulder before placing the dishes in the kitchen and disappearing out the door.
She cleared her throat into the silence, tapping the stem of her wine glass with a perfectly manicured fingernail before draining it.
"You're wrong, you know," she said suddenly, placing the glass on the coffee table and sitting upright. Her posture was impeccable. "About not doing any good for the world, I mean. I don't think that's true. You find killers before they can claim more victims. You save people."
"Yeah, after other people die," Arthur told her calmly, wondering why she hadn't left with Merlin. He sincerely hoped they hadn't parked very far.
"But you can't save everyone," she said with a shrug. "I'm just saying, I think what you do is remarkable."
"You should tell that to Merlin," Arthur said. "I'm just the lab geek."
She looked down at her lap, the ghost of a smirk on her lips. "Yeah, maybe."
At last, she stood up, gracefully shrugging into her black trench coat and flipping her long waves out from the inside.
"Anyway, I should go down and meet him," she said, grabbing her purse. "It was really nice to meet you, Arthur. You have a lovely home. I hope to see you again soon." Arthur knew that, most of the time, people said that without meaning it, but there was something truly genuine about the words coming from Eve.
He stood up and led her out. "You, too," he lied.
"Oh, don't worry," she told him, now standing out in the corridor. "I'm sure you and I will be seeing quite a lot of each other to come."
He found himself grinding his teeth as he watched her vanish down the stairs until all that was left of her was the echoing clicks of her heels against the tile.
A little under a week later, the entire SDC Homicide division was cramped into the station's briefing room. People sat close together on metal fold out chairs and, in the front of the room, there stood a white dry erase board with multicolored scribbles for various cases and assignments and graphic crime scene photos of the Slasher's victims. Arthur stood in the back of the crowded room, his hands in his pockets and leaning against the wall, as Gwen stood at the podium, asking for progress about the various cases that had come through the department.
"And what about Verma murder? Arthur, have the results come back from the lab?" she asked, grabbing his attention.
He glanced up at her and nodded. "Some of the blood belonged to the husband. I think it's safe to say his hand slipped on the knife and he cut himself."
"Good," Gwen answered hastily, directing her attention back to the crowd. "Leon, get a warrant and arrest that son of a bitch."
Finally, they had gotten to the main event. Gwen went up to the board, gesturing towards the relevant pictures and marker scribbles. She pointed to Alator's mug shot, which was in the dead center of the board.
"As you all know, we put out an APW on Maurice Alator over a week ago, and we haven't got a single hit from it, but we're confident that he's still somewhere in the country, and we'll find him."
From his place in the back, Arthur saw Merlin shaking his head in disagreement.
"Now, thankfully, there hasn't been another body since Daegal's, but that doesn't mean one can't pop up at any time," Gwen went on. "Lance and I have been back and forth from Wembley, keeping an eye on the security feed incase Alator comes back—"
Very unlikely, Arthur thought, even if the killer really was Alator.
"—But did anyone else find out anything on the follow up interviews with his family and coworkers? Any new angles?"
"Um, yeah, Super, I have one," Merlin spoke up when no one else did, rising to his feet. All eyes fell on him.
Gwen shot Lance a weary look and said, "Merlin, I know what you have to say, but we're looking for leads."
"I know we are," Merlin told her. "I just think we're hunting the wrong man—"
"He has a record, Merlin, and we can't find him anywhere. Why would he run if he was innocent?"
"Maybe he didn't run," offered Merlin. "Maybe the real killer is holding him up somewhere?"
Everyone in the room, including Arthur, kept ricocheting their glances from Merlin to Gwen in turn, watching the chaos unfold.
Gwen let out a heavy sigh, looking at though she was suppressing a headache. "Merlin—"
"Does he drive an estate car?" Merlin cut her off.
She shook her head. "A what?"
"His car. Is it an old estate car? The tail light will be busted."
Gwen cast a look at Lance, who rifled through a file on his lap before glancing up and reporting, "He hasn't got a license."
Merlin gestured towards Lance as though he had just made Merlin's argument for him.
"See? Then it can't be him! I have a witness that says Daegal got into that car on the night he died. How can it be Alator if he hasn't got a license?"
"Just because he hasn't got a license doesn't mean he can't drive," Gwen reasoned. "He could have stolen the car."
Merlin shook his head quickly. "No, I checked. No car fitting that description has been reported stolen within the last six months."
"Then maybe he borrowed it from someone!"
"From who?" Merlin shot back, a bit tactlessly considering Gwen was his boss, and everyone in the room averted their eyes. "He hasn't got any mates, no close family . . ."
"Merlin," Gwen stopped him, keeping her voice calm, but the frustration in it grew with each passing word. "Until you have more proof than a car and an expression on a grainy video, I have to stick to the leads we've got. I understand you're keen, but there's nothing I can do for you right now—"
"Gwen!" Lance said from his seat, continuing the thought in rapid French. Arthur understood very little of what was said, but it was something about calming down and cutting Merlin some slack because he was new.
At this, Gwen took in a steadying breath and said, her voice much kinder now, "Merlin, please sit down. We'll look into it, okay? That's all I can promise you."
Merlin licked his lips, looking for a moment as though he might say something else, but he thought better of it and sat down.
Once the briefing was over, people filed out of the room, and Arthur caught up with Merlin amongst the shuffling crowd.
"They won't listen because I'm not an inspector," Merlin complained as they walked together. "They think they're more seasoned. But maybe this case needed a fresh set of eyes!"
"I agree," Arthur told him. "You'll convince her, Merlin, just give it time."
"Time for more people to die?"
"If that's what it takes," Arthur said. "Anyway, take your mind off it for now. How about dinner tonight?"
"Can't," Merlin said, his expression becoming pleasant. "I've got plans with Eve."
"What? Where?"
Merlin shrugged. "Some pub 'round hers. The Golden Leaf or something like that. I usually let her pick the place. She likes her spots."
"Of course she does," Arthur breathed. "Fine, then how about lunch later today?"
"I—um. I'm meeting her for lunch, too," Merlin said sheepishly.
"Dinner and lunch?" Arthur said, throwing his hands up in the air. "Don't you two ever get sick of each other?"
Merlin crinkled his nose and shrugged again. "Well, sorry for ditching for you, but she asked first."
"I'll be sure to book my meetings months in advance from now on," Arthur said dryly. "Anyway, that's fine. I have a few things I should be taking care of, too."
In particular, he had to go to the next location on his list: an abandoned hospital outside of town. It was the only place he hadn't yet checked, and his mind whirled with anticipation, hoping he'd find some answers that night.
"It's him, Lance, it's got to be!" Gwen said once everyone had filed out of the briefing room. She was pacing up and down in front of the boards, wringing her hands. "God, imagine the field day the press will have if we have to recant our statement? No, Merlin's definitely wrong. The video—We have proof that Alator's our man."
"We do have proof," Lance told her calmly, eying her from his seat. "And it's solid proof. Besides, the press just wants to see we're doing something. They're glad to know we have a suspect."
"They'll be glad to see me screw up," Gwen snapped. "And don't you dare scold me like that in front of my entire division ever again, do you understand me?"
Lance let out a chuckle. "Alright, I'm sorry, but you needed to calm down. Merlin's just trying to help. He's a good cop, Gwen; you know that, so you might want to listen to what he has to say every now and again."
She stopped pacing and he stood up, crossed to her, and placed his hands tenderly on her forearms. "We'll find Alator soon. There aren't many places he can run," he assured her, smiling down at her.
She couldn't stop herself from grinning back up at him. "We'd better, or I'm holding you personally responsible."
He leaned in and placed an intimate kiss to her forehead and after a beat she swatted him away.
"We're at work, mister, and we could lose both our jobs," she said, pointing an accusing finger up at him, but she was still smirking. "So keep it in your pants."
"Whatever you say, Super."
Chapter Text
"This is stupid, Dad," Arthur complained for the umpteenth time that day. "Why do I want to go see some old people?"
"You're giving back to the community, son," Uther told him as they walked up the snaking garden path towards the towering nursing home. Around them, Arthur eyed the decaying men and woman and nurses in white strolling about. Some of the patients were still struggling to walk with canes and walkers, not willing to give up their last bit of independence even though their knees quaked and it took them a full minute to take one step, and others had accepted their fate and rolled around in wheelchairs, basking in the summer sun. Arthur reflected that he'd rather die at the age of fifteen, which he was currently, than to become leathery and frayed.
"It's not often these people get to see new, young faces," Uther was saying to him. "Your volunteering here for a few hours will brighten their day. Talk to them, listen to their stories. You may learn something, son."
"Yeah, if they can form a coherent sentence," Arthur muttered. "I don't want to give back to the community."
Uther had brought them there under the guise of a community service event held by the Metro Police and, even though Arthur expected to see his father's colleagues and their children once inside, he had a creeping suspicion that the real reason Uther had brought him along was for another lesson in the ways of the every-man.
Surely enough, Uther stopped walking and rounded on his son.
"Too bad," he said in a low but authoritative voice. "Community service is the mark of a good man, Arthur, and what must you pretend you are?"
Arthur let out a breath, studying his shoes. It's a question Uther had posed to him hundred of times and Arthur automatically answered, "A good man."
"That's right."
Straightening out, Uther took a camera out of his jacket pocket.
"What—what are you doing?" Arthur asked, aghast, looking around himself in slight embarrassment. Uther wasn't honestly thinking of taking his picture?
"Collecting evidence," Uther said before politely motioning one of the nearby hospital staff over. "You'll thank me for this opportunity one day."
Arthur grumbled as Uther led him closer to the brick sign, reading "Summit & Higgins Nursing Home," on the manicured lawn and put his arm over Arthur's shoulders.
"Smile, son," Uther suggested lightly, but Arthur knew it was a demand.
Even though he didn't much feel like smiling at the moment, he put on a convincing, well-practiced one and faced the camera just in time for it to flash.
Arthur looked down at the photo in his leather-gloved hands. The two grinning faces had been scratched out, but the figures stood in front of a nursing home sign and a handsome building on a sunny day. He lowered the picture, looking at the same sign only greatly changed. The colorful flowers that had bloomed at the base of the bricks were replaced with weeds and overgrowth, and a few iron letters had fallen off, leaving only a shadow and some sludge behind. The building behind it was dilapidated, with swear words and initials graffitied on the outer walls and broken or boarded up windows. Beneath his shoes, the cement walkway was cracked.
It had taken Arthur nearly an hour to get to the hospital, which was a good distance from the outskirts of London, and the warm dark blue of dusk hung around him, scattered clouds blocking out the light of the silver moon.
Pocketing the photo, he made his way inside the hospital, bypassing the faded trespassing sign. He had expected the main door to be chained closed, but it opened easily, and Arthur took that as a good sign. Maybe the Slasher had been there?
The inside of the building was even more neglected than the outside. Thick layers of dust and debris covered the floor, which was missing chunks in certain areas; cobwebs hung from the light fixtures and rats nested in the corners; the wallpaper was ripped and brittle, and there were sporadic holes drywall.
He listened out for voices or footsteps as his own echoed through the corridors. After checking the bottom floor, he made his way up the stairwell, which smelled of rotting meat, towards the second storey. He passed the former patients' rooms, shining his torch inside every now and again in search. However, all he ever found were broken down hospital beds and furniture. He passed gurneys, dead machinery, and abandoned wheelchairs rocking back and forth in the breeze that sounded through the halls like a death rattle.
Over the wind, he heard a distant moan, and he automatically froze to listen hard. His eardrums buzzed in the silence for a long pause and, just when he thought he'd imagined the sound, it happened again. It was coming from somewhere down the corridor.
He ran in its direction, passing by nurses' stations and janitorial cupboards, through unhinged doors. He skidded to a halt at a corner, seeing another hallway leading to a separate wing and bounding down it. There were double doors straight ahead, and the pained noises where growing louder with every step.
He flung the doors open and flew through, coming to a hurried stop inside a large, dimly lit room. At first, he thought it was an amphitheater, but upon getting a better look he realized it was a surgical room with high balconies for viewing. In the center on the room, strapped to the surgery table, was the source of the noises. It was a naked middle-aged man, wrapped up and strapped to the table by plastic wrap and duct tape. Arthur stepped over him, inspecting him. His face was slashed up beyond recognition, but the wounds were a few days old at least: Arthur could see scabs forming. His eyes were open but stabbed out and blood red. At once, Arthur knew this man was Alator.
But why hadn't the Slasher killed him? Had Arthur interrupted?
No. He had a hold of Alator for days. He wouldn't wait this long. There was something else . . .
Arthur tore his fascinated eyes off the man, and he saw a small metal table topped with knives and a scalpel. It was everything Arthur used in his kills—everything he'd need for another. The killer had left Alator here for Arthur to finish off.
But he couldn't. Just as Alator did not fit the Slasher's pattern, he did not fit Uther's Code. He was not a murderer. But he was there, wrapped like a present just for Arthur, and temptation rose within him. The dark creature inside him struggled for control, begging to take the wheel.
Alator groaned, apparently feeling the new presence before him.
"Please," he gasped, his voice dry. "Please—no more." It occurred to Arthur that Alator thought he was the Slasher.
There was a creaking sound from the observation balcony behind him, and Arthur spun around to face the noise. He was met with a blinding white flash that unbalanced him for a moment. He tried blinking away the stars to see who was there, but all he saw was a dark shadow that was rushing out of the room. Something light was drifting downwards, and it landed at Arthur's feet. He bent down at picked it up, realizing that it was an undeveloped Polaroid picture. The brown within the frame swirled and faded, transforming into the image of a wide-eyed Arthur standing before Alator's vulnerable form.
With the picture still in hand, Arthur rushed out of the room and back into the hallway, but there was no one there. He listened out for running, but heard nothing. In the hope that he could cut the Slaher off at the exit, he ran as fast as his feet could carry him back from which he came. He didn't stop until he was through the main door and back on the pavements, underneath the now clear moon in the dark sky.
He was alone.
Letting out a yell of frustration, he remembered the picture in his hand. It was now fully developed, the dull colors popping against the shadowed backdrop. Alator was still in there.
Placing the picture in his pocket alongside the one of himself and Uther, Arthur made for his car and drove down to the gates of the hospital. The street led him to a small town, and he kept going for nearly ten minutes before coming across a phone booth on a corner. Making sure the street was vacant, he got out of his still running car and stepped inside the phone booth. He straightened out his leather gloves, fed the machine, and dialed in the number of Metropolitan Police station.
The voice on the other end asked him his emergency.
"Summit and Higgins Nursing Home," he said in a low voice, keeping the phone a few inches from his ear as to not make contact with it. "You'll find Maurice Alator there. Bring a medic."
The dispatcher sounded somewhat panicked when she rushed to ask, "Sir, if you could provide your name and locat—"
Arthur hung up the phone and got back into his car.
Merlin rushed after Gwen and Lance, a few uniforms following after him, as the cluster of emergency nurses and doctors turned Alator's gurney around a corner. He felt almost sick in the adrenaline of the last few hours, and the white washed walls and pale florescent lights weren't doing much to help. But the constricted feeling in his gut was mixed with giddiness, excited that he had been right all along.
Alator was not the Slasher, but he'd help them find him.
One of the nurses stopped them outside the room they'd taken Alator into, and Gwen tried to argue, but they were banished to the waiting room while the door was slammed unceremoniously in their faces.
"Dammit," Gwen hissed, but she turned to the constables that had followed them and said, "Alright, I want two of you standing guard outside this room, got it?"
She then directed her attention to Merlin and Lance. "I need to get back to that crime scene. Lance, you come with me. Merlin, stay here and call us the second Alator wakes up."
Merlin opened his mouth to argue. After all, he had been right about Alator. Why did she and Lance get to comb over his crime scene while he sat in a waiting room twirling his thumbs? It was hardly fair, but Gwen didn't look like she should be trifled with at the moment, so he agreed to her orders; and she and Lance sprinted back down the corridor.
Once they were out of sight, Merlin turned and walked in the opposite direction. Halfway down the corridor, a woman turned the corner, stopping him, and looked up at him expectantly.
"Merlin? What's going on? I saw the commotion," Eve said, worry in her eyes.
Merlin eyed her up and down, taking in the dark blue of her scrubs and black, long-sleeved undershirt contrast her fair skin tone.
"It's Alator," he told her, noticing her wince slightly. He remembered her bad memory of the man.
"You found him? But—I don't understand, what is he doing here?" she asked quickly, her voice trembling slightly but staying strong. She looked over Merlin's shoulder, as though she expected the man to be behind him.
"You remember I told you my theory? I said I didn't think Alator was the Slasher?"
She nodded. "Yes, and I said I wouldn't put it passed him."
"Well, it turns out I was right," Merlin told her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders and fishing for her eyes. "The real Slasher had him locked up—probably so he couldn't identify him."
"But why didn't he just kill him?" Eve asked. "What's the point in keeping him around?"
"Probably so he could have a bit of fun first," Merlin said sympathetically, feeling awful about everything that man had to endure. "He's really hurt, Eve."
"Oh . . ." Eve shook her head in empathy. "Oh, god, that's just awful. He didn't deserve that—not if he isn't a killer."
Merlin gave her an incredulous look. "He wouldn't have deserved it anyway."
"Yes. You know what I mean . . . I just." Eve looked down at her trainers, her eyes welling with emotion. "You'll understand if I don't visit him once he wakes up."
"No, no, of course not," Merlin told her, giving her his most compassionate gaze, and she wrapped her arms around him, her head on his chest. He held her for as long as she needed.
It was close to midnight, and Merlin had been in the waiting room for hours, pacing back and forth or sitting on the uncomfortable bench chairs with shaking legs. Gwen and Lance had returned to the hospital a few hours previous and, finally, the doctors informed them Alator was conscious.
They stood around his bedside, and Merlin tried not to eye the red-soaked bandages covering the man's arms; however, it was rather impossible to not look at the gausses wrapped about his face, leaving spaces for the nose and mouth. The eyes were still shrouded and Merlin wondered if Alator would ever see again. He suspected not.
"In your own time, Mr. Alator," Lance told him in a soothing voice after they identified themselves and informed him of their purpose for being there, even though Alator already knew.
"Any detail you can remember," Gwen coaxed him. "For example, what he looked like?"
"Ah, I couldn't tell you that," he spoke in a strained voice. "I never saw a face. In the stadium, the Slasher was wearing a mask and then, in the hospital—Well, I couldn't see much of anything after that."
"And did he say anything to you? Anything that might give away what he was planning next?" Lance questioned, scribbling in his notepad.
"I'm afraid not," was the answer. "She only ever spoke when she was giving me instructions in the stadium."
"Hold on, she?" Gwen asked, looking stunned. Lance's eyes had gone wide and Merlin's mouth fell open. "The London Slasher is a she?"
"You sound surprised, Inspector," Alator said. "I would think you would have come across women killers in your career."
"Well, yes—Yes, of course. But . . ." Gwen said a little frantically, and Merlin could see she was mentally reworking every detail of the case.
Merlin also thought of every file he'd read, every clue he'd come across, every crime scene . . . How could they have missed this?
"Alright, Mr. Alator," Lance said after a few more questions that Alator could not answer with much detail. Whoever the Slasher was, she was good at covering her tracks. "That will be all for now. We'll be in touch."
Lance flipped his notepad closed and the three of them exited the room.
"Well, I'd better go tell the Chief. And then I'll have to talk to the press to tell them Alator is innocent—and that we're looking for a she," Gwen was saying as they walked briskly down the corridor. "God, I can imagine the backlash already."
And she was right. For the next forty-eight hours, Gwen's statement played on a loop on every news station, online, and was recounted in the papers.
Chapter Text
The child was crying again, but his sobs were drowned out by shouts and the unmistakable whoosh of a knife slicing through air before hitting solid flesh and bone.
Crimson sprayed, painting the walls its shade, but the long blonde curls were not there. This time, a head of short, raven hair came into view. The child's wails grew louder as Merlin's dripping and mangled face came into view, his blue eyes gashed and red.
Blood poured from the wound over his heart, and more dripped from his outstretched hand towards the carpet below . . .
Arthur gasped awake. His heart was racing and his pillow was drenched in cold sweat. He ran his hand through his damp hair, trying to collect himself. When his breathing returned to normal, he scrambled out of bed and rushed for the bathroom, where he splashed cool water on his face in attempt to become more lucid.
Where had the woman gone? He still didn't understand why this nightmare was coming to him, but this had been the third time. As he studied himself in the mirror, he wondered if the killer in the dream was himself or some unseen other. He wondered who the child was.
Mostly, he wondered why the dream had changed. Why had Merlin suddenly become its subject?
He was not able to shake the feeling that something was wrong. His lizard brain was giving off a signal, a primal instinct—a need to protect. To protect Merlin. But from what?
Going back into the bedroom, he went directly for his phone and punched in Merlin's number, only subconsciously realizing the clock read half passed three in the morning. The phone rang once . . .
Twice . . .
A third time . . .
"Emrys," said a muffled, half-conscious voice on the other end. Arthur could just picture him, laying on his side, his eyes closed in the refusal to awaken while one cheek was still pressed to his pillow. Arthur let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"Hello?"
"Merlin," Arthur whispered.
Suddenly, Merlin's voice became more alert, and Arthur could practically see him shoot up in bed. "Arthur? What's wrong? What is it?"
Arthur realized how silly calling Merlin so late on a whim had been. "It's—it's nothing," he tried to correct himself.
"Nothing? Well, it better be something. Arthur, it's three-thirty in the morning," said Merlin, whose voice was somewhat groggy again.
"I just wanted to make sure you're alright," Arthur admitted, sitting down heavily on the side of his bed.
"Why wouldn't I be alright, you plunker?" Merlin said, and Arthur could hear the grin in his voice.
"Nothing," Arthur insisted. "It's stupid."
"Are you sure? Because I can come over if you need me to," Merlin offered with a yawn.
Arthur found himself smiling. "No, there's no need."
There was a beat of silence where Arthur was sure Merlin had fallen back asleep, but then his voice rang through again, along with a grunt of movement and the outlying sound of rustling sheets. "I'm coming over."
"Merlin, that really isn't necessary," Arthur assured him, but there was no answer for some time. "Merlin?" he asked unsurely.
When no response was provided, he looked at his phone and realized Merlin had hung up, clearly not wanting an argument; and, close to twenty minutes later, there was his usual musical knock at the door.
"Okay, what's so urgent that you had to phone at three AM?" Merlin said with a facetious sigh as he pushed through the door and shrugged off his coat before tossing it towards a chair. He missed the target, and Arthur saw he was wearing a nightshirt and sweatpants.
"Nothing!" Arthur said. "You really didn't have to come all the way over here."
Merlin looked him dead in the eyes, his brow raised.
"Fine," Arthur conceded, folding his arms on the kitchen counter across from Merlin. "It was a . . . I had a bad dream." It was strange saying that aloud. He never thought he would admit that to another person, especially because bad dreams weren't normal for him.
However, Merlin acted as though it was nothing unusual at all. "What was it about?" he inquired with a frown.
"It wasn't about anything," Arthur snipped, realizing how ridiculous of a conversation this was. He felt like a child. "Go home, Merlin," he said from over his shoulder as he stormed back towards his room.
Merlin followed him, despite the fact that Arthur was tearing up the covers and getting beneath them. Merlin sat on the bottom of the bed, opposite Arthur's feet.
"Why'd you phone to see if I was alright?" Merlin asked in the darkness. "Was the dream about me?"
"Merlin—"
"Well, was it?"
Arthur rubbed a palm down his eyes and sat up against the headboard. "Yes," he said. "You were dead. Well, someone killed you. I—I don't know who."
Arthur couldn't stop thinking that he had been the murderer, even though he was in the position of an outsider looking in throughout the dream. He hadn't stopped the killer, and that was as bad as the act itself. Either way, Arthur was still the monster, the clawed creature prowling in the dark that he had to contain like Uther had taught him to: The beast Merlin could never know, would never understand . . .
"Well, that's normal," Merlin said, apparently trying to comfort Arthur. It made him feel even more like a little boy than before. "The work we do—We see a lot of rough things. It's bound to get to us eventually, Arthur."
"Some cases, more than others," Arthur murmured.
"Was it the Slasher?" Merlin asked at this.
"Maybe," Arthur allowed. "The wound pattern was the same, I think—but I've had this dream before. Never about you. It's always some woman. I don't know who she is: I can never get a good look at her. And there's a child; he's crying," he added, although he was not sure why.
"Arthur—" Merlin began, his voice sympathetic.
"Don't patronize me, Merlin!" Arthur interrupted. He just wanted to go back to sleep, so he shuffled beneath the blankets again and turned on his side, his back to Merlin.
He kept himself completely still, listening out for any movement, but nothing happened. Merlin couldn't sit there all night, could he?
Suddenly, he felt Merlin stand up from the bed, sure that he'd hear footsteps and the flat door close next. However, the covers were lifted up and the mattress sunk again.
"Scoot over," Merlin demanded, kicking Arthur under the sheets.
Arthur looked over his shoulder in confusion. "What the Hell do you think you're doing?"
"Well, I'm hardly going home now!" Merlin said, settling in. "Christ, Arthur, I'd like to get some sleep tonight." He grabbed a pillow from beneath him and hit Arthur on the shoulder with it. "Now, scoot!"
Arthur blinked at him. The last time they'd shared a bed, they were children. By the time he stopped blinking, Merlin had already turned over, and Arthur realized he'd just have to accept it.
"Goodnight," Merlin's quiet voice came after Arthur had rolled back over, and the tenderness behind the words broke Arthur's annoyance.
"Goodnight, Merlin."
Arthur awoke to a buzzing sound coming from his nightstand and, before he opened his eyes, he clocked a warm, soft feeling enveloping his body. When consciousness hit him and he finally realized his mobile was vibrating, he had to detangle himself from Merlin, who was hugging him like a teddy bear.
Merlin woke with a start, sitting up and looking around the room in disorientation for a moment before trying with no avail to smooth his messed up hair. His mobile was vibrating, too.
"It's dispatch," Arthur told him, reading the message. "Another body's been found."
Merlin grumbled, checking his screen for verification. In this time, Arthur looked at the clock to find it was five after six, and the sun was poking its warm morning rays into the room. Their golden hues reflected in Merlin's irises, making them look like they were on fire.
"I'll have to go back to mine for clothes," Merlin said, reluctantly getting out of bed and stretching. Arthur looked away as Merlin's shirt rode up towards his bellybutton.
"I'll meet you there."
"Yeah," Arthur agreed, getting out of bed only when he was certain Merlin was gone.
When Arthur arrived at the crime scene, which was located inside an old, seedy hotel in Norfolk Square, Merlin was already there. He was standing inside the SOCO barrier, talking with Lance, and Arthur saw uniforms trying to contain journalists, onlookers, and sorry looking hotel guests. Mithian was off to the side, questioning what looked like the hotel manager, while Percival and Leon could be seen interviewing other staff members.
Arthur peered up at the ancient building, its white exterior unkempt and off-color, and he knew at once that the Slasher could not have caused this scene. He had looked over the photo album dozens of times, but the hotel was is none of the pictures—marked or otherwise.
"Arthur," Merlin called, and Lance motioned him over to their place by the stoop.
"Gwaine is already inside with the rest of forensics," Lance told him, "but we're going to clear them out for you."
Arthur hoisted his bag further onto his shoulder and furrowed his brows. "Just for me? Lance, you shouldn't have."
He saw Merlin's lips twitch upwards, but apparently Lance was too stressed to be in the joking mood. "There's blood, Arthur—lots of it. You might want to prepare yourself."
"I think I'm okay," Arthur told him, a bit put-off by the comment. "I don't really get squeamish around blood."
"Lets hope not," Lance said curtly before stealing away, leaving Merlin and Arthur behind.
"Have you been inside yet?" Arthur asked, and Merlin nodded.
"She's really outdone herself this time," he said and, noticing the perplexed look Arthur gave him, clarified, "The Slasher."
Arthur cast another look up at the building. He was sure it hadn't been in one of the photos. Perhaps the police got it wrong: Perhaps this wasn't the Slasher's handiwork.
"You think it's her, then?" Arthur inquired casually.
"Gwaine says the wound patterns check out," Merlin told him. "And, in a place like this, I wouldn't be surprised to learn the vics were prostitutes."
"Vics? As in plural?"
No, that wasn't right. The Slasher only left one body at a time. If it were her, why would she change now? Nothing added up about this crime scene; it made Arthur pay attention. Maybe that's what she wanted.
Merlin nodded and hummed a response. "It's a double-homicide."
Before Arthur could think of a response, half a dozen people in spotless white lab coats flooded through the opened door. Gwaine brought up the rear and, as soon as he spotted Arthur, flashed a grin and shouted, "Christmas has come earlier for you, mate!" He jostled down the stoop to Merlin and Arthur's side. "Might want to suit up," he added, putting a latex gloved hand to his own lab coat, "don't want to contaminate anything."
Arthur felt anticipation rising in his gut. He couldn't take in anymore; he had to know what was inside—he had to know if it was left for him. With one last look at Merlin, he made his way to the SOCO tent and put on a lab coat, safety glasses, gloves, and shoe covers.
The handle of his kit was gripped tightly in his fist as he walked up the dark, narrow flight of stairs towards the second floor. The frayed carpeted wood creaked beneath him as he moved and, with ever step, the dragon inside his bloodstream clutched and clawed at him, willing him further on.
The room at the end of the corridor was wide open and, from a distance, Arthur couldn't immediately see anything wrong with it. Dust swirled in the morning light breaking through the blinded windows, and he could make out the dirty navy carpet and a small corner of the tartan bedding on one of the mattresses.
It felt strange, like he had somehow seen this all before. He felt déjà vu tingling in his mind, but he shook it away. It was nothing, just a fancy. He was so used to finding crime scenes from his past that he was projecting false memories onto this one. That had to be the explanation . . .
He stepped through the threshold into the room, keeping his eyes straight at first, but he quickly turned towards the two twin beds lining the wall. The dull cream-colored paint was splattered with deep red above the first bed. Thick droplets had dripped down in streams and trails, leading downward to the source: A woman laying cold and motionless beneath them, her face torn up, her eyes gone, and her blonde hair streaked with blood. There was a large hole in her chest, from which blood had long-since stopped pouring. It now soaked her blouse and the blanket below her. It looked as though all the gooey contents of her veins were on the mattress, the walls, the nightstands, the TV . . .
In the next bed lay a woman with dark hair, her sightless eyes piercing the first woman, and her mouth agape in a silent scream. Her wrists had long vertical gashes in them, each suspended off either side of the bed so that the blood created dark pools on the carpet. Her palms and fingers were stained in the same dry crimson.
Arthur found that he could not move. His wide eyes stayed fixed on the first woman, his lips parted. Even the creature inside him dared not stir.
Flashes of his dream came to mind.
A woman screaming . . .
A child crying . . .
Arthur barely registered that he dropped his kit with a dull thud.
Blood and blonde hair and bright blue eyes turned bloodshot with tears . . .
"Not in front of my son!"
Arthur felt dizzy.
A flash of silver . . .
The child was inconsolable . . .
"No! Arthur!"
Arthur couldn't breathe.
And the child kept sobbing . . .
He tried to run forward, to shield the already dead woman, but he lost balance and stumbled, falling into the still-wet pool of blood on the carpet between the beds. His lab coat, now splashed with bright red, stuck to the mess as he rolled over to his back.
Whose blood was he covered in? The first victim's, the second's, both?
Or his mother's?
The room spun around him as his mother's face came into view, screaming and terrified.
"Arthur!"
The voice wouldn't stop echoing through his head, but he could not call back to it. He felt numb as he stared up at the circling ceiling . . .
And suddenly he was running. He didn't know how he had gotten to the edge of the corridor; it seemed his legs were clumsily moving by their own volition. They carried him down the staircase, two steps at a time, and he lunged for the exit. The sunlight blinded him, and he was vaguely aware of flashing cameras and eyes on him as he stumbled down the stoop and ripped off his safety glasses. He doubled over, heaving in bouts of polluted city air in a weak attempt to clear his head.
"Arthur!" someone was shouting, and they sounded as terrified as his mother had been.
Merlin's blue eyes swam into focus, searching and wide, and his palms were hovering near Arthur's shoulders in case Arthur needed support. Merlin had the good sense not to touch him, even though it was obvious that he wanted to, as the layer of blood that lined Arthur's coat would be needed for evidence.
"What's happened to him?" Lance said from somewhere to Arthur's side.
"My god, is he alright?" Mithian wondered amongst the overwhelming chatter filling Arthur's ears.
Merlin wasn't listening to any of them. "Arthur, what's happened?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. "Arthur, talk to me . . . He needs water." Merlin turned away and shouted, "Get him some motherfucking water!"
"I just need some air," Arthur panted, his voice coming out in a rasp. No one listened to him.
"Arthur, sit down," Merlin demanded.
He felt his pulse in every inch of his body.
"No, get his coat off first!" ordered Lance. "Gwaine!"
Gloved fingers manhandled Arthur on either side as Gwaine and someone else got the gear off of him. Gwaine was saying something, but Arthur couldn't hear him. As soon as the bloody coat came off, he felt like he could breathe again—he could think. The haze had cleared.
Merlin grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the SOCO tent. He coaxed Arthur into a chair before thrusting water into his hands. Arthur drank it in greedy gulps; he hadn't realized how thirsty he'd been.
"Are you alright?" Merlin asked again in a low voice, crouching down before Arthur's chair. "What happened in there?"
"I—"
Arthur looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him.
"I don't know," he lied, crushing the plastic cup in his fist. "I just—"
"Got squeamish?" Lance interrupted, making his way into the tent. Arthur didn't know how to respond. "It's alright, Arthur."
Merlin looked more concerned than ever. Arthur wondered if he was recalling their conversation from last night.
"Do you think you're up for going back in?"
"What?" Merlin shouted before Arthur could. He sounded scandalized as he jumped to his feet. "Are you joking? He can't go back in there!"
Arthur felt his stomach lurch. He didn't want to go back inside, but Uther's training kicked in. He had to get the situation back under his control.
"No, Merlin, I'm fine," he tried. "It was just a shock. I know what I'm up against now."
Merlin looked at him helplessly. "I don't think it's a good idea."
"Merlin—" Arthur began to protest but, as he stood up, he found himself wobbling slightly. Merlin sat him back down.
"He's not going back in," Merlin told Lance from over his shoulder, his voice hard and uncompromising.
Lance took in a deep breath, seeming to make up his mind. "No, he's not," he agreed. "He'll sit in the hall outside the room. Arthur, you'll talk Gwaine through it."
