Archive of Our Own

If you asked Lancelot, he’d say, with genuine trepidation, that maybe they had all grown complacent in their careers, and that was why it had been such a shock to see the Van der Woude job go south. Things went wrong all the time, he’d say, not just in their line of work but also in, you know, life. Just because they were good, didn’t mean they were above getting themselves into situations that would make them go—as Gwaine had so eloquently put it when the cops had pulled up—“Fuck me, what the hell?”

And then he’d go on about professional ethics, and the worrying decline of respectable gentlemen thieves, and sweet Jesus, Elyan must say something.

“Aren’t we, though?”

Lancelot, who was in the middle of some ancient Chilean folklore about vigilance, looks up from the lock. “What?”

“Above getting ourselves into this shit,” Elyan says, keeping his voice down so as not to disturb the loud snoring mere feet away. “I know you’re in shock—don’t say you’re not—but when was the last time a job went wrong on our watch? Do you even remember?”

Lance frowns. He does not.

“And it didn’t just simply go wrong, did it? It went pear-shaped in a rather spectacular fashion, don’t you think? And we still don’t know why, or how!”

“Shh!” Lance hisses, but the snoring has already stopped. They both freeze.

Seconds pass as the pair mentally calculates plans B, C, and D, before the snoring picks up again, this time with a loud, phlegmy snort.

Lancelot sighs. “Sleep apnea.” He turns back to the lock.

Elyan crosses his arms, slumps down onto the sticky floor. “It was all going so well.”

More than well, if he’s honest with himself. It had in fact been going amazingly.

They had studied their mark, the eccentric and deeply agoraphobic private collector Van der Woude, for days on end, before they had even left for Amsterdam. (“The opposite of complacency, no?” Percy would kindly point out later, much to Lance’s gratitude.) Vivian had gotten them the system’s master code, and Arthur had come up with the ingenious plan to tilt the entire house—tilt the entire house!—an invaluable four point one six degrees, which had then allowed them to make contact with the alarm’s keypad via the pinprick gap in the window. Leon’s crossbow bolt had gone flying with immaculate precision, moments after which a neon red “System Disengaged” had popped up on the computer screen.

“God, but I love my job,” Gwaine had breathed, before planting an obnoxiously loud kiss on Arthur’s face.

“Yuck,” Arthur had said, wiping at his cheek.

The rest of them had laughed at that, flooded with joy and relief and the sort of power-high anyone sane enough to not be a criminal would know was bad for you.

Not that it had mattered, of course. Because less than an hour later, they had all been arrested.

Lance frowns. “We must’ve missed something. Something important.”

Elyan huffs. “After all that recon? We’re more likely to have a mole.”

The lock clicks open.

“Oh, thank God,” Lance says, then turns to Elyan with big eyes. “Don’t tell Gwen how long that took?”

Elyan pats him on the back. “Just the guys.”

They slip out the back, swap their all-black gear for a couple of touristy getups, and catch the nearest tram leaving the district a good half-hour before their babysitter (one Officer Henrik “Ricky” Barby, who does indeed have chronic OSA) wakes up from his siesta to an empty holding cell.

The relief of seeing their hotel’s tulip-infested entrance is palpable, but all hopes of normalcy evaporates once more when they arrive at the suite to find Percy on his third bag of stroopwafels, Gwaine upside-down on the sofa, moaning, and neither Arthur nor Leon.

“What do you mean, they’re not here?” Elyan demands.

Gwaine groans. “I mean, they’re not here. Perce and I have been back for ages, and there’s been no sign of them!”

“Did you check the first aid kit?”

“Of course, we checked the first aid kid! It was just a first aid kit.”

“No messages in the tea cabinet, either,” Percy says with wide, anxious eyes. “And we’ve lost access to the police systems. Have you…?”

“No, we’re blocked as well,” Lance says glumly.

Gwaine throws his hands up. “So, what now? Please don’t tell me we keep—”

“We keep waiting.”

“For how much longer?” Gwaine cries. “I’m this close to chewing on my own hair, you know that? My hair. I’d rather we call Morgana.”

“Not it,” Elyan says loudly. “I called her last time.”

“With the speech I prepared for you,” Lancelot points out.

“She likes Percy best,” Gwaine says. “So, he should call her.”

“She won’t like me any more if I tell her both her brother and her husband got popped!”

“Then what do you suggest we do? God forbid we call him.”

“We’re not calling him,” Lance says firmly. “We don’t even know where he is. And he’s mad at Arthur for some reason.”

