Take Me Home (cont.)

It was quiet on these streets in daylight. Merlin shoved his hands in his pockets and sauntered, observing surreptitiously as he moved from one blue-dot location to the next. Strip mall units for rent. A discount store that was fire-damaged. Out-of-business tire shop.

Not much of a life, really, the guy he was hunting. Because what were the things that made life worthwhile? Employment that contributed to society. Earned income spent on creature comforts. Companionship and love, people to do for and laugh with. But this? Squatting and stealing and killing and running?

More animal than man, Merlin thought. Hunting to survive – and once that need was reliably filled, he'd gone to satisfy other base animal drives. Also on the cheap.

He kicked at rubbish in the street and squinted up at broken windows, tried door-handles and prowled through dank stale spaces. And found only where the rogue hadn't brought the girl.

At sundown, that part of the city woke, shook itself, scratched itself – and went nosing to relieve itself.

Merlin called Arty. "Nothing so far, but I've ruled out more than half those blue dots. I think I'm going to stick around here, though, a few more hours, maybe work my way through that handful of bars, again."

"You said he wouldn't need –"

"No, he wouldn't be hunting again, so soon." And both of them knew the rogue wouldn't be there for the beer and pretzels, either. "But he might be trying to pick up a few bucks hustling pool or something. Pick up a girl who won't ask him for a hundred up front."

Arty sighed through the wireless connection. "All right. Where are you going first?"

Merlin named him one of the other slum bars, the closest to the core formed by the two previous sightings and the dumpster, and hung up. Then drifted in that direction, in no real hurry. The odds were against him actually coming face to face with the guy by chance, but if he did, the appearance of haste might be enough to tip him off if he was wary.

There were differences that Merlin could tell, depending on proximity. Not really giveaways, to anyone but another like them. Heart-rate and breathing, temperature and perspiration level and so on, which for normal humans would be affected, by these places. Not obvious, though, it took some concentration to pick out these differences, so he could assume he might go unnoticed by the other.

Merlin loitered outside the slum bar three-quarters of an hour, ruling out about the same percentage of patrons entering, before he ventured inside himself.

Noisy, and smoky, and steadily filling up. This one had a DJ and a dance floor, flashing neon lights and a partial upper level that overlooked it. Merlin leaned on the bar absently, concentrating first on the subtle body hints of those nearest him. He was looking for a male, of course, and he had a general idea of facial features and body type, but it wouldn't do to look like he was looking. That would make him suspicious to a majority of the people in here, for one reason or another.

"What'll it be?" the harried bartender yelled at him, sweat glistening on his receding hairline under the unforgiving lighting.

Merlin mumbled something noncommittal, not really paying attention, as someone slid onto the stool behind and beside him – he figured that the new customer would take attention off him.

"I'll buy ya Bloody Mary," the newcomer offered, bending to say it deliberately into Merlin's ear.

"No, thanks," he said. Half a second slow – then he turned to see Arty seated on the next stool, leaning over his crossed arms on the bar.

"Bloody somebody else?" Arty suggested, grinning, and Merlin laughed out loud.

"I haven't heard that one in forever," he said, right next to Arty's ear – the only way the other man would hear him, in this noise. That had been Arthur's first joke, teasing Merlin about his condition. Assuring him as no serious conversation could have, that it wasn't an issue for Arthur.

"Eh?" the bartender said, curling an impatient hand around his ear.

Arty ordered them a couple of beers for the opacity of the dark-brown bottle, then turned to Merlin. "Well?"

"He's not down here," Merlin told him. "I was going to check upstairs, maybe find a table with a good view of the dance floor and the door, for another hour, before I move on. Tomorrow I can do the rest of the canvassing – with a little luck I'll find his hideout, and we can go in if he's there, or sit on it til he gets back."

"And when you say we, you mean you," Arty said sardonically, and Merlin nodded. "Guess I can't persuade you to change your mind… well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. I can stay a few hours, I told Tracy I'd be late tonight anyway."