Arthur agreed, and he spent the rest of the morning with his back against the grubby wall of the corridor, his stomach churning each time Gwaine called for him. He responded each time by telling Gwaine to take pictures, hoping they would be adequate enough for Arthur to study later, back in the safe seclusion of his lab.
Gwaine's eye for detail was almost as good as Arthur's, and Arthur found it much easier to distance himself from his thoughts while looking at the crime scene through photographs, so long as he didn't get a good look at the first body.
The pictures were scattered about his lab, lining his desk and in a large, layered circle on the floor with Merlin, cross-legged, one knee sticking up, in the focal point. The lab was already cramped enough, and having to pay attention to where he was rolling his chair made Arthur feel downright claustrophobic.
"Two victims," Merlin was muttering thoughtfully under his breath as he ran his fingers across the various photos immediately in front of them. "Two women . . ." He had been murmuring the same thing for twenty-four hours now.
Arthur's mind hadn't left the crime scene, either, or the memory that now filled his thoughts because of it. Uther told him his mother had died of cancer when Arthur was young. Whatever he had seen in the hotel, it couldn't have been his mother's death. Uther wouldn't have lied, not to him . . .
"But what if she's angry with us for thinking Alator was the Slasher? What if she wants to prove no one but her can be the killer?" Merlin asked suddenly.
"What?" Arthur asked distractedly before the words made sense in his head. "Oh . . . No, I don't think so."
Merlin's face fell.
"She was fine with everyone thinking Alator was the killer. That's why she didn't kill him and leave his body on display, because he bought her more time. She wanted him to disappear."
She wanted Arthur to make him disappear.
He spun around in his chair to face Merlin. "I don't think she cares what the police think."
"You're probably right. You always are about these things," Merlin said, reaching around to grab a photo in back of him. He studied it for a moment. "But she's trying to say something. The women had different wounds than the other victims—"
"They had the same wounds," Arthur corrected him, "just split between the two of them."
Merlin's eyes suddenly popped out of his head and he jumped to his feet. The abrupt movement made Arthur jolt and roll onto the corner of a picture.
"No, they weren't!" Merlin shouted in excitement. "They were combined on the other victims!"
Arthur's jaw dropped opened. Why hadn't he thought of that?
"Arthur!" Merlin was beaming as he jumped over the circles of pictures towards the ones on the desk. Arthur spun around to face them, too.
"That's how it all started," Arthur said, nodding in agreement as his mind turned rapidly. The theory made sense. "That's why she kills the way she does: She's telling us about the past."
But was it her past or Arthur's?
"One woman kills herself—slits her wrists," Merlin said, pointing to one of the photos in front of him, and Arthur was distracted for a brief moment as Merlin leaned over him to grab a second picture. "And the other is murdered—slashed face, knife wound to the heart."
He bolted upright again, his entire body practically vibrating.
"I've got to tell Lance and Gwen!" he decided. "If we could find who the murder victim was, maybe we can connect her to the suicide victim, and what their connection was to the Slasher. That will—"
"—Lead you closer to the killer's identity," Arthur finished, not trying to looked too dejected. He had to find her before Merlin did. If she really did know something about his past, he had to find out what.
"Oh, you—" Merlin was exclaiming, his eyes shining with joy. In that moment, he looked as though he might kiss Arthur. "I owe you!"
Arthur pushed a smile to his face. "Just doing the job."
Merlin jumped towards the door, making the pictures on the floor jump up and scatter in the wake of its slamming. After the papers ceased rustling, the lab fell silent, and Arthur didn't bother to clean up the mess before diving for his computer.
The Metropolitan Police may have been close behind, but Arthur was still one step ahead of them. The Slasher had made sure of that by giving him all the pieces he needed: the hotel. Maybe he had been there as child, he just didn't remember it?
He did a quick Google search of the hotel's name and the word murder, but all that showed up were articles about the most recent two victims. Arthur scrolled down the second page of the results before admitting he'd have to refine his key words.
He bit his lip in thought, the tips of his fingers hovering over the keys. He knew what he wanted to search, but he wasn't so sure he wanted the answer. Curiosity eventually won over and he typed in Igraine Pendragon after the words of his original search.
An old, scanned newspaper clipping belonged to the first hit. Its headline read: Police Wife Murderer by Killer for Hire.
Local woman, Igraine Pendragon, wife of Detective Uther Pendragon
of the Metropolitan Police, was brutally killed last night . . .
Arthur felt the same numbness that had overcome him in the hotel strike his heart again. Somewhere inside of him, the dark creature howled. It made him clench his jaw and the muscles in his nostril twitched.
This was proof. Uther lied to him—to him!
But why? That didn't make sense to Arthur. Uther could have told him his mother had been murdered: Why lie? Perhaps, Arthur thought, it was because Arthur had been there at the time of the murder, a small, innocent child; and Uther didn't want Arthur to recall the repressed memory. He shuttered: He could not imagine a time in which he was innocent.
He scanned the rest of the article eagerly, wondering what else Uther had lied to him about, when he reached the bottom, which read:
Igraine is survived by her husband and two children, Arthur and Morgana.
Arthur's lips parted as he stared dumbly at the screen, his gazed fixed on the last word until the text ran together and the letters held no meaning. He was searching his brain, wracking his mind for a memory—for a glimpse of memory—in which he could remember the girl. He thought for a moment he did. He saw a blurred face sitting across from him at the dinner table at Christmas. She had light hair and blue eyes, like him—like their parents; but it must have been only his imagination. He could not recall her.
But he had a sister. Somewhere out there, he had a sister that his father never told him about.
Where was she now?
He kept staring at the name as though it would give him directions to his sister's doorstep.
"Morgana."
He was almost used to the perpetual blackness. It had gotten to the point where he didn't mind listening to the television instead of seeing it or being able to read the clock on his own. The hardest part was not seeing the sunshine, and knowing he'd never get to see it again, but that didn't matter so much now: It was nighttime. It was late, maybe about midnight. There was no one there to read him the clock . . .
At the end of the room, he heard a sharp creak as the door opened. It whined again and clicked shut before light footsteps padded across the tile, getting closer. Alator turned his head this way and that, trying to listen out for any more sounds. Part of him wondered why a nurse had come in so late, and the other part experienced a growing sensation of dread.
"Who's there?" he asked into the darkness.
"Hello, Alator," said a cold voice. It seemed to slither across the sound waves. "Your medication must be wearing down. I've come to take away your pain."
Alator froze. He knew that voice: He'd heard it in the darkness before.
"It's you," he breathed.
He could hear his heart's frantic pumps in his ears, and he scrambled around, looking for the button that would call a nurse. Before he could locate it, his wrists were grabbed.
She was screaming again, blood and blonde hair and bright blue eyes turned bloodshot with tears. The boy was sobbing on the rug beneath her.
"No!" she cried, her voice terrified but resilient. "Not in front of my son! Please! Not my son!"
He saw a tall, broad bearded man clutching a knife. There was a mad glint in his eyes as a streak of silver whooshed before him, making contact with the woman's face. She let out a cry of anguish.
"No!" she was sobbing now, and the child was inconsolable as he sat helplessly on the floor, but someone tried to comfort him anyway. There was the quick brush of fingers on his arm, but he could only just make out the dark hair of the girl sitting next to him through his waterlogged lashes.
There was another swipe, this one slashing the woman's eye, and drops of red rained down on the children. He let out another shuttering wail.
"No! Arthur!" the woman screamed. Her blood decorated the walls, but she could only think of her son. The pain she harbored for him was nothing compared the physical trauma.
She gurgled, no longer able to speak or to fight against the stinging pain, and the knife flashed again before connecting with her heart. There was a loud, shuttering gasp that went straight through Arthur like an ache, and the man twisted the knife before pulling it out. As more blood showered the child, the woman's body fell backwards and bounced before settling on the mattress . . .
Consciousness flooded back, and Arthur awoke in his bed with a start. He sat up immediately, sweat dripping down his face. But, no. That wasn't sweat . . .
He touched his fingers to his cheek before looking down at them. Water glistened against his skin, reflecting the rays of the moon that peeked in through the gap in the curtain, before he rubbed it away between his fingers.
Whenever he blinked, flashes of the dream returned to him. The dream. The memory . . .
Chapter Text
News of Alator's death spread through the department, but Arthur had more important things to do than feign shock and despair. He had to get down to the basement, where all the records were kept. Somewhere in the labyrinth of files would be the concrete truth about his mother's death and about who killed her—and about Morgana.
The only problem was actually getting down there. Every time he tried, he would either get sidetracked by Merlin or Mithian or, in one instance, Gwen, asking about his report on another case. There was only so many times Arthur could tell people he was going to the toilet before they started to get concerned for his wellbeing.
He resolved to stay late, until all the watchful eyes had gone home for the night, to head to the records room. However, as the sun went down and people began to go home, Merlin stayed at his desk, running his palms through his messy haired as he pored over the stack of files on his desk. He had been at it all day, sorting through records of old, forgotten cases, making calls, and scouring the Internet, for the two women who inspired the Slasher's work. Arthur wasn't sure how much progress he'd made, but he was certain Merlin hadn't yet discovered that one of those women was Arthur's mother. Arthur didn't want him to get that far, either.
"How's it going?" Arthur asked casually, leaning on the corner of Merlin's desk. He surreptitiously eyed the covers of the files, making sure none of them belonged to the year Igraine died. Thankfully, there was nothing quite that far back.
"Badly," Merlin admitted, sitting back and running a hand down his exhausted face. "The suicide is common, so it's almost impossible to determine that just yet. So I've been looking for the murdered woman. Back in 2001, someone got their face slashed up—but it was a male, and I think it was just a bar fight gone too far."
He blew out his cheeks, and Arthur saw how red his eyes were.
"I've got to get back to it," Merlin decided, sitting up straighter and looking down at the files.
"Oh, no, you don't!" Arthur told him, feigning concern. He placed a firm hand over a file so Merlin couldn't open it. "You've been going at it ever since you found out about the women. It's time for a break. Did you even get home last night?"
Merlin shrugged. "For a few hours, I suppose," he grumbled.
"You need food—and sleep," Arthur demanded.
Merlin let out a sigh. "You're right," he said, and Arthur tried not to look too pleased at himself. "I had dinner plans with Eve, but I cancelled. Maybe she's still free."
Arthur ground his teeth at the mention of Eve, but he pushed a toothy smile onto his face. He had to keep his eye on the prize: the record room and privacy to learn more about his mother and sister. There was also the added bonus that Merlin would never know. For that, Merlin had to be gone.
"Go on, then," Arthur said, nodding towards the phone. "Give her a ring."
Merlin seemed to consider for a moment, but then he picked up the phone and punched in her number, and Arthur left him to it. Momentarily, he was gone, and the only two people who remained in the office were Arthur and Gwaine.
"Where are you off to?" Gwaine popped his head up to ask when Arthur started for the lift.
"Just a coffee from the cafeteria," Arthur lied over his shoulder. "Want one?"
"No milk," Gwaine called in a preoccupied voice, and Arthur was home free.
He'd expected Gaius to still be there when Arthur reached the bottom level. It seemed the old man never left the building, and Arthur half-wondered if Gaius had a bed and a kettle hidden away somewhere in the basement.
"Arthur! Is it my birthday already?" Gaius said with a smile after Arthur strode up to the counter. "It must be. You never visit otherwise."
Arthur let out a soft, seemingly guilty chuckle. "I know, I'm sorry," he said.
Gaius dismissed it with a flap of his leathery hands. "No, you aren't," he said lightly. "But I expect you have better things to do with that killer on the loose than talk to an old man."
Arthur saw his in with this and took it. "Actually, Gaius, that's sort of why I'm here," he said innocently, folding his arms across the counter and leaning in. Gaius had been around since Uther's time. In fact, the two men had been good friends. If there were any records about Igraine's death, Gaius would remember them.
"I'm looking for a murder—one that matches the recent victims," Arthur told him.
"Yes, yes," Gaius said hurriedly, "it seems everyone is. Merlin had the same idea—"
"But I'm looking for a specific murder," Arthur cut him off, and he noticed Gaius' eyes suddenly turn dark. It made the creature in Arthur's gut awaken: Gaius knew something. Driven by the look, Arthur continued, "It happened in the same hotel—close to thirty years ago. Do you remember anything that might have come through?"
Gaius appeared to be thinking, but Arthur realized he was weighing his options.
"I need that file, and the file of the suicide connected to it," Arthur asked him. He still had no idea who the second woman was or how she was connected to Igraine, but he had a feeling Gaius did.
"Files that far back are locked in Scotland Yard," Gaius said slowly. "I'd need at least two days—"
"I need to know now, Gaius," Arthur said, searching his face. "Just tell me what happened."
"Arthur, I'm sure I don't know—"
"She was my mother, Gaius," said Arthur, dropping all pretenses. "Please."
Gaius opened and closed his mouth a few times, clearly at a loss for words. After a beat, he decided on, "How on Earth did you find out?"
Arthur shook his head. "That's not important. But I know you know what happened—how she really died."
"I don't," Gaius said, and something made Arthur believe him. "I'm sorry, my boy. There were things your father did not confide even in me."
"But you must have the files!" Arthur said desperately. "Or they're at least in Scotland Yard—"
"They're nowhere," said Gaius. "There are no records on your mother's death."
"Or what happened to my sister?" Arthur dared.
Gaius let out a heavy sigh. "No," he said. "Uther made me destroy the records on the investigation. He wanted no one, even me, to see them. I think he feared what would happen if anyone ever knew of your sister's existence."
Arthur furrowed his brow, not following. "Why? Why keep me and get rid of her?"
"Because she wasn't Igraine's daughter," Gaius told him, and suddenly Arthur's mind became blank, all but for the echoing of those words in the emptiness.
"No, but that means—" Arthur began. He didn't want to think on it. He didn't want to believe Uther would be unfaithful to Igraine. Was everything Uther ever told Arthur a lie?
Minutes later, Arthur was back in the homicide department, juggling two cups of coffee for show, when he caught sight of a familiar head of long, black hair. Eve was hanging about Merlin's desk, standing on her tiptoes every now and again and casting wary looks in Gwaine's direction. She looked somewhat lost, and relief spread over her face when she saw Arthur.
"Eve, what are you—?" he asked, a little surprised to see her, when she approached him.
"I'm looking for Merlin," she said sweetly. "We had dinner plans and I came round to pick him up. Have you seen him?"
Arthur nodded. "I have. He left about fifteen minutes ago to meet you."
"To meet—? Oh, no . . ." She looked away, biting her lower lip in thought. "Must have been a miscommunication. Oh, those will be the end of me! I thought for sure we'd left off by saying I'd come get him."
She took another frazzled look around the office as though expecting Merlin to pop out of nowhere.
"I'm sorry, Arthur, but I should go find him before he thinks I've stood him up," she said with an apologetic smile up at him.
Arthur could only manage a predatory grin. "No. You wouldn't want to be late for your date."
To this, Eve frowned in a way that reminded Arthur strangely of his father.
"Date?" she repeated perplexity. The confusion was contagious, and Arthur found he was second-guessing himself for the very first time in his life. He didn't like it.
"Yes," he said, getting the conversation back on track. "Merlin—He's your boyfriend."
Eve gave out a choked laugh. "My—my what? Arthur! He and I are just friends."
Arthur blinked a few times into her gaze. "Friends?" he echoed. "Does Merlin know this?"
"Well, I should think so," Eve told him, laughter still in her tone. "I mean, honestly, Arthur, I'm not exactly his type . . ."
Arthur realized that his lips were parted in a dumbfounded expression, and he hadn't spoken for something like ten seconds. "Oh . . ." was all he could think to say, and suddenly he found his dislike for Eve was inexplicably lifted.
"Now that that's cleared up, I should really be getting to my date," Eve teased with a playful smirk, and Arthur chuckled genuinely. Eve really was quite funny, now that he thought about it.
"I hope to see you again, Arthur," she told him, placing a delicate, friendly hand on his bicep.
"I would like that," he told her.
She seemed to brighten considerably. "Excellent! Next time, I'll have you over mine."
He agreed to the invitation by saying, "Soon!"
Eve had already started walking when she turned back around and said happily, "Sooner than you think!"
"Would you look at the arse on her," Gwaine said when Arthur handed him his coffee. He was watching Eve walk out of the office.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "I thought the only woman you were interested in was Mithian."
"I appreciate beauty in all its forms," Gwaine told him casually, sitting back in his rolling chair and chewing on the tip of his pen. There was a perverted smirk playing on his lips. "Speaking of a beautiful sight, can you image her and Merlin tumbling around together? Jaysus, all that black hair and fair skin should be illegal."
"Don't talk like that!" Arthur snapped at him suddenly. Attempting to recover, he added, "He's my friend—and so is she."
"Settle down, mate!" Gwaine said, holding his palms up in surrender, but he was still grinning. "We're all just mammals in the end. We all have our urges, friend or no."
Eve had just told Arthur that she and Merlin were not an item but, even if she hadn't, Arthur still wouldn't be able to explain the surge of anger that spiked through his entire body as completely imaginative images flashed into his mind.
Merlin, naked beneath the sheets, his long fingers dragging roughly down Eve's spine . . . Merlin, flushed and heaving in the surrounding blackness . . . Merlin, his body moving in perfect rhythm with Eve's, moaning into her skin . . .
Arthur had to contain himself from grabbing the nearest pointy object and slicing Gwaine's throat.
Knowing it was best to get away from his colleague, Arthur shook the fantasies from his mind and pushed through the door of his lab, locking it shut behind him.
Merlin had never been inside Eve's flat before, not unless standing in the threshold after dropping her off counted. He'd done that dozens of times, but he'd never actually been inside like she'd been to his. It didn't bother him; he figured Eve wanted her privacy. That's why he was somewhat surprised when Eve invited him in for drinks after dinner that night.
He sat cozily on the couch, sipping the Chianti that Eve had fixed for him, as she sat across from him, her feet tucked beneath her as she leaned against the arm of her chair. He rather enjoyed being in her home, and that he had a good, intimate friend other than Arthur. It made him feel almost lightheaded, but he was sure that was only the wine mixed with a severe lack of sleep.
"Well, what about the hotel?" Eve asked him, cocking her head to the side in thought.
"What about it?" Merlin asked with a frown. He knew he shouldn't tell a civilian so much about a case, especially one as high profile as the Slasher's, but Eve always helped him think. She was almost as good as Arthur.
"Maybe the first two women died in that hotel?" she ventured with a shrug. "Have you tried looking into its history?"
Merlin snorted. "It's a sleazy place," he admitted, taking another long sip. "I'm sure there have been many deaths there over the years."
"You're right," Eve said, crestfallen. "It was a silly idea."
"No, no!" Merlin hastened to say. "Actually, it was brilliant. I didn't even consider the hotel. Maybe you should be the detective."
Eve smirked, seeming to take this as a compliment. "Oh, no," she insisted. "Someone like me wouldn't have the stamina for that, or to be surrounded by police all day. God bless Arthur."
Merlin furrowed his brow as he watched her drink.
"Arthur?"
"Oh," Eve said, apparently not realizing she'd brought Arthur up. "I just meant—well, he solves murders, too, doesn't he? And it's not like he's a cop. Not really."
Merlin blinked his confusion away. "I—guess not."
"Anyway!" Eve said quickly, sitting straight. "Enough talk about work. You think on it too much. What you need is mindless entertainment. How about a movie?"
Merlin opened his mouth to protest, knowing he should really be getting back to the office, but he stopped himself. Eve was right: He needed a break. Maybe it would clear his head and allow him to see the case with a fresh mind. Besides, he wanted to stay, so he nodded.
"Fabulous," she said, springing to her feet. "I'll go find one to pop in. Get the telly set up, will you?" With that, she disappeared into the other room.
In her absence, Merlin looked around the side table for the controls.
"Where's the remote?" he called.
Her distant voice answered, "Check a drawer, maybe? I cleaned recently. Can't remember where I hid it."
Taking another sweeping look at the couch, Merlin drained his glass of wine and stood up. Rubbing the sudden, stinging exhaustion from his eyes, he crossed the room toward the hutch against the far wall and started pulling the drawers out. It didn't take him long to locate the remote and, when he picked it up with a yawn, it fumbled through his fingers and dropped back into the drawer with a dull, hollow thud.
Merlin looked down quizzically at the bottom of the drawer, wondering why it would make such a muffled sound. He took the remote out again and placed it on top of the hutch before returning his attention back to the drawer and giving the base a quick knock. Again, the noise seemed to echo, and Merlin realized the dimensions of the drawer from the outside called for it to be deeper.
He stuck his hand inside and felt around the back, and his fingers connected with a groove that led to the hidden compartment. Warily checking the doorway over his shoulder to make sure Eve hadn't come back, he lifted up the false bottom and placed it next to the remote.
Sitting on the bottom of the drawer was a mess of papers and photographs of people, some of whom looked familiar to Merlin as addicts or dealers. He picked up a handful of papers, realizing they were newspaper clippings, each following a victim of the London Slasher.
Something in Merlin's gut dropped as he frantically looked from article to article, hoping a logical explanation would come to him, but only one did . . .
He picked up more papers and photos, shuffling them in his hands before coming across a familiar picture. It depicted Arthur and Merlin during their time at university, arms around each other's shoulders, and it would have been a nice photo had Merlin's face not been scratched up with razor-thin white slashes.
He didn't mean to gasp as loudly as he did, but he dropped the stack back into the drawer and he could feel his heart racing. His first impulse was the run—to get out—but he couldn't allow Eve to know something was wrong. His next thought was to call dispatch, but she would surely hear the conversation. Thinking quickly, he pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text to the first name in his phonebook, and he replaced the false bottom and slammed the drawer shut just in time for Eve to walk back in.
"Merlin?" she asked, concern in her voice, and he noticed she wasn't holding a DVD. She had changed from her dress to tight black pants and a dark colored long sleeve Henley. Her hair was now pulled back into a tight ponytail.
"Is something the matter?"
Her voice seemed to echo through him, and Merlin swore the room was spinning.
"No, no," he said, trying to sound casual. "I just—listen, Eve. I don't think a movie is such a good idea tonight." He wanted to walk towards the door, but he found couldn't move. "I'm just tired. I—I should go."
Eve tutted as she paced towards him. "I don't think you're in any state to drive, Merlin."
He let out a laugh that he hoped didn't sound too nervous. "I'm fine."
"No, you're really not."
As though the words had flipped a switch, Merlin's legs suddenly gave out on him. They felt like weights, and his arms were too heavy to defend him. Even his head felt as though something strong was pressing it down. He couldn't move, remaining a heap on the floor. That was until he felt the numb sensation of someone turning him over on his back. Eve used her booted foot to do it, as though he was too filthy for her to touch.
"Eve," he gasped, struggling to keep his eyes open. His sight was becoming hazy around the edges, but he could still she her leering down at him with an upturned nose.
"Oh, don't worry, you're not going to die just yet," she told him, and her voice had completely changed. It was no longer the sweet tones he'd become accustomed to but rather something dark. "That's for later. I've given you a sedative. I've been told it gives the wine a slightly nutty aftertaste. Is that true?"
He couldn't speak. He was using all his energy to stay awake—to breathe. He sincerely hoped looks could kill because, if so, Eve would drop dead any second.
She squatted next to him, prodding him with a gloved finger. "It's a shame, really," she said. "You weren't even that fun to trick. You let me into your life faster than I planned." She gave a laugh. "My, you really were keen on making Arthur jealous, weren't you? So blinded that you couldn't even see the person you were hunting was under your nose the whole time. You should really listen to your instincts more instead of being so desperate. You trusted them on Alator and the hotel victims, but not when it really mattered. You really are a sad excuse for a detective; but, no matter, you'll get what you want soon enough. I promise, once we're through here, Arthur will notice you. No need to thank me."
Merlin couldn't fight it anymore. The darkness was creeping in.
"Goodbye, Merlin," was the last thing he heard before slipping out of consciousness.
Arthur had spent the remaining hours of his night with Gwaine, Percival, and Leon. As he was leaving the office, Gwaine invited him to drinks. "Wouldn't miss it," Arthur said happily despite himself, and the two made their way to a pub not far from the station, where Arthur was the only one of their group who didn't let entirely loose. He had only been inebriated once in his life before resolving that it was a very bad idea for someone like him. He liked to be in full control of his actions; except, of course, when the dragon was. However, after a few drinks, he managed to excuse himself early and slip home.
As Arthur rubbed the loose droplets of water out of his hair, he paced back into his bedroom. He had taken a longer shower than normal, as he kept catching himself drifting out of reality and into the past.
He saw his mother, dead and bloody on the hotel bed. He saw the face of the man who killed her. He saw his sister—his half-sister. He wondered if life would have been different with her in it, what wasted hours he'd missed by playing house with her as children, complaining about their parents as teens, and catching dinner with her as adults. He allowed himself to dream that he would have turned out differently had Morgana been in the picture, and it had not just been himself and Uther.
He would have thought learning the truth about Igraine's death would give him answers, but it only left him with more questions. Most of those questions put Uther in a scrutinizing light, and perhaps that was the most unnerving aspect of all. Uther's word had been law: the only thing Arthur could ever rely on. What could he rely on now?
At least he had one answer that he had long dwelled on: Why he was the way he was; where the creature living in his bloodstream originated; where the Need stemmed from. He witnessed his mother's death. He'd been soaked in her blood. A memory can be forgotten, but its effects linger.
He peered out at the large, pale moon ornamenting the blackness outside his window, and he wondered if, somewhere out there, Morgana was still alive. He wonder if she too had the Need, felt the shared darkness that connected them. Did she even know about him?
On his nightstand, his mobile beeped and illuminated with a reminder alert. It was a text from Merlin from twenty minutes ago. When Arthur opened the message, it read:
At Eves. Shes slasher. Call gwen.
Arthur felt his heart skip a beat, and he reread the text. He remembered the young girl sitting next to him a pool of blood, and flashes of Eve's dark hair and fair skin came to mind. He remembered the frown she'd given him before, the one that reminded him so much of Uther.
It hit him like a wall: Morgana was alive. She was in London. She was the Slasher. She was Eve . . .
She had Merlin.
Arthur didn't even think to change out of his sweatpants and nightshirt. He threw on his coat and the first pair of shoes he could find before rushing towards the door and praying that traffic wasn't bad.
Fifteen minutes of speeding and back roads took him to Morgana's front door, which had been left unlocked.
"Merlin!" he yelled into the pristine emptiness. He knew the flat was vacant, but he couldn't satisfy himself until he checked every room—until he called Merlin's name into every nook. He was nowhere.
Arthur willed himself not to panic as he found himself back in the main room, but the same crushing weight he'd felt in the hotel threatened him again. He ran his hand through his hair, coaching his breathing and forcing himself to think.
Clues!
All throughout, Morgana had left him clues. She wanted him to find her. She couldn't just phone him like a normal person because she wanted him to connect the dots on his own—and because they were not normal people. She wouldn't make it easy, but she would give him all the pieces he needed to figure this out.
He took a sweeping look around the room until his eyes caught a photograph sitting on the side table next to the couch. It had been another from his personal collection, and Morgana must have taken it the first time she was in his flat. It showed himself and Merlin but, this time, only Merlin's face had been scratched out.
His heart thumping, he noticed another photo beneath it and shuffled it to the top. It depicted the front of a small, bluish colored house that might have been somewhere outside London. He'd never seen the place before, no matter how he tried to place it, but he knew this is where Morgana had taken Merlin.
At once, he knew he had no choice: He couldn't find this house without help. He took out his mobile and called Gwen.
Chapter Text
The department spent most of the morning and afternoon scouring Morgana's flat. They found the drawer where she kept her newspaper clippings, found pints of more preserved blood in her icebox, and located sharp hunting knives in her closet. They were all so easy to find, like Morgana had left them out in the open on purpose. What they didn't find was evidence of where she'd taken Merlin, as Arthur had the sense to remove the pictures he'd found from the scene.
He was used to hiding things from the police but, this time, it made him feel uneasy. The pictures were like a weight in his pocket and, each time his fingers made contact with them, his skin felt dirty. The sensation remained until he rubbed it away. He was torn between showing Lance the photograph and telling him to look for the house depicted in it, and keeping the pictures hidden. After all, this was Merlin's life on the line—Merlin's—but Morgana was his sister and she'd gone through all this trouble; he felt obliged to at least hear her out. That's why he needed to find her before the police did. Besides, she'd only taken Merlin to get Arthur's attention. She wouldn't really hurt him just yet. At least, that's what Arthur was banking on.
"Eve Montgomery, better known as Morgana le Fay."
Gwen was standing at the front of the briefing room, into which the department had congregated, while Arthur stood in the very back. As he looked at the picture of his sister hanging on the dry erase board behind Gwen, he realized he was drumming his fingers against his hip and he had the sudden urge to pace.
"She's person of interest number one, and we sent out an APW this morning. Sergeant Emrys' face is all over the news, too, so we'll know if anyone sees them," Gwen was saying. "Until then, we'll be looking for le Fay.
"Right now, we don't know much about her. She has one known relative—her mother, Vivienne le Fay, deceased. No record on a father."
Vivienne le Fay, Arthur thought, his mind reeling. He needed to know how she died. He couldn't explain it, but he knew it was somehow important by the way the dark dragon was sniffing the air.
"At the age of five, le Fay was admitted to St. Conal's Psychiatric Hospital in Ireland, where she remained until seventeen, when she became of age," Gwen continued. "After that, she seems to disappear off the map, but Lance has been on the phone with the hospital all day to find out more about her time there and where she might have gone afterward."
Arthur started silently for the door as Gwen wrapped up the briefing with, "We're going to find her—and Merlin, alive. She's made it personal now and that was her first mistake. Stand by for further instruction and, until then, keep yourself available for any tips or witnesses . . ."
Arthur couldn't get to his lab fast enough, where he immediately accessed the public records of Vivienne le Fay from his computer. An old driver's license revealed a woman who looked very much like her daughter, save for brown eyes. She was young, not much older than Morgana must have been now, and she had three counts of cocaine possession and a record of prostitution.
However, it was her death that stuck out to Arthur, as he knew it might. She took her own life close to thirty years ago. Vivienne was found in her home three weeks after Igraine's murder with slashes on both wrists.
"She was the second woman," Arthur realized in a whisper. Vivienne le Fay was the other person Morgana based her victims off. Maybe she inspired her daughter further . . .
Arthur scrolled back to the driver's license and copied down Vivienne's last known home address.
The house looked exactly like it did in the photo, except a little older and somewhat overgrown. The blue had faded from it, one of the windows was shattered, weeds poked up from the cracks in the garden's walkway, and the bright flowers in the windowsill were nothing but malnourished dirt and trash.
Slipping on his leather gloves as he went, Arthur made for the front door and pushed it open with an ancient creak. Dust swirled and winked in the pink rays of the setting sun before settling in layers on the disused furniture and scuffed up floored.
He didn't dare call out for Merlin or Morgana, but kept a knife held at the read if need be, even though he didn't expect to use it.
The floorboards protested under his boots as he walked further into the house, his growing apprehension making the hairs on the back of his neck stand. The creature hissed at him, warning him to be wary, telling him to turn around. Before he could follow its command, a hand seized his shoulder and something sharp and cold pricked his neck. Distantly, as his legs wobbled and his eyes rolled to the back of his head, he felt arms enclose him and bring him carefully down to the floor so that he wouldn't fall.
He was grateful for that . . .
When he awoke, the sun had gone down completely, and a blinding floodlight illuminated the dark room around him. He was sitting upright at a table in the small kitchen; his wrists were duct taped to the arms of his wooden chair, and his ankles were bound to its legs. He didn't try to escape. He'd created enough of these situations to understand there was no use in wasting the energy.
Instead, he looked across the table and, in the white light, he saw Morgana sitting across from him, her gloved fingers laced together on the tabletop. She was smiling sweetly at him, but emptiness dulled her eyes.
"Hello, dear brother," she said to him.
He swallowed, getting a feel for his own voice again. "Morgana."
She seemed delighted by her own name.
"Sorry about the restraints," she said, nodding pointedly at his silver-laced wrists. "I had to be safe. I wasn't sure what you might do."
"That was wise," he accredited her. "I don't know what I would have done either."
She was positively beaming now, and he admitted that he felt a slight flutter in his gut. The dragon sat contented—interested.
"Forgive me," Morgana laughed. "You have to understand, I've waited so long to speak to you openly and now—well, I don't really know what to say! You must have questions though?"
"A few," Arthur understated. "Starting with you. Where have you been all these years? Why have I never heard of you?"
Morgana's smile suddenly faded, and her eyes became as sharp as daggers. "To answer that, I'll have to backtrack."
"To my mother's death?" Arthur guessed.
"No. To my mother's life."
She sat back in her chair, and Arthur made himself as comfortable as he could under the circumstances.
"She was an informant for Uther," Morgana began. "That's how they met, but their relationship was more than professional; I'm proof of that." She frowned their father's frown. "She loved him, I think, but the same can't be said for him. As far as I can gather, he ended their arrangement after my mother became pregnant, and he took me to live with you and his wife."
"Took you?" Arthur wondered. "Why would he take you just to give you away?"
She let out a mirthless laugh. "Please, it wasn't out of love, I'm sure. He was stuck with me. Who would give custody of a child to a junkie and prostitute? Even though she was only doing what she had to in order to keep herself alive. Not all of us can be successful inspectors."
Arthur found himself agreeing with that point.
"But my mother wouldn't take that lying down. She loved me. She wanted me," Morgana went on, a bite to her tone. "Uther took something she loved, and eventually she found a way to return the favor."
"She . . ." Arthur began puzzling together the pieces. "She killed my mother? But that man—?"
"Anthony Odin," Morgana informed him. "He was one of my mother's clients. He was a . . . man for hire," she said carefully.
"A hit man!" Arthur exclaimed.
"To put it in plainer terms, yes," Morgana said coolly. "Uther got wind of him. He suspected Odin was out to kill Igraine. He put her into hiding, along with me, so my mother would never find me, and you."
"But Odin found us," Arthur finished for her.
Morgana stood up and paced to the back of his chair, where she placed a firm, comforting hand on him. He did not need comforting, and she did not mean it, but the touch was nice.
"I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Arthur," she cooed. "It must be hard to learn your hero was nothing but a liar."
"I still don't know what happened to you," Arthur reminded, swiveling his neck to look up at her.
She let out a heavy breath and continued, "Uther never wanted me; Igraine always hated me. After she died, he got rid of me the first second he could, but he was spiteful. Instead of returning me to my mother, he sent me away to the hospital. After what you and I had been through . . ."
Images of his mother's death danced before him again.
". . . I think he justified it by thinking you could be saved. You were so young at the time. But me? He knew I'd never forget. He dropped me off at the hospital and never looked back. I never saw him again."
"And your mother?" Arthur asked, trying to ignore the growing rage he felt for Uther. Part of him knew Morgana's story was bias or lacking in facts, but he didn't care. She was his sister, by blood and experience. Her bias was his, just as her darkness was his.
They were born in blood, together.
"She came to see me often in the beginning," Morgana said, recalling a far off memory. "I can still see her sometimes . . . how much she decayed over the weeks. She knew she'd never get me back, and . . ."
"She killed herself."
It wasn't a question.
Morgana swallowed hard and nodded at the floor.
"For love," Morgana clarified. "Can you even imagine?"
"No."
"Neither can I."
She removed her palm from his shoulder and crouched down low at his side, staring up at him with large eyes that matched his own.
"That's because we've never had anything like it," Morgana told him. "That's why I searched for you, Arthur. I never forgot about you. I never forgot what happened to us that night. We should have gotten through it together, and Uther took that away from us. He wanted us to have nothing to do with each other. He wanted us to be different."
A large smile spread onto her features.
"Imagine how happy I was when I found you, and I saw you were exactly like me." She let out an excited breath. "I wasn't alone anymore."
He found her smile was contagious, and he wanted to reach out for her like she had done for him in the hotel room that night when they were children. He wanted to reassure her that she was not alone, and she would never be again.
As though she could read his mind, she straightened herself out and crossed the room. When she emerged back into circle of white light, he saw a knife glinting in her fist, but he felt no concern. Gingerly, she bent down and freed his arms and legs, and he sprang up into her embrace. She seemed to be shaking as he held her, and he assumed it was caused by the same elation he felt.
"We're family, you and I," she told him as the hug broke, but they continued to hold each other. "Finally, neither of us has to hide what we are."
"Or tell me it's wrong," Arthur agreed.
"Never wrong," Morgana soothed him. "Perfect—in every way."
For the first time, Arthur believed it. He didn't feel like a monster. There, standing in front of him was someone who knew exactly who he was, and she did not try to run or change him. She accepted him through and through.
Suddenly, he remembered what he had done. He alerted Gwen to Morgana. He had sent the dogs out on his sister, and now she was the most wanted person in England.
"You have to get out of here," he said frantically, pulling away from her arms. "Morgana, they'll find you. It—it's my fault."
She shook her head, taking a step closer to him.
"You did what you thought was right," she said, and he knew he was forgiven. "Come with me, Arthur."
He froze.
"Come—?"
Could he do it? Could he leave his life behind for her? He knew, one day, he'd have to escape. After all, people like him were always found out in the end. He'd always been prepared to leave if need be, but this was something he could not imagine. No one suspected him; no one was looking for him. Was he willing to risk it for her?
And yet, how could he say no? He'd only just found her again—his family, the only person who saw him as he was. He couldn't let that go.
"My boat," he said decisively. That had always been his plan, and now he had someone he could share it with. "The dock is low security—that's why I picked it. We'll be able to escape down the Thames and out to the Channel."
Morgana seemed overjoyed, and she let out a breath of exuberant laughter. Arthur had always pictured the moment of his escape to be a tense one, but he felt almost euphoric at the outstretching possibilities of the future. Next to Morgana, they were all feasible. He had so much to learn, and she was the master of their craft; she could teach him everything Uther couldn't.
"But there's something we have to take care of first," she said, her face suddenly falling. "Before you leave, we have to make sure there's nothing you'll want to come back for."
Arthur shook his head in protest. "There's nothing!"
"Not yet," she assured him. "Do you trust me, brother?"
"Yes!"
"And I want to trust you. I will—after this. Follow me."
She held out her hand for him, which he accepted, and she led him through the house, towards the cellar. Unlike the dust ridden upstairs, the basement was immaculate. It smelled of bleach and pine and all the familiar scents Arthur used to clean a kill room. A dim, obstructed light was shining from the corner of the room, drawing Arthur's attention to the wall of plastic hanging from the rafters.
"What is this?" he asked, his breath catching as she led him towards the plastic-wrapped section. For the first time, the creature crawled at his blood.
Morgana did not answer, but there was an icy expression about her as she pushed back the plastic and led him inside.
"It's not my usual method of doing things," she told him, finally letting go of his hand. "But this isn't for me. I wanted to make you feel more at home, Arthur."
He stood still, gaping down at the tools of his trade. It was perfect: a scalpel, knives and saws and drills, a sample slide for his trophy . . .
There was even a playmate: The one he'd expected the moment he saw the plastic sheets, and the one he hoped against hope wouldn't be on the table.
Merlin.
He mentally kicked himself for forgetting.
Merlin was out cold, naked but for the plastic and tape holding him down, and the piece of silver across his lips. Arthur was relieved to see his chest rising and falling with peaceful breaths, unaware of what was happening around him.
"I—" Arthur began, unable to take his eyes off Merlin. She could ask him to do this—not this. Not him.
"He doesn't fit the Code," Arthur said in ways of an excuse, but Morgana laughed.
"The Code? The rules a hypocrite gave to you?" she challenged. "You won't need the Code anymore, brother. You're free now."
He blinked, trying to think of a way out of this. For once, his mind failed him.
"But why Merlin?" he asked. "He doesn't have to die, Morgana. Why can't we just go?"
"Because," she said, suddenly cold and impatient, "he's standing in our way. Arthur, can't you see, as long as he's alive, you'll be tied to your fake life? You see him as family, but he's not! He's not real, not like me. You don't need him anymore."
Arthur stood closer to the table, not daring to touch Merlin's unconscious form, no matter how much he wanted to. His fingers ghosted over Merlin's white skin before he retracted them.
"He doesn't know the real you, Arthur," Morgana told him, and he hated how much sense she was making. "If he did, he'd never accept it. He would turn you in."
"You don't know that," Arthur muttered, his eyes boring into Merlin's face as though he wanted Merlin to awaken and say he did know; he'd known all along and Arthur didn't have to hide any longer because it didn't change a thing.
"You have to let him go, little brother," Morgana said, and suddenly she was across from him, offering him a long silver blade from over Merlin's chest. "You have to choose: him or me."
He tore his eyes off Merlin and met hers. The dragon was telling him to take the knife, to do it now: to draw blood, but not Merlin's . . .
"But it's Merlin," he said weakly, unsure whether it was to her or to himself.
"And you'll have to spend your whole life lying to him," she told him. "You'll never have to lie to me, Arthur. You'll never have to hide or pretend, like I never will for you."
Steeling himself, he grabbed the scalpel from the side table and traced a thin, shallow line into Merlin's cheekbone, and his hand shook like it had never performed this act before. Drops of red oozed from the wound, and Arthur felt he had no choice but to collect it in the sample slide under Morgana's fascinated eyes.
She offered him the knife again, and he took it with shaking fingers. Merlin looked so peaceful beneath the tip of the blade as Arthur raised it high in both fists. He could hear Morgana's breath, haggard and expecting. Arthur had done this so many times—had heard the dark being inside of him screech with joy—but this time it was different.
"I can't," he told her in a whisper, sounding apologetic but making up his mind. "Not Merlin. I'm . . ."
He wasn't sure what to call his connotation for Merlin. He wracked his brain for a proper word, but none came. Was it more than just amusement that rendered him unable to thrust the blade? Was it affection? friendship? brotherhood? Was it love?
Arthur wasn't sure what any of those words truly meant, but he did know that, if Merlin died—and he died by Arthur's hand—life would be different in a way Arthur did not want. He could not picture his life without Merlin in it; albeit, he never really tried. Merlin was a constant in his life: a steady, invariable piece of Arthur that could not be undone.
Was there a single word in any of the languages that orbited the sun that conveyed such a meaning?
Home, was what came to mind, but Arthur wasn't certain a person could be called such a thing. If they could, "home" would be synonymous with "Merlin."
"—fond of him," Arthur decided on, for the lack of a better word.
"No," Morgana said, shaking her head like she could not believe her ears. The bloodthirsty look in her eyes had vanished, making way for a maddening twinkle. "Don't say that," she begged as Arthur lowered the knife to his side.
She rushed to his side of the table, grabbing his wrist.
"You have to!"
"No, Morgana!" he shouted back, resolute. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Merlin start to stir.
Morgana looked enraged, her eyes flashing with fire. "Uther has polluted your mind," she yelled in fury. "You don't get to be a killer and a hero! It doesn't work like that!"
When he did not move, she snatched the knife from his grip and held it over Merlin, whose eyelids were fluttering now. In the split second Arthur saw her plunging the blade he felt his heart burst. The dragon inside took over, hungry for blood and driven by darkness, but motivated by an animal instinct much more powerful: protection. It would not allow her to touch Merlin.
Before he could keep up with his actions, Arthur was clutching Morgana's arm with both hands, forcing her body backwards. Merlin was awake now, wide-eyed and thrashing against his restraints, making noises in his throat under the duct tape muzzle.
Arthur and Morgana stumbled away from the table, landing in a pile on the floor. Arthur tried to keep her there, but it didn't take long for Morgana to break away and spring to her feet. She ran around the table towards the exit, and Arthur jumped up and caught her before she made it passed the plastic. She whipped around, her ponytail smacking him across the cheek, and he felt a sting on his chest where she grazed with the knife still in her fist. He hissed at the pain, and she took the opportunity to break free and run.
Catching his bearings again, he pursued her, but she was no longer in the basement. His first instinct was to look up the stairs, but he saw an opened heavy metal door on the other end of the cellar. He booked it out of the threshold, met with the empty, overgrown back garden and a discolored, broken wooden fence that lined the property . . .
But no Morgana.
"She phoned me," Arthur said for what felt like the hundredth time that night. "She told me to come alone and, if I didn't, she'd kill Merlin."
At least five SOCO tents had been set up along the road, and the entire block was closed off. Inspectors were questioning occupants of the surrounding homes while uniforms scoured the surrounding area for any sign of Morgana. Flashing pale blue lights of dozens of cop cars and one ambulance lit up the darkness. Arthur cast another look over at the ambulance, where he really wanted to be.
"And did she say why she wanted you to come?" Gwen asked, jotting notes down in her pad like Arthur was nothing more than a witness. She was only doing her job, he supposed, but he wished she'd stop keeping him from Merlin's side.
Arthur let out a tired sigh. "I don't know," he lied. "She didn't say much. I think she just wanted an eyewitness."
"You think she wanted you to watch her kill Merlin?" Gwen repeated, unconvinced.
"Well, I'm not a threat, am I? I haven't even got a gun!" he said, not having to reach very far to feign irritation. "I think she was trying to rub it in our faces, to prove she had the upper hand by killing one of our own and having a witness to give all the details."
"Lucky you managed to escape, then," Gwen said. "Tell me again how you did that."
"Super, we've been over this," Arthur groaned. "Please, I'm tired."
Gwen fixed him with a hard stare, and there was something in her eyes that alluded to distrust. Arthur had never experienced that look from an official before, but he'd spent his whole life preparing for it. However, she must have decided to believe him because she said, "Fine. One more question: Any idea why she singled out Merlin?"
Arthur shrugged. "Maybe because he was new to the division," he said. "Maybe he was the first person she saw? How am I supposed to know?"
Gwen opened her mouth to say something but, before she got the chance, Lance popped up at their side. "House belonged to Vivienne le Fay," he reported. "Looks like the Slasher wanted to come home."
"Any luck finding her?" Gwen asked.
"None yet," said Lance.
"I expect you'll be getting back to work, then, Chief Inspector?" said a new voice, and they all turned to find Chief Superintendant Annis Corcoran striding towards them.
"Yes, ma'am," Lance told her dutifully, and Arthur noticed both he and Gwen stood up a little straighter in Corcoran's presence.
"Excellent. I'll have a full report on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, Super," she told Gwen before eyeing Arthur and asking, "I wonder if I could have a quick word with you?" It had been phrased as a question, but he knew it wasn't.
Fully expecting another round of questions, Arthur followed Annis to a break in the crowd, where she rounded on him and said, quite unexpectedly, "Morgana le Fay. Does the name mean anything to you?"
He gaped for a moment before catching his bearings. "It didn't before today," he answered coolly. "Should it have?"
Annis crossed her arms over her chest, staring him down. "I'm just trying to determine how much you know," she said. "Tell me, Arthur, do you remember much about the time before your mother died?"
He knew he had to answer very carefully. She was treading closely, even though he was certain she knew more than even he did. Perhaps, if he phrased his words just right, he'd be able to get answers.
"Not really," he told her truthfully, playing dumb. "Why? Does—does le Fay have something to do with my mother?"
Annis let out a heavy sigh, looking off at the hubbub. "Uther never told you, then . . . About Morgana." She brought her attention back to him. "She's your sister."
Arthur gave his best stunned looked. "My—?" he stammered. "No, I haven't got any siblings."
"You have one. She's your half-sister by your father," Annis explained. "Before you were born, le Fay's mother worked as an informant for Uther. The two had an affair, and Morgana was the product of it."
Arthur didn't have to fake weariness. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he kept his attention on Corcoran, pretending this was all new information. He convincingly looked as though a weight had just been dropped on him.
"I'm sorry, this is just a lot to take in," he said, rubbing at his eyes.
"I know it must be. Now, I want you to bear in mind this all before your parents were married," she hurried to say. "He ended it once he became engaged to your mother. Shortly after, Morgana was born, and Uther knew Vivienne's lifestyle was not a healthy place for a baby. He won custody of her and raised her along with you, but Vivienne fought for her daughter. Not having Morgana drove her mad, I think . . ."
She gave Arthur a careful look and said slowly, "Uther often blamed Vivienne for Igraine's death."
"He thought she murdered her?" Arthur asked and, off Annis' expression, added, "I know she didn't die of cancer. I was there when died. I—I remember. Vaguely."
She seemed to buy the crocodile tears that flooded his bright eyes.
"Was she?" Arthur asked quickly, blinking the water away. "Vivienne—was she responsible for my mother's death?"
"I don't know," Annis answered honestly. "She killed herself weeks later, before Uther could find any real evidence, but he was convinced. I'm not so sure, though. The man who killed your mother—we'd been after him for quite some time. Your father was a revered inspector; he had many enemies, not just Vivienne le Fay."
"But—but my sister?" Arthur asked. "Why have I never heard anything about her?"
Annis gave him a compassionate look. "You were so young when it happened, Arthur," she said, gazing at him as though he were still that three-year-old boy. "You wouldn't remember her. I think, after Igraine died, all Uther saw in Morgana was her mother. He gave her up. I didn't know to where—I didn't ask. I trusted your father . . . as should you."
She glared at him pointedly until he nodded his understanding.
"He sent her to that asylum," Arthur said.
"The hospital, yes," Annis agreed. "It would appear so. He had his reasons, no matter how misguided . . . I know this is a lot to swallow, Arthur, but I felt you had the right to know. It was no mistake she lured you here tonight. I think she was trying to get revenge for Uther's mistakes through you."
"Thank you, Chief," he said. Assuming the conversation was over, he turned away, but she caught him by the arm.
"This conversation," she told him, "No one else need know about it. I will continue to keep Uther's secret for as long as I can. You're an asset to this department, Arthur; there's not need to make you a pariah. Not to mention what this information would do to Uther's reputation. Understand?"
He nodded, and a nagging question popped into his head. "Chief, you didn't know Morgana was the Slasher, did you?"
For a moment, it looked like she was deciding what to tell him, until eventually she settled on, "No. I began to suspect after the incident in the hotel. I even went to Scotland Yard to dig up the records on your mother's murder, but apparently they have been misplaced." Something in her tone told Arthur she didn't view that as a coincidence, and he stayed silent.
"We'll find her, Arthur," she assured him, apparently taking his silence for uncertainty. "She won't get away with this."
"No, she won't," Arthur agreed. He'd make sure of that: Morgana had given him no choice in the matter. She, perhaps more than anyone else, deserved to be on Arthur's table.
"Now, go comfort that boy in that ambulance," she told him, nodding towards the truck. "He's been through Hell today." And Arthur knew he was dismissed.
As he made his way through the crowd, he thought of Annis' story compared to what Morgana had told him. He got Vivienne's side of events, and now he had Uther's; somewhere between the two must have been truth, and he guessed he'd have to piece that together himself.
When he reached the opened double doors of the ambulance, Merlin was sitting slouched but awake on one of the benches that lined the wall. A gray blanket had been settled over his shoulders, and Arthur noticed him clutching the corners of it on his lap. An EMT was giving Merlin a once over, and Arthur waited until he was done. Finally, the man straightened out and shot Arthur a friendly grin before hopping out of the truck and leaving them alone.
Arthur clamored into the vehicle, but Merlin didn't even seem to notice his presence. He only stared blankly, looking at the white wall across from him. It wasn't until Arthur sat down close to him on the bench did Merlin stir.
"Arthur," he breathed, giving him the best smile he could muster, no matter how weak. Arthur saw how red and exhausted his eyes were and how puffy his cheeks had gotten. Then his eyes wandered to the gauze and plaster on Merlin's cheek, where Arthur had cut him, and he felt his stomach drop.
It occurred to Arthur that he had absolutely no idea how to console Merlin.
"How are you?" was all he could come up with, because that's what people said after a trauma. It was a useless question, he thought, like asking whether the sky was blue, but it was all he had.
Merlin let out something between a scoff and a laugh.
"Alive, I suppose," he muttered.
"That's a start," Arthur said, trying to sound light. He decided to stick to the facts. "They'll be taking you to hospital in a few minutes. They'll want to observe you for a few days. There will be guards posted outside your door at all times, I've made sure, just in case she—Well, just in case."
Merlin's lips became a thin white line, paler than the rest of his drained face, and he nodded at the unspoken words.
"Not St. George's?" he asked hopefully, and there was a hint of his old self in it.
Arthur couldn't help but chuckle. "No, far away from St. George," he promised.
"Good."
There was a beat of silence before Merlin looked down at his lap, shook his head, and hissed, "God, I'm so stupid."
Arthur hated to hear Merlin talk like that.
"It was all a lie, from the very start," he continued. "She probably only wanted to get close to me to learn about the investigation, and I told her everything. I'm a piss poor cop."
"You aren't," Arthur said forcefully. "Don't blame yourself, Merlin. She fooled us all."
When he looked up again, he found Merlin's gaze fixed on him.
"She would have killed me if not for you," he said softly, his blue eyes shining with tears over the bags beneath them. He gave a shaky exhale. "If it wasn't for you—"
Arthur looked at Merlin's cheek again, and he suddenly couldn't look him in the eyes. If it weren't for Arthur, Merlin would have never been in this situation in the first place. If it weren't for Arthur, Merlin would be safe.
"That's not true," Arthur whispered and, for the briefest moment, he wanted to tell Merlin everything. He bit his tongue, trying to keep it down.
"It is," Merlin was saying, nodding so vigorously that a tear escaped and cascaded down the deep ridge of his cheekbone. "You are the best thing in my life. I don't—I don't know what I'd do without you. I'd have been a goner long before this."
Arthur looked down at the floor under his shoes, his lips parted in a million unspoken words. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Merlin swat away the tears on his cheeks furiously. He tried to make his expression stony, but his eyes drooped with a sudden epiphany.
"God, she would have fucking killed me . . ."
It was like the fact just hit him, and more hot tears fell no matter how much he tried to shake them away.
Arthur sat up a little straighter and put his arm across Merlin's shoulder.
"No, she wouldn't have," he said definitely. "I wouldn't have let that happen. Not to you. Never to you."
Merlin was giving him the breathless look again through the droplets lining his eyelashes, like Arthur was the only person in the world, but that illusion was soon shattered by a voice from behind them, which said, "We're moving out." They both turned to see the EMT from before standing beneath the doors.
Merlin was giving Arthur big eyes, like he didn't want to lose him at his side, and they both hated that Arthur wasn't strictly family and therefore could not ride with him.
Accepting this, Arthur stood up, but he placed a firm hand on Merlin's shoulder, like Uther used to do to him.
"I'll be right behind the ambulance," he assured Merlin, who accepted it, too.
Chapter Text
A few days later, Arthur opened the door to Merlin, and his face lit up instantly. "Well, if it isn't London's newest Detective Inspector."
Merlin was beaming when he walking through the threshold and Arthur closed the door behind them.
"Well, that takes all the fun out of telling you myself," Merlin said, shrugging off his coat as Arthur leaned against the kitchen counter.
"Still, it's good news," Arthur told him with a gesture, but his expression became more stoic when Merlin turned around and met his eyes. He noticed the thin, brownish-red line etched into Merlin's right cheek. "How are you?"
Merlin's lips became a thin line and he swallowed hard, but he nodded. "Fine," he said after a beat. "Good to be out of hospital, anyway. The food was shit and I think I got bedsores."
"At least your alive," Arthur offered, and Merlin was giving him that look again.
"Yeah, I am," Merlin exhaled, searching Arthur's face, "because of you."
Arthur tried to protest. "No, you're the one who texted me. I'd never have known what was happening if not for that. You saved your own backside."
Merlin shook his head throughout the whole explanation, not hearing a word. "No, no, Arthur, you fought her," he said, stepping closer to Arthur with every word until there was hardly any space between them. "I was helpless, and you saved me." He was almost whispering now. "I—I just wanted to say thank you. So, thanks."
Arthur didn't know what to say, so he remembered his manners and said, a little awkwardly, "You're welcome."
Then, before Arthur saw it coming, Merlin was kissing him, hard and passionately. Arthur's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, and he found he had no idea what to do with his hands. After a moment, Merlin came up for air, and Arthur blinked at him.
"Merlin, what are you—?"
"Shut the Hell up," Merlin breathed with a feverish shake of his head, and he cupped the back of Arthur's neck and pulled him in again fiercely.
In that moment, all the sensations Arthur had felt at the le Fay house rushed back to him. He remembered the urge to protect Merlin, to keep him alive; and he wanted to discover the extent of that life: to feel Merlin's racing heartbeat, to listen to his hastened breath, to find out just how every inch of Merlin's body worked. Inside Arthur's mind, the dark creature spread its wings, hissing in pleasure, and Arthur was wrapping his arms around Merlin and pushing his back hard against the door.
He kissed Merlin hungrily, his lips and chin becoming sleek, and their teeth knocked together quite a bit at first, but soon enough they wordlessly figured out how to avoid that. The door rattled in its frame as Arthur brought his leg between Merlin's and he could feel Merlin's erection when he straddled it. Merlin started to grind against Arthur's knee, letting out grunts in between kisses, and Arthur was almost positive that Merlin could feel him growing hard against his thigh.
Arthur took his hands off of Merlin and fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, of which there were far too many, and Merlin must have thought so, too, because he eagerly assisted Arthur, laughing when their fingers bumped together. Merlin raised his arms above his head and allowed Arthur to lift off his shirt, too, and Arthur immediately began groping at Merlin's bare torso once the fabric was discarded.
They refused to take their hands off of each other as they stumbled into the dark bedroom, and they fell on top of the duvet in a mass of entangled limbs. From beneath Arthur, Merlin reached down and unbuckled Arthur's belt, and pushed Arthur's jeans and shorts down midway, letting Arthur shake them off the rest of the way. He then fought to get off his own trousers. Once he managed it, Arthur reached between and pressed the heel of his palm into the front Merlin's boxer-briefs.
"Oh, Jesus fuck, Arthur," Merlin said in frustration as Arthur kneaded.
He writhed as Arthur dragged his lips along Merlin's neck and shoulders, adding moisture to the sweat. He sucked on the skin and stubble around Merlin's adam's apple, which vibrated with each rough breath, and he slipped off Merlin's pants with opened palms.
Merlin wrapped his limbs around Arthur and flipped them over on the mattress, working his way down Arthur's chest and around his hardened nipples. Arthur felt a heat overcome his body as his skin responded to every touch, and for a moment all he could do way stare up at the ceiling and moan. When Merlin reached his lips again, Arthur reached behind him and began fingering him, which made Merlin sink his fingernails into Arthur's biceps.
After another desperate kiss, Arthur got to his knees, wrapping Merlin's legs around his neck, and started thrusting. At first, Merlin let out a soft choked noise, which quickly turned into repetitive groans of "Arthur, Arthur . . ."
Arthur kept his gaze fixed on Merlin's, whose dark blue eyes twinkled in the moonlight, whose face was flushed and hair was ruffled and skin was prickled, and he was sure that image would stay with him forever as they climaxed together.
10:32PM
The bed creaked as Arthur tried to extract himself from beneath the sheets, and he felt an instant chill against his skin in contrast to the sweaty warmth from which he'd come. Next to him, Merlin took in a sharp inhale and his eyes flickered open. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur in curiosity.
"Where are you going?"
Arthur dropped his shoulders, giving a sigh. "Duty calls," he said, sounding regretful.
Merlin rolled over onto his back and knitted his brows together. "What?"
Arthur laid back down on his side, propped up by his elbow, peering down at Merlin. "Lance asked me to do one last forensic sweep of le Fay's flat," he said, noticing Merlin cringle slightly at the name. "Gwaine already took care of the house, so I said I'd do this one."
"What, now?"
"Lance wants our reports tomorrow. I'm sorry."
Merlin cast his eyes away, but accepted it. "I guess you'll want me gone by the time you get back?" he said in a soft voice.
Arthur found the corners his lips curving upward. "I didn't say that."
Merlin gazed back at him, and he was giving that breathless look again that Arthur thought he finally understood.
"Merlin, what happened tonight," Arthur whispered, and he could see the defenses in Merlin's eyes go up in preparation for the worst. "I wouldn't mind if it happened again."
He wondered if Merlin felt the same. Usually, after Arthur had sex with someone, they ended up running away as fast as they could and never looking back. As smooth as Arthur was with feigning other things, he could never master hiding his true self during sex. But it felt different with Merlin: it wasn't hollow.
Arthur realized that something behind Merlin's eyes seemed to flutter, and Merlin cupped Arthur cheek in his palm, as though to test whether or not Arthur was solid. Arthur found himself leaning into the touch.
His eyes drifted to the scab on Merlin's cheek, black against his fair skin in the darkness, and Arthur couldn't stop himself from stroking the line delicately with the pad of his thumb.
"No, I wouldn't, either," said Merlin.
Arthur inclined his head and they were kissing again, softly this time, their lips clicking together with each movement. Arthur traced his way down to Merlin's neck, working on a patch of skin, and he felt Merlin's voice box vibrated when he said, "I thought you had to go."
Reluctantly, Arthur withdrew himself, sat up, and flung his legs off the side of the bed. "I am. I'm going now," he said, not sounding too pleased about it, but he redressed and picked up his bag from the corner of the room.
He allowed himself one last look at Merlin. "I'll be back soon. You sleep," he said before turning towards the bedroom door.
"Arthur—" Merlin called urgently, regaining his attention. Merlin's eyes were wide, and he looked tense, like he was about to say something, but then his body relaxed.
"It's nothing."
Arthur raised a brow and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.
"You sure?"
"Yeah." But he didn't look sure. "Yeah, I'll see you later," he finished, and Arthur made his way out of the room, leaving Merlin with the closing sound of the front door.
11:17PM
The thin, bright red numbers on the clock pierced the pitch black. Even the moon had retreated behind a cloud, leaving no trace of light. Still, she seamed to glide through the darkness, as though she could see through it with perfect clarity.
The sleeping figure beneath the sheets was oblivious the sound of the door opening, to the faint sound of the footsteps in the room, to the figure standing over him. His chest rose and fell with contented breaths, unaware that they would soon run out.
Arthur had chosen this man—this boy, common and human and imperfect—over her, after all she did to find him to teach him the truth. She would not allow him to do that without paying for it, to see how much his betrayal would cost. Though she should have seen this coming: Arthur was just like Uther. They only took, like she was to do now. Perhaps all Pendragons were the same, and their shared tainted blood called for destruction.
Morgana gripped the knife tighter, eager to finish what she started.
She raised it high, ready to strike, when a gloved hand clasped itself over her mouth and yanked her backward. Simultaneously, she felt a sharp pain in her neck—a needle. She barely had enough time to let out a shuttering gasp before the numbers on the clock faded from view and the darkness became absolute.
Chapter Text
The sitting room of Morgana's flat was covered in plastic sheets, the walls and lamps and furniture draped. On the closest wall, pictures of her most recent victims hung in a straight line. Merlin's picture was there, too, merely to taunt her. Knives were laid out on top of the hutch, close by the table that had been dragged in from kitchen, where Morgana's unconscious form was now restrained against more plastic and duct tape.
Arthur heard her groan awake from his place near the sofa, and he turned around in time to watch her eyes flicker open. He stepped into the light, standing above her so she could see him, his olive green long-sleeve shirt covered by a vinyl smock and long, heavy-duty gloves of the same material. He tried to keep his eyes dull, his expression indifferent. He had to see her as just another kill, not as his sister—not as the woman he would have absconded with to start anew just days before.
However, she was making it very hard to do that.
"Hello, dear brother," she greeted with a smile, like they were at a coffee shop and she wasn't trapped to his table, about to take part in a ritualistic murder. She stayed cool, but he couldn't be sure if the emotion was faked or she really thought he had no intention of going through with this. She was just that good, and Arthur felt a pang in his chest, a lingering doubt that told him to free her because she could still teach him so much.
"Morgana," he said instead, keeping his tone even.
"So, you've come to kill me?" she laughed, a smirk playing on her thin lips. "You knew I'd go back for Merlin."
"I hoped you wouldn't," he told her honestly.
"But you knew." She sounded impressed. "You waited for me to come, while I was sure you'd left the building. You tricked me, little brother. Bravo."
He responded by stepping away from the table and collecting his scalpel. This part was always so simple, the easy part. It had become muscle memory: slice the cheek, take a drop of the fresh blood running down the skin, dab it into the slide and put it to the side, where it would wait to find its new home in his safe. However, this time he focused on his actions, making them carefully and deliberately as to not miss anything.
Morgana was just another kill. Morgana would hiss as he cut her skin. Morgana would bleed red. Morgana would be placed in a box with the others while the rest of her was wrapped up and tossed into the Thames.
But most of his playmates looked on in horror as he collected their blood. Their laughs did not echo throughout the darkness, drowning out the clinking of the glass sample slide. They did not have pride in their eyes.
"And now what?" Morgana asked lightly. "Am I to become just another one of your trophies?"
The words rang through Arthur's ears, and at once he realized he could not fool himself. Morgana wasn't just another kill. Morgana was a wasted life—his life, the life he could have had and could still have. For the first time, he would give anything to not have to do this.
"No," he whispered. "Not you. You're not a prize."
He took the slide between his hands and snapped it in two.
Merlin blinked at the clock. He managed to get a little over and hour and a half of shuteye and, for the first time in days, it had been a fairly peaceful sleep. No images of plastic wrap, sharp knives, or Morgana's catlike smirk invaded his dreams. It wasn't much sleep, but he felt more rested than he had in what felt like a lifetime.
He was certain he'd feel more refreshed if only he could get back to sleep, but his mind was too wired. The pillow where Arthur's head rested hours ago was still indented, the sheets still warm, and Merlin would catch a whiff of Arthur's scent on his skin each time he rolled over.
He brought his eyes back to the clock. Only one minute had passed in what should have been hours. He could not take it anymore.
Somewhere inside of him, he'd convinced himself that the secret he'd harbored his whole life was suddenly toxic. He had to rid himself of it—tonight. Recent experience taught him he might never have a second chance, and an even more recent experience made him hope that maybe—just maybe—Arthur felt the same way . . .
His mind was made up. He kicked the blankets off of him and redressed, hating the fact that he'd have to step foot in le Fay's flat, but knowing this couldn't wait another moment. His stomach lurched and fluttered, and he rushed out the door before allowing himself time to reconsider or lose his nerve.
The discarded blood slide, now on the hutch, must have resolved Morgana's expectations. She looked smug, satisfied, like she knew Arthur wouldn't take her life if only she said the right words at the right time.
"You're not really going to kill me, Arthur," she told him matter-of-factly. "You don't want to."
"No, I don't," he agreed.
"We're family," she said, her voice coaxing. "We need each other. I'm all you've got."
He looked at the photographs lining the wall, at the very last picture of the victim that might have been.
"Not all I've got," he told her.
She snorted. "Oh, Arthur, please. Are you really that horny?"
He rounded on her again.
"He doesn't know you, brother," she said with conviction. "Not like I do. He never will. Your whole life with him has been a lie—a cover, like Uther taught you. You've deluded yourself. What you feel isn't caring; you're not capable of that."
Arthur didn't want to believe that was true anymore.
"Maybe I am," he said, placing a palm on either side of her head and looking down, through her, in thought. "Maybe the mask is slipping . . ."
"And becoming real?"
She chuckled again, like the notion was preposterous. Inside of him, the dragon laughed, too, letting him know that he would never be anything but a monster in the dark.
"One day, it could be," he said, trying to convince himself of it. He walked away from her and picked up the handle of a clean, silver knife. "One day I could be . . . human."
He found himself smiling softly at the thought.
"But not if you take that away from me," he said, the darkness ebbing back into his voice. He spun around on the spot and pointed the tip of the blade at her like an accusing finger. "You can't be allowed to go on, Morgana. I have to put you down."
He was standing over her now, lifting the knife.
"I understand," she said, quite unexpectedly, forestalling him. "There's no room for people like us in humanity, brother. We don't belong in the world." Her cold eyes flashed upward, meeting his. "You'll see that soon enough."
A muscle in his jaw twitched as he tightened it in anger. He was sick of people telling what he could and could not be. In that moment, Morgana might as well have been Uther. Leaning in close enough to see himself reflected in the darks of her eyes, he sneered slowly through his bared teeth, "I am right where I belong."
He shot up straight, and she steeled herself in the moment before he plunged the knife swiftly. The creature inside him beat its wings, and the relief he felt was like a physical weight had lifted in that movement . . .
And there was a gasp. It was loud, sharp, and shocked—maybe even terrified. But it hadn't escaped Morgana's lips. She had already gone blank. It had come from the front of the room.
His fingers still wrapped around the handle of the knife, he looked up quickly towards the door, where Merlin stood, pale-faced and gaping. His eyes were bulging as he stumbled backwards a few steps, like the knife had pierced his heart instead of Morgana's. Arthur couldn't be sure in the distance, but Merlin appeared to be trembling.
Their eyes never left each other, and Arthur felt his chest constricting and throat closing. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't move, not even to detach his grip from the knife.
"No," he heard himself mutter, sotto voce.
Merlin seemed to finally comprehend the scene in front of him and, before Arthur could register the movement, Merlin had reached to his side and took out his gun. It was now being pointed directly at Arthur between two unsteady hands.
"What the fuck are you doing!" Merlin yelled, panic and tears in his voice.
Arthur had to think fast. He had to put on an act. Slowly, he looked down at Morgana's body, at the knife in his hand, like he was seeing them for the first time. He looked down in horror, releasing the blade that stayed upright in Morgana's chest and staggering away from the table. His back knocked into the hutch, causing the rest of his supplies and various other items on its surface to topple over or fall to the floor.
"Oh, shit," he hissed, just loud enough for Merlin to hear it. He brought his gloved palms up to his temples, grabbing at his hair and looking like he was about to be sick. "Oh my god, what have I done?"
"A—Arthur?" Merlin called, trying to keep his voice strong and demanding, but it was shaking.
Arthur looked up at him like he just remembered Merlin's presence.
"Merlin . . ."
He paced around the table, taking a few steps closer to Merlin, and the tip of the gun followed him. It made Arthur halt, and he raised his palms disarmingly.
"Arthur, what the fuck are you doing?" Merlin asked again.
"I—I don't know," Arthur said convincingly. He cast a look over his shoulder at the body. "I was here—doing my final sweep, and—and she came in. She . . ."
Merlin licked his lip, looking distraught. Arthur mimicked the expression.
"Why the fuck would she come back?" Merlin questioned.
It occurred to Arthur that he didn't have to know the answer to that; in fact, it would be better if he didn't.
"I don't know," he said again. "But she didn't look like she was expecting me to be here. She came at me and I—I knocked her out."
Merlin swallowed hard, his eyes darting back and forth around the room and his grip tightening on the weapon. Clearly, he didn't know what to think.
"And—and you killed her?"
"Merlin—"
Arthur chanced a few steps closer, and Merlin straightened his arms out further, warning Arthur not to move.
"I just," Arthur explained, making his voice quiver. "She was unconscious. She . . . I was going to call dispatch, but I was just so—After what she did to you, Merlin . . . I lost it."
He gave Merlin his biggest, saddest eyes, which seemed to calm him infinitesimally.
"You killed her for me?" Merlin's eyes were bloodshot now, and his voice was thick. Slowly, he lowered the gun. Arthur let out a heavy, relieved sigh.
In that time, Merlin's eyes searched the room again. "The plastic," he said, somewhat cautiously. "You didn't plan this ahead of time?"
"No, I—" He remembered that Morgana had made a room similar to this when she took Merlin. "I found it here," Arthur fabricated coolly. "And the knives."
"I thought that was all bagged up for evidence," Merlin said, shaking his head. Arthur saw his hand tighten around the gun again.
"Not all of it," Arthur hastened to say. "I was to do the rest tonight. It's part of why Lance thought this was so urgent."
"And the clothes?" Merlin said, eyeing Arthur's attire warily. "That's not—you weren't wearing that when you left."
Arthur looked down at himself—at the boots, the gloves, the apron. "They were in my car," he said. "In my kit. I keep them handy for crime scenes."
This seemed to relax Merlin, but his eyes were wandering again, memories filling them. "How—how did you know how to do all this, Arthur?"
"I know how it looks," Arthur told him softly. "But I'm a forensic officer, Merlin. I work crime scenes every day. I know what not to do. My training, it just—it kicked in."
"I thought you said you didn't plan this?"
"I didn't!"
Arthur gave another frantic look, and Merlin holstered his gun. Arthur allowed himself a private moment of relief until he noticed Merlin going for his pocket and producing his mobile.
"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, truly panicked now. He dared another step forward, and Merlin shot daggers at him. It may have not been a gun, but the stare was just as lethal and it stopped Arthur in his tracks.
"I have to call this in, Arthur," he said, sounding apologetic.
"Call it—?" Arthur choked. "No, Merlin! You—Can't you see how bad this looks!"
Merlin looked like he was in pain, and Arthur thought maybe he was getting through to him.
"I know it does," he agreed. "But we'll just explain to Gwen what happened. Tensions are high right now; she'll—she'll understand." Neither of them believed that.
"She'll lock me away, Merlin, and you and I, we'll never be able to . . ." Arthur trailed away softly, and he saw Merlin take in a rattling breath at the unspoken words. "Please, put the phone down," he begged and, gesturing wildly behind him at Morgana's body, continued, "She almost ruined our lives once, Merlin. Don't let her win this time . . . She's gone. Don't give her what she wants. Please."
Arthur could practically see Merlin's internal struggle, but apparently he decided in Arthur's favor, because he pocketed the mobile and buried his face in his palms.
"Jesus," he cried, doubling over, but he recomposed himself soon enough. "What—What the fuck do we do? How do we get rid of . . . her." He gestured vaguely towards the corpse, not daring to look at it.
"You do nothing," Arthur told him, figuring it was safe to walk to Merlin's side and place a palm on his shoulder. "You don't have to be a part of this anymore. I'll get rid of it alone."
"The fuck you will!" Merlin snapped, pushing Arthur's hand away. "I'm in this whether I like it or not!"
Arthur swore internally. It would be easy to bag the body and throw it downriver, but he had to appear like he didn't know what he was doing. Still, if he couldn't get rid of the body, there were ways to get rid of evidence.
"Okay," Arthur said, rushing back towards the table. He took another knife and began cutting the restraints away from the body. "Start taking the plastic down," he called to Merlin over his shoulder. "Then start looking for matches."
They stood across the street from the building, watching the anxious crowd that had congregated in the car park, illuminated by the orange glow from above. It filled the shadows and black sky and reflected fiery hot in Merlin's glossy eyes. The air smelled of thick smoke and sirens could be heard in the distance, making their way ever closer, and Arthur knew they had little time left to stay there. Still, he allowed Merlin a few more minutes to come to terms with what they had done.
Arthur had staged the body just right, positioning the arms so it seemed like Morgana plunged the knife into her own chest after she lit the room ablaze. It had been easy to start the fire. There were enough flammable liquids in flat to kindle it—acetone nail polish remover, cooking oil, cleaning and beauty products, rubbing alcohol, and the like. Merlin was adamant about keeping the flames as contained as possible, that way they wouldn't spread too far or cause too much damage to the neighboring flats.
The sirens were becoming louder by the second, and Arthur knew they couldn't linger. He gave Merlin a soft nudge, bringing him back down to Earth, and nodded in the direction of their cars. With one last look at the blazing upper corner of the building across the way, Merlin slipped his palm into Arthur's and allowed himself to be led away.
Chapter Text
The hardwood floors were charred black, and the great chunks of the drywall had crumbled away to reveal frayed wires and broken beams or, in one case, the room beyond. Forensics officers were going over ever inch of blackened and destroyed furniture while uniforms carried bags of evidence outside to the trucks. Most of the inspectors were still interviewing the neighbors about the events that had taken place the night before but, much to Arthur's expectations, no one had seen or heard anything until the fire alarm sounded.
The sun filtered through the opened door and smashed out windows, its rays illuminating the swirling ash being kicked up by the hustle and bustle of the room, and rested on the completely unidentifiable body laying, burnt to a crisp and tinted red with scabbing, on the table in the main room. Arthur was working on it, chipping away flakes of dried blood for sampling, while Gwaine stood to his left, examining the corpse.
Arthur kept his mask of normalcy on, acting like it was just another day at the office, but he couldn't help but to cast the occasional look around the crime scene—his crime scene, crawling with police. It should have made him nervous, but he couldn't overlook its beauty.
"We're sure that's her?" Gwen asked again, scanning the body with a professional, yet still distasteful, air.
"We'll know more when the dental examine is run," Gwaine told her in a preoccupied tone as he worked, "but this is definitely a female—right build, right height and weight to be our Slasher. I'd bet my money that this is Morgana le Fay."
While all eyes were on Gwaine, Arthur risked a look across the room, and he located Merlin standing by the door, looking as though he were afraid to step too far into the apartment. He was listening intently, but he must have felt Arthur's eyes on him, because his gaze flickered over before hurrying to look away and refocus on his superiors.
"What's the blood saying, Arthur?" Lance asked after Gwaine's explanation.
He stood up a little straighter, packing the samples away in his kit.
"Most of it's gone," he admitted, but pointed to the area around the breastplate, where his knife had been removed and bagged by Gwaine earlier, with milky, latex-gloved fingers. "But there's scabbing around the entry wound from the heat, where the pulmonary artery was severed. She was definitely dead before the fire reached her."
He couldn't help glancing over Lance's shoulder again at Merlin, who was now focusing on Arthur with an incredulous expression, like Arthur had somehow just personally offended him. He cleared his throat and looked back down, desperate to distract himself from Merlin's scrutiny. He realized he should act a bit more repulsed by the scene for Merlin's sake.
"Well, she had to have lit the fire first," Gwaine was saying. "We had to basically pry her hands away from the knife—she killed herself. That's clear."
Gwen was shaking her head. "But why? We'd been looking for her for days! She could have fled the country. I hardly think someone like her would have a sudden rush of guilt, either."
At her side, Lance shrugged. "She probably knew her time was running out," he said. "People like her always get caught in the end. She probably wanted to make it so we'd never catch her, and this was the only way she knew how—like Hitler supposedly did."
Arthur was only half paying attention: Merlin's gaze distracted him again.
Gwaine nodded and crossed his arms. "Live by the blade, die by it," he agreed.
"Monsters don't get to live happily ever after," Arthur thought aloud without really realizing it, and Merlin broke eye contact to stare at the floor.
"Maybe," Gwen said thoughtfully, and hers had replaced Merlin's gaze on Arthur. "Anyway, if you're quite through, I'll have the coroner in the take the body away," she added to Gwaine. "And we can all rest a little easier now that le Fay's gone."
"Yes, Super," Gwaine agreed, and he and Arthur packed up their kits.
Within minutes, the flat had emptied out significantly, and the air wasn't so thick with ash and decay. Lance and Arthur followed the coroner's gurney out, and it didn't take long for Arthur to realize Gwen wasn't following. Lance must have noticed it, too, because he looked over his shoulder and called, "Super, you coming?"
Distractedly, she hummed in question, but the words formed in her mind before Lance had a chance to repeat them. "Oh, yes—I just want to do one last sweep."
Inwardly, the creature in Arthur's mind flexed its claws, but he stayed calm on the outside.
"Want some company?" he asked nonchalantly.
"No, Arthur, I just want to make sure everything is put to bed," she said with a curt smile. Then, she looked to Lance. "I'll meet you back at the car."
After Lance disappeared out the door, Arthur lingered for a moment longer, he and Gwen gazing at each other expectantly, before he gave a tight smile and followed Lance out. He could feel Gwen's eyes on him even after he'd left the flat and out of sight. He didn't like the idea of her poking around for longer than she needed to, but no one else had found a scrap of evidence that he or anyone else had ever been there. He'd been clean; he'd been thorough. There was nothing to worry about.
As Arthur descended the steps towards the car park, he caught sight of Merlin headed towards his car, parallel parked across the street in the exact location they had stood the night before.
With a breath, Arthur realized there might be something he had to worry about.
Quickening his pace, but not so much that it drew attention, he crossed after Merlin and got there just before the car door was closed.
"Got room for one more?" he asked, nodding at the empty passenger's seat.
Merlin didn't answer for a beat.
"Didn't you drive here?" he asked skeptically.
"Gwaine gave me a ride from the station," he answered with a casual smile, and Merlin narrowed his eyes at it. At once, Arthur realized his mistake and let his face fall.
"I'm not going back to the station," Merlin said quickly. "I—have an errand to run."
"I don't mind," Arthur told him.
"I do." There was a bite to Merlin's tone now. "It's a private errand."
Arthur let out a soft chuckle. "What, have you got to buy tampons or something?"
Merlin bit his tongue. Instead of saying anything, he reached out and slammed the door closed.
"Merlin!" Arthur called, wide eyed.
"I'll see you back at work," said Merlin's muffled voice through the window, and the engine kicked on. Arthur had to hustle out of the way as Merlin drove off because, if he hadn't moved, he got the impression that Merlin would run him over. He watched the car tear down the block, letting out a sigh and slackening his shoulders in dejection.
The bedroom and kitchen had been clean, or at least as clean as they could be after a devastating fire. Gwen could not find anything that suggested another person had been present when le Fay died, but she couldn't get that nagging feeling out of her gut. Her father always told her to trust those instincts, because they were usually right. Now, they were telling her that le Fay would not taken her own life. She was too smart; too brutal.
Gwen considered that any evidence of a second person was bagged and brought back to the station, but she wanted to make absolutely sure. That notion brought her back to the main room, where she scanned the area around the seared table, which led her to the hutch. The antique wood was grayed from the smoke and much of the contents inside the drawers were melted.
She dropped to her knees next to the piece, lowering her cheek close to the floor to look underneath. At first, she saw nothing under the thick layer of dust and ash, so she reached her arm in to feel around. Blindly, her fingers made contact with something hard, pushing it further into the depths. Determined to find it, she reached in further until her palm slammed down on the flat surface, allowing her to slide it out.
At first glance, it looked like a dirty, broken shard of glass, but there were no windows close enough for that to be the case. With her thumb, she wiped away the dirt, revealing the red inside. The glass looked like a broken half of a sample slide and, she was no forensic expert, but she instantly recognized the crimson as blood.
Biting her lip in thought, she pocketed the slide.
Merlin was already there when Arthur arrived at the station, and he made a point to look busy when Arthur strode up to his desk.
"Quick errand after all," Arthur pointed out, but Merlin didn't answer.
In fact, he didn't answer for the rest of the week. When the reports came back, confirming the body as le Fay, Merlin didn't partake in the applause that broke out in the office following the announcement. During the briefings, he didn't so much as look at Arthur. He wasn't even responding to Arthur's texts. At one point, Arthur tried to corner Merlin in the hallway, but he quickly ducked into the closing lift, quite like he was trying to escape.
However, at points, Arthur caught Merlin staring at him blankly. He'd noticed it first when they answered a call of a domestic gone wrong; two days later, he caught Merlin glancing at his lab through the blinded windows. Merlin was no doubt wondering how Arthur could remain so chipper and casual after killing someone, especially when it looked like Merlin hadn't slept in days. Wordlessly, and from afar, Arthur tried to convey that he had to act normal, or else the dozens of trained inspectors around them would suspect something. Still, he made sure to seem down or lost in thought whenever he knew Merlin was watching.
He was much more productive when Merlin was nowhere to be found. When work was slow, he busied himself with the criminal database, searching for one name in particular: Anthony Odin, the man who killed his mother. He tried to glean as much information as he could from Odin's extensive record; he'd even gone as far as to hack into the prison's database and check their files on him.
They were never able to pin him for any murders other than Igraine's, for which he served twenty-seven years in prison before being paroled early. Currently, he worked as a janitor at a local supermarket, but Arthur wondered if he'd been dabbling in his old career, too.
Arthur thought it was worth looking into . . .
He hadn't received a text or voicemail from Arthur all day, and part of him was glad for it. Merlin couldn't take the temptation to answer anymore. Every time the mobile buzzed, he felt his heart plummet into his stomach. Still, the other part of him felt a dull ache each time he checked for messages and found none.
Arthur's behavior over the last few days had been erratic. Around others, he seemed normal, but his sullen disposition in apparent solitude wasn't lost on Merlin, either. He wondered if Arthur, like him, was having trouble sleeping or eating—or breathing. In those times, he greatly wished to talk to Arthur, but he repressed the idea and continued to dodge Arthur's advances.
He couldn't help it if, every time he looked at Arthur, he saw that dead glint in his eyes that was worn back le Fay's flat. He didn't want to picture Arthur with a knife in his hand. He wanted to imagine happier things whenever he caught a glimpse of Arthur: a smile, swollen lips, love-bitten skin, ruffled golden hair . . .
He would give anything for those images to come to mind first.
It was worse when Merlin actually did fall asleep, like he had on that Saturday night. Images of being wrapped in plastic in that basement returned to him. He remembered the suffocation he felt—how paralyzed and helpless he was—when le Fay drugged him. In his dreams, he was being hacked and stripped of skin. Pools of red were flowering out around him, and he could feel every slice while letting out silent screams. Le Fay raised the knife over him, going in for the killing blow, but that night, in her place, Arthur now stood with that same dangerous expression. For the first time, Merlin remembered the rest of the kill room he'd been trapped in with absolute clarity.
He saw a flash as the knife plunged downward through the air, but he awoke before the darkness set in.
He'd become accustomed to drinking in bouts of air and kicking off the sweat-soaked blankets each night, but now he could not seem to find his breath. Air hung just out of reach of his lungs and his heart seemed to pulse everywhere in his body except for his chest.
Once his body finally settled, he threw the blankets off his legs and scrambled out of bed. The image of that kill room wouldn't leave him: He was certain it had been constructed in the same exact way Arthur had lined le Fay's flat.
He couldn't have another night like this. Morgana's face haunting him, he could deal with—in fact, he probably deserved it now; however, he couldn't bear to think of Arthur this way.
After dressing into something warm, he collected his spare key to Arthur's flat and headed for the car.
Arthur sat in his car, parked on the street away from the glow any neon sign or streetlamp. His eyes were fixed on the pub across the way, into which Odin had disappeared three hours earlier. Arthur had tailed him to the seedy bar from the supermarket, and he found it somewhat hard to contain the beast inside of him from taking over and killing Odin right then and there.
But he fought it. He waited. He didn't even go inside the pub, because that night was not about stalking; it was about observing—learning his prey's routine and habits. He wanted to do this right, like Uther taught him. This kill had to go perfectly, because it was the one and only thing Arthur could do for Igraine's memory.
He heard Uther's voice in his head, so clearly that it might have been coming from the backseat, warning him against revenge. "Don't make it personal, son," Uther would have advised. "Mistakes are made in the heat of passion."
But Arthur ignored it. He would not make a mistake. He would follow the Code, because Odin would not be the kill that landed him in jail. He'd already taken away Igraine's life; he would not do the same for her son.
It was close to midnight when Odin stumbled out of the pub and headed for his car, fumbling with the keys in the lock slightly before getting in. Arthur kept a safe distance, managing to stay a few cars behind, as he followed Odin's car back to the estate in which he lived. A half hour after Odin had vanished into his flat on the third floor, Arthur was certain the man was in for the night, and he headed for home.
The door was unlocked. Closed, but unlocked.
He furrowed his brow at it, wondering if he'd forgotten to lock it when he left earlier that night, but he distinctly remembered doing so. The children in the flat across the hall were silent, sleeping, and normally Arthur would have reveled in the quiet, but instead it made his gut lurch. The dragon warned him not to go inside, but it, like him, was overtaken with curiosity.
He pushed the door open fully, and there was no immediate sign of anything being out of place. Then he noticed the glow of light through the kitchen, emitting from the living room. He followed it, and the first thing he saw was the mess. The flat had been ransacked, and it looked like a small hurricane had blown through. Drawers were pulled out, papers littered the floor, the cushions on the sofa were overturned, and the closet was wide open, revealing the black safe inside . . .
And the safe was open.
Arthur froze. He looked at the mess again, and it led his eyes to the coffee table in the center of the room. The usual centerpiece had been knocked off, making room for knives, some of which were taken out of their black canvas roll, his scalpel, a package of hypodermic needles and a vial of clear m99, and other assorted tools. He saw his long, wooden box of blood slides, many of which had been taken out and scattered on the tabletop or left in piles so that he could no longer tell who was who, was sitting opened. Its golden metal latch caught the yellow light of the lamp standing in the corner of the room beside the sofa.
Sitting in the chair under the light, staring down fixedly at the contents spread about the table, was Merlin. His lips were parted but, apart from that, his expression was emotionless.
Still standing in entranceway to the room, Arthur felt a numb wave wash over him. Merlin must have sensed his presence, because his dark blue gaze gradually climbed up and found his. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, but Merlin finally did.
"Did you kill these people?"
His voice was slow and automatic—surprisingly calm.
Arthur tried to think of something to say, a lie that would form naturally on his lips. The dragon stayed dormant.
"Yes," he found himself saying, and his tone matched Merlin's.
Across the room, Merlin closed his eyes and let out a breath that Arthur could compare only to a death rattle. Arthur felt like he was shrinking, like the single dull light breaking the darkness was blinding him and exposing all his shadows.
Merlin opened his eyes again, and asked in the same quiet, composed manner, "Are you a serial killer?"
Arthur felt his heart jump from somewhere down in his stomach. Again, no sly words formed, coming to his rescue. He felt naked, and just a little bit giddy. He had never been asked that question before. He had never admitted it aloud before—never got to say the words—not even to Uther. It was strange, but he felt relieved as he closed his eyes and uttered clearly into the echoing, serene darkness:
"Yes."
Chapter Text
Merlin bypassed grabbing his coat as he fled from the flat, and Arthur didn't even think to close the door behind him in pursuit. The bitter air bit at his skin the moment he chased Merlin out of the building and down the stoop; and the sudden drop in temperature must have been an added shock to Merlin's system, because he leaned over the iron fencing next to the cement steps and vomited into the building's small garden patch. Arthur came to a running stop at the top of the stoop as Merlin stumbled back and gripped the handrail for balance, but his legs eventually gave up on supporting him and he fell heavily onto the second step.
Arthur paced towards him as Merlin took in dry, heaving breaths in attempt to compose himself. He reached out his hand, wanting to make any physical contact that would convince Merlin that everything was all right; that he was still Arthur, despite it all. To this, Merlin's body gave an involuntary jolt, sending him off the step and onto the pavement below. He glared up at Arthur hatefully and, Arthur noticed as his heart jumped into his throat, somewhat fearfully.
"Merlin," he exhaled, jostling down the last steps and offering his hand to Merlin again, this time to help him up.
"Don't," Merlin said, his tone colder than the air. His eyes grew fiercer, as did his voice. "Keep your fucking hands away from me!"
"Merlin, please, we can talk about this," Arthur said calmly, lowering his hand. "Come back inside."
"Inside?" Merlin shouted as though it was most preposterous thing he'd ever heard. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"
"It's still me!" Arthur tried.
"And who the fuck is that?" Merlin challenged. "You kill people!"
Arthur felt a surge of panic strike him, but he contained it and took a sweeping look up and down the street. No one was around at that time of night, save for a teenager with oversized headphones walking on the opposite side of the road, and he did not react to Merlin's outcry. Still, someone inside could overhear them. Arthur had to control this quickly, but Merlin was still shouting.
"You keep their blood in a box in a safe!"
Merlin looked like he might vomit again.
"Merlin, this isn't the place," Arthur hissed, his paranoia making him double-check that no one was around.
However, Merlin wasn't listening. He scrambled to his feet and demanded, "How long?"
"What?"
"How fucking long have you been doing this?" he raged, his face red as he took a few charging steps closer to Arthur.
Arthur let out a shallow sigh. He didn't want to talk about this in the middle of the street where they might wake others, but he knew Merlin would want to hear more once he'd begun explaining. This would be the only way to get Merlin back inside.
"Since university," Arthur conceded.
Merlin's eyes turned glossy and he gripped at his head with both palms.
"Jesus," he sang. Something had apparently dawned on him, and he said, "And that—that's why you didn't want to room with me?"
"It would have been . . . awkward had you started asking where I went late at night," Arthur told him. "I thought I could find a way around any questions at first—"
"You thought you could lie to me?" Merlin said more blandly.
"Yes," Arthur confessed with a breath. "But my—my father thought it would be wiser if I lived on my own."
Just as Arthur had expected, this sent another wave of emotion through Merlin, whose eyes were now bloodshot.
"Uther knew?" he managed to ask shakily.
"Merlin, please, just come back inside," Arthur tried again, reaching out his palm disarmingly. Without words, he tried to express that he wasn't going to hurt Merlin. He never would. Merlin was safe, despite knowing his secret.
Something in his eyes made it clear that Merlin knew all this, but he did not take Arthur's hand. Instead, he stormed passed Arthur, back into the building.
Arthur gave a heavy breath that condensed and cascaded around his lips as he watched after Merlin, knowing the worst hadn't yet come.
The evidence still rested between them, laid out on the table. It seemed to be the only thing in focus for Merlin. Arthur had brought a chair from the kitchen table into the living room and situated it close to the entranceway. He sat on it, underneath the dim light of a standing lamp whose bulbs had not yet heated up fully. They did almost nothing to pierce the darkness around him.
Merlin was fully lit on the other side of the room by the halogen lamp. He sat on the floor with his back against the wall, next to the armchair, as though he was determined to put as much physical space as possible between himself and Arthur without actually leaving the room.
Arthur had just explained all that he knew: Igraine's death, its affect on him, and his relation to Morgana. Merlin didn't interrupt through the entire discourse, and his face was expressionless again, albeit, a little puffier. Arthur wished he would say something: He had no idea how hard it was for Merlin to swallow all this through silence.
"And Uther," Merlin said after Arthur was done explaining, trying to piece together all the loose ends from a lifetime of lies. "He taught you how to kill people?"
"He taught me how to get around the police—to cover my tracks," Arthur corrected him. "He was only trying to protect me. After what happened, he knew these urges weren't going away. It got in me too early, and he tried to make it into something positive—something that could be used for good."
Merlin let out a shallow breath of mirthless laughter. "Good," he repeated sotto voce. "Why didn't he just put you in an institution? You could have gotten help."
"There is no help for this," said Arthur flatly. "My father was only doing what he thought was right. People always warn you to stay away from monsters; they never tell you what to do if you become one. I would be lost without him—without the Code he gave me."
"Right, the Code," Merlin said, half mockingly, half getting a taste for the word. "Only kill murderers. That's rule number one, is it?"
"No, actually, it's number two," Arthur admitted. "Rule number one is, don't get caught."
He couldn't stop the corners of his lips from twitching slightly at the irony, and Merlin gave a scoff of hollow laughter again before shaking his head.
"But yes," Arthur continued, "I only kill those who deserve it."
All humor fell from Merlin's face, and his eyes darted back to Arthur's.
"Deserve it?" he said dryly. "You think there are people who deserve to die?"
Arthur thought on this for a moment. "I think there are people who don't deserve to live," he answered. "Don't you?"
Merlin sprang to his feet, suddenly livid. "I think that's not my fucking decision! And it's not yours, either! And, in case you haven't noticed, there are people whose job it is to put murderers away. They're called the fucking police! You work for them in your—your cover life, when you're not out there being some goddamn vigilante!"
Arthur drummed his fingers on his knee, feeling the heat radiating off the bulbs as they heated up above him, casting a glow on his golden hair. He shook his head slightly in disagreement.
"The system isn't perfect. Criminals slip through the cracks every day. They get away with it because there's not enough evidence or the court finds them innocent or the police just can't catch them—like Morgana."
Merlin's eyes flickered at the name, and Arthur found himself looking at the old cut on Merlin's cheek. It was faint and pink in the half-light, almost healed.
"I'm not held back by the regulations as the police. I don't need warrants or a jury—that's what the Code is for. It's a set of convictions more lenient than the law. More effective."
He cast a look at the pile of blood sides on the table.
"Clearly."
There was a long pause into which Arthur could only hear Merlin's breathing, and he was aware of Merlin's intent gaze, sizing him up and striping him down.
"I can't believe you're like this," Merlin said finally. He sat down in the armchair and ran a palm through his hair. "How am I supposed to let this slide?" he asked, more to himself than to Arthur. "My name hasInspector in front of it now. Maybe your father didn't take that title very seriously, but I do."
He bit his lip in thought before their gazes met again.
"What the fuck am I going to do?"
For the first time, Arthur didn't know the answer. Had Morgana been right? Did he kill the only person who accepted him for a man who never would?
"I wish I knew."
Merlin stood up again, this time making sure to grab his coat. "I need to go home to think this through," he muttered.
"No, Merlin," Arthur protested, standing up and blocking the way into the kitchen. "You're in no state to drive right now."
"Suddenly concerned? What a charming psychopath," Merlin countered frostily. "Or maybe you're just worried I'll run to Gwen and Lance—like I should?"
"Let me drive you home," Arthur offered, deciding it best to pretend Merlin hadn't said anything.
"I don't want to be in a small space with you."
"Then stay here," Arthur said through his teeth. "Take the bedroom. I'll sleep out here."
However, Merlin was shrugging into his coat. "I'd really just like to sleep in my own bed, Arthur." He nodded to the main door beyond the kitchen. "Get out the way."
Knowing his options had run out, Arthur stepped to the side, and Merlin walked past.
"I know I lied to you," Arthur found himself saying, causing Merlin to turn back around. "It was always hard—lying to you."
Merlin was glancing him up and down, a hint of the lost, breathless look overcoming him, and Arthur suddenly found the floor fascinating.
"I don't know why that is, but—"
He hadn't seen it coming, but he could not finish his thought, because Merlin quite forcefully and squarely punched him in the jaw. It unbalanced Arthur, who cradled his throbbing muscles and buzzing skin as he stumbled a step backward. By the time he looked back up, Merlin had already slammed the door shut behind him.
Gwen jumped when the desk phone rang, and she hardly allowed it a second ring before diving to pick it up. With her usual formal greeting of "Smith," she hoped this was the call she'd been expecting for the past couple of days.
"Evening, Super," came a vaguely familiar voice on other end. She recognized it as Tyr Seward's, one of the techs down in the lab, and her heart leapt. Finally, her results were in.
Without anyone—not even Lance—knowing, she had sent the blood slide, along with a DNA sample from one of le Fay's combs that wasn't damaged by the flames, to the lab for testing.
"We couldn't find any prints on the slide," the man sad apologetically, but Gwen wasn't too discouraged by that. She hadn't expected to find fingerprints because whoever else was in the flat that night—and she was now convinced there was someone—knew how to cover their tracks.
"Yes, and what about the samples?" she asked, perhaps more hastily than she'd intended.
"Sample A matches B," Tyr confirmed. "They're DNA from the same subject."
Gwen let out a soft gasp, a smile playing on her lips.
I knew it, was all she could think. Le Fay had been murdered; it wasn't suicide. That was the only explanation. Presently, she realized the phone was still pressed against her curls.
"Thank you," she said into it. "And, do me a favor? Keep this quiet?"
She didn't realize until after she'd said it that she'd been going out of her way to hide this investigation. Still, Tyr sounded honored to keep mum, so she knew her secret was safe. It wasn't on the books, so Corcoran had no idea, and she assumed she'd fill Lance in eventually. Part of her made excuses for her secrecy: After all, if word got out that there was someone out there who killed a murderer as dangerous as le Fay—someone who perhaps worked with her—it would be chaos, both publically and in the media. They'd closed this case, and that was supposed to be the end of it.
However, she subconsciously knew she was only lying to herself. She didn't want to consider the possibility that someone under her charge was the culprit, but she couldn't stop her mind from wheeling around Arthur Pendragon. Why had le Fay called him, when it could have been anyone? It could have been Gwen. After all, she had more clout than a blood analyst. Le Fay could have disgraced her, ruined her career by proving Gwen could not even protect one of her own from a killer. Yet, it had been Arthur, and it had been Arthur who escaped this terrifying, intelligent murderer because . . .
How?
She hadn't restrained him well enough, and she didn't bother to keep an eye on him, which allowed him to get the jump on her?
The story sounded concocted. How did she know Arthur wasn't working with Morgana? How did she know he wasn't the reason Morgana escaped?
But that didn't account for Merlin, who got out of it alive because, as he says, Arthur saved him. That didn't account for le Fay's death.
There were too many loose ends at the moment, but she knew of a way to make more sense of this investigation.
As soon as she hung up with Tyr, she dialed in a call to Scotland Yard.
"Hello?" she asked before stating her name and rank. "I'm calling to put in a request for CCTV feed for the night of February the twenty-second . . . Yes, I'll hold . . ."
Chapter Text
After Arthur had passed out the weekly Monday morning donuts and reached the Homicide department, he noticed Merlin wasn't at his desk. He wasn't there Tuesday, either, or Wednesday. Soon, it became clear that he had taken that week's leave of absence Lance had offered him after the trauma he went through with Morgana. Arthur figured it wouldn't have been hard for Merlin to play hooky, as that particular experience was still recent; and he could have told Lance it was more difficult for him to get back into the swing of things than he'd anticipated before turning down the offer in the first place.
Although, upon questioning him, Lance assured Arthur that Merlin would be back the following week, he was not. The desk was empty the next week, too, even though, on some mornings, it looked as though someone had gone through it the night before. By the fourth Merlin-less week, Arthur couldn't help but to worry. However, again, Merlin refused to pick up his mobile or return his texts. Arthur had even gone to his flat on one occasion but Merlin hadn't been in. No one seemed particularly concerned by Merlin's absence, including Lance, who would avoid the topic whenever Arthur brought it up.
"You're his mate, anyway," Lance would say. "Shouldn't you know what he's up to?"
Eventually, Lance started avoiding Arthur altogether, which worried Arthur further. Perhaps Merlin was evading Arthur deliberately? Maybe he had tipped Lance off about Arthur and didn't want to face Arthur afterwards? However, Arthur hadn't noticed any unmarked cars tailing him, and police weren't knocking down his door and wrestling him to the ground, so that was good; but it still didn't tell him where Merlin was.
The following week brought warmer temperatures, along with the showers and steamy humidity of early spring, but still no Merlin. Arthur found he was no longer concerned, but angry and a little bit betrayed. Once, he even went as far as regretting killing Morgana instead of running away with her. She would understand Arthur; right now, she would know exactly what to say. However, he could never bring himself to regret saving Merlin. He knew, above all, it had been the right decision, but right for who? Arthur didn't want to live his life constantly looking over his shoulder, hoping Merlin wouldn't tell his secret.
No, he would never do that, Arthur tried to convince himself, but humans with hearts are so unpredictable.
Still, if Merlin wanted to shun him, fine. He simply had to spend less time thinking about a man who was ignoring him and putting more of his energies towards hunting Odin. He hadn't been focused, and the observation time should have ended long ago. He was ready to get closer: to follow his prey and learn its every move.
That brought him inside the sordid pub he had followed Odin to the first night. He sat alone at the edge of the bar, watching out of the corner of his eye as Odin wagered on a game of pool at the other end of the crowded room. In the two hours he'd been there, heads bobbed in and out of his vision, but Arthur made sure to keep his sights on his victim, until one particular head caught his eye.
Merlin had walked up to the bar and squeezed his way between two of the patrons before exchanging a word or two with the bar tender. Arthur blinked a few times, positive that his senses were failing him. That couldn't have been Merlin, not at a place like this . . .
Completely forgetting Odin, Arthur spun out of his barstool and headed towards the center of the bar, where Merlin had just picked up a lager and began walking back to the booth from where he came.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, grabbing Merlin by the shoulder and turning him around.
For a moment, Merlin's eyes went wide with shock, and it was a miracle he hadn't dropped his drink. Arthur was grateful that it hadn't slipped from his grip, as the crashing of glass would have caused a scene. It may have also distracted Arthur from Merlin's appearance. He looked a mess, his hair and clothes disheveled and his eyes bloodshot with dark circles beneath them. The fingernails on the hand holding the lager were cracked and dirty, and he gave off a whiff of, not just nicotine, but something stronger.
After Merlin recovered from the surprise, his expression darkened. "I could ask you the same thing!" he countered and Arthur cast a look at the billiards table over Merlin's shoulder, remembering Odin.
"Hang on, did you follow me here?" Merlin asked, sounding scandalized, but it gave Arthur the excuse he needed.
"I was worried about you," Arthur said, bringing his attention back to Merlin. "Where have you been for the past few weeks?"
"It's none of your business," Merlin said flatly.
Arthur groaned. "Can't you just talk to me?"
"No."
"Merlin!"
"No, Arthur, I can't talk to you," he said pointedly, glancing over at a crowded booth on the other end of the room. In the center of the action was a gaunt man with dark, intense eyes and a goatee. He reminded Arthur somewhat of a rodent.
"Who's he?" Arthur couldn't resist asking.
Merlin gnawed on his bottom lip, casting a nervous glance over at the table before answering, "His name is Cornelius Sigan. I'm working a case—trying to work my way into his inner circle. He's a powerful dealer around here, all right? We think he's getting his supply in from Columbia."
Arthur shook his head, completely taken aback. "What?" he spat. "Merlin. You don't work in narcotics anymore; you don't even work undercover! You hated undercover."
"Well, it's necessary," Merlin said lamely, not able to meet Arthur's eyes.
"You took this case so you wouldn't have to be in the office, didn't you?" Arthur demanded. "So you wouldn't have to see me."
This angered Merlin. "It's not all about you, you arrogant git!" he argued. Lowering his voice and leaning in, he went on, "For your information, I was assigned this case. Sigan's a dealer, yeah, but he's a suspected murderer, too. The last two people he's been known to be intimate with have turned up dead. There's nothing to pin it to him—yet. That's why Lance gave me the case, because I've worked both fields. I'm trying to catch a killer—," he looked Arthur up and down reproachfully, "—the lawful way, if that's quite alright with you."
Arthur shook his head in thought, taking a look around the pub again, but this time he wasn't interested in locating Odin. He was looking for another undercover member of the force—another familiar face. He didn't see any.
"No, something's not right," he thought aloud. "Lance might have given you this case, but he'd never ask you to do this, especially not without a partner. He'd want you to find evidence some other way." He looked down at Merlin, and a thought striking him. "Does Lance know you're undercover? Does he even know you're here right now?"
Merlin looked sheepish. "I took the initiative . . ."
"The initiative?" Arthur repeated, perhaps a bit louder than he'd anticipated. He overcompensated by leaning in close and dropping his voice to a sibilant whisper. "Are you an idiot? Do you have any idea how dangerous that is—especially without back-up?"
Merlin barely flinched, but looked at him with a blank expression.
"I hardly think it concerns you, Arthur."
"Oh, it concerns me very much!" Arthur exclaimed. "If that man lays a single finger on you—?"
"You'll what?" Merlin challenged. "Kill him?"
Arthur licked his lips and glanced around to make sure no one had heard that. Even if they had, he didn't suppose they'd take it as anything but a manner of speech.
"Maybe I will," he whispered daringly through gritted teeth, "if he's really a killer, why not?"
Merlin let out a venomous snort. "Right, I wasn't aware that one of the rules of your Code was, if anyone hurts Merlin, they've got to pay."
Merlin's eyes were bulbous and redder now, his pupils black pinpricks against the dark blue. Arthur took another look at him, and he suddenly recalled what that strong smell was.
"Are you high?" he asked at once.
Merlin hesitated for the slightest moment. "What?"
"You're not drunk: you're not singing enough," Arthur said thoughtfully, leaning in a little closer to get another whiff, and Merlin took a step backward.
"I'm playing a part. I have to fit in with them," Merlin insisted, but Arthur didn't buy it for a second.
"Please, you never even touched the stuff when you were supposed to be undercover. You really are an idiot," Arthur told him. "You're working covertly without anyone knowing, and you're not even in the right state of mind!"
Merlin shot him a detestable leer and ground his teeth. "Apparently, I haven't been in the right state of mind for some time," he said meaningfully.
Arthur opened his mouth to question that comment when a figure appeared next to Merlin. Arthur hadn't seen Sigan approaching, and it made him remember there was someone else in the pub he was meant to be keeping an eye on. He looked up again, scanning for Odin near the pool table but didn't find him. He looked around, finally locating him pushing his way through the room, headed for the exit.
"The lads are heading out," Arthur heard Sigan tell Merlin. "We should, too. You're—you're coming with me, eh?"
To this, Arthur's attention snapped back to Merlin, and he nearly gave himself whiplash turning his head back around. He found Merlin giving Sigan a thin, pushed smile.
"There's that thing I wanted to show you, yeah?" Sigan continued vaguely.
"I remember," Merlin told him. "I'm right behind you."
Sigan looked at Arthur, apparently just noticing his existence.
"Who's he?" he asked Merlin, curling his nose slightly. He wrapped an arm around Merlin's waist protectively, and the darkness inside Arthur roared for Sigan's swift and immediate death.
"No one," Merlin said scathingly before Arthur could answer. "Go ahead, Cornelius, I'll be right there."
Sigan kept his intense glare on Arthur, sizing him up, and Arthur didn't break eye contact until the man pushed passed him. Then, he brought his glower to Merlin.
"Oh, you've really worked your way into his 'inner circle,'" Arthur said, repulsed. He pointed to where Sigan had disappeared. "Did you fuck him?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Merlin answered a hairline too soon.
Arthur gave a loud scoff.
"I'm a professional, Arthur!" Merlin asserted.
Arthur ran a palm down his face, trying to make sense of it all.
"You just said he's killed the last two people he's slept with, and you go and sleep with him," said Arthur, hoping that Merlin would realize how stupid he was being if it was said aloud. "Why? Help me understand. Does he give you free weed?"
Merlin looked off, shaking his head. His eyes were filling with angry tears. "Maybe I just have a lot of built-up tension lately. God knows you have your own way of dealing with stress."
"That's besides the point," Arthur protested. He knew Odin was probably at his car by now, and he had to leave soon if he had any hope of following.
Arthur was begging Merlin now, "Merlin, please. Do not go anywhere with him—not to tonight. Go home."
"Why?" Merlin asked, looking at him sidelong, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"Because," Arthur said, not having to search long for a reason, "the last time you got that close to a killer—"
"—It was you," Merlin reminded bitterly.
"Yes, okay, but I didn't mean me."
"I knew who you meant." Merlin was looking off again, and he drained his pint. "It's different this time," he went on, obviously having found his excuse at the bottom of his glass. "I have the upper hand. I know exactly what he is, and he has no idea about me."
"That doesn't mean he won't try to kill you," Arthur reasoned warily.
And Merlin laughed. It was a low, humorless laugh that made a chill run down Arthur's spine.
"I can take care of myself," Merlin told him stubbornly, but he looked like he didn't care about what might happen to him that night. He placed his empty glass forcefully on a nearby table before rushing towards the exit.
As Arthur swiveled around to watch him go, he considered that he might still be able to catch up with Odin; but he didn't know whether or not that was his biggest priority anymore . . .
Did he let the man who killed his mother go again, or did he deal with the fact that he'd destroyed Merlin?
The blue-gray smoke billowed around his face, relaxing him, as it poured through his nostrils and open mouth. It lingered in the passenger seat, trying to find a window to escape through, as the lights of London grew more distant in the rearview.
"Where are we going again?" Merlin asked lazily, rolling his head towards the man in the driver's seat.
"You'll see," Sigan told him, a smirk playing on his lips, shadowed as it fell in and out of headlights speeding past.
Merlin took another pull, holding it in as he looked up at the black sky, where pinpricks of white light started to poke through now that they'd cleared the city. He considered Arthur's warning about going with Sigan and, somewhere repressed, Merlin knew he was right. He had severely deviated from the original plan, and it was becoming out of hand. He'd been alone with Sigan many times over the past month—in hotels, Sigan's flat, even the back seat of the car he was currently sitting in—but this time felt different. He had a rising sense of apprehension in his gut that told him to turn back.
Morgana had warned him to pay closer attention to his instincts, and right now they were all pointing him towards danger. However, he knew he had a job to do and, after all, it wasn't like he didn't have his gun hidden on him.
No, Arthur and Morgana were wrong. Neither of them could be trusted, anyway.
Merlin had to do this. He had to prove to himself that he deserved to be an Inspector. He didn't have the chance to bring le Fay in and, although half of him raged to do so, he could not bring Arthur in. He needed Sigan's arrest, and this seemed the way to do it, while he had control of the situation. He pushed his instincts to the side and kept his eyes front, watching Sigan's reflection in the windshield out of the corner of his eye.
London was completely out of sight by the time Merlin finished the blunt, and clouds had rolled in, covering the star-scattered sky, as the car pulled into a deserted car park. Weeds and grass stuck through the cracks in the tar and the white painted barriers of the parking spots had faded or chipped away. In the close distance, a weather beaten wooden carnival sign announced the entrance to the faire, which was no more than a ghost town of broken stands and destroyed, grafettied rides.
The sight made Merlin's skin crawl, but he pushed a smile onto his face as he got out of the car.
"Where are we?" he wondered as Sigan closed the driver's door and started around the car.
"My dad used to take me here as a kid," he said, looking fondly at the moss-covered welcome sign. "Every year, like a tradition. The only tradition we ever had. It's been closed for over a decade now, but sometimes I like to come here and look at it. Thought I'd share it, is all."
"It's—" Merlin started, not really knowing what to say. His guard was still up, but he couldn't deny that it relaxed slightly. "Is this a date?" he teased.
Sigan chuckled, but did not answer.
"Do you—do you want to go look inside?"
Merlin felt his gut lurch, but he nodded. "Lead the way."
He followed Sigan away from the car and under the overarching sign until they reached a locked gate, warning against trespassing. Sigan picked the lock in under a minute and the rusty chain links whined as they rotated on the hinges. As they walked side-by-side through the abandoned faire yard, Merlin could picture the flashing lights, the smell of popcorn, and the echo of laughing children that once overrode this area in his mind's eye. They passed an old carousel, whose porcelain horses had been smashed to bits, and food stands with ice cream and candy wrappers still rustling on the ground as the wind picked up, threatening a downpour.
"Hey, look at that," Sigan said lightheartedly, breaking the silence, and Merlin noticed he was pointing to a long, boarded up building on the side of grounds. The sign over the ride read, Tunnel of Love.
Merlin sniggered, suddenly feeling coy. "This is a date!" he joked.
"Don't ruin this for me," Sigan played along. "C'mon, then. Let's go check it out."
He started towards the ride, but Merlin didn't follow. He knew this had gone on quite long enough.
"No, Cornelius," he tried, attempting to sound natural. "I don't—I don't think that's a good idea."
Fat drops of cold rain drizzled downward, clunking on the metal of the rides and causing hot steam to rise off the pavement.
Sigan barely turned around to scoff. "Come on, you scared bastard! It's just an old ride," he said happily. "The only thing you'll find in there are rats, I'm sure."
He started off again, and Merlin knew he couldn't continue to protest without raising suspicion. And maybe there was a part of him—a tiny part that he pretended wasn't there, but had been rising inside of him for the past month—that wanted to follow, that wanted to put himself in danger.
He chewed inside of his mouth as he took a swift look around, checking for more people, but only found memories of those who had long since grown passed the stage of cotton candy and arcade games, before summoning his bravado and following Sigan. He didn't know what waited for him in the ride, but he knew he could handle it.
Merlin was led to a tin door, which might have once been painted pink, next to the blocked entrance of the tunnel. It was open when Sigan turned the handle, and they disappeared into the darkness inside.
"I can't see a fucking thing," Merlin hissed into the blackness, tripping over unknown objects littered on the floor as they walked further and further into the tunnel. He kept a close ear on Sigan's steps, careful not to walk too closely behind him.
"Yeah, me, either," Sigan's voice agreed. "Stay here; let me see if I can find an electric box. Maybe there's some power left in this place."
Footsteps echoed again, and Merlin lunged forward into the emptiness.
"No, Cornelius!" he called, his heart suddenly pounding. He was given no response other than the resounding footfalls that eventually faded.
At once, he knew that Arthur was right: he shouldn't have gone.
Not waiting to find out how correct Arthur really was, he turned around and stumbled back towards the door. However, after what felt like an eternity of walking and feeling around in the darkness, he could not see the cool light of the outside. There was only black swimming before his eyes, and he knew Sigan must have gone back and closed the door.
There was a loud booming noise that made Merlin jump out of his skin, and the tunnel suddenly filled with a dim pinkish light. It was enough to illuminate his surroundings, which looked like a warehouse. A few of the carousel's broken horses lined the walls, their whinnying expressions twisted by the shadows; and he saw dusted and limbless animatrons of kissing boys and girls scattered around the river, which still had puddles of filthy water running through it.
"Cornelius," Merlin called out, listening to his own voice shout the name over and over again. "I don't like this! I—I'm not happy."
Outside, the rain had picked up, causing a consistent battering on the roof, and streams of water filtered through the cracks in the ceiling and under the walls.
Merlin swallowed hard, doubling his speed as he paced closer to the door. When he reached it, he saw a giant padlock holding it shut, and he lifted it in his hands almost as though he was checking whether or not it was real.
"Shit," he muttered in his throat, and he wondered if he could shoot the lock open. However, when he felt for the hidden holster worn under his jacket, he found it was empty.
He hardly had time to panic before a high-pitched sonic whine reverberated through the tunnel, straining his eardrums.
"Looking for something, Merlin?" Sigan's voice boomed throughout the space. "You're gun, maybe? I took that off of you before we left the pub, Inspector."
Merlin clasped a hand over his mouth, trying to keep down a horrified shout.
"Yes, I know you're an inspector," said the voice. "Did you really think for a second that a man like me, with so many contacts, wouldn't find out eventually? I was silly for not seeing it before. Your face was all over the news just a few weeks ago, wasn't it? The London Slasher's almost victim. You'll have to tell me how you escaped."
As Sigan spoke, Merlin managed to compose himself enough to think rationally. He looked around, trying to get a visual on Sigan, but he could not. Regardless, he knew it would be best to arm himself in whatever way he could. With his eyes still adjusting to the light, he searched for a makeshift defensive weapon. Soon, he came across a disfigured animatron of a cupid next to the river. It had a steel heart-tipped arrow clutched in its chubby fist, which Merlin managed to break free. It wasn't the ideal weapon, but he held it before him at the ready.
"I don't think that's a topic for a first date," he said, trying to sound calm, but his voice was somewhat unsteady.
"And the last," Sigan told him.
"Is that what happened to the last two?" Merlin called in every direction. "You took them here?"
"Not here," he said. "It's never good to play these games in the same spot."
"Is that a confession, then?"
There was a rumbling chuckle. "Not that anyone will ever know. No one's been able to escape my mazes."
"Yeah?" Merlin breathed, gripping the arrow tighter. "You haven't had me yet."
Slowly, one foot in front of the other, he paced forward. The door obviously wasn't an option, but there must have been a way out somewhere.
He kept close to the wall, passing leftover boats at the bottom of the river. He soon came around the first turn in the tunnel and, on the other end of the round, silhouetted in the darkness, he saw a tall figure with an axe in it hands. It made Merlin's arrow seem like a piece of string.
"Ohhh-kay," Merlin said, and he immediately turned tail and sprinted back around the bend, hearing footsteps rushing behind him.
He jumped three feet towards the bottom of the river, the murky puddles splashing under the soles of his trainers, and he dived into one of the boats. There was a gap for legs across from the red satiny loveseat, and he crawled into it, holding his knees against his chest and holding his breath.
The footsteps slowed, and Merlin listened to them until they disappeared down the tunnel from where he came. He lingered in the boat longer than he should have, trying to control his heart rate and plan his next move. The sound of his own breathing filled his ears, seeming louder that it ever had before. In the distance, he heard another booming noise; it sounded like the opening and closing of a heavy door. The sound brought him out of his thoughts and pushed him forward.
Once he was out of the boat, he climbed up out of the cement gap of the river and continued down the tunnel. He came upon an area sleek with water, and Merlin noticed a number of live wires and cables sticking out of the holes in the wall. At once, he understood they'd been put there deliberately, and he made sure to avoid the sparking cables and watery patches. Once he was through, and clear of the wet patches, he leaned forward and pulled out the biggest cable within reach. It snaked through his palms until it reached the bottom of the river, where the water was concentrated.
Try and get passed that, he thought, imagining a shock of light running through the puddles as Sigan unknowingly walked through them. Merlin doubted it would be that easy to rid himself of his threat, but the obstacle would certainly slow Sigan down.
He kept walking until he reached the end of the winding tunnel, and he broke into a run at the sight of the door. However, it had a similar lock as the first, trapping Merlin inside.
Turning around on the spot, Merlin peered around the darkness for another way out; there had to be an emergency exit somewhere. He spotted another door close by, and this one did not have a lock. He pushed through it, into a fairly decent sized room that might have been a back office to house the controls of the ride, and he instantly jumped at the sight of the figure right in front of him. He might have shouted had he not shoved his knuckles into his mouth, and the figure mimicked the motion. There were more figures, at least a dozen, all around him: some stocky and short, others stretched out, and more still warped into new shapes—all covering their mouths.
Merlin relaxed his shoulders and lowered his hand, watching his various reflections in the fun house mirrors do the same. Sigan must have brought them here for the maze, which meant Merlin had to turn the trap against him. Thinking quickly, he grabbed the closest mirror he could find and repositioned it. He did the same to a few more, setting them in new angles or moving them around the space. The room now distorted, it was confusing finding the real way out but, once he did, he made towards another cluster of broken animatrons.
He picked out a boy figure that wasn't in too much disrepair and lugged it towards the room with the mirrors. Merlin placed it the darkest part of the room, making sure its reflection ricocheted in every mirror, before removing his jacket and putting it over the doll's shoulders.
He made his way out of the room, aware of the soft treading footsteps nearby. His shirt stuck to his back now and his pulse was still pounding as he searched rapidly for somewhere to hide until the footsteps dissipated. As they grew louder, he saw another boat, taken out of the river perhaps because the front had been broken off, close to the door. As quietly as he could, he rushed to it and crouched behind it. Listening out, he realized the footfalls had ceased, which only caused his dread to rise. There was a heavy feeling in his gut and the hairs on his neck stood on end, warning him against something . . .
Warning him that someone was behind him.
Before he could obey the instinct and turn around, something hard hit him against the back of the head, causing him to come crashing down towards the floor. Stars burst before his eyes as the dull pain thumped, disorientating him. He felt something hot and sticky running down the back of his scalp.
When the world came back into focus, he blinked upwards, watching as a dark shadow above him lifted an axe over its head. Merlin remembered the metal arrow in his hand and thrust it forwards as hard as he could. It connected with Sigan's side, beneath his ribs, piercing through to the other side.
Sigan let out a yelp and dropped his arms, allowing Merlin a few seconds to scurry backwards in a frantic kicking motion until he reached the lip of the river.
"You fucking—" Sigan yelled, his voice strained, and Merlin watched with wide eyes as he gripped at the object protruding from his gut.
Sigan held up the axe again and charged towards Merlin, but Merlin had nowhere to go. His entire body tensed and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of anything that would soften the inevitable pain that was to come. The only image that appeared behind his eyes was Arthur.
And suddenly there was a dull thunk.
For a moment, Merlin wholeheartedly believed Sigan had brought the axe down on him, and his mind was blocking out the excruciation.
He opened his eyes, looking up to see Sigan swaying on the spot. Behind him, something long and metal caught the light as it swung, striking him in the head a second time and causing him to topple sideways in a heap next to Merlin.
The first thing Merlin saw was the long rod, and then his eyes flickered wildly towards the face of his savior. He almost didn't believe it . . .
"Arthur!" he shouted, his voice breaking with the emotion of the past hour.
From above, Arthur dropped the rod and offered his hand, which Merlin took before being jerked up to his feet. He still felt dizzy, and he touched his fingers to the back of his head, taking away red.
"What—what are you doing here?" he asked dumbly.
"I followed you," said Arthur, causing a breath of laughter to escape Merlin. Suddenly, he was overjoyed: He never thought he'd laugh again.
However, the smile was ripped from his face when he saw Sigan stirring on the concrete behind Arthur, the axe raised.
"Arthur!" Merlin shouted alarmingly, but Arthur had already noticed.
In once swift movement, he spun around, grabbed the wooden handle of the axe right beneath the blade, and yanked it from Sigan's hands. He twirled the axe with his wrist, tossing it up and catching it again at the middle of the handle. He raised it, doubling his grip before slamming the weapon down on Sigan's chest.
Merlin watched as Arthur repeated the movement again and again, drops of blood splattering upwards and spraying Arthur's face. Merlin found he could not move as the axe became messier, and bits of crimson showered him, too. Arthur didn't stop until Sigan was passed dead.
When he finally did, he left the axe stuck in Sigan's chest and straightened up, heaving in bouts of air, and Merlin saw a savage look glittering in his eyes. It had been nothing like the expression he'd worn back at Morgana's flat: cool, calculating, dull, and inhuman. Now, there was something feral about him. Merlin didn't know which expression he hated more.
However, the look fell away, leaving only Arthur. If Merlin didn't think better of it, he'd say Arthur was concerned—afraid, even.
"Are you alright?" Arthur asked him softly.
Merlin nodded frantically, still looking fixedly at the dismembered body.
"Yeah! Yeah . . ." he lied, but he didn't know what else to say.
"You're bleeding," Arthur said, reaching out a hand and stepping forward. Merlin took a step back.
"I'm fine," he insisted curtly. However, his eyes were welling up, and a surge of emotion spiked through him, sending more pain to his wound. "Oh, Jesus Christ!"
"It's alright, Merlin," Arthur tried to console him, but Merlin swatted him away.
"It is not! There's another body! And body that you put here. A body that we . . . that we put here . . ." he trailed off. Then, he remembered something else: the whole reason he was there in the first place. "A body of a man that I was supposed to bring in alive!"
"I think the investigation was blown a little before that," Arthur said dryly, and Merlin shot him a scornful glare before glancing back down at the body.
"What am I supposed to do?" he asked rhetorically, his mind spinning against his splitting migraine. "I have to—I'll just have to say I was following him. I tailed him here, heard a commotion, and by the time I got in, he was dead."
"No," Arthur said at once. "You've been up and down this tunnel. Who knows how much DNA you've left behind? Even if we do clean, it would be impossible to get everything. Forensics is going to sweep this place if you call it in. They'll find something."
Merlin closed his eyes, willing this all to be a dream.
"Not to mention, if Sigan turns up dead, they'll search his house—his car," Arthur went on. "They'll find some traces of you. Even if by some miracle they don't, they'd question his friends and associates. They know you're face; they know you were with him tonight. It'll still find its way back to you."
Merlin rubbed at his face, leaving streaks in the grime that coated his skin.
"Well, what the fuck, Arthur?" he shouted, no longer able to hold it in.
"There is a way," Arthur said, sounding apprehensive. He caught Merlin's gaze, seeming hesitant to go on.
Merlin wasn't sure he wanted him to go on, either.
"Oh, god, please don't tell me it involves arson again," he said in dread.
"No," Arthur assured him. "Well, perhaps a little, but not generally, no. We can make it look like he fled on his own accord. You can plant a story amongst those who know him, say he thought the police were on to him, so he ran. And you can tell Lance that, while you were off duty, he absconded."
"That still doesn't tell me what we're going to do with the body," Merlin said, frustration and exhaustion in his voice.
Arthur looked from the body to Merlin, pausing for longer than he did before.
"You'll have to trust me," he said quickly, like he was ripping off a bandage.
Merlin felt his chest constrict at the words, and he let out a soft grunt.
"Just for a few hours," Arthur hurried to say. "Just trust me for a few hours, Merlin. Let me help you."
Merlin wanted to punch Arthur again, to tell him that he's helped enough. However, he didn't want to go to prison, especially for a crime Arthur committed—all because Merlin had some moronic point to prove to himself. He let out a long, shaky exhale as he weighed his options.
What choice did he have?
"Fuck—Jesus, yes," he said against his better judgment. "Whatever it is, just—just fucking do it."
Arthur nodded once, and that cold, calculating look was back in his eyes, and that was the one: That was the expression Merlin hated more.
The body was wrapped into two black garbage bags, held together by duct tape, as it was rolled over the side of the boat and splashed into the water. Arthur watched it sink into the depth of the river, feeling odd about not having more bags to toss in. He'd refrained from cutting up the body in pieces for Merlin's sake, but he made sure to clean it of any lingering DNA apart from Sigan's. Besides, it would still make its way out to the Atlantic via the current, so Arthur didn't worry too much on it.
After they had cleaned the blood off of themselves, Merlin waited in the car while Arthur ran into the nearest open shop and picked up a few supplies to remove the bloodstains off the Tunnel's floor and to dispose of the body. Afterwards, they bought a gallon of petrol and, brining Sigan's car to an empty field, set fire to it. Normally, when there was a car involved, Arthur left it somewhere—a side alley, and underpass, a car park—but he didn't want to give the impression that this victim had gone missing. It had to look like Sigan disappeared by choice and, for that, the car had to be destroyed. Finally, they took Arthur's car back to London with Sigan's wrapped up corpse in the boot, and headed straight for the dock where Arthur's boat was.
Once the body had completely disappeared into the black water, Arthur straightened out and cast a look at Merlin, who was sitting on the white cushioned bench on the bow. Luckily, his wound wasn't deep enough to require stitches, and they'd managed to stop the bleeding. Merlin held an ice pack to the back of his hair, looking miserably off at the water where Sigan had been dumped.
"I suppose I should thank you," he said after a moment. "I won't, but . . ."
"Well, you're not welcome," Arthur said lightly, letting the comment roll off his back.
"Is this how you make people disappear, then?" Merlin asked softly. "This is where all those people in your blood slide collection have ended up?"
"Not all of them," Arthur told him in earnest. "It took a few times to perfect the method, but this is where most of them have gone, yes."
Merlin shuttered and, lowering the ice pack from his head, wrapped his jacket more closely around his body.
"So this boat isn't used just for sightseeing and fishing?" he said with a frown, acting as though each previous time he'd ever accompanied Arthur on the boat had been a fallacy.
"It's not only for getting rid of bodies," Arthur reassured him. He walked towards the bow and sat next to Merlin, where he noticed a dry patch of crimson below Merlin's hairline. He moistened his thumb and rubbed it away before lying back to look fully at the sky above. He closed his eyes to it, feeling the rocking of boat beneath him.
"Sometimes, I like to come out here and just sit for awhile—to get as far away from civilization as possible," Arthur continued in a dreamy tone, aware of Merlin watching him out of the corner of his eye. "I love it out here; it's quiet, and I don't have to close my eyes to pretend I'm the only person in the world. There's no one to hide for, no reason to wear a mask."
"No one to kill," Merlin reproved.
"No Need to kill," Arthur corrected him, practically pronouncing the capital letter, as his eyes fluttered back open. "I can pretend I've left the city far behind and moved to some farm somewhere—not even in the UK. I'm somewhere in, maybe . . . Bolivia."
Understanding the reference, Merlin smiled softly down at his lap despite himself.
"Australia," he offered in a low voice.
The corners of Arthur's lips twitched upwards as he gazed at Merlin's profile in the moonlight. Encouraged that Merlin had brightened somewhat, Arthur reached out a palm and ran it up and down the curve of Merlin's spine. At first, Merlin's muscles tensed at the touch but, whether he knew it or not, they relaxed again.
"Don't worry, Sundance, I'd always take you with me," Arthur told him.
"Then you wouldn't be the only person in the world, would you?" Merlin reasoned, making Arthur chuckle.
"No, I guess not," he laughed. "It's still nice, though."
When Merlin didn't answer, but continued to look off towards the moon's scattered reflection on the waves, Arthur sat up again and leaned in close.
"Merlin," he whined, nudging at the hollow of Merlin's cheek with his nose and burying his chin into his neck. He felt Merlin's skin respond to him instantly, satisfying him slightly. "I wish you'd speak to me. This past month hasn't been the same without you, you know?"
Finally, Merlin turned his head to face him, but he still couldn't bring himself to meet Arthur's gaze. Arthur stared downwards as he reached up with his other hand and traced the pad of his thumb against Merlin's lips; and he tipped his head to meet them. Merlin closed his eyes into the pecking kisses, but he soon remembered himself and rebuffed Arthur by turning away once more.
"Take me back to London," said Merlin, the edge back in his tone.
Arthur let out a heavy breath before asking, "So you don't find it relaxing out here?"
"We've just dumped a body into the water," Merlin reminded him curtly. "No, I don't find it relaxing."
On Merlin's back, Arthur balled his palm into a fist before releasing Merlin completely.
"Fair enough," he said, raising his palms disarmingly and standing up to head towards the boat's controls.
"And don't think this changes anything," Merlin told his lap.
For the first time, Arthur felt breathless, and he thought his heart had stopped beating.
"I was hoping it wouldn't," he whispered clearly, looking hurt.
The muscles in Merlin's jaw tightened, but he did not flinch.
"Take me back to London," he repeated, his resolve strengthened. Arthur didn't dare disobey.
Chapter Text
"Gwen . . . Gwen!"
She snapped back into reality, returning to the candlelit dinner in the spacious, dim restaurant that they had to save up for all year for and book six months in advance. She looked down at the untouched meal in front of her and realized she didn't even recall when it was placed there.
"You were thinking about le Fay again, weren't you?" Lance asked, a frown creasing his forehead.
"No," she lied, curving her lips into an elegant smile.
"You have to learn how to turn it off, Gwen," Lance told her, not buying her lie for a moment. He reached across the bread bowl and slipped his fingers into hers. "Tonight's about us, yeah? Two years of going strong, remember?"
"Two years," she repeated, holding up her glass of red wine and taking a sip. It made Lance brighten, and he sat up straight again.
"But you do believe me?"
He groaned.
"Gwen!"
"No, but come on," she pleaded. It had been a few weeks since she let Lance in on her theory, and he was all for it until she'd told him who her number one suspect was.
He took a bite of his steak, chewing to buy himself a little bit of time before wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin on his lap.
"I believe you that someone killed le Fay," he allowed. "You're good at what you do, Gwen. If you have a feeling, I trust it. Your instincts have gotten us both out of rough situations in the past, but . . ." He sighed, as he knew Gwen wouldn't like what was coming next. "There is no evidence to suggest—"
"I know what I saw on that CCTV video!" Gwen protested in a harsh whisper.
"Fine, no evidence that isn't circumstantial," said Lance, his eyes softening apologetically when she crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "Look, have you spoken to him?"
Gwen looked off and chewed at the inside of her mouth.
"No," she admitted. "I'm trying to get all the facts first."
"Maybe talking to him will give you facts," he offered. She thought on this for a moment before he slackened his shoulders and let out another heavy breath. "Let's not talk about this right now," he asked of her. "Let's talk about something more important."
She let out a snort. "What could possibly be more important than catching a killer?"
"Well, I was hoping this would be . . ."
He reached into his breast pocket, and Gwen narrowed her eyes at him, getting her first good look at him that night. His forehead was glistening slightly and he looked paler than usual, which worried Gwen for a reason she couldn't explain.
When Lance withdrew his hand, he placed a small, dark velvet box on the table between them and inched it towards her, grinning meekly. She sat up a little straighter, intrigued.
"I know you won't be able to wear it at the office right away," he said, his voice trembling as she picked up the box with both hands. "But we won't have to hide it from Corcoran or anyone else anymore, will we? I'm tired of hiding it. I want to tell everyone about us; always have."
She opened the box as he spoke, gazing down at the white, sparkling stone set in a golden band. She felt like the wind had gotten knocked out of her as she looked up at Lance with wide eyes.
Across the table, he gave her a smirk before putting his napkin next to his plate and kneeling at her side. The restaurant suddenly hushed, the only sounds coming from the mummers of the patrons and the clinking of china and silver, and heads began turning in their direction.
"Gwen," Lance began, looking up at her, "I've been in love with you from the day we met, and those feelings will never fade. Marry me?"
Her heart skipped as she realized this was the perfect gesture. He hadn't tried to bake the ring into a cake or hired an airplane to write her name in the sky. It wasn't showy or over-the-top. It was traditional, a tried-and-true romantic method, and what she had always pictured. In fact, she thought she'd always pictured Lance, too.
Of course, they'd talked about marriage before—many times and in depth—but she'd always imagined it as a dream she could not quite obtain. Now that it was properly in her reach, she didn't want to let it go.
She let out a laugh because she simply could not contain her joy.
"Yes, of course!" she exclaimed, both of them beaming at the words. Lance looked almost relieved, like he considered the fact that she'd ever say no.
The patrons broke out into applause as Lance jumped to his feet and swept Gwen into a kiss, and they laughed as she slipped on the ring and flexed her fingers around it.
Two waiters in white suits appeared at their side, uncorking another bottle of wine. The stream of red glimmered in the candlelight as it flowed into their glasses.
The following Monday, Merlin had returned to work. Arthur watched as he sorted through the mountains of files on his desk, but Merlin never even glanced at the lab. At one point, Arthur was sure Merlin was coming over, but he stopped at Gwaine's desk and the two had a brief conversation before he retreated. Even at crime scenes, Merlin kept his distance, and Arthur frequently got the urge to shake him. He thought they were passed this . . .
By Wednesday, Arthur couldn't take it anymore. He'd been watching Merlin all day through the window of his lab, so focused that he hardly managed to get any work done. For the first time in days, he even forgot about hunting Odin.
Merlin had been at his desk all day playing catch-up: filling out paperwork, making calls, and going through a stack of files on his desk that must have involved the new cases he was working on. As the day dwindled down and the office emptied out, Merlin was still occupied. The sun had slipped beyond the horizon hours ago, and Arthur saw Merlin cast anxious glances towards the lab, aware that they were the only two people left on the floor, and possibly the whole building. At these times, Arthur hurriedly ducked his head, pretending to be just as bogged down with work, so Merlin wouldn't catch him staring. The dance had gone on for quite some time before Merlin stood up and attempted to shove the remaining half of the stack into his rucksack to head home.
Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat, and he knew that, if he had any hope of speaking to Merlin, the time was now. He exited his lab as quietly as he could, drawing his courage from the shadows, of which even the florescent light could not get rid, that painted the tiled floor. Merlin's head was still down when Arthur reached his desk, and he didn't seem to notice that anyone was in the vicinity until Arthur spoke his name tentatively.
Merlin's eyes shot up quickly and Arthur could see himself reflected in his pupils. He'd seen that expression so many times on his victims, but it struck a chord with him to see it on Merlin. As to not alarm him any further, Arthur crossed his arms tightly across his chest and propped himself on the far corner of Merlin's desk.
"I—I can't—I have to get home, Arthur," Merlin was muttering as he tried to zip up his backpack to no avail. There were loose papers and manila colored folders sticking out of the top.
"I just want to talk, Merlin," Arthur said softly. "Please, just look at me. I've been looking out for you this entire week and you haven't so much as said a word to me, and you look bloody miserable. I haven't seen you smile in the passed three days."
"I don't have anything to say to you," Merlin told him swiftly, grabbing some files out of his bag and throwing them into his desk drawer.
"Why not?"
Merlin slammed the drawer shut with a loud, metallic bang, his furious eyes now boring directly into Arthur's. "Because you're a serial killer," he said in a loud voice, and Arthur frantically looked around the office to make sure no one was around to hear that.
"Merlin, shh!" he hissed, even though the coast was clear.
However, Merlin went on as though Arthur had not said anything: "Because you kill people and take their blood as a trophy. Because you killed le Fay and you killed Sigan, and you wrapped me up in it, too. Because I'm supposed to be arresting people like you, not—not—this!"
"I understand that you must be confused," Arthur started.
"More like betrayed," Merlin jeered. "Pissed, more like. Livid, even." He took a steadying breath, which must have made him weary because he sat heavily back into his chair and rested his palms flat on the tabletop.
"I just need some time, Arthur," he said, "to think this all through."
Arthur didn't understand why Merlin needed over a month to think; Arthur had always been much more decisive than that. However, he nodded in mock understanding.
"Do you think you're going to turn me in?" he dared ask, and Merlin's eyes flickered back up to him.
"I don't," he said after a beat, relieving Arthur. "At least, not today, I don't. It comes in waves."
"Then what are you thinking?"
"I don't fucking know!" Merlin snapped. "Jesus . . . Yesterday, I thought—maybe—it'd be alright. I'd be able to find a way passed this. You did save me—twice."
Arthur raised a brow. "That—that's good."
"And today, I want to wring your neck," Merlin continued with a razor sharp smile.
"Oh. That's not so good."
"No," Merlin agreed. "So, please, just leave me alone because I can't stand it."
But Arthur wasn't going to back down so easily. He'd fight if he had to. "Merlin," he said gently, leaning forward and slipping his fingers beneath Merlin's, stroking his knuckles with his thumb. Merlin looked down at their hands as though his heart had just skipped a beat. "I can't stand it, either. I miss you."
Anger flashed into Merlin's blues, and he withdrew his hand like Arthur's was on fire. "No, you don't," he said bitterly. "I've been reading quite a bit about psychopaths over the last few weeks, and all the literature says you can't miss anyone. You don't have it in you."
"Then the literature is wrong," Arthur insisted, "because I do. Ever since you and I—Merlin, I can't think about anything else," he laughed. "Or maybe you're just special."
"Don't try to charm your way out of this!" Merlin yelled, rubbing the stress from his eyes.
"I know you miss me, too."
He stood up quickly, letting his chair roll back until it hit the front of the next desk. "I don't! I can't possibly miss you because I don't know you. I don't the man who chops up people with axes and knives and, if I did, I don't think I'd like him very much at all."
Merlin turned to collect his things, and Arthur was on his feet now. He pounced around the desk and grabbed Merlin at the wrist, whirling him back around.
"Stop it, Arthur!" Merlin shouted, but Arthur did not let go no matter how hard Merlin tugged his arm. "I don't want to talk. I can't even look at you right now, you fucking clotpole—"
"I'm a what?"
"Let—go—of—me! Can't—you—see—I'm—trying—not—to—be—in—lo—"
Arthur couldn't resist any longer. He smashed his lips into Merlin's, and Merlin retaliated instantly. He groped at Arthur's hair, bringing him in closer, and Arthur squeezed his arms around Merlin's torso. They barely came up for a breath, clinging to one another roughly and famished. It was a wanting Arthur could feel in his gut, rebounding inside of Merlin, and Merlin didn't protest when Arthur brought him down on the desk, causing various items to rattle and get knocked towards the floor.
He left Merlin breathing deeply and rapidly to ravage his neck and, through pants, Merlin was saying, "No, Arthur. No." But his legs were around Arthur's waist, not allowing him to go anywhere. He had also managed to untuck Arthur's shirt, and was dragging his hands wildly up and down Arthur's spine.
"I can't—I—Oh."
Arthur found a particularly tender spot beneath Merlin's ear, at the base of his jaw, which he decided to remember for next time he wanted Merlin to shut up. Beneath him, Merlin's entire body squirmed, and Arthur found that a low rumbling sound was coming from his own throat.
"Arthur . . . Arthur . . ." Merlin was breathing, but he eventually seemed to remember himself. "No, Arthur. I'm not—I'm not joking . . ."
"Mhm," Arthur hummed noncommittally into his skin, and the vibration elicited a whimper in Merlin that resonated throughout Arthur's body. It seemed to have completely undone Merlin, too.
"We can't—not here," he said. "Your lab! Go—go to your lab."
Confident that Merlin wouldn't flee, Arthur straightened himself out and led Merlin by the hand quickly across the room to the cramped lab. Once they were inside, Merlin locked the door and Arthur scrambled to close the blinds lining his window. Arthur dropped to his knees and pulled out the drawers, rummaging through them before grabbing his bag and emptying the contents on top of the keyboard until he found a condom.
They were back in each other's arms, Arthur pinning Merlin against the edge of his computer table as they tore their shirts from over their heads. Merlin hastily undid his belt and let his trousers and shorts fall to his ankles before doing Arthur the honors. He lost no time sinking the pads of his fingers into Arthur's ass and Arthur grabbed him at the hips.
"I never—want—to see—you—again—after this," Merlin told him in a very unconvincing voice through devouring kisses.
"I know," Arthur said before moving down to run his lips across Merlin's shoulders and chest. "Because you hate me."
"I do," Merlin whispered, wrapping his arms around Arthur head, keeping it close so that Arthur could hear his accelerated heartbeat. "I hate you . . ."
He was swollen against Arthur's leg, and Arthur shook with hunger as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. He would not let Merlin go. He needed Merlin's warmth, needed his touch . . .
"Now fuck me before I do something smart like change my mind."
Arthur twitched at the words. Merlin collapsed into his touch as Arthur bent him over the computer table, at first thrusting hard and fast so that Merlin's moans mixed with his own and echoed through the small space; but he gradually slowed his speed, moving Merlin's hips so that their bodies swayed in perfect harmony. Merlin was making choked, happy sounds that made Arthur's skin prickle. It didn't help that he kept muttering things like "yes . . . Arthur . . . just there . . ."
Soon, however, he changed his tune, begging for Arthur to go faster. Arthur's knees started to buckle, and he watched the muscles in Merlin's back and shoulders tighten. Gasps and half-screams were escaping from their throats, and all the blood rushed out of Arthur's head as he dug his fingers into Merlin's hips.
For a moment, Arthur couldn't move, and he listened to his and Merlin's ragged breaths echo through the silence. Then he stepped back less than an inch, allowing for Merlin to stand up and turn to face him, their skin brushing as he did so. Arthur stared at Merlin, framed against the artificial light that managed to peek through the slits between the blinds. His chin was sleek, his cheeks were pink, and shallow breaths were coming from his swollen lips. Arthur didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful.
They let out breaths of laughter at the same time before reaching for each other again and kissing softly. Arthur picked Merlin up and shelved him on top of the table so that Merlin could enfold Arthur's body in his legs. He notice Merlin wince slightly when he sat down, and a strange satisfaction spread over Arthur in the knowledge that Merlin wouldn't be able to sit right for a few days.
They broke apart, breathing in each other, and Arthur noticed at once that Merlin couldn't look him in the eyes anymore.
"Merlin," Arthur groaned, nuzzling his nose into Merlin's cheek and planting soft kisses there. "Come on, Merlin. Now do you see how much I need you? I think I just proved it."
"I know," Merlin conceded, and Arthur brought their lips together again before Merlin could finish his thought.
"Come home with me tonight," Arthur asked, a hint of pleading in his tone. "We can work this out."
"There's nothing to work out," Merlin insisted.
"Then come anyway," Arthur said with a grin. "We can take it slow."
The word made Merlin shiver. Arthur stroked his palms up Merlin's sides and over his nipples, and Merlin rubbed his hands into Arthur's shoulder blades. Arthur relished it as their warm tongues tangled together.
"Come on, Merlin. Come back to mine," Arthur asked again sweetly when they came up for air. "Please."
He saw Merlin cast a look to the floor, and saw how much Merlin wanted to say yes.
"No," Merlin said in such a whisper that Arthur almost missed it. There was hurt in his gaze when it swept to Arthur's, and Arthur was surprised when his heart sank. It had never done that before.
"I'm sorry, Arthur. I—" Merlin said, despite how much Arthur was shaking his head, refusing to believe it. "Of course I fucking miss you, too. But, please, don't do this to me. I don't want to hate you. I—" He was wearing a sad smile, trying to collect himself. "I want the opposite . . . But I can't—I can't pretend you're something you're not. I can't pretend I don't know what you are or that what we did to le Fay and Sigan didn't happen. I have compromised everything I believe in for you, and I just need to be away from you, at least for now. I have to work this out by myself and there's nothing you can say to help."
Something in Merlin's eyes was begging Arthur to not listen to him, to kiss him again and take him home. Arthur didn't know what to do.
"Please, just give me that," Merlin said, and it sounded like he was in pain.
Arthur's mind was racing, but he reluctantly relinquished his hold on Merlin and stepped back. Merlin seemed to be trembling slightly, but his resolve held as he collected his clothes with his back to Arthur. By the time Merlin was fully dressed, albeit disheveled looking, Arthur had only managed to put on his trousers.
With a quick, muttered goodbye, Merlin flung the lab door open and disappeared through it. Arthur tried calling his name one last time, hoping to talk some sense into him. He would stay if only Arthur could make him look back, but the door had already slammed closed.
Arthur leaned over his desk and peeked through the blinds as Merlin rushed for his desk, haphazardly picked up the fallen items and scattering them anywhere on top, and grabbed his bag. His shoulders were a tense, rigid line as he made for the lifts.
The next day, Merlin was relieved when he was given an excuse to leave the floor. It had been awkward, to say the least, to be so close to Arthur, and he had to remind himself not to sprint down the hall when he got the message that Gwen wanted to see him.
"Ah, Merlin, have a seat," Gwen said with a smile when he arrived, gesturing to one of the seats in front of her desk. "Close the door, will you?"
He did as she asked, trying not to wince too obviously when he settled into the cushioned seat. He leaned to the side, trying to look natural, and wondered, "You wanted to see me?"
"Yes," she said, folding her hands across her desk and staring unblinkingly at him. Her expression was pleasant, but there was something about it that off-put Merlin. He felt his heart rate start to quicken. "How have you been? Working hard since you've gotten back from leave, I understand. Lance says you're barely in the office anymore."
"Well, I've been in the field," Merlin hurried to say, trying at failing to meet her scrutinizing eyes. "I've been, um—I just want to get out there as much as possible . . ." As he said it, he got a strange flashback to his first job interview as a teenager. He cleared his throat awkwardly.
"Now that I know first hand," he continued. "I mean, it's given me real incentive."
"Incentive, yeah," Gwen repeated, nodding a bit too cheerfully for his liking.
"Is—is there a reason you wanted to see me, Super?" Merlin asked hesitantly, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.
"Yes, actually, there is," she told him, repositioning her hands on the desktop. "I wanted to ask you more about that night le Fay kidnapped you, and the days following it."
Merlin felt his heart stop. "The days following . . .?"
"Particularly the night of the fire," she said seamlessly. "The night le Fay died. I believe it wasn't such a cut and dry suicide."
"Oh," Merlin said, trying to appear shocked by the news. "Why do you—why would you think that?"
He felt like the ceiling might cave in on him any second, and it was suddenly boiling in the room. He found he had to work hard to control his breathing, but he forced himself to meet Gwen's eyes.
Gwen didn't answer the question, but she leaned in slightly and asked, "Can you tell me what you were doing near le Fay's flat that night?"
Now he prayed the ceiling would cave in; it would provide a distraction.
"I—?"
"And what Arthur was doing?"
She straightened out and swiveled the computer monitor so that he could see it. On the screen, he saw paused CCTV footage of the street corner down the block from Morgana's flat. Gwen slammed down on the space bar, sending the video into motion. There were a few seconds before Arthur's car pulled into the shot and turned.
"That is his car, isn't it?" Gwen said, pointing at the number plate. "I've run the registration."
A moment later, on the screen, a second car pulled up, and both vehicles turned the corner and drove off.
"And, I believe, that was you," Gwen continued as she paused the footage and turned the screen back around. She placed her hands down again, smiling at him expectantly.
"Oh, um—yeah," Merlin said, not doing such a splendid job at keeping the nervousness out of his voice. "Well, Arthur was at the flat. Lance had asked him to do another forensic sweep. I just swung by to bring him something to eat. He'd been with me all day—helping me settle in back home from the hospital, so he didn't eat much."
Merlin shrugged apologetically and blew out his cheeks. "Guess I forgot I'd done that."
Gwen knitted her brows together.
"No, but Lance asked Arthur about his sweep. He said he'd done it hours before the fire," she said patiently. "He told us he hadn't seen le Fay, or anything else for that matter."
"No, he didn't!" Merlin hurried. "Neither did I."
"But the time stamp on the feed places your cars on her block ten minutes after the fire broke out," Gwen said, and the pleasant expression had completely fallen from her face now. She didn't take her eyes off of him.
Merlin chuckled nervously, trying to play it off. "Because we'd already left the flat by then," he said. "Did I say I brought him food? No, I—I was going to bring him food, but most places were closed. So we left the flat after he'd finished his sweep and went to a pub nearby."
"What was the pub's name?" Gwen asked quickly.
"The Golden Leaf," he spat out without really thinking. He'd gone to that pub with Morgana once, and he knew it was right down the road from her building.
Gwen didn't seem satisfied, and continued to watch him through narrowed eyes, but she remained silent.
"Alright," she said after a moment, her cheerful demeanor returned. Merlin let out a breath of relief.
"You can go back to work, Inspector."
He nodded rapidly and shot up to his feet.
"Okay, I—yeah."
He could still feel her eyes on him as he started for the door, but he tried to stay relaxed and take his time walking out of the office. He wanted to run to Arthur's lab and tell him about the conversation, but he also knew it was too risky to do at work. How would it look if Gwen saw him speaking with Arthur right after Merlin left her?
He decided to tell him later and, until then, continue to avoid him like the Plague.
"And what did you tell her?"
Arthur hadn't meant to shout it, and the children in the flat across the hall let out high-pitched squeals in return. He blocked the sounds out, trying to get a hold of himself. He couldn't afford to lose control, especially now.
Earlier that day, he had gotten a text from Merlin that they needed to talk. At the time, Arthur was optimistic. Even though Merlin didn't glance at him for the rest of the workday, he was looking forward to their conversation, and Merlin offered to swing by his flat after work. That had made Arthur even more eager. He was expecting happy news.
He wasn't excepting this.
"I lied my ass off," Merlin told him with a scoff. "What was I supposed to do?"
"That," Arthur said, calmer now. "You were supposed to do exactly that."
"Yeah, well, I'll be doing a lot of lying in the near future, I think," Merlin said, shoving his hands into his jean pockets and tensing uncomfortably. "She'll look into you're background. She'll find out Eve's your sister. Eve—Morgana—Fuck, whatever her name is. The point is, Gwen won't give this up."
"She will," Arthur said confidently. "For all we know, she has nothing on us. I didn't leave any evidence behind."
"You're sure?"
"Of course!"
Somehow, Merlin didn't seem assured by this.
"But she suspects us. She'll keep watching us; I know it . . . I can't do it, Arthur. I can't live like this," Merlin said decisively, shaking his head and unable to look Arthur in the eyes. He was picking up his jacket, but he didn't put it on. Instead, he folded it over his arm. "I've got to tell Gwen the truth," he finished, turning around towards the door.
"The truth?" Arthur repeated at though the word was foreign to him. "Wait, Merlin! You can't."
He rushed to Merlin, grabbing at his arm, but Merlin pushed him away.
"And why not?" he said angrily, but he turned back around, so Arthur took that as a good sign.
"Imagine what will happen," Arthur said, stepping closer to Merlin and placing a palm on either of his upper arms. Merlin kept his arms crossed tightly against his chest, and he averted his eyes to the floor.
"If you confess, you'll be implicated, too," Arthur said coaxingly. "Gwen will see you as guilty. She'll arrest you."
Merlin took in a shaky breath. "I am guilty," he said in a small voice. "It's what I deserve."
Arthur shook his head, fishing for Merlin's eyes. "No, you don't," he told him. "Besides, think of what they'll do to me. We'll never get to see each other again, you know. I don't think either of us will be able to deal with that. Who will constantly pester me?"
Merlin gave a soft, gloomy smile, and Arthur knew he was getting through to him.
"We're in this together, Merlin, like we've always been. Butch and Sundance," he finished, knowing it would eradicate any more of Merlin's lingering doubts. "If you love me at all, you won't turn yourself in."
However, these words had the opposite effect than Arthur intended. Merlin suddenly looked him in the eyes, his sadness replaced with something close to fury.
"If I love you?" he shouted, unfolding his arms and thrusting Arthur away from him. "Jesus Christ, Arthur! I went to le Fay's flat that night you killed her to tell you I'm in love with you!"
Suddenly, Merlin gaped, his eyes wide with horror as he realized what he had just revealed. After a beat, he stammered slightly, as though trying to find a way to justify his words.
"I mean—I know you don't feel the same way," he said quickly. "I—I know you can't. But, still, I've felt this way for a long time. Maybe our whole lives, and—Jesus, Arthur, would you say something?"
It occurred to Arthur that he was standing completely still, his jaw a rigid line as he stared vacantly at Merlin. He'd been doing so for quite a span of time now, and he figured he really should react. The only problem was, he didn't know how.
"You're in love with me?" he said slowly, as though he were confused on the point and was just trying to clear it up.
Merlin's eyes were wide again, and he seemed to be considering something. He was thinking so hard that his adam's apple started to bounce up and down violently.
"No," Merlin said all of a sudden, sending Arthur for a loop. "Not anymore. Or maybe I am. Fuck, I don't know!"
He let out an almighty sigh, and Arthur's eyes followed Merlin, who dropped his jacket unceremoniously on the floor and sat heavily on the sofa, kneading his eyes with the heels of his palm.
"You're a serial killer," he said, moving his hands to run through his hair before cupping them on the back of his neck. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You're a serial killer, and I feel like everything you've ever said to me was a complete lie. And now I'm an accomplice—and goddamn Gwen is going to find us out, and I'll probably spend the rest of my life in prison. And you—god, I don't even want to think about what might happen to you."
When Merlin's eyes swept up to meet Arthur's gaze, Arthur realized that he had no idea what Merlin had been going through over these past few weeks. Of course, he knew Merlin had been struggling with his revelation about Arthur's extracurricular activity, but he had no idea Merlin had placed so much blame and fear on himself. Arthur had never even considered that.
"And I should hate you," Merlin told him, his voice shaky as he looked off again, nodding his head like that information had just truly sunk in. "God, I should I hate you," he whispered, more to himself than to Arthur.
Arthur didn't know what to say to comfort Merlin, so he stuck to what he had always relied on: logic and instinct. They had gotten him out of tight corners previously, and it appeared now they would have to do the heavy lifting for both he and Merlin.
"It's going to be alright," Arthur said, making his way towards the couch and sitting down close to Merlin. He cross their wrists and knitted his fingers into Merlin's, resting on Merlin's knee. For a moment, it looked like Merlin was going to pull away, but he apparently thought better of it and relaxed his muscles, so Arthur placed his other palm on the back of Merlin's hand.
"We'll figure something out," he promised, leaning in so that his forehead touched Merlin's. "You're not going anywhere, Sundance."
Despite himself, a warm smile spread onto Merlin's face.
The Golden Leaf was teeming with a mixed crowd, which Gwen found slightly disconcerting for such a late hour in the middle of the week. She didn't want to think that she and Lance only added to throng, especially because they were there on business.
They had pulled the bar tender aside, drilling her on her whereabouts on the twenty-second of February, the night of the fire, at around one in the morning.
"Yeah, I heard about that. It's awful so many people got kicked out of there homes," she had said, a bit perplexed on why they were asking her about it, despite their insistence that she wasn't in any trouble. "But I was here—it was during one of my shifts."
Encouraged by this, Gwen motioned for Lance to hold up two photographs, one of Merlin and the other of Arthur, that she had procured from their employee files.
"Do you recognize either of these men?" she asked the barmaid.
The woman squinted her eyes and leaned forward, studying each photo in turn.
"That one looks familiar," she said, pointing to the darker of the two.
Gwen gestured towards Arthur's picture. "But not this one?"
The woman shook her head. "Sorry, no," she said. "But I see quite a lot of people every day. As you can see, we draw a big crowd." She gestured around at the patrons and shrugged. "I might have seen him. I might have even served him, but I couldn't tell you honestly."
Gwen chewed on her mouth and turned this around in her head.
"Thank you," she told the bar tender while offering her business card. "If you think of anything else, contact me immediately."
The woman said she would, and Gwen and Lance made their way out of the pub. Once they were in the relative quiet of the pavement, Gwen said thoughtfully, "She didn't recognize Arthur."
"Yeah, but you heard what she said, Gwen," Lance told her as they strode back towards the car. "She couldn't remember. Eyewitness accounts are always flimsy, especially when the witness doesn't know what they're looking at."
"Maybe," Gwen allowed, but she wasn't ready to give this up just yet.
Chapter Text
Arthur woke up long before the alarm clock sounded, and he lay on his side watching Merlin breathe shallowly in his sleep as the rays of morning light peeking through the curtain danced on his features.
And Arthur contemplated what Merlin had said to him the previous night. He loves me, he thought over and over again, and something inside of him fluttered at the words, but mostly he was just confused.
Why does he love someone like me?
Arthur didn't deserve such affection, especially because he didn't know if he loved Merlin back. He knew he loved being around Merlin: watching movies with him, having steaks and beer with him, and taking the long way to work with Merlin in the passenger seat. He loved how Merlin had always been there for him, had always been at his side, especially when he was in a bind. He loved how reliable Merlin was—that, even now, Merlin would not betray any of his secrets; but those where selfish reasons for love. Were their any details about Merlin, completely separate from Arthur, which he could honestly say he was in love with?
Did he love the way Merlin twirled his feet beneath the covers at night before falling asleep; the way Merlin's eyes crinkled when he smiled brightly; or the way Merlin hummed when he got dressed? Did he love the way Merlin kissed, how smooth his hair felt when Arthur ran his fingers through it, or the way he wrapped himself around Arthur? Did he really, truly love those things, or was he simply fascinated by them?
Of course, Arthur couldn't deny that he had a soft spot for Merlin. He had an overwhelming need to keep Merlin safe, protected. Maybe that was because he never had to pretend to be something he wasn't around Merlin, even before Merlin found out his secret; he always felt comfortable around Merlin, like he could be himself, or at least something close to it. He couldn't live without Merlin in his life, or perhaps he didn't want to. Wasn't the latter of the two more sentimental, anyway?
Arthur didn't know, but his thoughts were cut short by the sudden blaring of the alarm clock, and he broke his gaze from Merlin, who grunted and tensed as he awoke, to slam his fist on the off button.
When Arthur turned back, Merlin was yawning widely and stretching his muscles before once more falling limp against the mattress with closed eyes. Arthur smiled amusedly at this and snaked his arms around Merlin, pulling him in until Merlin's back was against his chest.
They stayed like that for a contented minute before Arthur said into his hair, "We'd better get going. We don't want to get in late."
"Mmm-hmm," Merlin hummed tiredly, but he did not move.
"I'm serious, Merlin."
"Then, maybe you should stop being so warm," Merlin countered, so Arthur withdrew himself from Merlin and got out of bed, headed towards the bathroom. He reappeared a few minutes later with brushed teeth and a washed face, and he crossed to the closet for a pair of trousers and a button-up shirt.
At that point, Merlin had only just sat up in bed, gazing around the room in a tired fog, before his eyes rested on Arthur, who was buttoning up his selected shirt.
"That was fast," Merlin said, and the hint of suspicion in his tone wasn't lost on Arthur.
Arthur smiled at Merlin's hair, sticking up in every direction. "I'm going to pick up breakfast before heading in," he lied confidently. "Do you want anything?"
Merlin didn't seem convinced, but he shook his head nonetheless. "I'll just grab a coffee here."
"Suit yourself," Arthur said for good measure as he tucked in his shirt. He grabbed his canvas bag from the chair in the corner and bent down to place a kiss on Merlin's cheek before heading out.
Lance was chewing with his mouth open again, and Gwen shot him a passive aggressive look from her place behind the wheel. Lance met her eyes with confusion and then, upon realizing what he was doing, gave her an apologetic look before taking another large bite out of his breakfast burrito.
Gwen rolled her eyes and looked back at the red door, just in time for it to open and reveal Arthur's blonde head.
"Look, there he is!" Gwen alerted Lance, not taking her eyes off Arthur as she slapped Lance a few times on the chest to gain his attention.
After Lance's "ows" had subsided, he rubbed at his chest and squinted his eyes across the street at Arthur, who had made his way off the stoop and was getting into his car, which was parked right outside the building.
"He's probably just going to work, Gwen," Lance said with a shrug as Arthur's engine kicked into life. "I don't see why you need me for this, anyway. We've been sat here for hours."
Arthur was driving down the block now, in the opposite direction from the station, Gwen noticed. She turned the key in the ignition and the engine roared into life.
"Well, let's see if all this waiting's paid off."
She followed him at a distance, allowing other cars to weave in and out before them so there was space between Gwen's car and Arthur's, but she never let him out her sight. Nearly fifteen minutes later, they were parked down the road from a shabby looking estate. Gwen's binoculars were pressed up against her window as she watched Arthur walk up the stairs to the third floor. He looked around himself, making sure no one was around, before easily picking the lock of one of the flat's doors and disappearing inside.
"Did you write down the address?" Gwen demanded of Lance, who was copying down the estate's address in his notepad. "Flat number thirty-seven. I want you to find out who lives there as soon as we get back to the station."
"Maybe it's a relative, Gwen," Lance tried.
"And he had to pick the lock?" Gwen protested. "Besides, Arthur doesn't have any relatives."
She bit her lip, casting a look over at the building. She wanted to follow Arthur inside, to see what he was doing in there, but there was only one discernable way in or out of the flat, and there was no way of knowing what she was walking in to. Still, it wasn't like she didn't have backup: Lance was right there. It would be tricky . . .
"Alright, I admit it's fishy," Lance was saying. "But it doesn't prove that he's a murderer—What are you doing?"
Gwen was unbuckling herself and moving to open the door. "I'm going in."
"You're what?"
He reached for her, missing by an inch, when she got out of the car.
"Stay here. If I'm not out in ten minutes, come looking for me," she told him after peering back into the car.
"Gwen, this is ridiculous. It's Arthur," he protested, but there was fear and apprehension in his eyes.
"Then, there's nothing to worry about, is there?" she challenged, and left him gaping after her as she crossed the street.
Arthur tore the double doors of the closet open, looking first at the floor. He doubted a man like Odin would place a murder weapon out in the open, but he'd seen it before. He'd even once killed a man who kept his bloodstained cricket bat in the umbrella stand right next to the door. However, a killer for hire would be smarter than that. Like Arthur, he might have a safe, a trunk, or a hidden compartment. There was nothing immediately visible, so he pulled back the line of shirts and jackets to reveal the back wall. Nothing was hidden there, just as he'd found nothing of merit in the drawers of Odin's living room, stashed in the drop ceiling, or in the gap behind the radiator.
He moved down the hall and into the bedroom, deciding to focus his attention on something other than a murder weapon. If Odin were up to his old ways, there would be a record of sorts hidden about the tiny flat. Odin would want to keep track of who had yet to pay him, and Arthur suspected he'd want to keep those records close.
He started at the bedside table, rummaging through the contents of its drawers with gloved hands and careful not to mess anything up too drastically—not that Odin would notice. The deep drawers were packed with trash: balled up pieces of blank or useless paper, broken CDs, food wrappers, and a lost stick of gum. It didn't look like Odin had gone through, or even opened, the drawers in quite some time. The same was true when Arthur checked beneath the bed, and he wondered whether or not Odin knew what a rubbish bin was.
He sat back on his ankles and gave a sigh, thinking perhaps prison really had reformed the man. Then he thought again, because he knew people couldn't change their nature—at least not that much. Once the darkness is inside a person, it does not go away, no matter how many bars they put one behind or how many hours of community service one must perform. Odin might have been a hit man but it was just as much about the killing as it was about the money.
Something in the corner of the room caught Arthur's eyes: a cubed, two-storey bookshelf sitting on the floor on a turntable. Arthur was drawn to it and, after he reached it, he placed a finger on the top and spun it slowly around. Each of the books was old and yellowing, jammed against one another both vertically and horizontally. However, as Arthur gave it another spin, he noticed a small, moleskin notebook on top of the pile. It looked new.
He picked it up and flipped through the lined pages. Most of them were blank, but the first two were filled back to back with scribbles. The writing was in columns on the pages, the first giving initials, the second gave a date, and the third, sometimes written in different ink than the others, read paid over and over again; although, some rows in the last column were left empty.
Arthur was the most interested in the dates on the ledger, as he did not know whether they recorded the day the job was offered or the night it was completed. Regardless, the first line was dated a little under a year and a half ago, after Odin had gotten out of prison. The last night corresponded with the night Arthur had killed Sigan, and the dragon inside of Arthur reared up and spewed fire, angry with him for passing up such an opportunity. He should have been stalking Odin that night.
Still, the booklet proved that Arthur's suspicions were correct. Odin was still killing and would do it again the moment a new offer was brought to his attention. Uther's Code was satisfied, and Arthur could move into the final stage.
From the corridor outside the bedroom, Arthur heard a faint creak. It sounded like a floorboard had been stepped on. Alerted by the sound, he put the notebook down and spun the unit back how he'd found it.
Something was wrong: Odin's shift at the supermarket didn't end until noon that day. Had he overlooked a variable? He couldn't risk that someone else was in the flat, and that they might find him.
Locating a window to his right, he opened the bottom as wide as it could go and crawled through to the landing beyond. He ducked below the windowsill and risked a look back in, making sure no one was in the room, before closing the window. After he was sure no one had seen him, he straightened out and casually rounded the corner to the walkway in the front of the building. Pulling off his gloves as he went, he checked over his shoulder to watch for anyone coming out of the front door. However, no one did.
Anthony Odin.
That was whose flat Arthur was sneaking around, according to Lance. Gwen wasted no time searching the man's license. She'd found out everything she needed to know about him—about his record, his stint in prison—but there seemed to be no files on the investigation leading to his arrest. She'd checked with both Gaius and Scotland Yard, but the only information anyone could give her was that Uther Pendragon oversaw the investigation.
However, that was the single best piece of news she could have received. She couldn't help but think she was getting closer and closer to the facts. However Odin was connected to Arthur, she was confident it would give her the fuel she needed to bring Arthur in for questioning.
With the records room failing her, she wondered what the Internet would have to say about the infamous Anthony Odin. As Gwen well knew, murder investigations came with extensive media coverage, especially when it involved a member of the police family. The public was fascinated by death and those who bring it even after a case had been closed. That's why there were thousands of web pages listing serial killers, along with their methods and victims. Google would not keep quite about this, so she searched Odin's name and narrowed down the results by adding Pendragon to it.
Before long, she found an article with an old, scanned newspaper clipping, it's headline reading: Police Wife Murderer by Killer for Hire.
"Odin killed his mother," Gwen realized, muttering to herself as she read the first line of the article.
The rest of the clipping went on to highlight the details of the investigation and the murder; however, there was nothing on who hired Odin to perform the act. It wasn't until the end of the article that Gwen saw something that really got her thinking:
Igraine is survived by her husband and two children, Arthur and Morgana.
She gaped, staring at the last three words in incredulity and disbelief. She felt almost high with stimulation at this find. This was one connection too many.
"Sister? Morgana le Fay was his sister?"
Chapter Text
There was a knock on the door as Arthur swung his canvas bag over his shoulder in preparation to leave for work. He stopped, gazing in the direction of the door as though he could see beyond the solid wall of his bedroom to the knocker.
The noise came again, more persistent this time; and it occurred to Arthur that he should answer it.
As he walked through the kitchen, he wondered who on Earth could be coming around so early in the morning—or at all. Really, the only person who ever came by was Merlin, and it wasn't his usual musical rapping on the wood.
When he opened it, the first person he met face to face was Gwen, standing upright and determined in the dead center of the threshold. Behind her and slightly off to the side stood Lance. Behind him was a uniform.
"Arthur Pendragon," Gwen declared, and he his stomach churned at the professional coldness in her tone.
His eyes flashed behind her to Lance, who carried more emotion than his superior at the moment and was looking as though he did not agree with their being there, but had no choice in the matter.
"You're being placed under arrest for the suspected murder of Morgana le Fay."
Arthur felt every atom in his body go numb. His thoughts failed him as Gwen motioned to the uniform behind her, and he stepped forward to place handcuffs on Arthur's wrists, even though Arthur wasn't putting up a fight.
Somewhere very distant, Lance was saying in a glum tone, "You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention now anything you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence."
However, the words were drowned out and the room swam into a haze. Arthur closed his eyes against it, finding solace in the swirling empty black, and the dragon slunk away and retreated into the darkness.
He'd always wondered what this would be like . . .
Apparently this was too urgent for Arthur to be placed in a cell. He was read his rights on the way up to the floor that housed the Homicide division. The lift chimed open and he was lead out of it by Lance and the constable on either of his sides. Gwen walked briskly and confidently ahead of them, her heels clacking loudly against the tiles, setting course towards the interrogation room, which lay beyond the maze of desks in the main office space.
Every head in the office turned around as the small party entered, not stopping on their way through the aisle. Silence fell, all but for the faint ringing of desk phones. Across the room, Arthur noticed Gwaine stand up at his desk next to the lab to get a better look at what was going on. Mithian did the same from her spot near the window.
But there was only one person Arthur was trying to make eye contact with as he was hustled through. Merlin wasn't at his desk, but Arthur located him in a small huddle with Percival next to Leon's desk. He was holding a file open in his hand, apparently having been discussing a case, but the file was now being closed forcefully and dropped to the desk below.
