Chapter Text
It was a trap.
Cornelius Sigan, their target arms dealer, sat across the digital roulette table, his sharp eyes glinting under the neon lights. Tonight, he believed he was selling a shipment of surface-to-air missiles to an Irish syndicate.
Merlin kept his posture loose, careless, the way moneyed men pretended not to care. His Dublin accent was perfect.
He shifted in his seat, fingers brushing the waistband where his Glock nestled, loaded and ready.
No backup tonight; this was off-book, a solo play to snag the goods before Sigan could vanish into the desert.
Merlin leaned in, channeling a flawless Irish lilt as he placed his bet. "Double or nothing on the cargo, mate. You in?"
The real Irish buyers were currently trussed up with hotel towels and electrical cable in a fifth-floor bathroom, gagged and furious and very much not attending this meeting. Merlin had handled that part personally, quiet and clean.
Across the table, numbers spun. Red and black.
“High stakes,” Sigan said, eyes flicking to the screen. “I admire confidence.”
Merlin smiled thinly. “I admire good merchandise.”
Winner takes all. Sigan thought it was a game. Merlin thought it was arithmetic—He’d rewritten the casino’s backend systems earlier that evening from a borrowed laptop and a glass of terrible Moroccan wine. The roulette algorithm now did exactly what he told it to do.
It had been a long time since he’d been in the field.
Since becoming Arthur’s handler—tech, logistics, everything that wasn’t pulling a trigger—Merlin had been largely confined to Thames House. Screens. Servers. Coffee that tasted faintly of despair. Arthur called it sensible. Merlin called it suffocating.
Arthur also called it necessary. Overprotective prat.
The wheel stopped and Merlin won.
Sigan's face tightened, but he slid over the encrypted drive with the shipment details. "Luck's a fickle bitch."
"Pleasure doing business." Merlin stood, tucking it inside his jacket, heart steady, senses flaring. Time to leave.
That was when the doors closed.
Men moved in from both sides of the casino entrance—Sigan’s disciples, cutting off exits with professional ease. Patrons screamed. Tables overturned. Chips scattered like rain.
Merlin sighed inwardly. So much for subtlety.
He turned back to Sigan. “Problem, lads? Deal's done.”
Sigan rose slowly, spreading his hands. “Deals change.”
Not surprise. Sigan had never intended to let him walk out. Winner, loser—it didn’t matter.
The first goon drew, but Merlin was faster. The Glock came free in one smooth motion. He racked it against his belt, fired, felt the recoil bite. One man down. Headshot. Another before the first hit the floor.
He ejected the mag, slammed in a fresh one from his belt, counting without thinking. Three down, then four. Bodies fell. Glass shattered.
When it was over, the casino floor was slick with blood and silence.
Sigan was on his knees.
Merlin approached, Glock trained on his forehead. "I won," he said, still in character. "That's the rules."
Sigan laughed. A wet, broken sound. He looked up, lips curled into a wicked grin, blood staining his teeth.
“Winner's not decided yet,” he said. “—Agent Emrys.”
The name hit like ice water. Merlin's blood ran cold—how the hell did he know? No time to process. Sigan's chest lit up, a faint glow seeping through his shirt. Suicide vest. Merlin's eyes widened. "Shit—"
The blast ripped through the air, a deafening roar that hurled him backward. He slammed into a roulette table, wood splintering under the impact. Ears ringing, vision blurring to white static, pain bloomed everywhere—ribs, head, a sharp sting in his side. He gasped, tasting blood, the world tilting sideways.
Shit. This was a trap. Not MI5's setup for Cornelius Sigan. This one was for him.
Buenos Aires, six years back.
Their first joint op. He and Arthur had clashed from day one. They bickered nonstop—Arthur calling his plans reckless, Merlin sniping at his arrogant prat style.
The stakeout went south fast. Gunfire erupted in the humid night, bullets chewing brick in the narrow alley.
He remembered running. Tripping. He took a graze to the arm, then a punch that split his nose, blood pouring hot down his face. He stumbled, cornered, the lieutenant's pistol rising.
Arthur barreled in like thunder, tackling the man, snapping his neck with a twist. He hauled Merlin up by the collar, blue eyes blazing under the sodium lights.
“You absolute idiot,” Arthur said, shoving a fresh magazine into Merlin’s shaking hands. “I tell you to stay put for thirty seconds and you rewrite the entire operation.”
“I was coming to save your bloody royal arse, okay?”
“I don’t fucking need it. I've been trained to kill since birth.”
“Wow, and how long have you been training to be a prat. ” Merlin shotted back. “If not me rushing out to knock out that man, you’d have been riddled with bullets by now.”
“You? That's bloody hilarious. I could take you apart with one blow.”
Merlin wiped blood from his lip, adrenaline surging, mixing with something hotter. Arthur's grip tightened, bodies pressed close in the shadows, the alley reeking of garbage and gunpowder.
“Okay. We'll try.” Merlin muttered, dropping to his knees on the gritty pavement. His nose throbbed, blood trickling steady, but he didn't care. He fumbled Arthur's belt open, yanking down the zipper with bloody fingers.
Arthur hissed. "Merlin, what—fuck." His protest died as Merlin took him in, mouth hot and urgent, blood smearing along Arthur's length.
Arthur's hand fisted in Merlin's hair, pulling just shy of pain, hips bucking involuntary. Merlin worked him deep, tongue swirling, sucking through the metallic tang of his own blood.
“See,” Merlin pulled back just enough to murmur, “I could take you apart with less than that.” Then he took full of his cock in again.
Arthur's breaths came ragged, curses spilling low— "Christ, you reckless prick" —but he didn't stop, thrusting shallow, chasing the edge.
It was messy, desperate: Merlin's nose dripping red streaks down Arthur's thighs, the wet sounds echoing off the walls. Arthur tensed, groaning as he came, spilling hot down Merlin's throat. Merlin swallowed, pulling back with a gasp, blood and come mixing on his chin. Arthur hauled him up, crashing their mouths together in a bruising kiss, tasting himself mingled with Merlin's blood.
Then Arthur punched him—not hard, but enough to sting—and hauled him over his shoulder.
“We are discussing this later,” Arthur snarled, and Merlin laughed all the way to extraction.
Merlin came back to consciousness in fragments.
Cold first. Then pressure at his wrists. The ache in his ribs bloomed next. His side ached from the blast, probably cracked ribs, and a warm trickle down his temple suggested a gash.
He opened his eyes.
A chair. Metal. Bolted to concrete. His hands were bound behind him with plastic ties, tight enough to numb his fingers. Ankles secured the same way. He tested them once, lightly. No give.
Opposite him, under a bare hanging bulb, was the bastard himself. Former DGSE. Current traitor. The infamous witchfinder Aredian.
He leaned against a table like this was a café instead of a basement, smile wide and rotten. His teeth were yellow and uneven, two missing from the front. Arthur’s work. Merlin felt a distant, inappropriate flicker of pride.
“Well,” Aredian said in English, thick with French vowels. “Our guest wakes.”
Merlin swallowed. His mouth tasted of blood and dust. “This,” he said hoarsely, “isn't exactly hospitality.”
Aredian's fist slammed into Merlin's stomach, driving the air out in a sharp. Pain detonated through his core. He doubled as far as the restraints allowed, coughing.
Aredian crouched in front of him, satisfied. “You British,” he said. “Always complaining.”
Merlin forced himself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He lifted his head slowly, refusing to give the man the pleasure of seeing him break.
“You should run faster,” Merlin said. “Arthur almost killed you last time.”
That earned him another grin. Aredian touched the gap in his teeth with his tongue. “Yes. I remember. His right hook is very… persuasive.”
He stood, began to pace. The room was small. Concrete walls. No windows. A single door behind Aredian, reinforced. Merlin catalogued everything automatically. Habit.
“I had a good life,” Aredian went on. “Career. Respect. A pension waiting. And then your golden boy sniffed me out.” He stopped, eyes sharp. “Do you know what it is like to run from safe house to safe house? To sleep with one eye open? Like a rat.”
“You sold agents to the Russians,” Merlin said. “What did you expect? A medal?”
Aredian’s hand snapped out, grabbing Merlin’s jaw, forcing his head up. His grip was strong. Personal.
“I expected to survive,” he said quietly. “And now I will be repaid.”
Merlin's mind raced. "So this is payback? You baited Sigan into that suicide play?"
Aredian's grin widened. "Smart boy. Sigan was easy, who hated Brits. I rigged the vest myself. Thought it'd end you quick, but you're tougher than you look. Bonus."
Merlin swallowed, tasting copper. His Glock was gone, stripped along with his comms. No way to signal the headquarters. "Why drag me into your grudge match?"
"Because Pendragon took everything from me!"
Merlin met his eyes. “Apparently you grabbed the wrong person, since your beef's with him.”
Aredian laughed again, louder this time. “Oh, no. I grabbed exactly the right one.”
He leaned in close, breath sour. “Of course I want him dead. I will enjoy that very much.” His fingers tightened on Merlin’s chin, nails biting into skin. “But breaking you—slowly—will hurt the mighty Agent far more.”
A fist hitting Merlin’s temple, snapping his head to the side. Dazed and half-conscious, Merlin heard the man's voice. “Rest, pretty boy. We have time.”
The light snapped off.
They dragged him out by the arms.
Merlin’s feet barely touched the ground. The plastic ties were gone, replaced by cuffs that bit into his wrists, metal cold. His body protested every movement. One rib was almost certainly cracked. He kept his breathing shallow and even, the way he’d been trained.
Down a corridor. Damp. Oil and rust in the air.
Noise grew ahead of them. Shouting. Laughter.
A pit, roughly circular, surrounded by chain-link and concrete. Bare bulbs hung low, casting everything in harsh white. Blood stained the floor in old, uneven patterns that never quite washed away.
Aredian shoved Merlin forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in French, then English. “A new dog.”
The cuffs came off. Merlin swayed, caught himself. Someone tossed him into the ring.
The gate slammed shut.
Thames House, London. Years back.
“You're a liability in the field.” Arthur grumbled, stripping to a tank top, muscles flexing. “Time to fix that.”
Merlin rolled his eyes, but stripped down too, circling him. Arthur taught him holds, strikes—close quarters, bodies slamming together. A grapple turned heated: Arthur pinning him to the mat, thigh between Merlin's legs, breath hot on his neck. "Yield," Arthur demanded.
Merlin bucked, flipping them, straddling Arthur's hips. "Make me."
Clothes shed in a frenzy—shirts tugged off, pants shoved down. Arthur's hands roamed, rough and claiming, fingers digging into Merlin's arse as he ground down.
Merlin rode him hard, skin slapping, moans echoing. Arthur flipped them again, thrusting deep, pace brutal, hitting that spot until Merlin arched, coming untouched between them. Arthur followed, burying his face in Merlin's neck, biting down as he pulsed inside.
Training sessions blurred into fucks—desks, showers, once in the armory amid rifles and ammo. Arthur's protectiveness grew from there, pulling Merlin off field ops, keeping him safe.
"Fight smart, idiot," he'd murmur post-peak, fingers tracing scars.
Day one started with five of them—Aredian's henchmen, burly ex-mercs with scarred knuckles and dead eyes, circling him like wolves.
Merlin stood on shaky legs, arms raised in a loose guard. The first goon lunged, a haymaker swing aimed at his head. Merlin ducked, countering with a sharp elbow to the man's throat—wet crunch, the guy staggering back choking. Another came from the side, boot kicking at his knee; Merlin twisted, grabbing the leg and yanking, sending the attacker sprawling. He fought dirty, agency-trained: a knee to the groin of the third, who doubled over retching; a headbutt to the fourth's nose, blood exploding in a hot spray across Merlin's face.
But they kept coming. A fist connected with his already bruised ribs, driving the air from his lungs in a whoosh. Merlin gasped, vision spotting, but he swung back, nails raking across eyes, drawing screams. Aredian watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, laughing as Merlin took down two more with desperate grapples—twisting arms until joints popped, stomping on exposed throats. By the end, Merlin was panting, bloodied but standing, the five men groaning on the floor.
“Not bad,” Aredian admitted, signaling for them to drag the injured away. “But tomorrow, we up the ante.”
Merlin collapsed against a crate, spitting blood. Arthur's voice echoed in his mind: Fight smart, idiot.
He clung to that, curling up in the corner.
Aredian tossed a crust of bread and a bottle of water at his feet. "Eat up. Tomorrow we do it again."
It was stale. Hard. Merlin picked it up with shaking fingers and ate it anyway.
Day two. Merlin's muscles screamed from the previous beating, shoulders stiff and swollen, but he rose anyway.
They swarmed faster this time, coordinated—two grabbing his arms while a third pummeled his gut. Fists sank into his abdomen like stones, bruising organs, making him taste bile. Merlin headbutted one holder, breaking free, then drove his boot into another's knee with a sickening crack. He clawed and bit, drawing blood from a cheek, smashing an elbow into a windpipe.
No food that night. Merlin’s body lay still. Bruised. Starving. Barely holding on.
In his mind, Arthur was there—Stay awake. That voice seemed to say. Somehow, impossibly, Merlin did.
Day three. He resisted longer this time—adapting to their patterns, using his slighter frame for speed. But the numbers wore him down. A fist to the temple spun his world, another to the gut folded him over, vomiting bile onto the floor.
Unconsciousness claimed him as boots connected with his head, the last thing he felt a tooth loosening in his mouth.
Glasgow, last winter.
The op was stealing a Russian arms cell's intel, holed up in a derelict warehouse by the Clyde. Merlin ran logistics from the van, parked a block away—hacking cams, feeding intel through Arthur's earpiece. Arthur was inside, picking the lock on the safe where the cell stashed their encrypted drives.
"Almost there," Arthur muttered over comms. "This thing's ancient—probably older than your hacking skills."
Merlin snorted, eyes glued to his screens. "Bite me. My skills got you past the perimeter alarms. You'd be tripping lasers without me."
Arthur chuckled low. "Admit it, you love watching my arse on those cams. Perk of the job?"
"Keep dreaming. Focus—left tumbler, three clicks. And don't get cocky; heat signatures show two guards patrolling the east wing."
A pause, then Arthur: "Got it. Safe's open. Drives in hand. Jackpot—manifests, buyer lists. The works."
Merlin's fingers flew over keys, cross-referencing. Then his blood ran cold: a hidden feed flickered, revealing wiring snaked through the walls, converging on the safe. "Arthur—bomb! It's rigged to the safe door. Motion trigger. Get out now!"
"Shit." Arthur's breath hitched. "Drives are secured. I'm moving—"
"No—drop them! Run!" Merlin's voice cracked, pulse hammering. Screens showed the timer kick in—seconds ticking.
Arthur's footsteps pounded over the line. "Can't. Almost at the exit—"
“Drop them you fucking clotpole!”
“I told you that is not an exist word.”
“Arthur—” Merlin shouted.
Explosion. A deafening blast roared through the earpiece, static screeching, then silence. Just ringing tinnitus, the van shaking from the shockwave a block away.
Merlin's screens went dark, feeds severed. "Arthur? Arthur!" No answer. Gone. The warehouse inferno lit the night, flames devouring everything.
Before explosion, there was a whisper through the line. The static rewind in his mind, over and over—
Arthur's last words, whispered urgent.
I love you, Merlin.
Heart shattering. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe.
Tears blurred his vision as Merlin ripped off his headset, flinging it aside, and bolted from the van.
Rain slicked the streets, cold Scottish downpour soaking him as he sprinted toward the inferno. Flames licked the night sky, smoke billowing thick. Sirens wailed distant, but he didn't care.
He skidded to the warehouse ruins—twisted metal, shattered concrete, the acrid stink of C4 and charred wood.
Merlin dropped to his knees in the debris, hands plunging into the wreckage. Sharp edges sliced his palms, blood mixing with mud, but he dug frantic—shoving bricks, heaving beams.
“Arthur!” Tears burned hot tracks down his face, sobs wrenching out. “Prat, don't do this to me, please, please.” His nails tore, fingers raw. “Please... I can't lose you.”
A hand on his shoulder. Merlin whirled, fists up, but there—Arthur, soot-streaked, a gash over his brow, but alive. Grinning crookedly through the grime. "Miss me already?"
Relief crashed like a tidal wave. Merlin lunged, arms around Arthur's neck, pulling him into a fierce hug.
Their mouths met in the downpour—desperate, salty with tears and blood. Arthur kissed back hard, hands fisting Merlin's wet shirt, tongues tangling urgent.
“I'm here,” Arthur murmured. “Jumped clear in time.”
They broke apart only when sirens neared, stumbling to a nearby safehouse—a dingy flat overlooking the river.
Inside, door locked, clothes shed in a frenzy: sopping jackets tossed, shirts peeled off slick skin. Arthur backed Merlin against the wall, hands everywhere—tracing ribs, hips, dipping lower.
"Thought I'd lost you," Merlin gasped, fingers clawing Arthur's back.
Arthur's mouth trailed fire down his neck, nipping collarbone.
"Never." He dropped to his knees, unbuckling Merlin's belt, freeing him. Merlin's cock sprang hard, aching, and Arthur took him deep—no teasing, just wet heat enveloping him.
Merlin's head thunked the wall, moans spilling as Arthur sucked, tongue flat and insistent, hollowing cheeks. Fingers teased his balls, then lower, circling his entrance.
They tumbled to the bed, a tangle of limbs. Arthur prepped him slow, lube from the kit slicking fingers, stretching him open—one, then two, crooking to hit that spot until Merlin arched, begging.
"Arthur, please—"
Arthur slid home in one smooth thrust, burying deep. Merlin keened, legs wrapping Arthur's waist, nails digging crescents into shoulders. They moved together, Arthur's hips rolling deliberate, pulling almost out before slamming back, filling him completely.
Skin slapped wet, breaths mingling—Merlin's hand between them, stroking himself in time. Arthur angled just right, grinding against his prostate with each drive.
"Fuck, Merlin—you feel so good—" Arthur groaned, pace quickening, bed creaking under them.
Merlin came first, spilling hot over his stomach, clenching around Arthur. That pulled Arthur over, thrusting erratic, burying a cry in Merlin's neck as he pulsed inside, filling him.
First time they making love, not just fucking.
Uther stood at the glass wall of his office, looking out over the grey sprawl of London.
Rain streaked down the windows in thin, vertical lines. Orderly. Predictable. He liked that. Outside, the city moved as it always did. Inside Thames House, the air had been tight for three days.
“Agent Emrys has been missing for seventy-two hours, sir.”
George stood a careful distance behind him, tablet held to his chest.
Uther didn’t turn. “I’m aware.”
George swallowed. “Do we continue to withhold the information? ”
“Yes,” Uther said flatly.
George hesitated. “Sir… yesterday was the first confirmed signal trace we’ve had since Marrakesh. A weak one, but—”
“I know,” Uther cut in. “And I’ve already deployed assets.”
He turned then, fixing George with a look that had ended careers. “I don’t need Arthur charging into this. I need Aredian alive.”
“I need him breathing,” Uther continued. “I need him talking. He sold European agent lists to the Russians. That network doesn’t stop with him.”
George opened his mouth, then closed it again. “But Agent Emrys—”
Uther’s eyes hardened. “Is an intelligence officer. He'd come through.”
What Uther did not say was that he had known Aredian would surface.
He knew the man’s obsession. Knew that Aredian wanted revenge. And Uther had used that.
George’s voice was quieter now. “Sir… if Agent Pendragon finds out we sent Agent Emrys in knowing this—”
Uther stepped closer. “You will not tell Arthur a single word.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The rain continued its steady descent.
Then the phone rang.
Uther turned back toward his desk and picked it up. “Pendragon.”
There was a pause. His expression changed.
“Yes,” he said. “Put it through.”
Merlin woke to gunfire.
Sharp, close. The sound punched through the fog in his head and dragged him back into his body. Pain followed immediately. He tried to inhale and nothing happened.
Air wouldn’t come. His chest burned. Each attempt to breathe ended in a thin, useless gasp that scraped his throat raw.
Rib, he thought dimly. Punctured lung.
Dark crept in at the edges of his vision. His heart hammered, frantic, trying to outrun the lack of oxygen.
Someone was shouting. His name, maybe. Or someone else’s. It sounded distant, distorted, like it was traveling through water.
“…Merlin—”
He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t lift a hand. Panic flared, then dulled into something heavy and cold.
“Merlin. Stay with me.” That voice cut through everything.
Arthur's sound snapped something inside Merlin back into place. He tried again to breathe. Failed. His body jerked uselessly, ribs screaming.
Hands were on him. Familiar hands. Strong. Shaking.
Fabric tore. Cold air hit his skin, shocking in its intensity. Merlin wanted to curl inward, but he couldn’t move.
“Listen to me,” Arthur said, right by his ear. “I need you to stay awake.”
Merlin tried. Black spots swarmed his vision.
Arthur’s forehead pressed briefly against his temple. “This is going to hurt,” he said, voice low and breaking. “I’m sorry.”
Then pain exploded.
White-hot, absolute. A spike of agony drove into Merlin’s chest, deep and invasive, like fire being forced into his lungs. His body arched violently off the ground with a hoarse, broken sound torn from his throat.
Air rushed in—ragged, but real. He gasped again, coughing wetly, every breath agony but possible.
Arthur was holding him. One arm locked tight around his shoulders, the other braced against his chest, hands slick with blood. Arthur’s face was right there—pale, furious, terrified.
“Easy,” Arthur murmured, over and over. “I’ve got you. You’re breathing. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Merlin clung to that voice. The pain receded just enough to be bearable. And soon exhaustion crashed over him. His eyelids fluttered.
“Don’t sleep,” Arthur said immediately, tightening his hold. “Merlin. Look at me.”
Merlin managed a weak, crooked breath. A hint of a smile. “…Bully,” he rasped.
“No.” Arthur huffed a broken sound. “Stay with me.”
Merlin let his head rest against Arthur’s chest. The steady thud of Arthur’s heartbeat grounded him.
If he slept now, it would be all right. Because Arthur was here. And with the thoughts—Merlin blacked out.
Merlin drifted.
Weightless. Directionless. He floated in a grey nowhere while distant hands prodded and pierced him. Sharp pressure. Dull pulling. He tried to complain. Nothing came out.
Then the world snapped back into focus.
Light. White and steady. The low, rhythmic beep of machines. Clean air that smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal.
Merlin blinked.
A ceiling he recognized swam into view—reinforced panels, utilitarian, ugly in a very British way. MI5 military medical wing.
He turned his head slowly. Pain flared as he winced immediately.
Leon sat in a chair beside the bed, boots planted on the floor, tablet balanced on one knee. He noticed Merlin’s eyes open and smiled.
“Welcome back from hell,” he said. “How do you feel?”
Merlin swallowed. His throat was dry. “Like I got my ribs broken by a dozen mercenaries.”
Leon snorted. “If you’re joking, you’ll live.”
Merlin breathed carefully, testing the limits. It hurt, but the air stayed where it was supposed to. Tubes tugged faintly at his arm. He glanced down—bandages, monitors, a mess of evidence that he’d come very close to not waking up at all.
“How long?” Merlin asked.
“four days,” Leon said. “You were out cold. When Arthur got you back—” He paused, expression shifting. “You were in bad shape. Really bad. We all thought you weren’t going to make it—” Leon added. “Arthur was… terrified. You have to know this, mate. I’ve never, ever seen him like that—he was...fucking wrecked.”
Merlin closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
“Where is he?” Merlin asked.
“Don’t stress,” Leon hesitated, then shrugged. “He’s… indisposed.”
Merlin frowned. “Indisposed how?”
Leon leaned back in his chair. “Detained.”
Merlin stared at him. “What?”
“Temporary,” Leon added quickly. “Administrative.”
Merlin turned his head despite the protest from his neck. “Why?”
Leon exhaled through his nose. “Let’s see. He hijacked a DGSE military helicopter. Crossed borders fully armed without clearance. Executed everyone who might’ve had relevant information.”
Merlin stared at him.
“Oh—” Leon added. “And he may or may not have threatened the Director at gunpoint.”
Merlin’s mouth opened.
Leon shrugged. “So, yes. Technically speaking, he’s in confinement. Gwaine’s watching him, unless—”
“…Unless?” Merlin asked.
Leon smiled thinly.
Somewhere down the corridor, metal clanged. Voices rose—one sharp, unmistakably familiar.
Leon stood. “I should go,” he said lightly. “Doctor’s orders.”
“What the hell were you thinking?”
Arthur stood at attention in the Director’s office, boots planted, spine straight, hands locked behind his back. Across the desk, Uther Pendragon was livid—face flushed, voice carrying fury.
“You hijacked a foreign intelligence service’s military helicopter,” Uther roared. “Do you have any idea—”
Arthur didn’t blink. “I requisitioned it,” he said evenly. “Our allies were cooperative. They were quite pleased I was removing a traitor they’d failed to deal with.”
Uther slammed a palm on the desk. “By storming into the North Africa and conducting what can only be described as a small massacre?” His eyes burned. “You didn’t even attempt to leave a survivor.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Considering what they did to Merlin,” he said, low and controlled, “you should know there was never a chance I’d let them live.”
The memory rose—Merlin on the concrete, chest barely moving, skin greyed with shock. The awful hitch in his breathing. The way his body had gone limp in Arthur’s arms after the needle went in. Arthur had held him there, shaking, blood on his hands, convinced—utterly convinced—that he was already too late.
Even now, knowing Merlin was stable, breathing, alive, Arthur felt the fear crawl back in. His hands trembled. He curled his fingers tighter behind his back to hide it.
Uther sneered. “Reckless. Idiotic. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for this?” He leaned forward. “You ruined my plan.”
Arthur closed his eyes. “Your plan?” he repeated quietly.
When he opened them again, the Walther was in his hand before Uther could register the movement. Safety off. Slide racked. Arthur stepped forward and pressed the barrel flat against Uther Pendragon’s forehead.
“So this was all planned,” Arthur said, shaking, rage barely contained.
Uther’s face went purple. “What are you doing?” he shouted. “How dare you point a weapon at your superior officer—at your father!”
Arthur leaned in, pushing the gun harder. “They tortured Merlin for seventy-two fucking hours.”
Uther didn’t flinch. “It was a necessary sacrifice. I order you to stand down. Now.”
Arthur’s teeth clenched. His whole body felt like it was vibrating apart. “I want to put a bullet through your head,” he said, every word scraped raw. “The same way I did with Aredian.”
“The only reason I won’t,” Arthur continued, voice dropping into something deadly calm, “is because I still serve England. And the Queen.”
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled the gun away. Thumbed the safety on. Then he placed it on Uther’s desk and stepped back.
Uther was shaking with fury.
“Get out,” he snapped. “Confinement. Effective immediately.”
Arthur saluted. Perfect. Precise. Then he turned and walked out.
The confinement room was smaller than Arthur remembered.
Concrete walls. A single bench bolted to the floor. No windows. Designed to make people sit with themselves and think about obedience.
Gwaine waited by the door, arms folded.
“Well, princess,” Gwaine said, reaching for the cuffs. “Word is you pulled a gun on the Director.”
He snapped the handcuffs on with practiced ease. Metal clicked shut around Arthur’s wrists.
“I’d have paid good money to see Uther’s face,” Gwaine went on cheerfully. “Bet he looked like he swallowed a live grenade.”
Arthur didn’t answer. He sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.
All he could see was the memories—red lights, the shrill, endless alarm of a monitor losing its mind. Merlin on the stretcher, skin grey, lips tinged blue.
“V-fib,” someone had shouted.
Arthur remembered the medic’s hands moving fast—adrenaline drawn up, needle in, Merlin’s body jerking weakly. No response.
“Clear.”
The defibrillator paddles hit Merlin’s chest.
Arthur had watched his body arch violently with the shock, then fall back. Again. And again.
That image had burned itself into him. He had forced himself to watch. To not look away. Because if Merlin died, Arthur refused to be someone who hadn’t seen it happen.
The fear had been absolute. Crippling. The kind that hollowed you out and left nothing but noise behind.
Merlin dying in his arms had felt like the world ending quietly, without permission.
Arthur dragged a hand through his hair, breath short, chest tight. He couldn’t sit here. He couldn’t wait.
The handcuffs suddenly came loose.
Arthur looked up sharply.
Gwaine was already pocketing the key.
“You’re about three seconds from standing up and punching me before making a run for it,” Gwaine said calmly. “I’d rather skip the punch.”
Arthur stared at him. “Why?”
Gwaine shrugged. “Because you’re useless like this. And because he’s awake.” A pause. Softer. “Go.”
Arthur was on his feet instantly.
“I owe you,” he said.
Gwaine grinned. “Yeah. Buy me a drink when this is over.”
Arthur didn’t waste another second. He bolted for the door, boots striking concrete, running to the medical wing.
He shoved the door open hard enough for it to hit the wall, breath ragged.
Merlin propped up against the bed, pale but unmistakably alive. Bruised, bandaged, dark curls a mess.
“Arthur—” He called. And everything Arthur had been holding back collapsed at once. He crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Merlin, careful only by instinct, arms wrapping around him like he might disappear if Arthur let go. Arthur pressed his forehead against Merlin’s shoulder and broke.
He shook—full-body, uncontrollable. A sound tore out of his chest that he would’ve been ashamed of in any other room, with any other witness. Fear, rage, relief, all of it tangled together and spilling out because Merlin was warm and breathing and here.
“I thought—” Arthur choked. “Gods, I thought I lost you.”
Merlin lifted one battered arm and rested it against Arthur’s back. “Hey,” Merlin murmured hoarsely. “I’m still very much alive. Annoyingly so.”
“You frightened me,” Arthur said. “You have no idea if you—”
Merlin tilted his head. “Are you… crying?”
Arthur scoffed. “Shut up.”
Merlin smiled faintly. “Wow. Turns out MI5’s deadliest assassin is a massive softie.”
Arthur snorted. “Speak for yourself.” He leaned in, voice low. “You cried when you thought I was dead in Glasgow.”
Merlin blinked. “…That was one time.”
“And you ugly-cried,” Arthur added.
Merlin considered this, then sighed. “All right. We’re even.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then Arthur leaned in slowly, giving Merlin time to pull away. And Merlin didn’t.
So their lips met, gently at first—careful, testing—then deeper, surer. It tasted like antiseptic. Arthur’s hand came up to cradle Merlin’s jaw, thumb brushing lightly along skin he’d thought he’d never touch again.
When they finally pulled apart, Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin’s.
“Don’t ever do that to me again,” Arthur whispered.
Merlin smiled, tired and real. “No promises.”
Arthur huffed. “I hate you.”
“I know,” Merlin said. “You love me.”
Arthur didn’t argue.