Percy makes a dubious expression. “Isn’t he always mad at Arthur, though? Like, lowkey, nowadays?”

“Christ, I know. What’s up with that?”

“Fine, so we don’t call him,” Gwaine says. “But please, please, please can we do something? We could break into all the police stations in town until we find them and bust them out?” He asks hopefully. “I’ll do it! I don’t mind!”

“Gwaine, no.”

“Why not!”

“Because the last time you did that, we got deported from Liechtenstein!” Elyan hisses.

The front door opens with an abrupt bang.

Leon storms in, clearly fuming as he heads straight to the kitchenette.

“Leon!”

“Bloody hell, man, where have you been?”

“Are you alright? Where’s Arthur?”

“Present,” Arthur calls, breezing in. He looks weirdly nonchalant for someone sporting a purpling bruise on his cheek.

“Leon,” Lancelot says, alarmed. “Did you punch Arthur?”

“I should,” Leon mutters, pouring himself a finger of scotch.

“What?” Elyan says, confused.

Arthur waves a hand. “Cops were a bit rough. I’m fine.” He flops down onto the sofa and looks around. “Have we got any food around here? Or did someone eat it all.”

Percy shifts until he’s blocking the empty bags of stroopwafels. “There’s food,” he says defensively.

“Mm,” Arthur says, fishing a bag of peanuts from the coffee table and tearing it open.

“Arthur,” Lance says. “We’ve been so worried. What on earth happened to you guys?”

“It was Caerleon, wasn’t it?” Elyan says. “He got word of the job somehow and snitched on us to get to you.”

Arthur chews on his food. “It wasn’t Caerleon.”

“Lamia?”

“I bet it’s Morgause,” Gwaine says. “She’s been real testy since the Prado job.”

“Wasn’t them, either.”

“Oh, God, it’s just us, isn’t it?” Lance says, swallowing. “It’s just us. We’ve lost our touch. We’re has-beens.”

Elyan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Lance, I swear to God.”

“It’s not that, alright?” Arthur says with a huff. “It was me. My fault. That we got busted.”

Percy’s eyes are round. “What?”

“I pissed someone off.”

Gwaine is confused. “What, like you stole his shit?”

“… Like I walked out on him in the middle of the night while he’s still sleeping.” Arthur scratches his head. “He’s my ex.”

They stare at him.

In the kitchenette, Leon downs the rest of his scotch. “Exactly.”

“How long were you together?” Elyan asks.

“Six months. Almost seven.”

Multiple groans and curses. That’s basically a year in Arthur Dating Time.

“And you walked out on him?” Lance says, horrified. “Are you out of your mind?”

Percy shakes his head. “That’s not right, mate.”

Leon comes out to the living room, smiles. “Now tell them the good part.”

“The what?” Elyan cries.

“Ok, first of all,” Arthur says, sitting up with placating hands. “I didn’t know this when we first met, alright? I thought he was a receptionist, for crying out loud. Didn’t tell me until our third date. Who does that? I mean, well, besides us. But he should’ve known better. So one could argue that I, too, was a victim of—”

“Arthur,” Leon snaps. “Tell. Them. The good part.”

A heavy sigh. “He’s Europol.”

“Arthur,” Lance says, betrayed.

“Princess,” Gwaine says, impressed.

“You slept with the enemy?” Lance shrieks. “You literally slept with them.”

“Dated,” Leon corrects. “He dated the enemy. For six—almost seven!—bloody months. What’s our one rule, Arthur?”

Arthur drops his head back onto the sofa. “No sleeping with law enforcement.”

Gwaine leans closer to Percy. “I thought it was ‘no more Taco Tuesdays’ ?”

“That’s our other one rule,” Percy whispers back.

Leon is unaware of their digression. “And yet you dated a blood cop—”

“Detective, actually,” Arthur says, lips quirking.

“Do I look like I want to talk semantics right now?” Leon bellows. “You dated a bloody cop for six months, without telling us, your colleagues and friends, like the egotistical shithead Morgana’s always said you were—”

Lance, Elyan, Percy, and Gwaine all exchange glances.

“—and I defended you! I defended you every single time! Because you’re my friend. But now look what you’ve done. Of all the selfish, imbecilic—”

“Uh, Arthur,” Elyan says lowly into Arthur’s ear.

“—juvenile, short-sighted—”

“Are you sure you didn’t screw his brother on the way here or something?”

“—unhinged, feckless things to do—”

“Because… um.”

“—how could you possibly be so stupid?!” Leon finishes, red-faced and heaving.

“Leon,” Lance says gently. “My friend, I know this is an upsetting revelation, but are you feeling quite alright?”

“I’m fine!” Leon snaps.

“He had to call Nim,” Arthur says.

“What?!”

“Lady Macbeth? Are you joking?”

“I thought we agreed to only keep in touch with people who didn’t try to backstab us?”

“They were going to transfer me to The Hague,” Arthur explains with a sigh, “right then and there. Nim still had her talons in that guy with the shirts in the Corps, so Leon… called her for a favour.”

“Oh, God, no.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“And what did she want?” Gwaine asks warily. “A kidney? His first born?”

Arthur smiles pleasantly. “Just that he apologizes for dumping her.”

The others cringe.

“Bloody day of the bloody exes,” Elyan grumbles.

“She stole my car and registered me as a sex offender when we split,” Leon says hollowly, head in his hands on the armchair. “And I had to call her and grovel, all because our esteemed leader couldn’t keep his head out of his arse.”

Percy goes over and puts his arm around him. “There, there.”

Lance rubs at his temples. “Why didn’t you tell us, Arthur?”

Arthur sighs, throws the empty bag of peanuts onto the table and dusts his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s been a few years. I thought he was over it.”

“Clearly, he isn’t.”

“No, hang on,” Elyan says. “Even if he was still angry with you—”

“He is,” Leon and Lance say in unison.

“—how could he have known we were even here? Were you using this alias when you were together?”

“’Course not,” Arthur says. “Chucked that one right after I left. I’m not that much of an idiot.”

“Well,” Percy says.

“Can it.”

“Then how could he have been onto us? It’s not like you were in touch.” Lance narrows his eyes. “Were you?”

“No!” Arthur says, then looks away. “Not exactly.”

Another bout of groans and curses.

“God above, Arthur. What did you do?”

Arthur huffs and mumbles something.

“What?”

“I said, I might’ve dropped by to see him!”

“Arthur!”

“It was the first anniversary of his mother’s death! He has no family left. I just wanted to—”

“You’ve been keeping tabs on him,” Leon realizes. “Oh, Christ, you obsessive fool. This is like Sophia Alfson in Year Six all over again.”

“Hey!” Arthur says, pointing at Leon. “Camp Tintagel, Year Nine.”

Leon shoots him a dirty look.

“Arthur,” Lancelot says. “I can’t believe you’d do that. This is so irresponsible of you—”

“And kinda sweet, if I’m honest?” Gwaine chimes in thoughtfully.

“And… kinda sweet, yes,” Lance acknowledges with reluctance. “But mostly irresponsible!” he finishes sternly.

“Still,” Gwaine says, sitting down next to Arthur. “This is a new side of you, Princess. Are you secretly a big softie? Aww.”

Arthur smacks him upside the head.

“I only saw him from afar, alright?” he says. “I knew he didn’t want to see me. I wanted to be… respectful.”

“Ah,” comes a new, lazy voice. “Is that what we’re calling stalking these days? ‘Being respectful’?”

They all freeze, before turning sharply to the front door, against which a tall, slim, dark-haired man has been casually leaning since God-knows-when.

“Hi, everyone,” the man says cheerily. “Hey, baby.”

No one sane would just walk into a criminal hideout, cool as you please, without backup, which means the stranger currently surveying their hotel room with mild interest is either not alone, or insane, or both. Each scenario is worse than the one before, and Lance is starting to get a headache imagining the debriefing they’ll have once they’re out. If you get out, says a voice inside his head. Because despite the intruder’s guileless smile and unnervingly relaxed body language, there’s something about him that makes Lancelot feel like they should all watch their step, and it’s certainly not just the Walther at his hip.

“Hi there,” Arthur says, putting on a smile that’s either winning or shit-eating, depending on the day. “Shouldn’t you be in The Hague right now?”

“Oh, that.” The man shrugs. “I knew you’d never stick around for the trip. Transport car wouldn’t fit both you and your ego, anyway.”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “And I suppose it wasn’t a coincidence there was a perfectly inconspicuous Dacia waiting for us in the parking lot?”

The man smiles. “Enjoyed the M&Ms on the dash?”

“Why? Did you have them poisoned?”

“Christ, no. What fun would that be when I have plans to string you up by the balls?”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “You wanna tie me up?”

“Among other things,” the man says coyly.

What is going on, Lance exclaims internally. He looks to the others to hopefully confirm he’s not the only one witnessing… whatever it is that’s happening in front of them. From their various expressions of shock and bafflement, he isn’t.

Gwaine coughs and, because he has no bloody sense of self-preservation, walks up to the stranger with an outstretched hand, which the man actually takes.

“Hi, I’m Gwaine.” And there’s the other winning/shit-eating grin in their arsenal; though this one has a far more significant track record of getting its owner punched. “I must say, Arthur’s never mentioned you.” He eyes the man blatantly from head to toe.

“Detective Emrys, Europol Major Crimes,” the man greets, smiling affably as he gives Gwaine an appraising look of his own. “You’re not as tall as your sixth form photos.”

Gwaine blanches.

Emrys cocks his head. “Harrow, was it? Bloody shame about that one mid-term, huh?”

“I—Uh,” Gwaine says, lost for words for the first time in a month.

“I think you should go back to your friends,” Emrys offers.

Wavering slightly, Gwaine does.

Arthur clears his throat. “Boys, why don’t you give us the room.”

“Are you mad?” Leon hisses. “We’re not going to leave you alone with your copper ex.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“He’s armed.”

“Cops tend to do that.”

“But he also knows about my mid-term,” Gwaine says urgently, “which can only mean he’s a bloody witch.”

“This isn’t a good idea, Arthur,” Lance says. “We should leave. Now.”

“Yeah, Arthur,” Emrys says, sounding bored. “Leave.”

Arthur’s mouth twitches. “Give us the room,” he repeats. “And mind the doors.”

Lancelot shares worried glances with the others, but Arthur’s word is final and there’s nothing left to do except shuffle out of the living room.

They crowd against the door the moment it closes.

“Move over,” Gwaine complains, wedged between Leon’s hip and Percy’s shoulder. “I can’t bloody breathe!”

“Ow! Somebody elbowed me!” Elyan cries.

“Guys, shush!” Lance admonishes. “They’ll hear us!”

Silence falls over the group as they strain to hear the conversation in the other room.

Leon sighs after a moment. “Nothing.”

“Same.”

“Me, neither.”

Lance nods at Elyan. “Can you…?”

“On it.” He goes to boot up the laptop on the desk.

Percy peeks out the window. “We’ve got company.”

“How many?”

“I count twenty, maybe twenty-five uniforms on stand-by. Probably more around the perimeter.”

“Shit.”

“Well, you heard the boss,” Leon says. “‘Mind the doors.’ So, let’s go over the list while Elyan works.”

They all nod.

“Lost in Translation?”

“Not enough time.”

“Tallulah’s SpongeBob?”

“Not enough people.”

“Sexy Phone Voice Nicole?”

“Gwen said she’s not doing that again.”

Leon rubs at his neck. “Then that leaves…” They all turn to Percy, who pales. “That leaves Polar Bear in a Snowstorm.”

“I don’t want to do Polar Bear in a Snowstorm,” Percy says sadly.

Lancelot pats him on the back. “Sorry, mate. Just pretend you’re somewhere else?”

Percy sighs, stands up. “Do we need to check the wires?”

“No, they should be fine,” Leon says. “Daegal’s been looking after them.”

“It’s up!” Elyan hollers.

The men flock to the desk, where Elyan’s laptop is now showing a relatively unobstructed view of Arthur and Emrys in the next room, still standing right where they left them.

Nothing but static from the speaker at first, then Arthur’s voice flows in.

“—use it. Not in the end.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Emrys says flatly.

“You don’t believe me.”

“Does it matter, either way?”

“No, I suppose not.” A pause, then Arthur says, “So, what’s the plan? You’ll have your men kick the doors down? Lock us up? I assume there’s at least two dozen waiting for your signal already.”

“I’ve been authorized to cut you all a deal.”

“Oh, this oughtta be good.”

Emrys ignores him. “Reduced sentences for everyone involved. Nine years instead of fourteen. Parole after six if you behave yourselves.”

“How generous.”

“And you’ll get to carry out your sentences here in the Netherlands, instead of being extradited back to the UK.”

“And we’re grateful because…?”

“Dutch prisons,” Emrys says brightly. “Fewer shivs than most.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Arthur says, leaning against the armrest. His smirk is obvious even if Lance can only see his back. “And, pray, what must we do in exchange for such magnanimous offer?”

“Return the stock certificate, for one,” Emrys says. “It was my idea that helped you get it anyway, so it’s only fair.”

His idea? Lance thinks with disbelief. