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27 A.D.
"Fill the grave."
486 A.D.
Merlin walked below the stout stone wall, trying to recapture the wonder at being further from Ealdor than he'd ever been. It was a better way to pass the time than thinking of all the ways he could kill Arthur and then hide the body. The journey to Camelot's western neighbors was not going well, no, but that was hardly Merlin's fault—well, not all of it. Vortigern had asked about the castle, it wasn't Merlin's problem if he didn't like the answer (and it was a bit rich for Arthur to be so worked up about someone else having a pair of dragons in his cellar—maybe he was jealous that he only had the one?) And what happened in Gwent was all Arthur's own fault, when the prat couldn't keep his hands to himself
Now they were camping at an abandoned fort on the Taff; it was an indefensible position, too easy for pirates from Hiberia or Brittany to make their way up the river, but this was where King Glywys had arranged to meet them with some percentage of his twenty-one sons. Merlin didn't know why they didn't just meet at Glywys's castle, unless he'd heard about what happened in Gwent and didn't want his sole daughter to be despoiled. In any case, the conditions were damp and chilly and had turned Arthur's mood even fouler, his tongue even sharper, and Merlin quickly figured out he needed to get out of the tent or run the risk of regicide.
He walked a little further away from the crumbling fort—the Romans built this, Arthur had said with something like awe, but the Romans had been gone for a hundred years and the walls were looking a bit worse for wear. Beyond it were trees and gentle hills, perfect for some aimless wandering. Merlin couldn't figure out what had gotten into Arthur lately, but it was getting harder and harder to bear. Maybe he just resented being sent around to other king's courts as a diplomatic envoy? He'd been fighting more often with his father, no longer content to follow Uther's orders but unable to disobey them, either; maybe the king had the same idea as Merlin, to separate himself from Arthur before they tore each other apart. But on the whole trip Arthur had been moody and distant, flinging himself at any girls and no small number of boys willing to share his bed, picking fights with any man and a few women who seemed willing to give him one. And sometimes he looked at Merlin with the strangest face, like he was doing sums in his head, only Merlin couldn't tell whether the answer meant sorcerer or something else...or what he even wanted it to mean...
Hello?
Merlin froze, and looked around very carefully. He was still within sight of the fort, though the screen of young trees meant no one at the fort could see him. It wasn't full dark yet, but the low clouds kept the wood in a shadowless murk, and except for some gamboling squirrels he couldn't see anything moving.
But the voice had come into his mind from below, deep below. Oh, gods, not another dragon, Merlin thought, but he also crouched low (as if that would help) and whispered, "Hello?"
Hello? You can hear me?
"Yeah," Merlin said. "Where are you?"
Down...very far down. The voice didn't feel like a dragon; there wasn't the same sense of size or strength to it, just age, and a tremendous weariness. Wow. You're the first person I've been able to contact like this since...hoo, since old Didius was around. And he thought I was a ghost.
"Are you?" Merlin asked. "A ghost, I mean."
The voice in his mind seemed to laugh bitterly. Have to die to become ghost, and I haven't managed that yet.
"Are you a dragon?" Merlin asked, to be sure.
Only between the sheets, or so I'm told. Merlin spluttered, and he thought the voice managed a laugh. Jeez, don't tell me you're a nun or something.
"I'm not!" Merlin said. "I'm a boy! I mean a man!" He didn't think he was particularly sheltered, either—between anatomy class with Gaius and mopping up after drunken knights, he'd had a lot of illusions shattered during his time in Camelot. But you just didn't say things like that!
Okay, boy-man, the voice said. Can you tell me what year it is?
"Erm...the twenty-fifth year of King Uther Pendragon?" Merlin hazarded.
Uth—seriously? The voice sounded surprised. What's that in anno Domini?
"I dunno, I'm not a Christian," Merlin said, but then remembered that Glywys was—rather tackily, if Arthur could be believed—and he'd dated all his correspondence the Roman way while arranging for this summit. "It's 1239 ad-urby-condita."
So that's...huh. Only the fifth century. The voice suddenly sounded painfully tired and lonely.
"So what's a Christian ghost dragon doing under a hill in Glywysing?" Merlin asked, trying to sound not at all bothered by this turn of events. (He was probably less bothered than he should be, but that just went to show he'd gotten used to a certain constant, low-level background weirdness in his life.)
The voice took the change of subject gracefully. I'm not a Christian or a dragon or a ghost, he repeated. I'm just...not from around these parts. Yet.
"Yet?"
Do you believe in time travel?
Merlin blinked, and settled himself more comfortably on the ground. "What's that mean?"
Like...traveling in time, the voice said. It seemed surprised to have to explain the idea. Like if you could go back to last week, or next year, or...or, say, the twenty-first century.
"Why would I want to do that?" Merlin asked.
Lots of reasons, the voice said. You could change things. Stop things from changing. Learn things you need to know. Find people you thought you'd lost.
Merlin thought of his absent dad, and Arthur's dead mother, and Will, and Tom, and Morgana's parents, and a long list of dead knights and murdered sorcerers. "I guess it might be useful," Merlin said. "Does that mean you're a sorcerer?"
Not exactly, the voice said. But I'm in the wrong century, and the only way back to the right one is to wait.
"You can wait for centuries?" Merlin asked.
'That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange aeons even death may die,' the voice said solemnly. Then it laughed at him, as if it could see through the earth the face Merlin made. Kidding. That's just from an old story.
"Most stories used to be true," Merlin said; Gaius had told him that.
Well, I sincerely hope that story isn't, let's put it like that. The voice paused for a bit, seeming to consider Merlin from wherever it was—if it even had a body. What's your name, anyway?
"Merlin," he answered.
You're joking, the voice said, which was not a response Merlin was accustomed to hearing. Don't tell me you're the Merlin.
"Well...I mean, I don't know any others," Merlin said. "Well, except for Merlin the swineherd, but he died when I was a baby and my Mum always said she didn't name me after him, she just liked the name..." He realized he was babbling. "What's yours, then?"
Captain Jack Harkness, came the crisp answer, steady and certain, as if the name itself wanted to be known.
"Captain of what?"
Depends on the century, he answered. Royal Air Force, Torchwood Institute, Time Agency, the 401st Boeshane irregulars...
Merlin shook his head. "You're not making any sense."
I told you, I'm not from your century, Jack said. Hang around for five thousand years more and you might start to figure things out.
That was such a stupidly large number that Merlin rejected it out of hand. "How do I know you're even who you say you are?" he asked. "And what's so special about my name?"
As for the first question, you don't, Jack said. In fact, I'm kind of surprised you didn't run away screaming when you heard me. That's how most people usually react. Either that, or try to worship me, and that's just awkward.
Merlin shrugged. "I'm kind of used to strange things happening around me."
I know how that is, Jack said with gusto. As for your second question...let's just say most stories used to be true. Even when I was a boy, we knew all the stories about King Arthur and Merlin.
Something about the way Jack said it made Merlin's heart flutter, like he was standing on the edge of a deep lake being churned by wind, with unfathomable depths beneath him. But it was also a bit too much like the dragon's talk of destiny for him, and so he pushed the feeling down again. "At this rate, he'll be lucky if he makes it to be king," Merlin said instead.
Really? What's the matter, sword got stuck in the stone?
"What are you talking about?" Merlin asked, baffled.
Never mind. Some stories are clearly blatant falsehoods, Jack said. What is the trouble with Arthur?
"Why should I tell you?" Merlin asked. "You're just a...not-dead future ghost voice in the ground. You could be an enemy of Camelot for all I know."
Trust me when I say I couldn't care less about Camelot, Jack said. The only city that matters to me is the fort on the Taff.
It was funny, because until that point Merlin could've sworn they were both speaking perfectly intelligible Cumbrian, and not with the funny accents of this part of Albion, either. Which was not to say Jack's accent wasn't funny—he sort of sounded like a Mercian with a headcold—but he was easier to understand than Vortigern or his men or the messengers from Glywys. But for some reason, when he spoke about the fort (and it was a natty little fort, abandoned for three generations and left to crumble) there was more than just affection in his voice, there was a sort of double echo, so it sounded like he was also saying Cardiff.
Merlin shook his head, like the eerie feeling was water he could knock out of his ears. "If you don't care about Camelot, then what do you care about Arthur?" he asked, pleased that he'd turned Jack's argument around on itself.
I care about you, Jack said. More specifically, I care about having anybody to talk to, and since you're the first person in a very long time who's talked to me, I want to keep you around. I'd listen to you read a phone book as long as you talked to me.
"What's a phone book?"
Never mind.
Merlin thought about this. On one hand, it was ludicrous to spill out his heart to a disembodied voice he'd barely met; look at how well things with the Great Dragon had worked out. On the other hand, it would be weeks before they returned to Camelot, and back in the camp were loads of knights and squires and servants and Arthur, but nobody with whom Merlin could be completely and totally honest. "You don't mind talking, then?" he asked.
Merlin, right now I'm neither dead or alive, Jack said quietly. I can't breathe, I can't move, but there is a very cruel force in the universe that keeps me conscious anyway. If there was any way for you to find me without turning over half the meadow, I'd ask you to dig me up, but short of that I would very much like you to talk to me so I don't go completely batshit looney while I wait.
Well, when he put it like that...Merlin looked around, but aside from the faint firelight coming from inside the crumbled fort there was no sign of anyone around to overhear anything they shouldn't. He scooted over to the protruding roots of an old knotty oak tree and made himself comfortable. "Okay. So. Um, first of all, I feel like I should point out that this isn't a meadow."
Hey, I've been down here a long time.
"Just saying."
And then Merlin started to talk, and the more he talked the more he said, until he was spilling everything—about Arthur, about Uther, about himself. About the magic and the need to keep it secret, and the death of Gwen's father, and the manipulations of the dragon. About the ever-growing wedge between Arthur and Uther, and between Arthur and Merlin, because Arthur was a worthless, self-important prat who couldn't see past his own ego and he was being reckless and terrifying lately and Merlin didn't know what he saw in all the girls, much less the boys, because Arthur wasn't some Roman, he was Arthur, and Merlin wanted so desperately to just ask but of course Arthur wouldn't answer—see above re "prat"–and it wasn't like Merlin had any kind of moral high ground here to complain about keeping secrets.
Jack, as promised, listened to everything, and didn't interrupt except to ask the occasional clarifying question or, towards the end, to giggle. "Don't laugh, it's not funny," Merlin said, pulling his knees to his chest.
Actually, it's incredibly funny, Jack said. How long have you had this crush on him?
"I don't!" Merlin said. "And you seriously can't say things like that."
I can say whatever I want, since only you can hear me, Jack pointed out. And you so do.
"I don't...I don't." Merlin said. "And it's not true. And even if it was true, I couldn't...I mean...you're talking about the vice of the Romans!"
And here I thought the twentieth century was uptight, Jack sighed, an amazing trick for someone who claimed to be unable to breathe. Look, Merlin, whether you want to jump his body or not it's obvious you love Arthur to death. I'm underground and I can see it. So, since you love him and want him to be happy—which you do—then it's totally okay for you to go to him, as a friend, and ask what's eating him.
"He won't tell me," Merlin said, almost surprising himself with his own depth of bitterness. "I'm just a servant."
So who else is he gonna talk to? Me? Jack asked.
Merlin snorted at the thought of Arthur meeting the disembodied voice in the ground that spoke such wonderful nonsense. "Maybe you're right," he said.
Of course I am. I'm like six hundred years older than you.
"And how long of that have you been stuck in the ground?"
Jack chose to ignore this. The really important thing is, when are you going to tell Arthur about the magic?
"I can't," Merlin blurted.
Well, you can't keep it a secret forever, and it's not the kind of surprise you want to spring on somebody in mid-crisis, Jack pointed out. Plus, it's obviously bothering you.
"He'd hate me," Merlin insisted. "He was raised to hate magic, and Uther kills all the sorcerers he finds in Camelot."
But you're not in Camelot now, Jack pointed out. And it sounds like Arthur's doing such a good job imitating his father in all other ways...
Merlin knew this—had thought of it himself—but it was too much to dare hope, not when the risk was so great. "I've been keeping it from him for ages, though," he said. "How's he ever going to trust me again?"
Jack was silent for a while, and when he spoke again it was quiet and sad. I had...I have this friend, he said. And in the beginning, he kept some things from me, too.
"Bad things?" Merlin asked.
Seriously bad things.
"Was he a sorcerer?"
No, actually, he was keeping a homicidal robot in the cellar.
Merlin scowled at the tuft of grass he was beginning to think of as Jack's face. "You say these things like I understand what they mean."
Executive summary: monster bad, Jack said impatiently. My point is, he did a terrible thing, and at first I was so angry with him I couldn't see straight. All I could think of was how he'd betrayed us—betrayed me—and put a huge number of people in danger for stupid, selfish reasons. But afterwards, I realized he wasn't being stupid or selfish at all—he was still wrong, but it was because of love and hope and loyalty, and you can't fault a person for that. It took a little while to forgive each other, and things haven't been perfect, but...
Jack didn't finish the sentence. Merlin had noticed the pronouns, but he found it hard to get upset about it when Jack was speaking with such obvious emotion...though no more than Merlin had shown when he talked about Arthur. Great gods, he was really fucked, wasn't he? "This friend of yours," Merlin asked. "Is he the one you're waiting for?"
One of them, yeah, Jack said.
"And you're going to just hang out underground for five thousand years until then?" Merlin asked, slightly incredulous.
I suspect one day you will find that question ironic, Jack declared. And it's only two thousand years. Fifteen hundred, twenty-three years to go, actually.
"That's awful," Merlin said, and for a few moments his own problems felt very, very small.
It's penance for something, Jack said heavily. Don't feel too sorry for me.
Merlin didn't really know how to feel about any of this, about hard advice or small problems or a six-hundred-year-old disembodied voice from the future who didn't mind talking to him for a while. He looked around at the shadowy trees and cringed when he realized how late it had gotten. "Jack, I have to—I mean, people are going to notice I'm gone soon."
Just judging by his voice, Jack didn't seem too upset by the news. I understand. Duty calls. I'd carry on the conversation when you get back to the fort, but I never got great marks in Telepathy during Time Agency training.
"I...will pretend I know what that means," Merlin declared. "And...maybe I'll come back? I mean, we don't leave for Dumnonia for a couple of days."
I'd like that. Jack actually seems surprised at the offer. And hey, if things with Arthur get any better, maybe I can give you some tips for the next step.
"What next step?" Merlin asked.
You know, the whole 'vice of the Romans' you're so worried about, Jack said gleefully. Obviously, I can't just let the two of you go at it with no foreknowledge. You probably don't even know you have to lubricate--
"Leaving now!" Merlin declared, and walked back to the fort with his fingers in his ears, loudly humming the most virtuous songs that he knew.
XxXxX
The next evening, though, he was back at the hill again.
1898 A.D.
Jack had wide experience in exotic alcohols, distillations from the distant stars that drilled into your skull, hijacked your senses, made you truly euphoric and then left you sobbing in agony hours later until certain completely untrustworthy partners found you, rolled you into the recovery position, and stole your wallet.
Right now he was drinking whiskey. He loved whiskey.
"I'm gonna find him," he told the nearest humanoid shape, which walked away from him. "Jus' gotta be patient. I'm gonna find him, and the firs' thing I'm gonna do, I'm gonna kill him. And then I'm gonna punch him."
"Gotta dry out, first, mate," someone jeered, and in attempted to turn around and face his detractor Jack fell off his chair. There was a gentle ripple of laughter before the rest of the pub's residents got on with their own drinks.
Jack struggled to find his feet again, but the floor kept slipping away from him, and he let his head come to rest against the leg of his table. He would find the Doctor; he just had to be patient. He had all the time in the world now...
"Hey, friend, that's enough."
He opened one eye and managed to focus on a slim, masculine hand that was currently touching his shoulder. It was sticking out of a plain white shirt cuff, which was sticking out of a dark brown jacket sleeve, and anything further than that was currently apocryphal because Jack couldn't make his eyes focus enough and there was a lamp directly behind this guy's head. "Doctor?" he asked, hesitantly.
A chuckle. "I'm afraid my skills as a physician are a little out of practice," he said. "My name is Emrys, Captain Harkness, and I think you had better get off the floor now."
Emrys turned out to be tall and approximately the diameter of a broomstick, but he helped Jack to his feet with an ease that was as surprising as it was unfair. Jack found himself clinging to a total stranger's shoulder, torn between thinking hey, where are you taking me? and wow, you smell pretty good.
"I'm taking you somewhere to sleep this off," Emrys announced, as if he had read Jack's mind. "I've already settled your tab, so no worries there. You just have to stay on your feet long enough to get where we're going. Think you can do that, Jack?"
He could, but he didn't have to like it. "How d'you know my name?" he protested as Emrys herded him towards the door.
"Let's say we have a mutual friend who's told me a lot about you over the years," Emrys answered. Then added, "Though he never mentioned the face."
"'S a good face," Jack said. "I'm the Face of Boe."
"Sure you are."
"Rear of the Year, too."
Emrys lead him down the damp and chilly streets, past the gas lights that glimmered in the fine fog. Gas lights...he and Judith were supposed to see a thousand lights in New York City. Jack threw up in his mouth a little, and Emrys didn't seem to mind stopping to let him spit it out in a gutter.
Somewhere to sleep turned out to be a flophouse not far from the pub, identical to the hundreds of anonymous places Jack had collapsed in over the past few years, albeit on the cleaner end of the spectrum. Emrys deposited Jack on the narrow bed, where he waited for the room to stop moving while his savior puttered a bit. "Who's the friend?" he finally managed to ask.
"Mmm?"
"Our friend," Jack said. "Who is he? Who told you about me?"
A glass of dark liquid appeared in Jack's line of sight. "I've been informed that it's quite dangerous to allow information to cross a timeline," he said, which was of course no answer at all. "Drink up."
Jack got a grip on the glass with both hands but didn't drink. "What is it?"
Emrys shrugged. "Either it'll help your head or you'll make a really entertaining face, and either way I don't think you actually want to know what's in it."
"Fair enough." Jack had drunk more threatening-looking things for less, so he took a few deep breaths and tossed it back like his beloved whiskey. And by the time he was done gagging, his head really did feel clearer, so he couldn't be too angry at Emrys on the balance. Especially since he'd gone to the trouble of holding the basin for him.
"Now," Emrys said, shrugging off his coat to show that yes, he was totally a broomstick. "Care to explain what brought this on?"
"Our mutual friend didn't tell you that?" Jack asked, feeling grumpy. He peeled off his own jacket and waistcoat because they smelled like whiskey and bile.
"He told me I could probably find you here and now, falling out of one Cardiff pub or another—a habit you might want to break, by the way, because there were some suspicious-looking young women watching you tonight." Emrys poured water from the washstand into two fresh glasses and gave one to Jack, then seated himself in the room's one rickety chair. "So, go on, tell me about it."
"Why should I?" Jack asked. "I mean, thanks for helping me out and all, but I don't know you from Adam and I still don't entirely trust our mysterious mutual friend."
Emrys just smiled enigmatically; the expressed seemed to be pasted onto his face. Which was long and thin, in proportion to the rest of him, and not bad looking—high cheekbones, great eyes, some unfortunate ears that lent him both character and youthfulness. Those eyes were old and shuttered, though, which made it hard for Jack to guess the man's age. Something about him seemed familiar, like a word on the tip of his tongue—not really the face, probably, but the accent, which didn't sound quite like anything Jack had heard in any corner of Wales before. Back at the Time Agency—god, that seemed like so long ago—he'd heard of people getting premonitions, memories from somewhere further down their own knotted-up timelines, but he's never scored high enough in Telepathy to think it would ever happen to him. Besides, this wasn't even a memory, just an impression, and Jack was still drunk enough for his impressions to be a little bit addled.
After a short silence, Emrys held out a hand. "Let's start this over from the top, then. Hello, my name is Myrddin Emrys."
Jack shook, and managed not to laugh. "Wow, your parents must've hated you. Captain Jack Harkness."
"As it happened, I had a lovely childhood, thank you," Emrys said. "Nice to truly meet you, Captain. Or may I call you Jack?"
"Why not?" he said. "You seem to know so much else about me."
"Surprisingly little, actually," Emrys said. "I don't even know how old you are."
Jack chuckled. "Never ask a time traveler his age unless you brought a calculator and a slide rule." Emrys just raised one eyebrow at him. "That means it's a complicated question. If I had to guess, I'd say...hmm...sixty?"
He'd hoped the number would provoke a rise out of his benefactor, but Emrys just nodded. "And what brings you to Cardiff, exactly?"
"Looking for someone," Jack said, and finally dared to sip his water. "Waiting for him, actually. He's sort of a traveler, but he comes here from time to time on business."
"And would he also be a Doctor?"
Jack smiled. "Sharp, sir, very sharp."
"I've had plenty of practice over the years," Emrys said, and once again Jack wondered about his age—with those old eyes and those goofy ears, he could be twenty-five or forty. "So you think you'll find your Doctor in the bottom of a whiskey bottle the next time he's in Cardiff?"
"He could be a while," Jack said, turning the glass round and round in his hands. "Gotta pass the time somehow. And it's not like it's going to kill me."
"You seem awfully sure of that."
He grinned, knowing how horrible it must look on him, because then his face would match his insides. "Well, I've been trying to kill myself for about four or five years now, and it just doesn't seem to take."
Emrys set his water glass aside and leaned forward; that bland smile had finally slipped, but once again he didn't seem so much shocked as concerned. "So you can't be killed?" he asked.
"Nope." Jack tried another swallow of the water; it settled his stomach further. "At least, I've been shot, stabbed, kicked in the head by a mule, drowned, poisoned, and gone a month and a half without food or water." Which had been hell, but the kind that he sometimes needed. "Seems I'm the indestructible man."
And Emrys nodded, as if this made some kind of sense to him. Jack really wanted to know who this mutual friend was and what he'd been told. "How'd you find out?" Emrys asked. "It can't have been pleasant."
Jack shook his head. "I got shot in a fight. Turned out my documents weren't forged well enough to get me through Ellis Island, and my wife..." His throat tightened and he looked away. "I mouthed off to the wrong guy and I ended up shot. And then I woke up."
Emrys's eyes widened. "I didn't know you were ever married."
"I don't want to talk about it," Jack told him, thinking of Judith's red hands and horrified eyes.
"It might be more constructive than drowning it in whiskey," Emrys said. "Cheaper, too."
"I don't want to talk about it with you," Jack clarified, and set his own water aside before he crushed the glass in his fist.
Emrys nodded, and for a moment his eyes were a million miles away. "I can understand that. I know what it's like to lose someone, to lose your purpose. I know how it feels to hold the hurt close because it's better than forgetting."
"You don't know what I'm feeling," Jack snapped back. It wasn't like he'd never lost before—oh, god, he'd lost so much. But he'd finally given up, with Judith; he'd spent nearly twenty years crisscrossing the world, searching for the Doctor or a Time Agent or someone with the foreknowledge and means to help him repair his vortex manipulator. And then he'd met Judith, and realized there was another option, that he could set all that aside and just enjoy the life left to him. He had gone so far into the past he was finally shut of his own, and here was his second (or more like fifth, he counted) chance to be the kind of man his father would've been proud of. The kind of man the Doctor could respect. The man he'd always wanted to be, but never quite known how to become, like someone had told him about his destination but failed to draw him a map.
He supposed he'd known, in the back of his mind, that something wasn't quite right—than no number of fifty-first century skin treatments, no proportions of good genes, could have kept his face that smooth and his hair that dark for quite so long. But Judith had been gorgeous, and smart, and surprisingly sexually confident, and funny, and a hundred other things, and she had loved him with no questions asked. Kissing her felt like forgiveness, and when they made love he thought he could forget he'd every let anybody down.
Until he woke up from bleeding out in her arms.
"Jack," Emrys said, brutally soft and considerate. "I once lost someone I cared about more deeply than anyone in the world. When he fell, I went so mad with grief that I ran as far and as fast as I could, until I'd outrun everyone who'd ever known me. I lived in the woods and wore bearskins, literally, because I thought I deserved it. I'd lost my purpose, and I didn't know how I could possibly go on."
"Obviously you did, since you're here," Jack said.
Emrys smiled. "I did. A misunderstanding involving some local shepherds made me realize that I did want to live, after all. Reminded me that I had something worth waiting for, if I was alive and sane enough to recognize it when it came around."
That sounded a little too close to home for comfort, even though he'd said sane and not sober. "And did you?" Jack asked, waiting for the moral of the story.
"Dunno," Emrys said, looking distant, and for the moment easily as old as Jack. "I haven't found him yet."
This wasn't the answer Jack expected, and for some reason it intrigued him. "What happens when you do?"
That drew a small smirk, but a fond one. "We'll either kiss or beat each other up. Maybe both. It depends."
"I like those kinds of relationships," Jack said. "Keeps things interesting." He also liked the way Emrys' face softened when he really smiled, as opposed to just looking amused by the universe. It sent him sliding back down the young end of the spectrum.
And then the smile faded, and he was old again, timeless. "And when you find your Doctor, Jack?" he asked. "What do you mean to do to him?"
He wanted an answer. He wanted payback. He wanted to be fixed. He had been hoarding up anger and grief ever since the day on Ellis Island—every look of horror in Judith's eyes, every awkward conversation, from the day he awoke to the day she said I can't, Jack, I can't-- and he was going to throw that at the Doctor's feet, beat on his chest and demand satisfaction. He wanted to know what he was now, if he was more or less than human. He wanted to hear the Doctor say I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry and mean it. Because the Doctor always meant it.
Jack wanted his second chance back, damn it.
"I don't know," he said, when it was clear that Emrys was waiting for an answer. "I...really don't know."
"Then why do you wait?"
"Why do you?"
Emrys shrugged. "Because he'll need me. Maybe not the same way I need him, but...I failed once, and this is my penance. To wait and to watch."
Jack's eyes narrowed as he considered Emrys anew: his hair was cut and combed in an unremarkable style, his brown suit was clean and well-fit but worn with use, his shoes were lightly scuffed. He blended in to this place and time, at least as much as Jack did, but there was a hard edge to his accent that didn't belong here, didn't belong anywhere, and those eyes...they reminded him of the Doctor, suddenly, in a way that drew him in at the same time it made him shiver.
"Who is our mutual friend?" he asked. "Can you tell me that much?"
"He's...a man you don't know yet," Emrys said. "And he's expressly forbid me from telling you even that much, but I've never between particularly good at following instructions."
It could still be the Doctor, though. Jack leaned forward a little. "This is going to sound a little crazy, but do you mind if I feel your heartbeat?"
Emrys raised that eyebrow again. "Why, don't you think I have one?"
"Humor me," Jack pled. Emrys unbuttoned his cuff with his long, graceful fingers and extended his hand yet again; Jack pressed his finger into the base of his wrist and counted off the beats, but it was no faster than human, just one heart pumping solidly away. Jack reluctantly let go, and Emrys seemed equally reluctant to be released; he left his hand hanging just a split-second too long, and didn't do up his cuff again. "Sorry. Just...testing a theory."
"Perfectly all right," Emrys said. "Something about me tends to bother people—not entirely sure what it is."
"Well, you're awfully quick to believe me when I say I can't die," Jack said. "Most people would at least think I was exaggerating, if not crazy."
"Would you believe I'm magnanimous and open-minded to a fault?" Emrys asked. Jack just raised an eyebrow at him. "What about simple? I've been told I do simple very well."
"I don't need to know your secret," Jack said. "I'm just saying."
"Ah, but you told me yours," Emrys said. "Would you like some more water?"
Before Jack could point out that he hadn't finished drinking the original glass—and probably should, if he wanted his head to stay attached come morning—Emrys' eyes flashed an unnatural, brilliant yellow-gold. The glass nestled into the blankets, and the pitcher of water from the washstand, both flew to his hands as if on wires, and he topped off Jack's glass with a small flourish.
"Nice trick," Jack said. "If you can turn it into wine, too, I'll really be impressed."
"Sorry—wrong religion." He passed back the glass the normal way, with one of those warm, young smiles. "Besides, I don't think you need any more alcohol than you've already had."
Jack accepted it and noticed their fingers brushed together during the exchange. "Always respect the hair of the dog that bit you. What religion would be the correct one, if I may ask?"
"An old one," was all he answered.
He rolled his eyes; Emrys had causally dropped hints about relationships with men but he was coy about religion? "What, are you the Wandering Jew or something?"
Emrys actually laughed at that, and almost spilled his own water glass. "Oh, gods, no. I've met him, though. Nice fellow. Doesn't get out much."
Jack was now pretty sure Emrys was just messing with him, but he found he didn't mind; he liked the other man's laugh, and it had been too long since anyone had been able to properly bullshit with him. Emrys had a quirky sort of beauty, and Jack was well versed in many different ways to forget. "So you've temporarily rescued me from alcoholic coma and the indignities of one of Cardiff's less savory neighborhoods," he said blandly. "However am I going to repay you, sir?"
"Just think of it as a favor for our mutual friend," Emrys said, but he was doing the eyebrow thing again, so he at least had an idea of where Jack was taking this. Good.
Jack moved his water glass to the rickety bedside table and leaned forward, putting himself just within Emrys' personal space. "But usually, when I leave a pub with my arm around somebody, I make it worth their while," he said slowly, lowly.
It was as subtle as Jack could make himself, with plenty of wiggle room. He could see the exact moment when Emrys decided to play along. "Don't sell yourself short," he said, leaning in as well, and smiling his young smile. "We've been having such a lovely conversation."
"So talking is what gets you going, is it?" Jack asked.
"One of many things," Emrys answered. Their faces were already inches apart; it took little or no effort to lean in and catch his lips, which were soft and dry and opened readily for him. Jack fisted his hands in the worn material of Emrys's waistcoat, and Emrys looped his arms around Jack's neck and climbed onto the bed—a ridiculously narrow bed, especially for two grown men, but never let it be said that Jack didn't enjoy a challenge.
Emrys nuzzled Jack's face as he worked on divesting him of his waistcoat and shirt. "You know," he said, "a friend once told me about some things that I've always wanted to try."
"Same friend who told you about me?" Jack asked, plucking at Emrys' braces—god, why did this century favor such complicated clothes?
"Mmm," Emrys said, which wasn't actually an answer. "I never actually believed they were possible, but then again, I don't get much chance to collect experimental data."
They broke apart just long enough to attack their own clothes, and then Jack was faced with miles of fair skin and boney shoulders—apparently Emrys was opposed to eating, like, ever. "Well, then in the spirit of scientific inquiry we'd better do some repeat trials," he said, and Emrys laughed again, turning it into a kiss.
(1941 A.D.
Harkness watched his boys cross the airstrip, chatting and joking with each other as if this were any other training flight and not their last qualifier. Only a couple of them were shooting him backwards glances, awkward or sneering or just plain wary. He'd known what he was doing at the dance last night, he'd known—and done it anyway, just for the chance to feel safe for a moment in Captain Harper's arms. He may have destroyed his career in the process, but he knew deep down that he'd do it again in a heartbeat.
"Excuse me," a voice called, and he turned to see a tall, thin man in civilian attire approaching from the other side of the airstrip. His face was mostly hidden by a large scarf and a hat turned down against a light rain, but Harkness could see high cheekbones and striking blue eyes. "Excuse me, Captain, sorry to bother you, but are you with the 133rd?"
"That's right," Jack said. "Can I help you?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not," the man said. "I'm looking for someone—two someones, actually, but one is rather more likely to be here than the other."
That seemed cryptic, but Jack shrugged. "I'm about to take off, but if you talk to the secretary inside that building there--" He pointed, and the man followed his arm with a nod-- "she can do a review of personnel files."
Nod, nod; the man was wearing a greatcoat and clean trousers, like a business man, but it occurred to Harkness that he'd approached from the end of the airstrip opposite the entry gates. It didn't look like he'd hopped a fence—guys dressed like bankers aren't the fence-hopping sort—but he filed it away for future reference. The secretary would make sure the guy wasn't some Kraut spy, but it never hurt to be prepared. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you, Captain....?"
"Harkness," he said, and extended a hand. "Jack Harkness."
Surprisingly, the stranger blinked at him, and then peered closely at his face. "Seriously?" he blurted.)
2009 A.D.
They'd cleaned up the Hub, carefully gathering all the fragments of the shattered Dalek, tagging them for the archives or the morgue freezers as appropriate. They'd sent Martha and Gwen home to their husbands, and set up Mickey with a place to stay for a few days while he considered his options. They'd both showered and shaved, then had vigorous thank-god-we-survived sex on Jack's desk, and then showered again.
"I want to cook for you," Jack declared as he toweled himself off.
Ianto—already buttoned back up and listening to the police band, probably in case of any stray Dalek parts turning up—raised an eyebrow. "Cook, sir?"
"Cook. Yes." Jack dropped his towel back down the hatch and shrugged into his shirt. "I'm feeling domestic and I want to cook."
"Need I remind you of the Cheese Omelet Incident?" Ianto asked, fighting down a smile.
"That was one time," Jack said. "I can do better. We can run to Tesco's and get something that comes in a packet."
Ianto switched off the radio. "That doesn't sound very domestic at all, actually."
"Hey, in the future everything comes in packets," Jack said defensively. He got behind Ianto and crossed his arms around his waist, nuzzling his still-damp hair. "Some of my fondest childhood memories involve food from packets, actually. Just like Mom used to reheat."
"Well, far be it from me to disparage anyone's mum," Ianto said, catching one of Jack's hands in a squeeze. If he was surprised to hear Jack mention anything of his past, he didn't say anything—maybe he thought Jack would spook like a horse if he drew attention to the slip.
Jack wished he could assure him it wasn't a slip at all. That he was finally ready to talk about some things. Too many events had cut too close to the bone lately, and Jack was more worried than ever about holding on to what he had for as long as he could. It was more than worth the cost.
"Tesco's," he said instead, because he couldn't say the other part. Not just yet. "We'll go to Tesco's and buy horrible processed foods and then go your place and heat it up. First one to eat his weight in preservatives wins."
"That's disgusting," Ianto said without much ire. "And my place is a mess. It's unlivable."
Jack knew that by Ianto's standards a single sock on the floor could render a place unlivable, so he wasn't afraid. "I'll vacuum for you," he promised.
"You are feeling domestic, aren't you?" Ianto said with a small laugh, and turned around to kiss him. "All right. Just let me set the remote alerts on the Rift monitors."
The tourist office was in shambles—blown apart by the Daleks on their way into the Hub—so they took the invisible lift up to the Plass. Jack expected it to be empty, with people staying in their homes after yesterday's chaos (Yesterday? Already? He probably needed to sleep eventually.) Businesses and offices were closed, after all, and curfews were still in place. So he was a little surprised to see a single tall, thin figure standing near the water tower, watching it glitter in the summer sun.
Ianto, clearly, had developed equally paranoid instincts. "Think that's a problem?" he asked quietly, leaning slightly away from Jack without stepping out of the lift's protection.
"Probably just a really confused tourist," Jack said, though it was more a hope than an objective evaluation. He really, really wanted to go to Ianto's flat and spend the day playing Naked Chef; it just wouldn't be fair for another crisis to start right on top of the other.
As he spoke, the confused tourist turned around and looked straight at them, even though they were still on the lift. In case it wasn't completely obvious, he waved a little. Fairness, as usual, had very little to do with reality.
"Go get the SUV," Jack said quietly. "I'll talk to him." Ianto nodded, and started walking at a controlled pace towards the garage. As he crossed the Plass, Jack quickly checked out their visitor: humanoid, tall and thin, Caucasian with dark hair and a neat Van Dyke beard. He was dressed like any tourist, in khakis and a button-down shirt, and he had a red cardigan slung over his arm, and sunglasses. His posture was calm and still, neither threatening nor threatened, and he faced Jack as he approached. "Hi there," Jack called out once he was a few yards away.
"Hello, Jack," the man said, and removed his sunglasses.
The problem with time-travel, Jack reflected—not to mention immortality—was that deja-vu got to be a bitch. He looked at the man's face and his brain momentarily stuttered; he saw clearly, in his mind's eye, the same man without the beard, thousands of years ago, limned in gaslight, and at the same time the sightless sense-impression of an awkward, lonely youth who'd grown into a figure of unthinkable power. And there was something else, something even further back in the murk of years, one of those memories he hadn't repressed so much as chosen to let fade.
He reeled, only for a moment, though it felt like a lifetime, and when he pulled himself together he realized he was grinning. "Merlin," he said, and impulsively drew him into a hug.
"I go by Martin now," Merlin said in his ear, but returned the hug just as enthusiastically. "Martin Ambrose, actually. The old name was getting a bit too, ah, memorable."
"I know the feeling," Jack said. He pulled back and studied Merlin's face. He still had that timeless young-old look Jack remembered, though of course for him that liason had only been about a century ago; for Jack, the more recent memories were of silent conversations in his grave, whenever Merlin happened to be passing through the region that would become Cardiff. They had been rare, but they'd done wonders for reinforcing his sanity during his long and painful wait.
Merlin was studying him, too, but then his eyes shifted over Jack's shoulder. "So is that your Doctor, then?" he asked.
Jack glanced back at Ianto, who had stopped when he noticed the embrace, and laughed. "Oh, god, no. And don't let him hear you ask that or you'll give him a complex. I found the Doctor already."
"Get what you wanted?"
"In a way." Jack waved Ianto over, and—also in the interests of not giving him a complex—stepped back from Merlin's personal space a bit.
Merlin didn't seem to mind. "So who is he, then?"
"The one with the robot in the cellar," Jack said. "Not that you should mention you know about that, either, it's still...touchy subject."
"Huh," Merlin said. "And all this time I've been thinking they were the same person."
Jack snorted; their conversations had always focused more on Merlin's life, of course, but he couldn't believe he'd been that vague. "Clearly, we've got some catching up to do." Before Ianto got any closer, he added softly, "What about you? Find yours yet?"
Merlin sighed and shook his head. "I thought if anything would've qualified as Albion's darkest hour, it would have been yesterday...but of course, I thought that about Cromwell and the Blitz, too, and we all know how those turned out."
"Earth had someone better on the case this time," Jack said. Merlin raised an eyebrow at him. "Not that I'm disparaging the team you and Arthur make, of course, but...this one was better. So much better."
"Because you were involved?"
"I won't deny a significant contribution...."
Ianto was in earshot by then. "You know this man, sir?" he asked, folding his arms behind his back like he did when he was nervous.
"Oh, yeah, he's an old friend," Jack said. Then, catching Ianto's widened eyes, "The good kind of old friend, not the blow-up-all-Cardiff kind."
Merlin blinked. "Definitely need to catch up," he said.
"I never did give you all the details, did I?" Jack put his hand on Ianto's shoulder, and was rewarded with an incremental relaxation of his posture. Not that Ianto was ever actually relaxed (at least, not if he was fully conscious and upright) but it was better than nothing. "This is Ianto Jones, Torchwood's chief archivist, public relations officer, and human resources specialist. Ianto, meet Merlin."
"I wasn't aware I had some of those titles, sir," Ianto said, but he shook Merlin's hand with only a little hesitation.
"Well, you do now. I'm making them your titles," Jack said.
"I'm charmed to finally meet you after all this time," Merlin said.
Ianto glanced at Jack, and then Merlin, and Jack again, but he was too polite to say are you fucking shitting me? What he did say, with some hesitancy, was, "So...when you say you're Merlin...you mean..."
"Merlinus Ambrosius, court magician to King Arthur Pendragon, long may he reign," Merlin said, and even bowed slightly. "I ran into the Captain on a diplomatic visit to Glywysing about fifteen hundred years ago."
"Stepped on me, actually," Jack explained. "Luckily one of us scored higher than Basic 7 in telepathy, and we managed to strike up a conversation."
"I see," Ianto said, but he shot Jack a look that meant you are going to be explaining this later. "If you don't mind me saying, sir, I was under the impression you were sleeping in a hollow hill at present."
"And I heard you got turned into a tree by your girlfriend," Jack added with a wink.
Merlin sighed, and his eyes rolled briefly heavenward. "This is why I don't use my real name anymore. If they're not throwing me in a mental institution, they think my definitive biography came from Marion Zimmer Bradley."
"Oh, the price of fame," Jack said. "So what exactly brings you to the Plass today? You haven't exactly been seeking me out over the years..."
"You were the one who put the fear of ontological paradox into me," Merlin said. "But I'd noticed you'd gone missing when I stopped by in 1941, and I remembered that this year was the year you were waiting for...and the light show yesterday made it rather obvious where to look."
"It's already being incorporated into the general cover story," Ianto said, before Jack even had to ask. "It's quite amazing what you can get away with blaming on atmospheric disturbances."
Merlin laughed. It was still a nice laugh. "'Atmospheric disturbances,' right. I should've tried that one on Uther back in the day."
There was a moment of comfortable silence, there at the foot of the tower, and Jack was torn between two equally selfish impulses—to invite Merlin out somewhere, maybe for...whatever meal was temporally appropriate. (Lunch? Possibly lunch. His watch had stopped when the Dalek shot him.) Or to blow him off and go vacuum Ianto's flat. "How long are you going to be in Cardiff?" he asked, hoping to find a compromise.
"Not long," Merlin said. "I just wanted to check you up. Make certain you hadn't gone back to falling out of pubs."
"Oh, I outgrew that phase years ago," Jack said, aware of another quick look from Ianto. "Look, do you have email? Mobile phone?"
Merlin snorted. "For all the good it does me, yes. I still suspect the Luddites were on to something."
Jack rolled his eyes. "If you have trouble with mobiles, you're going to be tearing your hair out by the end of the century," he declared in his most dire voice. "Look, give me your number and the next time you're in Cardiff, we should get together for lunch or something."
"Sounds lovely," Merlin said, digging out a mobile that was at least six years old and liberally scratched and battered. "We could make a proper old-timer's convention of it and invite the Wandering Jew, as well. And I know this lovely young woman named Helen Magnus--"
Jack let out a bark of laughter. "Magnus? How do you know her?"
"How do you?" Merlin asked, looking bemused.
Jack rolled his eyes as he snatched Merlin's phone. "She's only been trying to collect me since 1903..."
5086 A.D.
The ISC Camelot was, from Merlin's point of view, the very definition of grasping at straws, but when one had a multi-galactic empire to search and only a matter of decades to do it in, thoroughness flew out the window. Certainly the census bureau's computers hadn't helped, as no conceivable variation on "Pendragon" had yielded results, while "Arthur" alone gave him twelve billion. And that didn't even count all the breakaway states and star-roving nomads and conquered worlds in lost galaxies. The remains of the Second Great and Bountiful Human Empire were a complicated place to be looking for a single man, even one with a destiny.
He had bought the identity of an agent of the Ministry of Secrets from a thoroughly disreputable demihuman in the Vegas Galaxies and talked his way aboard Camelot; this far from a core world there was little risk of being discovered, and it let him ask whatever he wanted without offering any complicated explanations. The captain was more than eager to help-- "Anything for the Empire, Dr. Emrys, anything—I'm an old Union man myself, and my father before me—anything for the Empire--" he kept saying, and insisted on giving a guided tour of the ship from docks to drives. Since Merlin still wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for, he went along with it, and prayed to the old, dead gods to show him what he needed to see.
Of course, he still didn't know what he'd do when he found him—Arthur was past twenty now, if Merlin was right about when the gates of Avalon had opened again, and there was no way to know for sure whether he'd recognize Merlin or not when they met again. It was too much to hope he remembered everything of his old life, and even if he remembered some of it—subconsciously, maybe, or on a spiritual level—he was still unlikely to react well to a strange old man declaring their intertwined destinies out of the blue.
And Merlin was old; or at least older, and after a thousand years of an unchanging face it was a little difficult to bear. He suspected he'd started to age again the day Arthur was reborn, as a matter of fact, as whatever part of him was bound to his king returned to normal space and time. His temples were painted with wings of gray, and his beard was salt and pepper. (He'd grown it out again—a full one, this time—despite the number of times he'd been told it made him look like Satan. He no longer had to worry about looking too young to be taken seriously, but he also had an image to live up to, five thousand years of stories, and the beard was thematically appropriate.)
As the captain nattered on about Camelot's medical facilities, Merlin paused at a window to look at himself, at the new-old lines around his mouth and eyes. Would Arthur see anything here but a man old enough to be his father? Would Arthur even want him this time around, or did he have a Gwen (or even a Lancelot) who had already claimed his heart? Hell, would Merlin even want him, after five thousand years of waiting? He couldn't imagine Arthur being reborn as anything other than fundamentally himself, but he'd have a different upbringing this time, different influences...and he was going to be so damn young. It wasn't going to be like the first time, when they'd been nearly of an age. What were they even going to talk about? Girls?
Breathe, Merlin, he told himself. You'll figure something out. Destinies don't change just because of a...slight difference in maturity.
A movement startled him, and Merlin realized with an embarrassed start that the window he was peering through opened into a patient's room, and the room was occupied. A young man had just thrown himself on the narrow bed, even younger than Arthur. (Gods, Merlin was awful, already comparing people to him and he hadn't even found him yet.) He had the horrible thinness of a dying man, and poked awkwardly out of some thin pajamas that had clearly been meant for someone taller. A shiny silver plaster covered most of one side of his face, but when he turned to look idly at the door, a shock of recognition hit Merlin like a punch. The face was younger, and thinner, and the eyes for all their thousand-yard brokenness were still more innocent, but he could swear...
"Is there a problem, Dr. Emrys?" The captain had finally realized Merlin was no longer following him. "Can I help you with something?"
Merlin glanced at the name on the door, but didn't recognize it—of course he'd figured out long ago that the other one was a pseudonym. "This man—tell me about him."
"Ah. Terrible case, this one." The captain shook his head. "From the 401st Boeshane irregulars—some volunteer outfit from the Algophage border, and if he was eighteen when he signed the papers I'll eat my Long Service medals. Got himself captured by those things and...well, look at him." He shook his head. "The Imperial Marines mounted a rescue, but he was the only target who didn't come back in a body bag. Or a shoebox."
Merlin agreed the young man in the room barely looked eighteen now, though the ravaged face made him uncertain about his guess. If he'd noticed Merlin staring at him through the window, he didn't care; his gaze dropped to his lap, where he fiddled aimlessly with the long, dangly drawstring around his waist. "Do you know his prognosis?" Merlin asked.
The captain drew up a chart on the adjacent wall screen—Merlin was constantly forgetting about things like that, it made him look senile. "Well, he's not dying," the captain said. "As it stands, he's on recommendation for psychiatric discharge, though. Lock him up somewhere nice and calm and inject him with Lethe until he forgets to be unhappy. It'd probably be a kindness."
Merlin looked at the boy who would become Jack Harkness and wondered if it would.
"Can I talk to him?" The question was out of his mouth before he even realized he was thinking it. Old, exaggerated warnings about ontological paradoxes flashed through his mind, but then again, he'd asked the Old Religion to put him where he was meant to be. It wouldn't be the first time those dry dead gods had willfully misinterpreted his wishes.
The captain bit his lip. "Normally I'd have to get permission from out medical officer, but...anything for the Empire, you know."
He entered a code into the screen, the door released, and Merlin slipped inside. He tried not to be alarmed that the door locked again behind him. Jack didn't react to the intrusion, or to Merlin sitting down on the small stool in the corner, but after several long minutes of silence (because Merlin had become quite good at silences) he did look up to study his visitor. "Hello," Merlin said when he was sure he had Jack's attention. "You look rather terrible."
Jack gave a small snort and looked down at his drawstring again.
"My name is Merlin," he continued, knowing that in the language of the present that form of the name signified nothing. "I'm terrifyingly old and boring, but that makes me an excellent judge of character. Are you telepathic?"
The non sequitur seemed to grab his attention. "No," he murmured hoarsely--voice probably damaged from screaming, Merlin thought grimly. The Jack he knew claimed to be no more than a Basic 7, though Merlin had long suspected it was higher, or else they'd never have met. Perhaps the Imperial Army wasn't doing psychic trainings anymore, or perhaps someone had decided that an underage recruit from an impoverished planet didn't deserve any. It wasn't like Jack didn't have plenty of career changes ahead of him, after all.
"Good," Merlin said. "You can talk. That's an excellent skill to have. Now, why am I here?"
It took Jack a moment to recognize the question as genuine. "I don't know," he said. "Are you a doctor?"
"Not the pokey-proddy sort, no," Merlin said. "But I am very odd, which I think is better. How many people do you suppose I've killed?"
"I...couldn't tell you, sir," Jack said warily.
"Two thousand, one hundred twelve," Merlin said, and that was a conservative estimate—he hadn't stopped to count the corpses at Badon Hill. "How many do you suppose deserved it?"
Now Jack was really looked at him—looking and seeing, paying attention, his mind in the present time and not whatever horrible memories he collected in captivity. "Most of them, I hope," he said.
"Gods, I hope so, too." Merlin studied Jack's bloodshot blue eyes, thinking of everything they hadn't yet seen. "I don't know if you joined up for laughs or revenge or what your reason was. But you should know that it stops."
"What stops?" Jack asked, leaning forward slightly.
"Everything." Merlin suddenly thought of a line Ahasver was fond of quoting to him—something from a psalm, probably—and tried to translate it as best he could. "To everything there is a season, and for everything a time under heaven. Lives, wars, planets—they all go away. We can't save them, but we can remember them."
"What if I don't want to remember?" Jack asked, sneering a little. Oh, teenagers—Merlin once again marveled that Gaius hadn't killed him in his sleep when he was this young.
"Then they're just as gone," Merlin said. "It's your choice. To bear witness to the past or the bury it. But it remains the past, and meanwhile, you're still here."
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and exhaled, and Merlin knew he was back there again, wherever there was; the knuckles of his hands were turning white where he'd fisted his drawstrings. "I don't--" he started to say, and then bit down on his lip, easily breaking the fragile skin there. Whatever he was about to say, he held inside, while blood began to well around the wound.
Merlin leaned forward and reached out a hand. "Open your eyes," he said, and when Jack did Merlin reached in—slowly, very slowly—and ran his thumb over the bleeding lip. Jack shut his eyes again, and it took just a small flicker of magic to heal the damage. Would that it was all so easy. "Open your eyes, son," Merlin said, almost using a name this boy wouldn't wear for decades yet. "Look at me. What happens next?"
Jack opened his eyes and glared. "I don't know."
"What happens next?"
"Fuck you, man."
"Is that an offer?" And how satisfying it was to know that once upon a time, Jack had been able to be shocked by something. Merlin smiled a little while the boy's eyes popped. "I'll ask you once more: what comes next?"
Jack inhaled noisily and looked away. "I...they're going to medically discharge me." He waved a hand vaguely at his face, though that could hardly be the worst of his injuries—Merlin already knew it would heal without a scar.
"And what will you do?" Merlin asked. "Will you remember or forget?"
Jack shrugged. "I...I just wanted to..." He bit his lip again, but didn't draw blood this time.
"I don't have to know what you want," Merlin quickly said. "All that matters is that you do. That's how you'll find your way again."
Jack studied him, and for a moment he looked a little more like the man he'd grown into. "Who are you, really?" he asked. "You don't sound like a shrink."
"I'm an immortal wizard," Merlin said, feeling reckless—as reckless as he'd been in 1898, and for much the same reasons. True to form, Jack snorted at him. "All right, don't believe that. I'm an anti-Imperial spy. Would you believe a spy?"
"I'd believe you were a professor of something," Jack said, and his eyes flashed up and down Merlin's body.
"Really? You think professor?" Merlin studied his own clothes. "I wasn't going for that, honestly. I was going for spy."
"You're...kind of crazy, aren't you?" Jack asked.
Merlin smiled. "When you get to be my age, it's almost required."
Jack was just looking at him now, and looking tired—no one that thin should even be sitting upright, so Merlin didn't blame him. He had no way of knowing if any of his words had changed anything, if it even mattered, if someone from the Time Agency was going to come around the corner in a day or two or ten and change everything. But he could hope. He stood up and smoothed out the crease in his jacket (which was not at all professorial, to his eyes, but he'd never been good at keeping up with fashions, either). "Good luck. I hope I'll be seeing you again."
Jack just shrugged, and on another impulse, Merlin leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Jack didn't really react, and Merlin didn't know if he should've. But it was better than doing nothing. And between his knock on the door and the ship's captain letting him out, he thought he heard a whisper like Thanks.
"Is that what you were looking for, Dr. Emrys?" the captain asked eagerly once Merlin was out and the door was locked again.
"Not exactly," Merlin said. "It was more of a favor to an old friend. Please, carry on with the tour--"
But just as he was speaking, a young man came running down the corridor towards them. A tall, fit young man, with blond hair that had grown shaggy from a regulation cut and startling blue eyes that took Merlin's breath away. The captain sighed before the young man even spoke. "What is it now, Ensign?"
"Sir, we've just had a communique from the Intelligence Department regarding Algophage movements. It's marked for your eyes only, highest urgency."
The captain's eyes bulged. "Terribly sorry, Dr. Emrys, I need to—that is, if you'll excuse me—Ensign, please show our guest to his quarters while I--" Without ever finishing that sentence, he bustled off. Merlin could not have cared less.
"Hello," he croaked, and immediately felt like a fool. "You, uh, and what would your name be, Ensign?"
"King, sir. Arthur King," he answered, of course, of course, and he was looking at Merlin like Merlin had lost his mind. Probably because Merlin was grinning at him, smiling like a simple-minded fool, and didn't care enough to stop himself; and as Ensign Arthur King stood awkwardly aboard the Camelot, Merlin said a prayer of thanks to the dead gods of Albion and the friend who'd advised him to wait five thousand years.