Silently, Arthur tried to tell Merlin to stay away, but Merlin didn't listen. He practically pushed people out of the way as he crossed to the main aisle, cutting Gwen's parade off.
"What the Hell is this?" he demanded, and only Arthur could hear the fear in his voice, masked well by anger and mystification.
"Not now, Merlin," Gwen said impatiently, shoving passed him and resuming her beeline towards the interrogation room, Lance, Arthur, and the constable in tow.
Merlin swiveled around to gape at her.
"What the fuck is going on!"
"Merlin, don't," Arthur hissed under his breath as he passed. Either Merlin didn't hear it or he ignored it, because he started after the group. This caused the uniform to break away and hold up his palm up like a barrier. As Lance walked Arthur around the corner, Arthur shot a look back at Merlin, who was bouncing up and down on his toes and not paying any attention to what the constable was saying to him as he watched Arthur's progression.
The green dot on the camera mounted in the corner of the room was on, signifying the device was recording, when Arthur was placed into the hot seat. He had never been on this side of the table before—always the other, when he was collecting evidence from the suspect's fingernails to run for traces of blood. He wondered if someone else from forensics would be doing that to him.
"I've already told you what happened that night," Arthur said after Gwen asked him to retell the events of the night le Fay escaped.
"You've forwent a lawyer," Gwen reminded his tersely as she leaned against the opposite side of the table. Lance was standing in the shadows by the door behind her. "If you're so insistent that you have nothing to hide, I'd answer some questions. So, tell me again. And, if I should ask you the question a second time, tell me once more—and again and again until I stop asking. Are we clear?"
Arthur squared his jaw, looking mutinous but staying calm. He knew it was best to comply.
"Good," Gwen said, reading his expression. "Tell me how you escaped."
"Le Fay restrained me," he said in an automatic voice. "She put me in a chair and bound my wrists behind me with duct tape. I managed to slip out and get the jump on her."
Gwen raised a brow. "Really? She didn't check to make sure you were restrained tightly enough?"
Arthur leaned forward, running his hands down his face in feigned exasperation.
"Of course, she did," he said. "I don't know how I did it, alright? But she was about to kill my best friend. There have been reported cases of people summoning great strength in times of danger—"
"Oh, don't science me," Gwen snapped, and she pushed through. "After you got free, you didn't think to go after her?"
"I was a bit more concerned about Merlin," he told her. Even as he said the name, he imagined Merlin standing in the main office beyond, watching the TV screen that pictured the live interrogation, chewing his thumbnail and shaking his head, petrified. Arthur suspected everyone else on the floor had dropped what he or she had been doing to crowd around, too.
"Besides, I surprised her the first time. I didn't except I'd win that fight again, especially since she had a knife," Arthur continued. "That's why I called you. I haven't even got a gun."
"No, apparently, just your brute strength," Gwen answered, sounding entirely unconvinced by the story. "Have you got any idea why le Fay would lure you to her?"
Arthur shook his head. "No."
Gwen stared him down for a long moment as though she was attempting to x-ray him.
When she spoke again, she asked, "Where were on the night of the fire at le Fay's residence? The night of her supposed suicide?"
Arthur paused for a moment, pretending to being thinking hard.
"I was there—at the flat," he admitted. "At around ten o'clock, I arrived there and did my final forensic assessment of the scene. Ask your Chief Inspector; it was under his authorization."
Gwen swiveled her head around so that her gaze could pierce Lance, who was tensing and looking like a deer in the headlights.
"I can vouch for that," he muttered after a moment. "I did give the order."
Arthur was raising both brows in a mild expression when Gwen looked back.
However, this didn't stop Gwen. She lifted up a file that had been placed on the table between them and took out a few papers. When she laid them out before Arthur to study, he saw they were screen captures of a grainy CCTV feed that depicted his and Merlin's cars pulling out of an intersection down the block from Morgana's flat.
"The street's one way, so we can't confirm your time of arrival," she said, pointing down at the time stamps in the corner of the frame. "But, according to this, your car left le Fay's street only ten minutes after the fire reportedly broke out—accompanied by Detective Inspector Emrys."
"Yes," Arthur confirmed. "He was with me. After I finished my sweep at around midnight, we left our cars parked near le Fay's building and went to a pub down the road on foot."
"You told Lance you saw nothing out the ordinary that night," she countered. "You must have passed the building again when you reached your car, or while driving. You didn't think a fire in the building of a wanted serial killer was a bit odd?"
"She wasn't the only person living in that building. Fires happen all the time. Besides, the last time I checked, my job was forensic blood analysis, not fires," Arthur deadpanned. "The trained firefighters looked like they had everything under control."
Gwen shot him a razor sharp smile.
"And you weren't at all concerned that your sister started the fire? It never once crossed your mind?"
Arthur felt his heart jump, but he kept his expression even.
"My what?"
The corners of Gwen's lips twitched. "You are aware of your relationship to Morgana le Fay?"
Arthur let out a heavy breath through his nose, thinking hard on what to say.
"Yes," he decided on. "I was made aware of it on the night she escaped. Chief Superintendent Corcoran told me."
Gwen's eyes lit up in early victory.
"Then, when I asked you before if you knew why your sister—"
"Half-sister," Arthur reproved.
Gwen waved it away. "Fine. When I asked you if you knew why your half-sister lured you to the house that night, why did you lie?"
Arthur stayed silent but kept his eyes unblinkingly on hers, which were narrowed.
"You didn't mention that our prime suspect in a murder investigation was your blood relative," she said. It wasn't a question. "Just like you didn't say the Slasher's biggest crime scene was staged in the same hotel in which your mother was killed by one Antony Odin."
From behind her, Lance looked up. He finally understood why Arthur had panicked after entering that room, but thankfully he didn't say anything.
"Oh, come off it!" Arthur said, feeling frustrated now. "My mother wasn't the only person to ever die in a hotel!"
"But she was the only one to ever get her face slashed up in that one, just like—"
"Gwen!" Lance shouted loudly, cutting her insensitivity off.
She ignored him and, after a beat, she reached into the file again and took out a small, clear evidence baggie and tossed it on the table. Arthur looked down at what was held protectively inside its bottom right hand corner: a broken half of a blood side. He felt like he was going to be sick, and he tried hard to keep the color in his face.
"I found that at le Fay's flat," Gwen told him and Arthur mentally kicked himself. It must have fallen off the hutch when he knocked into it.
Somewhere in the office, Arthur imagined Merlin swearing and screaming in his thoughts as though they would somehow reach Arthur's mind via telepathy and kick his ass.
How did he overlook this?
"Ever seen it before?"
Arthur leaned forward again and took the baggie in his hand, turning it over twice in inspection.
"I've seen many of them before," he told her. "As I've just said, it's part of my job."
"Have you ever seen that particular one before?" Gwen huffed in irritation.
"I don't think so, no," Arthur told her coolly, placing it back down on the table and leaning back in his chair. "Gwaine and I usually prefer our samples unbroken."
There was another pause until Gwen said, "One last question before Lance takes you to your cell: Why were you at Odin's flat yesterday morning?"
Arthur blinked, trying to not gape. For a moment, he was perplexed, but then he remembered the creaking floorboard in the flat. That had been Gwen. She had followed him. As he wondered how long she'd been tailing him, he realized his dubious silence had stretched on for too long. He opened his mouth, willing a sly lie to form on the tip of his tongue.
However, before it came, the door of the interrogation room swung forcefully open, revealing a vehement Annis Corcoran.
"Would one of you morons mind telling me what in the name of Hell is going on here?" she demanded lividly of Gwen and Lance.
At once, Arthur realized why he hadn't been taken to a holding cell upon his arrival: Gwen had gone under her superior's nose for this arrest.
"Arthur is under questioning for le Fay's murder," Gwen told her flatly, not even bothering to care about how much trouble she was in.
"Murder?" Corcoran spat out uncertainly. "You mean to tell me he's under arrest?"
Gwen fell silent, and Lance looked away sheepishly.
"This ends right now," Corcoran commanded, waving her hand vaguely about the room. "And someone shut that bloody camera off, would you?"
Lance leapt to obey, reaching up for the camera. The light changed from green to red as Corcoran pointed sharply at Gwen.
"My office. Now."
Gwen looked rebellious, but she cast a scathing look at Arthur before jerking the door open and bursting from the room. Lance awkwardly stayed put until Corcoran directed her rage at him.
"Get back to work!" she demanded, dismissing him. "Do something remotely productive with your day!"
He shot Arthur an apologetic look and was out of the door before Corcoran had even finished the sentence.
When the Chief Superintendent turned her gaze on Arthur, her eyes were kinder and her voice was softer.
"Arthur, allow me to apologize for the behavior of my idiotic staff," she told him, a lingering bite in her tone when she referenced Gwen and Lance.
"You do realize I'm part of those idiots?" he said lightly, diffusing the tension in the air.
"No, you never were," she complimented. "You've always had the brains of your father. Sometimes I think he was the only good Inspector to ever come through these offices."
He nodded in mock reverence. He was no judge on what could be considered "good," but he'd recently become sure it was not an adjective that could describe Uther.
"I give you my word this won't be bothering you again," she promised, determination lining her face. "And there will be consequences."
"That won't be necessary," Arthur told her. "I know how heated things can get around here."
She gave him a warm smile. "You're noble like your father, too, and just as forgiving as your mother."
Arthur had to protest, but he didn't.
"Take the day," she offered. "Go home and unwind from all this."
He shook his head, placing his palms flatly on the tabletop as he stood up from his chair.
"If it's all the same, I'd like to get to work," he told her.
She nodded, understanding, and led him out of the room.
Back on the floor, people were already buzzing and trying to look busy, but they each gave fleeting glances to Arthur as he passed. Arthur looked at the tiles under his shoes as he walked, eager not to make any eye contact.
It was a relief when he got to the solitude of his lab but even before he could sit down in his chair, the door slammed open and Merlin exploded through. Looking panicked, he closed the door quickly behind him and gaped at Arthur. He did not say anything, but he widened his eyes and gestured with both hands, demanding that Arthur explain what the Hell had just happened.
"It was nothing, Merlin," Arthur insisted.
"Nothing!" Merlin exclaimed. "You were just brought in for questioning about a murder! A murder, by the way, that you—," he stopped short and look around the cramped space as though he suspected someone was eavesdropping. "A murder that you actually committed," he finished in a harsh whisper.
"Yes, I'm aware of that," Arthur said impassively. "The charges are going to be dropped."
"Officially, yes," Merlin argued. "But do think for a second Gwen is going to give this up? Corcoran could be reaming her right now, but she suspects you, Arthur! You don't know how much she knows."
"She knows nothing," Arthur shot back. "They haven't a scrap of conclusive evidence."
"What about the blood slide? You said you hadn't missed anything!"
"I don't how I missed it," Arthur confessed. "It won't happen again, and it hasn't got my prints on it. They can't trace it back to me."
"They better not," Merlin warned in an empty threat, "or else, you won't be going to prison—I will, because I will have killed you." He dropped his shoulders in realization. "I'd probably go to prison, anyway . . ."
"You're not going to prison, and neither am I," Arthur reassured him, standing up to be level with him. "You've got to learn to trust me."
"I do trust you," Merlin groaned. "That's my problem, remember?"
Arthur allowed a soft chuckle. "It's going to be fine. They don't have anything on us."
Merlin nodded, deciding to believe it. However, he looked alert again.
"She mentioned Odin," he said carefully. "The man who killed your mother . . . She said you were at his flat."
Arthur couldn't answer, nor could he meet Merlin's gaze. That was all Merlin needed to know the truth, and his eyes became bulbous and angry again.
"Fuck, do I want to know?"
"Probably . . . not," Arthur guessed.
"You have got to stay away from Odin, Arthur," Merlin commanded. "If he goes missing, especially now . . . It's too risky."
Again, Arthur kept his mouth shut and averted his eyes. He couldn't make Merlin the promise. He was so close now . . .
"Arthur!" Merlin persisted like he was reading Arthur's thoughts. "Promise me you'll stay away from him!"
Arthur sighed. He hated how much sense Merlin was making.
"I promise," he conceded.
Merlin regarded him at him with wariness.
"Why don't I believe you?"
"I said, I promise!" Arthur asserted, louder this time. He flapped his arms against his sides in defeat and looked Merlin in the eyes. "I won't go near him."
"Thank you," Merlin said, and his expression grew softer. He looked tired, no longer fueled by adrenaline. "I don't ever want to see you in cuffs like that again."
Arthur grinned lightheartedly.
"And how do you want to see me in cuffs?" he teased, taking a step closer to fill the space between himself and Merlin.
Merlin fought back a smirk.
"Shut up."
"We're going to be fine, you and I," Arthur assured him again before pecking his lips. "You won't get rid of me so easily."
Merlin reached up to smooth out the collars of Arthur's shirt.
"I won't get rid of you at all," he promised, and Arthur agreed.
"How dare you! The audacity!"
Gwen kept her jaw squared and her gaze cast towards her hands, which were folded tensely on her lap. She had tried multiple times, but now that her fury towards Arthur had subsided slightly, she lost all her nerve to look Corcoran in the eyes. Corcoran was pacing behind her desk across from Gwen, apparently too enraged to sit still.
She would be, Gwen thought bitterly. Corcoran had a soft spot for the Pendragons; probably because she and Uther had been lovers. Gwen wouldn't put it passed them and, if le Fay really were Arthur's half-sister like he claimed, she would almost bet on it. After all, what was one more mistress?
The point was, Gwen wouldn't be able to touch Arthur as long as the Chief was around. That was part of the reason she'd decided to hide the investigation from Corcoran in the first place.
"You go behind my back in my own precinct—undermine my authority—and harass one of my most valued employees?" Corcoran continued to berate. "I knew you had nerve when I hired you, Smith, butthis—!"
She let out an incredulous scoff.
Gwen tried to keep her voice steady and professional, but she couldn't deny that her entire body was vibrating with rage.
"I know he killed le Fay!" she defended, suddenly able to meet her superior's glower. "There is no chance in Hell she killed herself, and everything points to him—"
"Nothing points to him!" Corcoran corrected, waving a hand down to the open file on her desk, which she had taken from the interrogation room. "He was at le Fay's residence under orders and, even then, he has an alibi. You said yourself you checked with the pub's bar tender."
"It's a fishy alibi," Gwen told her. "He's connected to this. I saw his face when I questioned him—when I talked about his relation to the Slasher, his mother, and even his kidnapping. He didn't seem to care about any of it! He was totally impassive—completely calm and emotionless. Besides, why would he lie about knowing le Fay was his sister—?"
"Because I asked him to!" Annis shouted. "Do you know how damaging that information could be—not just to his reputation as a forensic investigator, but to the clout of this division?"
It hasn't any clout now if its investigators aren't allowed to catch killers, Gwen wanted to shout, but she bit her tongue.
"He had no knowledge of the relationship until recently," Corcoran went on. "He and le Fay have been estranged since he was three years old. There is no way they could have been cahoots."
"Maybe. But he killed her—and I think Emrys knows all about it," Gwen avowed, jumping to her feet. "And Anthony Odin is next. We should put him in protective custody. I saw Arthur at Odin's flat—"
"Which does not matter!" Corcoran snapped. "You followed him under an unauthorized investigation. Even if you did find evidence in that flat, it would have been thrown out in court immediately."
Gwen wanted to pounce across the desk and throttle Corcoran, perhaps because she was right.
Annis let out a heavy sigh, rubbing at her temple and softening. "This stops right now," she ordered. "You will not pursue Arthur Pendragon or Detective Inspector Emrys any further. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"
Gwen bristled, but she found herself holding her tongue once more.
"Yes, ma'am," she said coldly. She had to get out of that office before she did something she regretted, and turned to leave.
Annis forestalled her by placing her fists on the desktop and leaning into them, saying, "Superintendent—if I should find out that you're conducting another investigation without my express permission, it will lead to your immediate dismissal."
Gwen did not look back. She couldn't look back. She stopped in the opened doorway for longer than needed, her shoulders rigid and her body tense. Finally, she composed herself, the words lingering in her mind, and went straight for her office down the corridor. She paused for no one on the way, not even Lance, who attempted to ask her what had been said.
She slammed her door behind her and, now able to break down in privacy, ran both hands through her curls and allowed her eyes to well up rapidly.
She knew she was right! She had become a police officer to do good—to put criminals away, and people like Annis Corcoran were too caught up in politics and reputation to even care. They were letting murderers like Arthur walk the streets and cause chaos in Gwen's city—the city she made an oath to protect.
She couldn't allow that. She couldn't let Arthur get away with this, not when she was so close—not when he was allowed to waltz into her station day in and day out, mocking her. She might not have been able to do anything about him through her own power, but she knew someone who could.
Pulling out her mobile, she scrolled through her contacts and pressed on a personal number, listening to it ring once . . . twice . . .
"Well, look who it is," said a male voice, which should have been more familiar to her, on the other end. "I wasn't excepting to hear from you until next Christmas. Don't tell me it's the holidays already?"
She gave an exasperated half-smile as she crossed her desk and fell into her chair.
"Hello to you, too, Elyan," she said.
"And to what do I owe this honor, big sister?" he joked, and she could hear the sarcastic smile in his tone. It made her bite her bottom lip in apprehension.
"Actually, this is a professional call. I'm in a bit of bind, and, well . . ." God, she hated admitting it: "I need your help."
She rolled her eyes into his victorious laugh.
"You know I'll have to put you on the books, then?"
Groaning, she asked, "Family discount?"
"I've always admired your cheek."
Well, it was worth a try, anyway.
"Fine," she huffed. "This is worth your outrageous prices."
"I only have outrageous prices because I'm the best in town," he told her, and there was no hint of bragging out of him. It had been a fact.
"Which is why I'm coming to you," Gwen confessed. "I need you to look into someone—a possible murder suspect."
Over the line, she heard the rustling of papers, and she knew Elyan was taking out a pen and notepad to jot down the details. She was grateful he was agreeing to take the case. Her brother was her last line of defense.
"Tell me about him."
Gwen cast a look towards the door, checking to make sure no one was listening in, before returning to the conversation.
"His name is Arthur Pendragon . . ."
Chapter Text
Arthur sucked on the skin of Merlin's inner thigh until it was red, matching the color of the glistening trail Arthur had left in his wake. Merlin's trousers were discarded somewhere on the floor, allowing Arthur to grip his bare hips. With his eyes, he followed the line of buttons up Merlin's shirt to his flushed face and tousled hair, and Arthur grinned mischievously at him and let out a hum of laughter.
"Jesus, you're such a tease," Merlin exhaled, his breath hitching as Arthur brought his lips back to Merlin's skin.
Merlin let out a moan and clutched at the top of the couch when Arthur took him in his mouth, and Arthur's lips were already sleek with saliva as he worked them up and down. He glanced up at Merlin's eyes again, but Merlin seemed to be in some kind of daze; his mouth was open and he was trying very hard to control his breathing. He grabbed handfuls of Arthur's golden hair in his fingers and wrapped his legs around Arthur's torso, pulling Arthur in closer. At this, Arthur gave a quick chuckle in throat, and the hot air made Merlin's entire body twitch.
"Oh god, Arthur," Merlin kept repeating under his breath as Arthur flicked his tongue, catching the pre-cum. Merlin started moving his hips slowly back and forth, pushing himself further down Arthur's throat with each thrust.
Merlin was groaning by the time Arthur got off his knees and climbed up his body, planting kisses into the crook of Merlin neck as he reached between them and finished him off in his hand. After a loud onslaught of Merlin calling Arthur's name, Merlin fell limp against the cushions, looking spent.
Arthur grinned satisfactorily at his work as Merlin kicked his legs up to lie down on the sofa beneath Arthur, who entwined their ankles.
"Think that will get you through a whole work day without seeing me?" Arthur laughed, propping himself up by the arms and looking down at Merlin. It had been a little over a week since Gwen's interrogation, and Annis kept badgering him to take a day for himself. Really, Arthur just wanted to put this all behind him, but he eventually caved.
"Never!" Merlin said sarcastically. "It's not fair that you get a day off when I have to go in. It's like they're trying to keep up apart."
Merlin chuckled and he reached between them and slid his open palm down the front of Arthur's sweatpants.
"No," Arthur sang, despite the twitch he felt at Merlin's fingertips. "You have to go."
Merlin raised his brows. "Yes, but I'd rather stay here all day with your dick in my hands."
"Obviously, but you'll be late. Besides, it was a freebie—for being so good to me lately."
"Well, you did owe me," Merlin said, smiling and biting his lower lip, but he refused to remove his hand. "But I couldn't leave you like that. The poor little guy will feel neglected."
Arthur's face fell. "Little?"
Merlin chortled, apparently getting the rise he'd desired. "Fine, not little," Merlin corrected, wrapping his long fingers around Arthur's cock and working his fist up and down rhythmically.
Arthur instantly felt something hot shoot up his insides and linger in his lower stomach against the friction. It made his elbows weak, and his arms stopped supporting him so that he was laying flat on Merlin. Instead, he used his hands to grip at Merlin's ribcage, working his fingers along the bones and grooves. He was already hardening into Merlin's grip, grinding into his fist and emitting low grunts.
He brought his lips down on Merlin's, making a trail from Merlin's mouth to the sweat matting his neck. Merlin sped up his movements, causing Arthur to arch his shoulders and sink his teeth into Merlin's skin to muffle a moan.
"Sorry," Arthur breathed at the indentation in Merlin's skin, but Merlin only let out a throaty laugh.
Suddenly, he was no longer in control of the sounds that passed his lips, and the hot feeling spread across his body, making his skin prickle, his toes curl, and his muscles tense. He buried his forehead into Merlin's shoulder, not caring about the stain he'd left inside his sweatpants and the discomfort of the sticky mess running down his thigh.
Both of Merlin's hands were back now, running up and down Arthur's spine beneath his shirt before settling on his lower back.
"I'd really better go," Merlin whispered after a moment, and Arthur groaned into his shoulder, protesting.
"Oh, don't you start!" Merlin continued, his voice lighthearted. "Do you know how many killers are out there? Someone's got to clean up the streets."
Arthur's head shot up again, looking incredulously down at Merlin's playful smirk.
"Are you making fun of my Code?" Arthur asked, stunned.
Merlin only cocked a brow at him before reaching over towards the coffee table and checking the time on his mobile. "I'm ten minutes late," he said, curling his nostril and shaking his head. "That'll be your fault, you selfish bastard."
Arthur couldn't fight a breath of laughter as he rolled his eyes. "I love you, you idiot."
When he looked beneath him again, Merlin's expression was unreadable; however, Arthur saw mixed traces in it. There was a certain flutter in his eyes, but his jaw had tightened, as though he refused to believe what was before his very eyes. Arthur furrowed his brows at him in confusion.
"You do?" Merlin managed to say, so low that Arthur almost couldn't hear it.
For the first time, Arthur realized he'd actually said that aloud. He didn't mean to. In fact, he didn't even know he'd thought it.
"I—" Arthur started, unsure of what he was going to say. "I think so."
Merlin's eyebrows darted to his hairline. "You think so?"
"No!" Arthur answered hastily. "I do!"
Merlin bit his lip in thought, but he seemed mollified. Arthur's mind, however, was racing. He'd said the words, but did he really feel it? Something inside him said he did, but he'd never had anything to compare this feeling to.
But Merlin was kissing him gently, and he smiled into the kiss.
And he felt content.
"What will you do today?" Merlin asked once the kiss broke, visibly trying to not make a big deal out of Arthur's proclamation, and Arthur shrugged noncommittally.
"I have nothing planned," he lied. He'd already had his tools packed, and Odin was the first thing on his to-do list.
"Okay," Merlin said with a nod. "I'll phone if I can sneak away for lunch."
"Sounds perfect."
He sat up, letting Merlin out from under him, and watched lazily as Merlin jumped into his trousers. Once Merlin was presentable, he leaned back down and gave Arthur one last peck on the lips, which turned into several pecks when Arthur reached over and knitted his fingers into Merlin's. It wasn't until Merlin was straddling him, kissing him deeply, did Arthur remember they both had other things to do.
He broke away, and Merlin tried to chase his lips, but he didn't get very far.
"Go," Arthur demanded, and Merlin extracted himself, but Arthur didn't let go of his hand until Merlin had walked out of reach.
As soon as the flat door clicked shut, Arthur sprang into action.
Odin's shift didn't end for another half hour, and all Arthur had to do now was wait. He positioned himself against the wall, behind the corner closest to the front door, staying still and silent with a syringe of m99 twirling between his gloved fingertips. Odin would never know what hit him.
Somewhere inside of him, Arthur knew this was a bad idea. Merlin was right: If Odin went missing so soon after the interrogation, suspicions would be raised. However, it wasn't as though Odin had anyone to report his disappearance, save perhaps his supervisor, which was doubtful. In any case, Arthur wouldn't leave a trace of evidence behind. He would be extra careful, and, if Gwen's wrath were to fall on him once more, he was certain Corcoran's protection would hold.
Besides, Arthur could not hear that small voice of reason—a voice that sounded singularly like Merlin—whispering in the back of his mind. The darkness was roaring too loudly within him, demanding blood and revenge. No, Arthur could not keep his promise to Merlin, but Merlin would never know. He could not stay away from Odin, the man who made Arthur what he was, who cursed him with the Need. It was strange, but Arthur had the sensation that he was about to take on a capricious god, to meet his maker and show it precisely what it had done.
This kill meant too much to him to pass up so idly.
Before long, Arthur heard a key jingling and the lock and the door click open. He readied himself, standing a little straighter, as the sunlight from outside poured through the threshold, elongating Odin's silhouette, as the man stepped through and closed the door behind him. There was the clunk of boots, heavy against the linoleum tile, as the shadow paced forward. He was so close now that Arthur could practically feel his hand clutching Odin's throat . . .
Arthur slide seamlessly out from behind the wall at the perfect moment, not allowing Odin a moment of reaction time before pushing the needle effortlessly unto the flesh of his neck. The drug worked quickly, and he made certain to keep his empty glare boring into Odin's until the latter fell to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Arthur allowed himself a moment to look down at the form, but he could not summon indifference. Only contempt. He willed the creature inside of him to take over fully and steer his muscles to ready the victim's body for transport, but found he was alone in doing so.
What should have been a twenty-minute drive was extended to an hour, in which Arthur took all the necessary precautions to elude anyone who might be tailing him. He took extra preventative measures when he noticed, at one point, a black sedan following him along the motorway for nearly fifteen minutes. Arthur made sure to keep a close watch on the vehicle, attempting to see the driver's face. However, after some time, the car pulled off an exit and he did not see it again. Deciding not to let paranoia sink in anymore, Arthur stuck to the plan and drove on, weaving on and off the motorway every few exits before doubling back towards the outskirts of the city.
He had wanted to set up the kill room at the hotel in which Igraine was slaughtered, but the location was tricky and he wanted to avoid renting a room. Likewise, the walls were too thin and too many neighbors lived by for the room to be Odin's flat. In advance, he had chosen the abandoned house of Vivienne le Fay, the woman who hired Odin in the first place, to be the last patch of the world Odin would ever know. The home had been boarded up since Merlin's kidnapping, but Arthur had managed to get in and meticulously clean and make up the room with plastic for his return with the victim.
Odin was now bound the table at which Arthur and Morgana had their first and last discussion, the table at which Arthur learned the truth about his life. Arthur did not force Odin awake, but stayed seated in a chair off to the side in wait. The boards on the windows were absolute, save for a missing board on the bottom of a window to the right of the room. It allowed some light in, but Arthur mentally blocked it out and let the darkness undulate through him until he heard Odin stir, grunting into consciousness at first before thrashing against his restraints. Arthur allowed him a moment of fear, a moment to understand his surroundings and what was to happen there, before standing up and striding towards the table.
"What the fuck is this?" Odin spat him, and his voice was innately softer than the rasping sound Arthur had pictured.
"The end," Arthur said simply, moving across the table towards the metal stand that held his tools. "It's time you got your final payment."
"Is that what your after, then?" Odin said from behind his back. "Money? Haven't got much anymore—"
Arthur rolled his eyes. Why did everyone think he was after money?
"But you're building up your books," Arthur finished for him, picking up his scalpel and turning to face the man. He felt a rush of glee to see the hints of controlled horror in Odin's eyes. Oh, how many times both of them had seen that expression before . . .
"I don't want money. I don't even want an explanation. You don't owe it me," Arthur said coolly, pacing towards Odin's head at the end of the table. His tone grew fiercer as he leaned over the table and shouted, "You owe it to her!"
He clutched the sides of Odin's head and forcefully directed his gaze towards the far wall. Right next to the window with the missing board that permitted a steady filter of sunlight, hung a photograph of Igraine's smiling face. It was one of the only pictures Arthur had of his mother, and his favorite. It was blown up to fit on computer paper, cutting out aspects of the picture, like a young Arthur, whom Igraine was smiling down at, so that her face was unmistakably the focus.
A deep chuckle emitted from Odin's throat, and all fear had drained from him.
"The bitch that put me in jail. What was it? Pendragon . . . Igraine, that's right," he laughed. "Cop husband. I wouldda taken him out, too, if they hadn't caught me first."
Arthur's expression was contorting in fury, and he felt a muscle in his face twitch as he glared fixedly at Odin. Odin returned his gaze.
"You must be the boy," he said, as though greeting Arthur like an old friend of his parents. "You look like her."
"Not after you got finished with her."
"No," Odin said in reflection, unremorsefully. "They never do."
He beamed up at Arthur, but the smile was dead and catlike. "Come for revenge for Mummy?" he asked lightly. "Come to teach me the consequences of my actions?"
"No," Arthur told him, shaking his head. He took the scalpel still clutched in his fist and steadied his hand long enough to drag the blade across Odin's cheek. He made a production of preserving the drop of Odin's blood, taking care to show Odin every movement.
"I've come to show you," he continued, moving back to the stand and replacing the scalpel and sample slide for a long, dull blade. He turned it around in his hand a few times. "There's only one consequence you'll have to worry about."
He faced the victim again, brandishing the knife in the glistening sunlight pouring in from across the room as he stepped closer. Odin's eyes were narrowed in slits now, as though the possibility that he—the man who had ended so many lives—could follow them in death had never occurred to him.
"Me."
Arthur let the power and adrenaline burst from him, his fury used as a guide, as he lashed out. The blade sliced Odin's face straight across—and again and again, carving and creating deeper gashes as the knife cut through the air with building speed until Arthur could no longer control his movements or slow down on command. He relished in the sprays of hot, gooey red that flung through the air in every direction, splashing onto his face and painting the plastic on the wall behind him a deep red as the drops trickled downward. He only heard Odin's shouts of anguish distantly, drowned out by the whooshing of the blade.
He did not stop until Odin's face was completely unrecognizable, but he the man was still alive; still breathing, still able to feel his pain and know—know—that death was coming.
Arthur gripped the same knife in both fists and held it above Odin's chest. He felt his heart leaping against his ribcage, as though mocking Odin's that it had a lifetime of beats while the other's were limited. He plunged the knife into that heart, and the last sharp, shallow breath that Odin could manage filled his ears like a song.
He kept his hands gripped on the handle of the knife, drinking in the air around him and replaying the killing blow in his mind over and over again. He could continue to slice Odin's body. He could pound and hack the flesh flat and chop the limbs into neat pieces before shoving them into black bags, but no single slash of knife would give him as much satisfaction as the one he'd just performed.
Odin was dead.
Arthur hadn't expected it to happen, but something inside of him was lifted. Some weight he didn't even know was there, hidden and unfelt by years of wearing it. It had become a part of him, and now he could see it for what it was. It pressed back down on him quickly, making him more aware of it than ever. Odin, as much as Uther, had created a monster out of a boy, twisted him into something clawed and uncaring—numb and unable to love, and given him the credence that he could deserved nothing more; but now Odin was gone. Uther was gone. Arthur did not want to be that man anymore; maybe now he didn't have to. He could be something new: human and creature.
Odin was dead. He allowed it sink in . . .
And a soft sound brought him back to reality. It was a faint clicking, like the shutter of a camera taking multiple shots, coming from the opposite side of the room.
Arthur reflexively looked up at the noise, and he instantly saw a flash of color outside of the house through the missing board in the window. He felt his entire body lurch, and there was a moment where he could not physically move from his spot.
Then, all at once, he bounded from the room, leaving Odin's body behind as he tore from the house and out towards the front garden. He looked wildly up and down the street, looking for a glimpse of anyone who might be around, but there was no one—only a black sedan turning down road without first yielding, headed in the direction of the motorway.
It was like the air was a weight on him, and the sun was off-center in the sky over him, illuminating every inch of the block so that he could not block it out.
It could not have happened. He could not have been seen. He could not have been found out . . .
But he was. He ran his hands up his face, smearing the fresh blood, and through his hair. The dragon's flayed the darkness inside of him, and he knew this couldn't have been a coincidence. He hadn't been seen by some passerby who had heard the shouts. This had been planned, waited for. He had handed himself over.
He had always thought that, when this moment came, he would have a calm certainty about what he must do; but he felt apprehension wash over him instead. He felt afraid.
His mind turned rapidly as he looked over his shoulder at the house. He did not have time to dispose of Odin's body. What was the point of hiding it, anyway? What was the point of grasping onto hope that he had time—hours and years of time, and that some of it could be spared?
He went back inside only to collect his canvas bag, and he cursed inwardly at the body of the man who had twice ruined his life. Even now in death, Odin held his power over Arthur, disallowing his freedom.
He rushed for his car in the drive, hoping beyond hope that time would permit him just one more trip to his flat.
The black sedan pulled up next to her car in deserted car park, but neither driver got out. They merely rolled down their windows, allowing brother and sister to see each other for the first time in months.
"Thanks for coming," Elyan greeted.
"You sounded urgent on the phone," Gwen told him. "I was beginning to worry you'd forgotten about my case. Is this about Arthur, then?"
"It is," he said, reaching out of the car to offer her a file, which she snatched from him eagerly.
"I got these about an hour ago. Rushed the printing. Sorry if they're not HD, but I figured this was important," he explained as she set the file on her lap and flipped through the photographs wildly. The firsts depicted Arthur slashing a blade through the air, blood flying around him, while the rest showed his progression as he plunged the knife into the victim's chest.
Gwen gaped at them as she went through the stack a second time, trying to take in every detail. She noticed the kill room was staged exactly like the one they'd found Merlin in. Was it a homage to le Fay, or had le Fay copied Arthur?
"Elyan—" she began. She didn't know how to thank him.
He held a palm up to stop her.
"He knows you're on to him, Gwen," he warned. "He might have seen me, but I can't be sure. I'd move quickly, if I were you."
She was already putting her car back in gear.
"Oh, trust me, you'll never see me move this quickly again," she informed him. "I'm going to need to know everything, Elyan—especially where that room is. Follow me to the station."
He agreed, and the two cars skidded out of the car park and into traffic.
Chapter Text
Arthur burst through the front door into his flat, quickly checking over his shoulder to make sure the corridor was entirely vacant before slamming it behind him. He could already see Merlin, sitting on the sofa in the living room and looking up in a mixture of shock and expectancy, as he flew through the kitchen towards him.
"Where the Hell have you been?" Merlin asked, regarding Arthur up and down—the way he was panting, the wild and paranoid look in his eyes, the blood stained on his skin. A sudden panic rose in Merlin. "Arthur!"
"No time," Arthur murmured.
He dropped his canvas bag on the floor and fled towards the closet on the other end of the room. Ripping the doors out of the way, he dropped to his knees and put the code into the safe.
"Arthur!" Merlin demanded, worry etching his tone, and he was standing right behind Arthur now as Arthur pulled out his spare roll of knives. He would need them.
"Someone saw me," he said without much explanation, speaking rapidly and in broken words.
"Saw you?" Merlin wondered, and then it dawned on him, and he trembled. "You mean, saw you? Who?"
"I don't know," Arthur told him briskly, slamming the safe with such force that it bounced back open. He abandoned it and rushed back into the kitchen. He leaned into the sink and turned on the water, desperately rubbing away the filth from his face and hair, though some stubborn flecks of blood remained. "Gwen, maybe—someone working for Gwen. Has to be . . . No one's ever seen me . . ."
"Wait!" Merlin shouted as Arthur turned off the water and started moving again. Merlin hurried in front of him and halted him with a raised palm. "Arthur, who were you—Someone saw you with who?"
Something about his demeanor suggested he already knew, and Arthur looked down at the floor sheepishly.
"Odin," he admitted.
Merlin's eyes went wide with anger. "Odin? Arthur—!"
"I know!" Arthur spat, shoving passed Merlin and entering the bedroom. Merlin was right on his heels.
"Obviously, you don't," he was yelling and flailing his arms. "You promised me you wouldn't go near him!"
As he spoke, Arthur appeared to be scanning the wall as though he could see through it. He stood next to the windowpane and took close, careful steps—one in front of the other—and counted under his breath as he went along. After a dozen steps, he stopped and put his back up against the wall, facing Merlin.
"I know you're angry," Arthur conceded. "I shouldn't have lied to you; but please understand. I had to."
Merlin shook his head incredulously. "And look where that's gotten you."
He let out a loud, heavy breath, visibly trying to control his cocktail of emotions.
"What are we going to do?" he asked, his expression becoming hard and stoic.
"This," Arthur said shortly just before kicking his boot forcefully backward, straight through the plaster. Bits of drywall crumbled and swirled through the air, and Arthur bent down and reached into the large hole, producing a dusty rucksack. It had been long since filled with toiletries, fresh clothes, food and water, over five hundred euros, fake IDs and passports, and a few other essentials.
He was going over a mental checklist of what else he needed, which mainly included a few pounds until he got out of the country and petrol for his boat, although he thought he had enough in the tank to put London far behind him first.
"What is that?" Merlin asked as Arthur stood up and brought the bag towards the bed.
"A getaway bag," Arthur told him matter-of-factly. He couldn't look at Merlin. He couldn't allow himself to let emotion in; it would be better to simply go through the motions—to stick to the plan.
He knew this day would come eventually. Uther had prepared him. All his life, Arthur was ready to leave at the drop of hat—to flee without anything or anyone to hold him back. That had all changed because of Merlin. But it didn't matter. The plan was still the same. It had to be.
Merlin would be better off that way.
"And you just had that ready? For how long?" Merlin asked, horrified, as Arthur shoved his roll of knives into the rucksack, closed it, and swung it over his shoulder.
"People like me need a retirement plan, Merlin."
He spun around, allowing himself to look Merlin full in the face. He had a right to know what happened next, and he had a right to an apology. Arthur wanted to keep it simple, but he found words were lost on him. His expression softened and Merlin's wearied, and he cupped Merlin's cheeks in his palms.
"The police could be here any minute," he whispered, stroking Merlin's skin with his thumb and fishing for his eyes. "I can't stay."
Merlin swallowed hard, the reality of it all suddenly pressing down on him.
"I know," he choked, but he suddenly looked determined. "And I'm coming with you."
Arthur had feared this, perhaps because he wanted it. He would give anything to keep Merlin at his side, to not have to face this alone. To not be alone. And here Merlin was, offering. Every particle coursing through him begged him to say yes . . .
"No, Merlin," he said, shaking his head, and something in Merlin broke.
Arthur almost broke, too, but he couldn't. He couldn't be selfish enough to ruin Merlin's life.
"Arthur—"
"Don't you get it?" Arthur hissed, removing his palms from Merlin's cheeks and placing both hands on either shoulder, looking at him intently and shaking his gaunt frame. "I'm not going on holiday. I will be running until the day I die. You don't have to do that. They know about me, but they don't have anything on you. You could live a life—you could be happy."
Merlin was shaking his head in protest throughout the entire monologue, and sporadic tears were cascading down from his long eyelashes.
"I won't be happy," he said thickly, and for a moment Arthur felt pressure behind his own eyes.
"You would really leave everything behind for a killer?" he found himself asking.
"I would for you," Merlin answered, keeping his expression unwavering. Then, quite suddenly, he asked, "Did you mean it when you said you loved me?"
Arthur gave a shaky exhale, and he looked more petrified than he had all day. Standing in front of him was the boy who had moved next door as child; the man who lied and hid for Arthur, who had managed to come back stronger after Arthur destroyed everything he believed was right, who was like a beacon that could outshine the sun in the darkness, and he was asking Arthur if he loved him. He was ready to throw his life away and trust Arthur explicitly, even though he was better off not. Even though Arthur was—and always would be—a monster, ready to consume him.
At that moment, Arthur realized, "Of course I meant it."
"So did I," Merlin said, nodding fervently. "I'm not leaving you, Arthur."
Arthur's mind was humming and his pulse was pounding. There wasn't enough time for this. There was never enough time, but if there were, he'd spend it with Merlin.
"Pack a bag," he said decisively, forcing himself to meet Merlin's eyes. "We leave in five minutes."
His face was still red, but the tears vanished from Merlin's eyes. He forced all his bravado to his expression, and his fear and grief only betrayed him fractionally.
He left Arthur's side to run back into the living room before returning a moment later with his backpack. Quickly, he emptied all the files and papers out. Arthur watched him wordlessly as Merlin rushed towards the closet and grabbed any garment he could find and tossing it onto the mattress. He collected his toothbrush from the bathroom, too, before leaning over the bed and shoving whatever would fit into the bag.
"What's the plan?" he was saying as he packed haphazardly, and Arthur noted a morbid exhilaration in Merlin's tone, almost as though he was exuberated by the prospect of a life on the run. "If we actually manage to get out of London before we're caught, what next? Where do we go?"
Arthur gazed at Merlin up and down, taking in every detail that he loved so much: the night time blue eyes and the crinkles that surrounded them when he smiled, the raven hair that framed his ears, the bobbing adam's apple, the way he jostled from one foot to the other as he moved . . .
He committed them all the memory.
"Australia," Arthur said softly, like it was a promise.
Merlin froze what he was doing to look up at Arthur at top speed. For a moment it looked like he might cry again, and he was giving Arthur that look. However, he squared his jaw and nodded his head sternly after a beat.
"Australia," he repeated breathlessly.
Arthur waved a hand vaguely, bringing Merlin's mind back into the moment.
"Now, hurry up," he said briskly. "I'll meet you in the kitchen."
Readjusting the strap on his shoulder, he exited the room, but he didn't stop in the kitchen. He headed back into the living room, his sights set for the bag he'd dropped earlier. He wouldn't need any of the contents inside it anymore—except for one.
He took out a syringe of sedative and held it up to light, testing the stopper. It was only a small dose, but it would be enough.
Arthur tiptoed back into the kitchen and positioned himself close against the wall right outside the bedroom door. He kept as silent as he could and readied the syringe, waiting.
"Okay," Merlin huffed as he came out of the bedroom, passing right by Arthur without noticing him. He was too busy zippering his bag. "I think I'm read—"
Swiftly, Arthur snuck up behind Merlin and slid the needle into his neck, right beneath the jaw. Merlin shuddered and gave a soft gasp before slumping, and Arthur caught him under the arms to hold him up.
Slowly and tenderly, he guided the limp Merlin to the tile floor, placing his hand behind his head and setting it downwards gently. He grabbed Merlin's packed bag and brought it back into the bedroom before emptying it of all its contents in a heap on the closet's carpet and placing the toothbrush back on the sink.
Once he was in the kitchen again, he picked Merlin up in his arms and brought him back into the bedroom. He didn't want to let go. He didn't want to lose Merlin's warmth or never be this near to the scent of his skin again. He didn't want to place Merlin down on the mattress, his head resting serenely on the pillow and one arm slung across his torso like he was sleeping . . .
But he did.
"Sorry, Sundance. You can't follow me this time," he whispered, bending over Merlin's unconscious form and running the back of his fingers across his cheek. He placed his forehead to Merlin's and closed his eyes, knowing this was the right decision, even though it hurt. It was the last—and possibly the only—good thing he could do for Merlin.
"Have a happy ending—for both of us."
Knowing that he could no longer delay, he straightened out and contorted his face, blinking away the dampness, before heading for the threshold.
He allowed himself one more pause at the door—one more act of humanity: looking back.
When he did, he saw the light of the late afternoon sun streaming Merlin's features, making him glow. Something in his chest exploded, pouring out until the dragon sputtered for breath and until Arthur felt like he'd fallen apart at the seams. He didn't have a heart; it shouldn't have been breaking.
When Merlin woke up, Arthur would already be half way to his boat; when he woke up, Merlin would be able to start a new life, and he needn't have anymore of his darkness . . .
Because Arthur would carry it for him.
Arthur gripped the strap of his rucksack firmly as he exited the building into the cool spring air, walking casually as to not draw attention to himself while making for his car. Cautiously, he kept peering over his shoulder, looking for any watchful eyes. He saw none, but that didn't get him off the hook. He wouldn't be safe until he was speeding down the Thames with no one on his heels.
He kicked on the engine without hesitation when he got behind the wheel, and pulled out of the space next to the curb. He had to get to his boat . . .
Sirens blared, and blue lights added shocks of color to the buildings lining the pavements as three marked cars turned the bend and sped down the street towards him.
"Oh, fuck!" Arthur shouted at the emptiness. They'd been waiting for him.
The time for tact and caution was gone—ripped from him ahead of schedule. Of course, he knew his getaway wouldn't be calm and clean-cut, but he had hoped. And he was ready. He put the car into high gear, slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and shot off down the street.
The other two cars rushed by them as Lance's pulled to the curb, and Gwen jumped out of the passenger seat in front of Arthur's building.
"Follow him. Don't let him out of your sight," she ordered Lance as she leaned back inside. "He won't give up so easily. I'm going into flat to see if there's any clues to where he's headed."
Lance nodded his understanding, and his eyes grew soft as they turned away from the scene and met hers.
"Be careful, Gwen," he told her, but his tone was heavy.
I'm sorry I doubted you, she heard beneath it. And I'm sorry you were right.
"And you," she said softly, forgivingly, before closing the door and watching him tear from the pavement to join the chase.
Arthur was nearly at the intersection when another half-dozen police cars turned into his path, and he had to go onto the pavement and into oncoming traffic to clear their sudden barrier and make it onto the adjacent street. To this, he received a slew of beeps and raised middle fingers from fellow drivers, but he ignored them all. In his wake, a pileup had occurred, which Arthur didn't regret causing too much because it slowed the police down.
He drove into the left lane for a stretch before more cars blocked his way, leaving him no choice but weave in and out of the lanes on the narrow road. At one point, he'd almost been part of a head-on collision with a Jaguar, which he managed to avoid by a hairline. It caused him to lose a wing mirror, but it wasn't as though it mattered anymore.
The sirens continued to sound behind him as he pressed on, and he felt like he was looking at his rearview more than the road ahead. In some ways, the noise was aiding him along: In front and behind him, cars pulled over to the side to let the police through, forming a pathway for Arthur to speed down.
He was driving blind, no idea where he was headed or where he'd go from there. Trying to catch his bearings, which were racing by in blurs on every side, he realized he was driving in the opposite direction of the dock. However, it was probably better that way: He wanted to lead the chase as far away from his boat as possible. He'd have to lose the police before doubling back.
With the police cars still on his heels, he turned onto the motorway, not stopping to give way before mixing in with the flow of traffic. His pursuers didn't seem bothered by this, as the motorists were far more willing to let them merge than they had been with Arthur.
On the opposite side, there was a break in traffic; just enough, Arthur thought, for one car to drive through. It was a split second decision, one that made his heart pound against his ribcage, eager to perform its own grand escape, and his breath come out in labored heaves.
He steeled himself and, his knuckles white against it, he tore the steering wheel to the right, sending the car chaotically over the grassy barrier and into the opposing traffic. He heard the screeching of brakes and the ear-splitting blast of horns from beside him as he scrambled to turn the wheel again to head in the proper direction.
Across the barrier, the police cars' tires were protesting by sending plumes of smoke in the air as they made to follow him. Arthur turned off an exit before they made it across the barrier.
He kept his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, panting like he'd just run a marathon. He wouldn't allow himself a moment of relief, because he wasn't out of the woods just yet—not while the sirens were still wailing. He'd see their flashing lights gaining up on him again, he was sure. At that point, they'd probably called more units to cut him off somewhere.
He had to get somewhere familiar—somewhere of equal playing ground. He risked looking away from the mirror to search his surroundings.
Where was he?
At once, he realized he was close to the house he'd grown up in, the house that was still under his name. Uther made him hold on to it, just in case Arthur could use it. It seemed he had been right.
Part of Arthur knew it was a stupid plan: They'd expect him to go back there. But it was the only place he could defend—the only place he knew inside and out. He could use that as an advantage. Besides, it gave him somewhere—anywhere—to go, instead of driving around aimlessly. He couldn't elude the police by car forever.
Before he'd even made the conscious decision to go to the house, he found himself speeding in its direction. The sirens had faded into the close distance, but it was only a matter of time before they figured out his destination. Gwen would have done a background check on Arthur. She would know all his properties.
Yes, he could definitely use this as an advantage.
The house was close now, just around the bend. He parked the car on the street corner, grabbed his rucksack from the passenger seat, and abandoned the vehicle by footing it around the corner and down the block. He barely paid attention to the houses as he ran passed, and he only allowed himself a fleeting look at the house Merlin had been raised in before rushing through the garden of the residence next door.
The grass in the front garden had become longer and more tangled with weeds since Arthur had last checked on it and the paint on the front door had become faded and chipped with neglect, and he had no time to wonder what might become of the place when he left. He produced his keys from his pocket and jammed the correct one into the tarnished lock before pushing through into the dusty foyer, slamming the door behind him, and leaning his entire bodyweight against it.
He was suddenly exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to rush up the stairs into the room that he once occupied and sleep. Part of him even expected Uther to come through and save the day, but the house remained still and silent except for Arthur's ragged breaths.
He knew there was no time to linger—no time to fantasize. He had to move fast.
Lance's car was the first to pull up to the house. He didn't think Arthur would have been stupid enough to go home, but a unit had spotted his car on the adjacent street. Arthur had to be in the house. Lance supposed, in desperate times, the familiar would always be sought after.
Dozens more cars had joined the parade, their sirens now off and their lights swooping around in the dusk. Lance noticed occupants of the houses around them peering out from behind curtains or opening front doors as the police poured from the cars.
"Form a barrier around the house," Lance was shouting towards various members of the squad. He turned to another uniformed Sergeant and ordered, "Take your men up and down the block—tell people to stay in their homes. Question them. Ask to search their houses."
The masses organized at his command, and before long the house was surrounded on every side, guns trained on the exits.
The door was kicked open, and fractures of wood and dust particles swirled upon impact as Gwen stalked through the threshold, gun held at the ready. The flat was empty, so she lowered her weapon and paced further into the kitchen. There was nothing left out on the countertops, but she noticed drops of water and red lining the basin of the sink.
She left the kitchen and entered the living room, first spotting the black canvas bag Arthur had left behind. She produced rubber gloves from her jacket pocket and slipped them on before rummaging through the bag, which was empty except for a few sheets of plastic and a half-used roll of silver duct tape.
Across the room, the walk-in closed was left wide open, all the garments inside hanging untouched. However, she clocked the safe at the bottom and, realizing it, too, had been left open, moved for it. All she found inside was a long, polished wooden box with a golden latch. She let out a sharp gasp as she opened it to reveal the sample slides within, nestled safely in their slots.
That proved it: Arthur had killed le Fay. She almost couldn't wait to bring that box back to the lab and run it for prints, but she contained herself. There was still more to do.
Taking out her comm., she contacted dispatch and said, "I need all available units and a SOCO team at the Pendragon residence immediately. And tell Corcoran she'll want to see this," she couldn't stop herself from adding.
The dispatch officer's voice crackled over the airwaves in response as Gwen set the box carefully back down inside the safe. She treaded through the rest of the flat, checking everywhere for a sign of where Arthur was headed. He must have had a plan in place . . .
Before she even entered the bedroom, she saw the missing patch of drywall through the threshold. It drew her full attention to the room beyond, and she raised her gun again as she walked through the doorway. She tensed at the figure lying motionlessly on the mattress, atop a pile of folders and papers, before realizing who it was.
"Merlin?" she asked tentatively, fearing the worst when no response was provided. However, as she relaxed her weapon and walked toward him, she noticed his chest rising and falling with shallow, steady breaths.
Relieved, she leaned over him and poked him softly, calling his name. When he did not stir immediately, she gave him a harder shake, eliciting a groan.
"There's no way out, Arthur," Lance's enhanced voice was booming throughout the block, ringing loudly in Arthur's ears from his hiding place. "We've got the house surrounded. Give yourself up or we'll be forced to come inside."
Go inside, Arthur prayed, hoping his luck would hold.
He found he was holding his breath, waiting for Lance to give the order. It came sooner than Arthur had expected it to, but Lance lowered the megaphone and waved the armed men and women forward. They advanced on the house like a pack of wolves hunting its prey, and Arthur felt strangely satisfied that all this had been organized so quickly solely for him.
The uniforms disappeared inside, and Arthur allowed a shaky breath as he relaxed against the tree trunk behind his shoulder blades.
He stood hidden in the copse behind the back garden, and the sun was just low enough now so that he could hide in the shadows cast by the budding leaves of the canopy above.
Once he was sure no one was around to see movement, he slowly made his way deeper into the trees. His plan was to sneak into the next street and steal a car. The dock wasn't too far away from his current location, and he was determined to get to his boat before the police realized he wasn't in the house.
Gwen's face swam into focus, but it was hard to keep her there for very long. His eyelids felt like weights and it was difficult to lift his head from the pillow. His throat felt dry and, in his haze, it seemed as though his mind were detached from his body, like he was simply in a dream.
"Merlin, are you all right?" someone asked.
"Arthur?" Merlin muttered, but it wasn't Arthur's voice that answered. It was much softer and kinder-sounding.
"No, Merlin, it's Gwen," she said, her voice getting progressively less distant with every syllable. The name brought him crashing back down to reality.
Gwen. Not Arthur. Gwen.
His pulse raged.
They got Arthur!
He shot up in bed, hardly noticing Gwen lean backwards swiftly to avoid him, and his eyes darted wildly around the room. Arthur was nowhere to be found. In fact, the room was vacant except for himself and the Super, instead of crawling with investigators. His found the open closet next to the bathroom, and he saw his own clothes bundled in a pile on the floor, and his heart sank with realization. Arthur was gone.
Arthur left him.
He felt like he might vomit, like the devouring pain in his chest would never heal, like he would disappear into the shadows cast by the fading sun. He was drowning—sinking. Gwen's palm was on his shoulder, holding him upright, but he didn't register her touch. A crippling wave of loneliness washed over him and, for a moment, the only two things in the entire world were himself and the bag that had been unpacked for him.
He understood why Arthur had done it. He even loved Arthur all the more for doing it. But he didn't want to understand. He wanted to hate Arthur. And, more than anything, he wanted to run after Arthur—to catch him before he was gone forever.
But it was too late, especially now that Gwen had found him.
Gwen . . .
Suddenly, Merlin's body no longer felt numb. He knew exactly what he had to do next.
"He drugged me," Merlin said, anger rising in his tone. He brought his touch to the stiff ache on his neck where the needle had pierced him "The motherfucking son of a bitch drugged me!"
"Merlin, Merlin, calm down," Gwen beseeched him, and he looked at her as though he'd only just realized she was there. "What happened?"
"I don't—" Merlin began, swallowing hard and shaking his head. He appeared to be thinking. "Arthur was here. I mean, I was here. I came by after work, but he wasn't in. I waited for him—"
"Wait, Merlin, slow down," she told him. "Why were you here?"
"I—" He stopped short, unable to meet her eyes, but she seemed to read into the silence. She understood clearly the fact of their relationship, and she nodded her head in acceptance, willing him to go on.
"Anyway, he came in. He was—" He took a deep breath, steadying himself. There was nothing Merlin could do for Arthur anymore, but he could still help himself. "He was covered in blood. I—I thought he'd been hurt. I tried to help him, but he just kept muttering something about leaving . . ."
He let his voice trail off, his eyes searching the room as though the memory were playing out before them.
"He washed the blood off. It wasn't his," Merlin told her after a beat with a grim, wincing smile. "I—I tried to ask him—Tried to make him slow down, but he just—He came at me."
"And sedated you?" Gwen asked, and Merlin nodded slowly in response. He didn't allow himself to pause long enough to realize how easily he'd lied.
She took a sweeping look around the room as though it would verify the story, and Merlin felt his chest constrict until she let out a heavy sigh.
"He's trying to flee . . . He's killed someone, Merlin," she told him, looking back. "And I don't think it's been only one person."
Merlin seemed to deflate. "What?"
"Anthony Odin?" she questioned. "Does that name ring a bell?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so. I—Who is he?"
"That's not important right now," she said, standing up straighter. "I'm going to take you back to the station. It's time you told me what you know, Merlin. I want to know everything—"
"No!" Merlin shouted, losing his cool for a fraction of a second. She raised an inquiring brow at him until he said, in the same urgent tone, "There isn't enough time . . . I think I know where he's going."
Chapter Text
Arthur jumped off the wooden dock into the clean, white deck of the speedboat, causing it to rock back and forth lazily in the current. Dropping his bag on the captain's bench, he started the engine, which roared into life without protest, save for the kicking of foam up from behind.
With the breeze swooping through his hair, he fumbled to undo the rope wrapped around the last horn cleat when a loud, female voice caught his attention.
"Arthur!"
A sick desire to meet his fate head on overcame him, and he looked up reflexively at the two people advancing slowly down the dock towards him, guns raised between their fists with the safety off. Arthur barely clocked Gwen's presence at first, because his eyes were drawn to the man walking next to her, gripping his weapon with transparent knuckles and glaring fixedly.
"Merlin . . ."
The word barely escaped Arthur's throat as the two stopped walking to keep a safe distance.
"You think you can you just drug me and that would be the end of it?" Merlin sneered as the last bits of golden sunlight on the horizon ricocheted off the water and reflected in the darks of his eyes, making them inflamed.
"Merlin, I had to. You—"
Arthur wanted to explain. He wanted to make Merlin understand, but there was nothing he could say while Gwen was present. Merlin had to keep plausible deniability. Merlin had to live a life. If that meant he would hate Arthur forever, then maybe it was better that way. It would be easier for him to let go.
Still, Arthur found himself communicating his apology silently, hoping Merlin would forgive him. He didn't think he could bear if, on the last time he ever saw his face, Merlin was wearing a mask of detestation.
"It's over, Arthur," Gwen piped up, gesturing infinitesimally with her gun as she spoke. "Corcoran's been to your flat. There's an entire team there as we speak, just like the one in Vivienne le Fay's house. They've found the body, the weapons, your trophies . . . The best thing you can do right now is come over willingly."
She kept her expression stern and authoritative, but Arthur noticed a flicker in Merlin's eyes as she spoke. His fingers twitched around the trigger.
"I don't want to have to use this," she continued, nodding vaguely towards the weapon in her hand.
Arthur realized his palm was still resting on the cleat, and the rope had fallen from it completely. He took a step backward, mentally calculating how fast he would have to move to put the boat into gear and peel away from the dock. Even if he did manage it before he was shot, Gwen would have every cop in the entire country on the Thames, ready to divert him.
"Do yourself a favor and come quietly," Gwen asked of him. "We don't want any trouble. Merlin—"
She motioned to him, and he didn't take his eyes off Arthur as he slowly reached into his belt and produced handcuffs. Arthur did not dare move—couldn't move—as Merlin paced forward carefully until he was at the edge of the dock. He was close enough for Arthur to realize he was not wearing an expression of contempt. Instead, there was something dead about his eyes—vacant and prepared, cold and calculating.
He let the cuffs slip from his fingers and land with a thud on the wood below before he whipped around on the spot and aimed his gun directly at Gwen.
"Let him go."
Arthur's lips parted in shock, and his mind was reeling so fast he hardly noticed Gwen take a step backwards to steady herself against the betrayal.
"Merlin, what are you—?" Arthur tried to say, but Gwen's words drowned his out.
"Don't do this, Merlin," she was saying, her voice not so much begging as it was reproving.
Merlin held the gun unwavering, but his shoulders were a rigid line. He doubled his grip on the weapon.
"I can't let you take him," he said, and a hint of his steeliness cracked as he uttered the words.
"Yes, you can," Gwen told him, trying her best to appeal to his senses. "Merlin, he's a killer. If this were anyone else—"
"But it's not, is it?" he corrected frostily.
"No," she admitted after a beat. "No, and I'm sorry, but you know he can't be allowed to go on. Put the gun down, Merlin, please. There's nothing you can do for him, but there's still a chance for you! Thinkabout what you're doing."
His gun lowered ever so slightly as she spoke but, when she chanced a step forward, he seemed to remember himself and hold it upright once more. Arthur noticed his arms were so tense that the weapon clasped in his hands was trembling now.
"You're not going to use that on me," Gwen said, holding her ground, but she looked a bit unsure now. "You're a good inspector—and a good man."
"Merlin, she's right," Arthur said slowly, filling in the space towards the side of the boat so that he was looking up at Merlin, who was now a few feet above him on the steady dock.
"She—She's what?" Merlin asked, sounding a little lost, as he risked a half-look over his shoulder at Arthur, and his eyes were red and cheeks flushed.
"You still have a chance at a future," he answered softly, and he found his lips twitching upwards at the prospect. "Don't do this because of me. You don't have a life with me; you know that."
Merlin seemed to have forgotten about Gwen. His arms were still leveled towards her, but idly. His full attention was on Arthur, and stubborn tears were welling.
"I've had a life with you since I was a kid," he said breathlessly.
"But we aren't kids anymore," Arthur told him and, for the second time that day, he saw something shatter in Merlin. This time, he let himself feel it, too.
"You told me not long ago that I made you compromise everything you believed in," Arthur said, his voice breaking slightly as though every muscle in his body were caused pain by his own words. "Don't allow me to do that again."
He felt a strange rush of relief as he raised his palms in surrender.
"I'll go willingly. Take me in, Merlin. I want it to be you."
Merlin let out something close to a choking sound.
"You'd rather spend life in prison than have me grapple with morals?"
"Well, when you put it like that," Arthur laughed sadly.
It elicited a shaky breath of laughter from Merlin, too, before his face drooped again, and drops fell from his lashes.
"Arthur . . ." he said, but just barely. His voice might as well have been the wind against the river.
In his peripherals, Arthur noticed Gwen had seized her chance. She was rushing towards Merlin, ready to disarm him, and something in Arthur's gaze must have given her away, because Merlin turned back around rapidly. He let out a loud gasp of breath as her eyes widened, both in surprise, and two deafening bangs sounded, one following the other so closely they might have happened at the same time.
Arthur ducked behind the side of his boat instinctually, like one of Gwen's bullets was intended for him. Somehow, it had been knocked off course and went through the boat's windshield. But where had the other gone?
In the split second Arthur realized he hadn't been shot, he jumped to look over the dock, just in time to see Gwen's body crumple to the wood. Her eyes were still widened with shock, but unseeing, as pools of blood filtered around her, seeping through the cracks between the dock's panels.
"Oh, Jesus!" Merlin screamed, and the sound was more horrible and bloodcurdling than the ringing gunshots. It told Arthur that the first shot had come from Merlin's weapon and, if Gwen had meant to loose a bullet at all, she'd lost control of her aim; it told Arthur that Gwen was dead before she hit the ground, as the proximity was too close; it told Arthur that Merlin had fired the shot deliberately.
Merlin dropped his weapon next to the cuffs like it was on fire, and his legs appeared to be giving out on him.
"No! No!" he was raging, and he tried to run to Gwen's body—to cradle it in the hopes that she was somehow, miraculously, still alive; in hopes that he could take it back. However, before he got the chance, Arthur wrapped his arms around Merlin's torso and dragged him backwards into the boat. Merlin fought the entire time, his arms flailing and his legs kicking, until Arthur manhandled him to a sitting position on the opposite side of the deck.
With that single shot, Merlin had sealed both their fates. Leaving Merlin behind was no longer an option. Arthur knew that as he reached over the boat again and snatched Merlin's gun off the dock before flying towards the boat's controls.
The sun had gone down completely as they raced away from the dock, and they could no longer see Gwen's still body under the yellow lamplight. Still, Merlin kept his eyes fixed on the back of the boat, even when London was nothing but a blip of colorful light and smog on the horizon. Soon, even the city was out of sight. It had faded into the darkness.
Nearly a week went by before they made it to France, where they laid low for a while as Arthur got in touch with one of his contacts to make Merlin false passports and fake IDs. In the meantime, he figured it would be best to get rid of the boat. Over the course of a few days, he managed to sell most of it for parts, as he didn't want to risk the registration getting flagged and sinking the boat would draw too much attention. Soon after, they made their way further into the continent, determined not to stay in one place for too long.
After a month, news of the manhunt had died down, which relaxed Arthur slightly. Their story hadn't been featured on the news for the first time in weeks, and Arthur pointed the remote at the television to shut it off.
"Looks like everyone's forgotten about us," he said lightheartedly from his place on the bed of a rundown Amsterdam hotel. Merlin's ear was resting on Arthur's lap, and his knees were tucked in loosely to his chest as he continued to stare blankly at the black TV screen.
Arthur let out a sigh and ran his fingers repetitively through Merlin's tangled hair, which had gotten considerably longer in the past month. He didn't expect Merlin to contribute to the conversation, as he'd barely said anything since they left London.
At first, Arthur was convinced that was from guilt. Merlin seemed to be consumed by it, and Arthur wondered how many times he'd played the moment over in his head—how many times he shot Arthur instead of Gwen. Yes, Merlin's silence could have once been regret, but now Arthur wasn't so sure; it seemed to have taken on a life of its own, a parasite clinging to Merlin's blood. What might have started as a persistent dull ache seemed now to be apathy. Arthur was sympathetic in the beginning, and he made sure to keep Merlin's gun out of sight just in case it triggered any grief; however, he'd become less diligent, and Merlin hardly seemed to care. He barely cast the weapon a second glance these days.
Still, Arthur often wished he knew for sure what was going on in Merlin's head. He was happy Merlin was with him—he told him that every day, sometimes twice—but there was never a response. He hoped, soon, Merlin would adjust back into his old self instead of carrying on as the ghost currently walking around in his skin. Arthur would have done almost anything to see Merlin smile again.
"I would shoot her again," Merlin said suddenly, his voice muffled somewhat against Arthur's upper leg, but it had been more than he'd said in what felt like a lifetime. Arthur gaped down at him, unsure of how to process this information. In fact, he thought he might have dreamt it up.
However, Merlin continued after a beat.
"If I had to make the choice a thousand times, I'd do it," he said. "What does that make me? Because I'd choose you—always."
Arthur found his reflection in the TV screen smiling softly and sadly down at Merlin's head. Merlin's own face was expressionless, and his eyes unblinking.
"I wouldn't want you to. Not if it meant you'd get to go home," Arthur admitted in a whisper. "What does that make me?"
For the fraction of a moment, Arthur thought he saw the corner of Merlin's lips curve upward.
"Human," he answered.
Arthur relaxed his back against the headboard as Merlin's head nuzzled deeper into his lap. Stroking Merlin's hair absentmindedly, he wondered what life might be like if they ever made it to Australia.
THE END.
Soundtrack:
Love Love Love, Of Monsters and Men
If I Had a Heart, Fever Ray
Kill of the Night, Gin Wigmore
Evil Night Together, Jill Tracy
Mack the Knife, Bobby Darin
Bang Bang, Phlo Finister
Touch, Daughter
My Boy Builds Coffins, Florence + the Machine
Pages Navigation
Lazy_Queen on Chapter 1 Mon 22 Jun 2015 03:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
emmbrancsxx0 on Chapter 1 Tue 23 Jun 2015 10:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
Drag0ns4ndma9ic on Chapter 1 Thu 02 Jul 2015 07:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
olivia (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 11 Jan 2019 02:36PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Feb 2020 10:44AM UTC
Comment Actions
aerismoon on Chapter 1 Sat 25 Nov 2023 05:11AM UTC
Comment Actions
joey_is_tired on Chapter 2 Sat 20 Jun 2015 11:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
emmbrancsxx0 on Chapter 2 Sun 21 Jun 2015 04:08AM UTC
Comment Actions
olivia (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 11 Jan 2019 02:59PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 2 Thu 13 Feb 2020 11:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 3 Thu 13 Feb 2020 12:58PM UTC
Comment Actions
Im+simply+a+nobody (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 27 Mar 2020 09:02PM UTC
Comment Actions
olivia (Guest) on Chapter 4 Fri 11 Jan 2019 03:20PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 4 Thu 13 Feb 2020 01:14PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 5 Thu 13 Feb 2020 01:25PM UTC
Comment Actions
olivia (Guest) on Chapter 6 Fri 11 Jan 2019 03:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 6 Thu 13 Feb 2020 01:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
DoctorEmrys on Chapter 6 Mon 10 Feb 2025 12:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
olivia (Guest) on Chapter 7 Fri 11 Jan 2019 03:51PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 7 Thu 13 Feb 2020 01:46PM UTC
Comment Actions
DoctorEmrys on Chapter 7 Mon 10 Feb 2025 01:57PM UTC
Comment Actions
Merlioske on Chapter 8 Thu 13 Feb 2020 02:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation