The Avalon Code.doc

The Avalon Code

Title: The Avalon Code
Rating: Nc-17
Pairing: Merlin/Arthur
Word Count: 12,858.
Spoilers: Spoilers for series 3
Disclaimer: The characters don’t belong to me; they are the property of the BBC and
Shine. No profit is being made.
Warnings: Minor character death, some violence.
Summary: Written for the following kinkme_merlin prompt: Arthur is an under cover agent and he has to get close to Merlin in order to get information from him, since he's a smart guy who has unscripted some sort of code. Things get messier when after the job (where he was supposed to be romantically detached and failed) he receives the order to get rid of him. Bonus point for faking death and bringing him somewhere far. (will he join him or not?). Basically a spy story.
Notes: My thanks go to the lovely soundoftrees for the beta read.

 

The hotel bar is all airy futuristic design, sleek angles, fibreglass planes, and soaring glass partitions softened by white and purple neon lights. A metal chrome column rises in the middle of the lounge, where asymmetrical tables and clean-lined chairs are arranged to afford the number of seating places necessary to accommodate the urban-chic, wealthy clientèle. The lounge is a minimalist-themed space that comes complete with white leather booths, concave mirrors that reflect distorted images and oddly-shaped crystal light fixtures. The music being played is sci-fi jazz, a fitting accompaniment to the conversation buzz of the evening crowd.

As Arthur advances, feet sinking into the white fitted-carpet, he makes out the polished, U-shaped bar counter. Its top is fitted with wine-coolers that are lit up from below by cleverly-placed bulbs; the stainless steel bar rails and backless stools create a stylish though cold look that makes him think of sub-zero temperatures and polar locations.

Russian industry moguls order evocatively named cocktails in fairly fluent English, exuding self-importance that reeks of money; smartly but scantily dressed women huddle up against them while noshing on exotic appetizers that barely look as though they're edible. One of them is wearing a cut-back black dress that allows Arthur to take in her smooth, pale back, hinting at luscious and voluptuous curves.

A young woman, a corporate look about her, is nursing the dregs of a glass of red wine two seats over, while next to her a group of three friends are laughing and snorting quite loudly, probably well in their cups. They're clearly deriding someone or something.

To their left a soberly clad man is spouting legal jargon at a colleague, a beautiful woman in her forties who looks both clever, something about the light in her eyes and the lines of her mouth, and severe.

Arthur spots him in the bar corner, a lanky, dark-haired young man, sitting folded in on himself on the last available stool but one. He looks out of place here, wearing as he does baggy jeans, a logo emblazoned t-shirt and scruffy trainers. He seems young, probably appears younger than he is given the contrast provided by the setting and the patrons.

Arthur takes a step towards him and is able to better take him in. The sharp angles of his cheekbones, his pointy chin make him look a little gaunt; the ragged mop of black hair he sports reminds Arthur of uni-students and unscheduled wake-up calls when one is just that little bit hungover and bed-hair is the last problem one has to face. His eyes, however, are shockingly, haltingly blue and his lips are generous, dispelling that normal, lazy façade. He's an elfin-faced boy, their whiz kid.

He's quite something. Something different and that little bit alluring.

Arthur takes the seat next to him. “A Vodka,” he orders from the bartender. And then he says,“Where's the flash-drive?”

The boy laughs at him. “I'm not totally stupid, you know.”

“I don't know you,” Arthur points out, pivoting in his seat to face the young man. This close, he's even more breathtaking, for his eyes flash, and his tapering fingers curl around an empty glass in a way that makes Arthur want to brush his against them.“But I guess you're here to honour the deal. The Echelon code?”

“You're not here because of Avalon?”

“The code that decrypts all codes?” Arthur snorts. “Section Five don't believe in the existence of that fabled piece of genius. You could have traded your freedom if you'd had that. The agreement is simple. We want the Echelon code; in return we'll support your sorcerer friendly group. ”

“I was told not to believe in what you people say.”

Arthur flashes him a smile. “You need our funds. You're not in a position to say 'no'.”

“I—”

“Why don't we have a drink while you review your options?”

Merlin assesses him. “In tranches. You can have Echelon in tranches.”

“I ask for nothing better,” says Arthur, business like. “Now,” he adds, letting his eyes go soft, “how about that drink?”


****


The hotel room is much cosier than the bar, Arthur notices as he strides in, holding onto his briefcase. The colours are earthy and much kinder to the eyes; the bed looks comfortable, functional, but in a way that allows for normal human requirements. The mattress appears to be soft, as if it could bend under someone's weight, as if it could be housed in an ordinary domestic environment, someone’s snug bedroom. The sun is shining in from the window and through the cream vertical blinds, lighting up the walls and rendering the space warm and inviting.

The TV, a moderately sized LCD screen furnished with incorporated loud-speakers, is blaring on; a kid's show of some sort is airing.

Merlin has forgone shoes and is going sock-less.

“You were watching that?” Arthur asks, setting the briefcase on the table. He takes off his jacket, folding it carefully over the back of the single chair he finds at his disposal.

“No gun?” Merlin asks, flashing him a small smile as he watches him move about in shirtsleeves.

“You've seen too many spy films, Merlin,” Arthur says in the put-upon tone adults use to address children.

“I thought,” Merlin says impishly, “that you'd have one. That you'd...” Merlin runs his eyes up and down Arthur's body. “You'd have one,” he says gulping.

Arthur taps the code into the briefcase, opens it. “£500.000, aka instalment number two.”

Merlin looks as if he's never been in the presence of that much money before. Arthur's reasonably sure that that is actually the case. “That's...”

“Show me how it works,” Arthur says in a low voice. “Show me Echelon, Merlin.”

“It's really easy,” he says, getting at his lap-top, the only thing about him or in his possession that truly screams genius hacker, and boots it. He cracks his fingers. “Now sit down,” he continues happily.

“Am I in for a lesson?” Arthur asks, a note of humour in his voice, as he does as he's bid. “Tell me, Merlin?”

Merlin's now standing beside him, looking down at him, eyes smiling, alight with something Arthur cannot really name, has never seen while at the job. He swallows.

“Oh, yes...”

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“Very much so, yeah.”

Having fished a minuscule flash drive out of his jeans pockets — and what a terrible hiding place, really — he kneels besides Arthur, because there is no other chair, and plugs it into the USB port. He’s so close Arthur can smell him, smell his after-shave.
Before long the screen fills with equations, encrypted data, mathematical wizardry Arthur is barely competent enough to follow.

Merlin starts talking then, waving his hands about, explaining when it’s necessary, never sounding condescending even though he could. He’s clearly taken by the subject, into his own. He’s glowing and Arthur is fascinated by the ease with which he delves into such complicated abstract concepts.

When Merlin's done outlining, Arthur's brain is abuzz. His mind feels like a sieve; as if he's not going to retain the logic behind the numbers unless he strives very hard, thinks of nothing but the code. He looks at Merlin and sees how easy this if for him and he's filled with wonder, awed admiration. How on earth?

Merlin's now perched on a silly-looking pouf he's moved from its place against the window. His knees were aching, he'd claimed. Age catching up with him, he’d said jocularly. “So this is Echelon, part two.”

Arthur lifts his arm in slow motion. His fingers twitch but then he does it, runs them along the blue vein in Merlin's wrist, traces it slowly as if he's an explorer mapping the bends of a river in uncharted territory. “You're one of them, aren't you? You're not just their tech-wizard. You're one of them”

Merlin stiffens.

Arthur lets go of him, shoulders bent under the weight of what he's done, the suspicion he's voiced.

“Yes,” Merlin says, looking down at the table.

Arthur should recoil now while trying not to make a show of it, keeping every single feeling under lock and key as he's duty bound to do. As he's sworn to. But there’s no need for that now. “I'm Arthur.”

Merlin shakes his head, which is still bowed, focusing as he is on his hands. “Code name?”

“No, my name is Arthur Pendragon.”

Merlin's head whips up. He cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of Arthur, then he closes his eyes and tilts his head back as though he's waiting to be blasted from high above. “You're... My god, you're...”

“Yes.”

“How can you?”

Arthur's voice is stiff when he says, “We've got an agreement, remember?”

“Yes, the agreement. That's how.”

He has to rein himself in, remember the training. “The world can change,” he says. “Because of expediency, but... it can... It...” He's at a loss for words; though he knows what he's got to say by heart. They've run all possible scenarios with him; planned everything. He has a script to follow and it should be so very easy to do it.

“One of ours, a member of our group, was all for this kind of expediency talk too,” Merlin says, unwilling to name names. Not that Arthur needs them.

“So Echelon part three...” Arthur says, getting them back on safe ground.

“Battersea Park in two weeks.”

“You prefer the open air, Merlin?”

Merlin bites his lower lip, till it grows white. “Have you ever seen The Third Man?”

“No.” He knows he sounds confused.

“The two main characters meet up in Vienna's Ferris wheel. That's in the Prater Park. I always thought parks make for excellent spy-story backdrops."

Arthur laughs loudly, freely. “You're touched in the head, aren't you?”

“Besides, I don't like being cooped up,” Merlin says quietly. “The bar was okay because of all the booze...”

A look at his watch tells Arthur that it's three PM and he's got to report back. He rises, collecting his jacket without putting it on. He stays Merlin by placing a hand on his arm. “I'll see myself out.”

“So...”

“09.00, Battersea Park, two weeks from today, Merlin.”


****

Standing to the side of the service box, Arthur observes Percival fondly. He hasn’t changed much since their last mission. He’s still the same mountain of a man, his bulging muscles and military buzz cut the first things that stand out about him. He’s still got SAS written large across his forehead, even while wearing silly white shorts cut right above his knees and absurdly large, patently new, top of the line squash shoes.

They spin the racket.

“My serve,” Arthur says, grinning, brimming with energy and the desire to win. He brings the ball into play. It hits the front wall well above the cut line.

As the ball bounces back, Percival hits it on the fly. “So,” he begins, “has he told you anything about Avalon yet?”

Arthur bounces the ball. “I’ve met him twice. He doesn’t trust me yet.”

Percy plays the ball off a side wall at an angle. “Then you must make nice. Worm your way in.”

“You know that’s not allowed,” Arthur says, hitting the ball in a way that forces a weak return.

Percy scrambles up-court. “Arthur, Arthur, so honest,” he pants.

Stepping up as though he intends to play a drop, Arthur lobs the ball, making it fall in a back corner of the court.

“Or not so much,” Percy grits out, trying to go for a rescue.

“I play to win,” Arthur says, winking. He’s an uncontested champion at this. He loves the exertion; the way playing this sport tests his skills and endurance. He loves it when his body is in motion, responding so well.

“I wonder why we’re friends,” Percival says, trying for a powerful overhead smash.

Arthur skids but manages to hit the returning ball off the bounce. “Because of a long-standing tradition of mutual arse saving.”

Percy laughs, sweaty and full of life. “Yeah. Indeed. Remember’07? I thought we wouldn’t make it out of there alive.”

The ball lands along the top of the tin. “It’s out,” Arthur calls, slowing down.
Percy nods with good grace.
After a pause, which they use to get some water and mop up the drops of sweat liberally trickling down the sides of their faces and necks, they take up positions again. “You’ve heard Aeredian’s directives.”

Arthur makes a non-committal noise and drives the ball past Percival’s bulk.

“As long as you’re uninvolved,” he says, effecting an interception, “everything’s allowed, no holds barred. Means to an end, he said. Avalon is a top priority.”

Arthur almost freezes mid-movement, letting the ball bounce twice, thus causing Percival to win the rally.

Percy shoots him a confused look, probably having expected to have to work harder at it in order to win the first exchange. “Arthur?”

“I don’t like it.”

“It’s our duty, Arthur,” Percy states emphatically. Arthur can see that Percy believes his own words. It’s not so much propaganda for him, nor should it be; they’re protecting their country.

Avoiding his eyes, Arthur walks over to his sports bag, squats down and starts digging through it. He gets his bottle of Gatorade out. “I know. He isn’t a bad kid,” he says, looking at the collared shirt he’s brought as a change.

“That should make it easier.”

“No, not easier.” ‘Easy’ would never be the word Arthur’d use for it.


****


He finds Merlin sitting on the steps leading up to the iron-wrought, octagonal bandstand in Battersea Park. Arthur sits down next to him, stretching his legs out in front of him, pushing his briefcase towards Merlin with his knee.

Always needing to scope a meeting place out, Arthur scans the various converging footpaths and the crowd; he’s sitting next to a half-million, after all.

A couple stroll by, a jogger trots past. Everything's mundane, ordinary.

Merlin is deep into the book he's been reading, which he has open on his knees, but Arthur knows he's aware of his presence.

“So what's your book about?” asks Arthur, sticking his hands in his pockets.

Merlin doesn't lift his head, chews on his nails instead. “It's a graphic novel.”

“Oh,” comments Arthur, “those gory things.”

“This one isn't gory,” Merlin protests. “It's set in Wales.”

“And its being set in Wales precludes it from being gory?”

Merlin tilts his head his way and flashes him a look Arthur can't describe. It's half-annoyance and half something else, something that makes Arthur half-shiver, makes him want to sidle closer.

“No, I picked it up because the guy on the cover reminds me of you. He's a private eye. Must be the coat.” Merlin shows him the cover and Arthur, resemblance spotted, allows himself a small smile, as if to say, there, you've got me, I'm a cliché.

Merlin, though, lets his eyes lose focus: it looks as though he's gazing into the distance but he's not really concentrating on his surroundings, Arthur knows.

“You haven't asked me about Echelon yet.”

A feeling as if of acute awareness of the man next to him steals over Arthur, as if this is the question he's been waiting for, as if everything's bound to change now. “There's no hurry, Merlin,” he says. “I was thinking this must be stressing for you. It's in my best interest to have you calm and relaxed. Let me take you somewhere.”

Merlin snaps his book shut. He's gaping. “Don't you have things to do? Like... Report to your superiors or something?”

“No, Merlin,” Arthur says. “I enjoy some free rein.” He pauses for a moment. “0110.”

“Is that an algorithmically random number?”

Arthur's lips quirk up. “It's the code that opens the briefcase.”

“Because random numbers generators don't actually produce random numbers,” Merlin says as if he can't help himself, must share this piece of knowledge. “Just periodic numbers and periodic numbers are predetermined. They'll crop up again eventually. Though you can have pseudo random sequences...”

Arthur draws in a breath, squares his jaw. “Is that where Avalon kicks in?”
Merlin shoots upright, shoulders going taut. He clutches at his book. “Avalon doesn't exist, remember?”

Arthur makes a big show of smiling. He stands up. “Pick up the briefcase,” he instructs. “It's yours. And follow me.”

Merlin bends his head and looks at the briefcase, alarmed, while Arthur climbs to his feet smoothly and starts walking. By the time he's counted to fifteen, Merlin's at his side, ambling along, briefcase under his arm.

“Where we going?” he huffs out.

“We're grabbing a coffee, Merlin.”

“Really, are you allowed?”

Arthur stops mid-stalk, “Of course, I'm...” He bursts out laughing; it rumbles gently in his chest. “I live on caffeine. Now come on.”

Merlin picks the Chelsea Starbucks and orders a caramel macchiato that is so fluffy it makes Arthur roll his eyes and smile. “Have a sweet tooth, Merlin?”

“A bit,” he says, holding the cup in both his hands after having put three sugars in. As he does, Arthur notices they're red, chafed from the cold.

At ease, Arthur slowly sips at his coffee and nonchalantly asks, “So what are you doing when you're not hacking, devising brilliant scripts, worrying the government or reading graphic novels in parks? Care for a dog? March in rallies?”

It's Merlin's turn to snort. “I like old films,” Merlin starts, passing him the third USB drive. They've still got two to go. “Used book-stores. I have no dog. I couldn't look after one.”

“Because they move you about.”

Merlin shrugs his shoulders. He's careful not to mention things that might lead Arthur to his friends. Some of them are hounded. “I've been around. Though... I miss home.”

“I'll never ask where it is, I promise.”

The look of gratefulness in Merlin's eyes is breathtaking. “You're not so bad,” he pronounces, “for a government representative.”

“Why, thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin sobers up. “Is it really dangerous? What you do?”
“Sometimes,” Arthur admits. “Not as much as it's thought to be.”

“Then why would you do it? Given that you're... You know.”

“Privileged?”

Merlin makes a sign Arthur takes to mean 'yes'.

“Because it's my duty to serve.”

“I, uh—”

Arthur pushes his perfectly reasonable coffee cup aside to get an unhindered view of Merlin. He's found he enjoys cataloguing Merlin's various expressions. He’s so different from the people Arthur works for. “You're like that, too. You have your cause. I have mine.”

“I don't...”

Arthur is waiting expectantly for Merlin's next words, wants to figure him out, see what makes him tick, understand why he's drawn to Merlin, who's young, naïve, careless, too out of this world for Arthur, the way he is. But Merlin drops the subject like a hot potato.

“I have Echelon; I can dictate the rules, right?” Merlin says, lowering his voice when one of the employees rushes past, rag in hand.

Arthur mouths a 'yes' because he can't foresee what Merlin will do now.

“Then I want our next meeting to be somewhere nice.”

“A nice place?”

Merlin nods vigorously, eyes shining a little.

Arthur leans in, whispers, “The beach at Deal. In a week.” He leaves, without giving Merlin time to show how pleased he is with Arthur's suggestion.

Half an hour later Arthur's in a subterranean car park, seated behind the wheel of his leased car, when he checks the contents of the USB drive Merlin gave him. Alongside the scrap of code that he'd been promised, Arthur spots a compressed file. It takes him a handful of seconds to identify it as the rar version of an AVI file entitled “thethirdman.rar”

At that he hoots with laughter. When he calms down a little, tears in his eyes, he says, “Merlin,” though nobody can hear him.


****


Aeredian is standing by the window of his Thames House office, likely looking over at Millbank and the steely river, when Arthur is ushered in by his superior's secretary. As she hastens back into the anteroom, Arthur can hear the sound of her retreating heels. Alone with his boss, Arthur stands to attention.

After a beat, Aeredian turns around, hands in his perfectly pressed trousers pockets. “Ah, Pendragon,” he says. “I've been waiting for you.” He saunters over to his desk with the air of a cool predator and sits in his chair, inviting Arthur to take the one opposite his.

Arthur does, holding himself stiffly.

Apparently satisfied, Aeredian rummages inside a drawer, as though he can't find what he's looking for, but Arthur suspects it's just for show. He removes a folder from it and says, “The Emrys file.” Aeredian drops the folder on his desk as if the documents hold no value. “This is unacceptable.”

“Sir, I—”

Aeredian fixes him with a freezing look. “The government expended a considerable amount of money on this mission. And what have we got to show for it? A bundle of files we have no interest in! Echelon is banal. That was meant to be the bait; something the sorcerers could give in return for what they so desperately need. To lure him in. We want Avalon. Avalon’s existence means no one is secure. Any government’s secure databases might be hacked, including ours. Imagine the potential for damage. Confidential material leaked, security threats, wars.”

Unconsciously straightening in his chair, Arthur listens, head bowed, to the reproof. “He still swears it doesn't exist,” he says low, a little choked up. He looks up. “Though, based on something Merlin said, I'm starting to think Avalon must have something to do with predicting pseudo random number sequences generated as source codes. He must be able to find the repetitions and correlations in each and every encryption, no matter the sequence’s period's length. Without fail. No encryption can hold. How he does it though...”

“There must be ways to gain his trust,” Aeredian says. “Orchestrate the right scenario. We can devise ways. I can think up a few myself,” he adds, leering, eyes steely. “I want the Avalon Code on my desk within the month, Pendragon. I won't make it easy for you because of the name you bear. I care only for results and thus far your record with Emrys has been disappointing.”

Arthur massages his temples, feels a tightening in his throat. “He's...” There must be something. A way to get Merlin to talk and send him his way. So that he's no longer so dangerous. So that he’s no longer in the eye of the storm.

A strange glint appears in Aeredian’s eyes. This time his voice is cold and threatening when he says, “Emrys is dynamite. Think about what would happen if someone else, some foreign power, some sorcery friendly power, got their hands on him and Avalon. He is Avalon.”

Arthur feels a tugging in his gut, a feeling of misgiving perhaps, and he’s not sure it's related to the scenario Aeredian has just illustrated. He stands up, feet a little apart, military stance. “I'll do my best, sir.”

“See that you do.”


****


The sky is over cast, a veil of unrelieved charcoal; the sea is slate grey and heaving, heavily tumbling on the pebbled beach. Dense, churning streaks of foam topple, tumble and wash ashore. Arthur can hear the waves crest and collapse; he can almost taste salt on his tongue. If he turns, he can take in the sea-front houses, which have retained a traditional seafaring look, painted as they are in lighter colours than most urban houses he's used to, born and bred Londoner that he is. Bow windows overlooking the coast decorate their façades, slanting roofs and chimneys diversifying the buildings’ look. If he directs his steps away from the promenade towards the sea and the beach proper, he can see the old, concrete-sheathed steel pier looming large. It looks like and is a relic of the fifties, an arm of steel jutting out into the rolling sea.

There's a hefty gale, which becomes stronger the closer he gets to the shore; his hair keeps being swept in front of his eyes. As a result he hunches in on his parka, thanking god for its lining. Eyes stinging because of the wind, he squints in the distance.

By doing so, he spies a fishing boat being winched ashore and a little to the left, a few yards or so, there's a dark-haired man sitting cross-legged on a beach towel, witnessing nature at work.

Arthur smiles and trudges towards him. He startles him when he says, “It's a bit cold for this, don't you think?”

Merlin looks up at him and greets him with a blinding smile. “Yes, but it's just fantastic.”

“I thought you'd enjoy other things more,” he says, folding himself down on the same towel Merlin's using. There's a diving dolphin pictured on it.

“Just because I spend some quality time in front of a computer screen, it doesn't mean I can't appreciate nature from time to time.”

Arthur shrugs, eyes on the pier.

“I can picture people going on long sea voyages, you know,” Merlin starts. “Embarking on an adventure. Something big. And they don't know if they're returning or if... you know.”

“Pretty romantic vision you have there; sailors, times long gone by.”

“It's nicer to think about than...”

“Than?”

Merlin doesn't grace him with an answer; stiffens rather. Arthur guesses. “Than reality. Than what's happening?”

Merlin bows his head; starts fiddling with one of the towel's loose threads.

Arthur puts his hand in his pocket and extracts a mobile from it. He nudges Merlin, passes it to him. “My number; my real number is programmed in.”

Merlin's fingers close around it. He pockets it and then cocks his head, studies Arthur with intent. “In case something happens? You really think it could? I mean... Is this even my life?” He tips his head back and shakes it.

Arthur means to pat him on the shoulder, a quick gesture meant to convey a measure of comfort. Instead his touch lingers.

In answer Merlin twists around so he's sitting facing Arthur instead of the sea.

“I'm sorry it has to be this way,” Arthur says, infusing the sentence with all that he's feeling.

Merlin's features soften; the rest of his body relaxes as well. “I've been looking forward to this.”

“The beach?” Arthur asks; he hasn’t let go of Merlin's shoulder, he realises.

Merlin's eyes crinkle as though he knows a secret Arthur doesn't. He scoots closer till Arthur can make out the darker flecks of colour in the blue of his eyes, count his lashes.

As if he's curious, Merlin cocks his head, leaning closer. He's looking into Arthur's eyes, not breaking eye contact.

Arthur drops his hand. He should swoop in. It would be almost effortless. Merlin's gazing at his lips. And it would be so easy.

Then it's as though Merlin's made a decision: he moves his head to the side and his semi-parted lips are almost brushing against Arthur's. There's a moment, a heartbeat, during which Arthur pictures what it would feel like. What it'd feel like with him.

Arthur turns his head and draws away. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't.”
Merlin scuttles back. “Yeah, sure, I'm your friendly script provider... Nothing... I'm—” He smiles wanly. “Let's rewind it all, yeah?”

“It's not...” Not like that, Arthur wants to say, but it's pointless. “Let's take a walk,” he offers gently, rising and dragging Merlin up with him. “Let's just...”

Merlin nods and picks up his towel. He seems forlorn; his body language has subtly changed. His shoulders are drooping for one thing; part of his vibrancy is gone. “I have it with me, the drive, I mean. I can give it to you now and be on my way back—”

Arthur says, “Merlin,” trying to motion him forwards so they can walk and talk.

“At first I thought you were a little condescending,” Merlin deadpans. He does, however, follow Arthur.

“And now you no longer think so?” Arthur probes as gently as he can.

“See, it’s the tone of your voice...” Merlin says, going for light humour. He rolls the towel up under his arm. “But then I started asking myself what you'd do in this or that situation.”

Arthur looks at the prints he’s leaving on the sand. “Look at my job,” Arthur tells him. “Nothing very wise.”

“You do it because it's something you can do and others can't; because it fulfils you.”

Arthur has no idea whether that analysis of his character and motivations is correct; he answers honestly in as much as he doesn't think about the answer. “It used to.”

Afterwards they share a meal together in a little hide-hole of a pub. They walk some more; share moments Arthur thinks he will remember whatever happens, whatever the future holds for them. Later on they wander into an art gallery and Arthur finds Merlin very earnest in his evaluation of the works displayed; he either loves them or hates them with a passion. When the day wears to a close, they amble back to the promenade.

“Sun's going down,” Merlin says. “I suppose we should call it a day.”

“I've got a briefcase to give you first.”

“And I've got to give you the penultimate string of code.”

“I left the case in the safe in my hotel room.”

“I suppose we're heading there?”

They do, Arthur leading Merlin into his room as if it's his home, though the space is so obviously nondescript, clearly just a temporary shelter, aseptic and colourless, that nobody could picture it as domestic.

They perform the exchange. Arthur doesn't check the contents of the thumb drive and merely hands over the case, reciting by heart the code designed to open it. By the time the trade’s over, night has fallen and Merlin has yawned.

“Woke up early,” he confesses, sheepish. “Earlier than necessary.”

“Sleep here,” Arthur says. “Take the bed. The room's paid for, courtesy of her majesty.”

...