"Hey," Merlin said, a bit troubled at the thought – but knowing he'd have no better luck changing Arty's mind, than if it was his father there. "Are you carrying?" Arty's expression shifted, and Merlin assumed the answer. "My revolver's at the back of my belt. Take it, please? You know he can't do anything to me."

He turned in a nonchalant lounge on the bar countertop, felt his former partner ease the weapon free of his belt, and glanced back to see Arty tucking it into his own waistband. There; that was all right, then.

"Yo!" the bartender called, handing them their order by the necks of the bottles.

Arty put the cash down for their drinks – which neither one of them would be actually drinking – and handed one to Merlin.

"Next round's on me," Merlin kidded, threading between bodies to the stairs.

This was also why he was tired. So much had changed, in his lifetime. And yet, not much at all. Sometimes it was hard to convince himself he'd done any good whatsoever. Behind him on the stairs, Arty called something that Merlin didn't catch; he pressed closer to the wall to let an old-young couple bump giggling down past them.

"What?" he hollered, but kept going.

"I said, I think the music gets louder, every decade!" Arty hollered back, as they came off the top of the stairs to the open second story.

"That's where you're wrong," Merlin called back, signaling that he would take the left, if Arty would cover the right-hand perimeter of the room. "This isn't music!" Arty nodded and laughed, and headed right.

It was darker and more cramped, up here, but mostly seated-space. Merlin moved to the left to circumnavigate the floor, scanning patrons for a single male, or one trying to flirt with strangers. Halfway around, where the rail met the wall and one could lean over to see down to the dance floor, Merlin caught a sense of something different.

Blood free from alcohol. A pulse slightly quickened, but confident and fearless as humans rarely were.

Merlin leaned casually on the rail, slim but sturdy metal, and turned his head slightly, tipping the bottle to his closed lips. Yep, there he was. Appearing mid-thirties, narrow face and dark hair combed straight back from a widow's peak. Crooked nose, and eyes almost fanatically intent on the girl across the table. Merlin saw short dark hair, bare shoulders under sleeveless shirt.

Best to back off. Leave the building, watch the exits, and follow him when he left. But as Merlin began to let his gaze sweep past the couple, several things happened nearly simultaneously.

The man stiffened like a predator scenting prey – or vice versa, it was a similar reaction of alert wariness – and his darting eyes caught Merlin. Recognized Merlin – not specifically, but as another like him. From his expression, the rogue immediately anticipated conflict rather than conversation.

And a heavyset older man stepped past the couple's table, glancing down into the rogue's face – doing a quick double-take – following his gaze to Merlin, already focusing and tightening for whatever action became unavoidable.

Merlin's gaze shifted to meet Arty's – and his friend's hand went for the revolver.

Damn. No, not here!

The rogue turned to look up at the aging police captain with a secondary realization dawning – maybe even connecting their presence to his victim. He shot up from his seat, reaching to grab Arty.

Merlin read his body and leaped forward. Arty's face registered surprise as his feet left the ground, his bottle dropping from his hand at the same time as Merlin's did – Merlin's boot found the top of the next table along the railing and pushed off.

Arty went sailing headfirst over the rail – and Merlin dove after him.

Catching one of Arty's flailing hands in his – anchoring himself to the rail with the other. Muscles tightening against the inevitable –

Merlin grunted involuntarily as Arty's weight jerked his body taut.

Women were screaming on both levels. The music pounded on. Dangling, Arty looked up from the rapidly-clearing dance floor still a good fifteen feet below him; there was shock on his face, and he shook his head at Merlin, mouthing, No.

Because probably he could read Merlin's determination on his face – or simply knew him well enough by now. But then, he should have known Merlin would ignore Arty trying to talk him out of exposing himself with an impossible rescue – and going immediately after the quarry, especially this one.

Sorry, Arty.

Merlin flexed, and pulled his friend back up to the railing, one-handed, smooth and fast though the older man outweighed him by half again as much. He waited for Arty to catch hold with his free hand, transferred the one he still held to the bar, and steadied Arty's climb back to the safe side, until two or three of the better-meaning, less-drunk patrons at the top level caught hold to aid him.

Can't wait now. If the rogue slipped, it would be far away, and he'd become someone else's problem, sooner rather than later. Other precincts, other bodies – and by damn, Merlin was tired of chasing.

"Call for backup if you like," he hollered to Arty, glancing below to make sure the floor was clear.

Then let go, twisting catlike to land in a crouch on all four.

More voices raised in excitement-shock-fear. Arty bellowed something about the revolver. Merlin sprang up, looking past the faces of the crowd to the far wall, where the bottom of the stair came out very near to the exterior door.

They'd be equidistant from the exit. The rogue had a head start, the second it had taken to save Arty from the fall. But Merlin had bypassed the stairs.

Fast and fluid as water, he darted between patrons – they should probably not have their fight here, but he'd have to be close to stay with the guy if he escaped and if not that, then he could try to manage a capture at least marginally official. He was still ten feet away when the rogue reached the bottom of the steps, shoving people out of the way – head turning to mark Merlin, keen eyes wide with incredulity.

Merlin adjusted his angle, ducked under a biker's raised elbow, and arrived between the rogue and the door.

In the blink of an eye, the other straightened, arm outstretched. Gleam of metal in his hand – small blunt point pressed to the center of Merlin's chest.

The insane rush of time slowed.

He didn't look away – centuries, he glimpsed, just like Bobby, but so terribly dark. Feral.

And he couldn't help a peripheral recognition of his own revolver, the thumb cocking the hammer back, reading to fire. Probably snatched from Arty's hand as the rogue tossed him over the rail. Probably that was what Arty had been trying to tell him.

Silver bullets. Did the rogue guess?

They had a very small, quiet, slow bubble of calm, balanced on either side of the revolver like children on a see-saw. Outside the bubble, patrons scrambled away – furniture tipped, glass broke – distantly over the other shouting, Merlin could hear Arty's bull-bellow from upstairs.

In a tone that clearly questioned Merlin's choices and loyalties, the rogue said, "You're one of us."

Merlin said, "Did you kill the blonde girl, with the pink shirt, her name was Kristen."

Probably people could hear them; he didn't care. Dark eyes widened fractionally, heart-rate increased half-a-count, breathing hitched nearly imperceptibly. As good as a signed confession.

"Move aside," the rogue told him. Warned him, commanded him, challenged him. "And don't follow me."

"No."

"Nonnegotiable," the rogue said. "Ten seconds to choose. I ain't stayin' peaceful."

And he'd do it, he'd pull the trigger, Merlin saw the truth of that in his face. Whether he knew it would kill Merlin, whether he thought it would only stop him pursuing, he'd do it.

"Merlin!"

Arty, halfway down the stairs, his shout cutting sharply through the noise level that lowered significantly as the music cut off.

The rogue began to turn, the revolver to pan – crowded room, and the type of bullet wouldn't matter to them. Merlin ducked to his right, knocking the rogue's arm up, circling his forearm around his throat for a stranglehold – which was in turn caught by the man's other hand. And his muscles were tight and hard as Merlin's.

But now they both faced the stair where Arty continued to descend, warily deliberate, step by step, badge in his hand to prove his authority to command surrender.

"Ha!" the rogue coughed, addressing Merlin behind him. "You work with them. Well. If you're going to screw with my gig, I'm going to screw with yours."

And he fought.

Each move too fast for thought. Merlin the better-trained, but hampered by his need to contain the violence, protect the innocent. Blows mostly ducked, and holds broken almost as soon as gained - it lasted less than a minute, but Merlin still had some idea of enforcing Arty's commands rather than killing a suspect in front of so many witnesses, when.

The revolver went off.

He heard it. One second before gasp-scream-Merlin! echoed through his head.

It felt like someone stabbed him with an icicle. Upper left arm, to the inside.

Merlin had been in firefight situations before, in his very long law enforcement career. He'd been shot before, too.

The rogue probably hadn't, either one. He flinched, and hesitated.

And Merlin didn't. As his left arm went weak and numb, he twisted to bring his right hand to the revolver's grip and firing mechanisms, on the outside of the rogue's hand. Using his elbow to bend the rogue's arm around, their combined momentum wrapped his body in the man's one-armed embrace. His back to the other's chest, he tripped him with the toe of his boot behind his ankle, and flung them both backward to the floor.

He found hammer and trigger almost simultaneously as they landed – the rogue underneath, hitting harder and with Merlin's weight on him – felt the barrel between his left arm and ribs.

The gun discharged again.

This time, there was no pain. Merlin felt the rogue gasp, shudder. Stiffen, then writhe, as Merlin forced the firearm pointing harmlessly at the wall. Held, and held, and felt the rogue's struggles weaken as life left his body.

And then, he was the only one gasping for air.

Arty stepped off the lowest stair just above them, reaching for the revolver still in their shared grip. Merlin allowed it, sliding off and away from the body.

He was shaking. It had been a long time since he'd killed anyone this close.

"Guy's a freakin' hero," someone said, out of the murmur of the crowd. "That crazy dude was going to shoot up this place."

"Is he a cop? Hey, mister, is he a cop?"

Arty said immediately, in a hard, almost defiant tone, "Yes. Yes, he is." To Merlin he added, "There's blood all over."

"Keep 'em back," Merlin gasped. He rested himself back on his right elbow, clutching his left arm to his body for warmth, letting his legs sprawl to rest. Damn, he was tired. "Give it a few minutes, it won't be – viable. Not… dangerous, anymore."

Arty swore inexplicably, shoving Merlin's revolver into his belt for the second time that night – then scrambling over the corpse to Merlin as well as a sixty-year-old police captain could. "Merlin, you're bleeding."

"Hey, we've called 911," someone offered. Arty ignored the speaker, straightening to dig for and snap out a pocketknife.

Merlin wondered why he was trying to hold himself up, and let his body collapse back onto the floor. Probably filthy. He'd have to wash his hair…

Arty cut open his sleeve with a single slash that was both vicious and gentle.

"Man, we called paramedics," someone said.

And someone else, "Aren't you supposed to just hold it tight to stop the bleeding? Put pressure on it, that's what they say, right?"

The first, "Man, he knows what he's doing, just shut up."

"It was your gun," Arty told Merlin in a dreadful voice, handling his left arm that was so cold now it felt like it belonged to someone else. "And there's no exit wound… Geez, this is a lot of blood, I think it hit your artery… it might be stuck on your bone."

"I kind of thought silver would hurt," Merlin whispered. "It's just… cold."

Arty grimaced in distaste at the wound Merlin couldn't see – and didn't really care to. "I have to get it out," he decided. "How long have you got?"

"Just leave it," Merlin told him. "Doesn't… really hurt. Just… cold."

"Merlin." Arty's eyes were scared. "You'll die."

He thought hazily, Oh, good. Finally.

"What are you talking about, man, it's just his arm."

"Yeah, but look at all that blood."

"Stay back, and shut up!" Arty snarled at the strangers. Merlin blinked at the unfamiliar tone in his friend's voice, and Arty's face came into focus. His expression.

Merlin sighed. "Go ahead and cut it out, then."

Arty's attention focused to Merlin's left, and the most he could tell was that his arm was being touched. Cold seeped through his shoulder, trickled over his ribs like a woodland stream over exposed tree-roots. His neck felt stiff, but when someone stepped forward from the crowd, Merlin instinctively turned his head to look.

Mid-twenties, fit and lightly-muscled, clean and straight and unusual in this crowd. Crooked smile, a lock of his straight blonde hair falling over his forehead.

He said, "I told you it was psychotic to carry that revolver with you."

Merlin said with surprise, "Arthur."

"I almost got it, Merlin," Arty said at his other side, though Merlin didn't look away from the amused-concerned expression of his first partner and best friend. "Hold on, okay? You're going to be okay."

The crowd faded out, slowly and one by one. The noise faded, too; Merlin was relieved. His body jerked in reaction to Arty's work, but he paid it no mind.

"What are you doing in a place like this," Merlin said. The cold spread down his hip, across his chest; his mouth felt slow. "Arthur?"

"Merlin, look at me," Arty said. He sounded desperate, but Merlin watched Arthur step forward and kneel down, instead. "Look at me, huh? Look at – my father's not here, okay? He passed away, remember?"

Merlin remembered, and gave Arthur a wondering look.

"He can't see me," Arthur explained, turning the proud look that Merlin had seen hundreds of times, on his son. "Or hear me."

"Why not?" Merlin said.

Arthur's smile quirked a little melancholy. "I'm not here for him."

"Gwen –" Merlin began.

Arty interrupted. "I've got it, Merlin – the bullet's out. I'll just get the bleeding slowed and – Merlin? Oh, damn. Come on, Merlin!"

"It's not her time. Not yet," Arthur said.

Merlin couldn't nod, but he thought Arthur could see that he accepted the idea. It was his time. At long last. "Can I tell him –"

"Sure." Arthur nodded, and put his hand down on Merlin's shoulder, where instant warmth blossomed. It was so very welcome after the cold that Merlin almost sobbed for relief. "Tell him I'm proud of him. That he doesn't need you anymore."

Merlin's head was turned, he felt Arty's hand trembling on his cheek, but he spoke first. "Your dad wants you to know… he's proud of you. You don't need…"

There were tears in Arty's blue eyes. He searched Merlin's – and resistance melted gradually to acceptance.

"I want to go home," Merlin whispered, as Arthur's hand slid down his arm to take his hand. He gripped it, and his vision faded to white around the edges.

Around Arty, who held his gaze a moment longer. Then nodded, tears shining unspilled. He smiled, and nodded again. "Say hi for me."

Arthur pulled on Merlin's hand, and he automatically pulled back, lifting his head and raising his knees, the better to gain his feet. And grinned in pure joy at facing his friend again. Arthur was so clear in the foggy whiteness, his hand so warm on Merlin's.

"Come on," Arthur said.

"But what about –"

The increased insistence of Arthur's grip stopped him from turning to look at Arty, behind him. "Don't look back," Arthur told him gently. "Don't look back. Just – walk forward with me."

Merlin obeyed; though he couldn't see where they were going, Arthur appeared to know the way. And fatigue bled from his limbs along with the chill, at every step.

"Where are we –"

"Always with the questions, Merlin," Arthur teased. "Trust me."

"I do."

Arthur gave him his familiar lopsided smile. "Then, I have someone here that's been waiting a very long time to see you."

A strain of music floated past his ears. "Good luck says I'll be with you soon…" And a shadow in the brightness coalesced into a slender figure. In peach-rose silk. Shaking back dark shoulder-length waves to give him a full smile.

"Lori," he breathed.

And she was in his arms, clinging and breathing and laughing and crying, and Arthur's hand resting on his shoulder was the opposite of intrusive.

"Take your time," Arthur said in his ear, and Merlin heard the grin, and the ache of missing and missing what he'd lost was finally gone. "But remember, while we're waiting for others, others are waiting for us. And, there's a feast later – you must be starving for some real food."

Merlin pulled back to look at him, astonished. At his side, Lori giggled; Arthur threw back his head and laughed.

And it was home, after all.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Closing time…
Time for you to go out to the places you will be from

Closing time…
Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.

I know who I want to take me home
I know who I want to take me home
I know who I want to take me home
Take me home…

"Closing Time" ~ Semisonic

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

A/N: Thanks so much for everyone who supported with reviews and follows and favorites – this is it for this 'verse, though! Complete means complete, this time. I'm glad if you enjoyed!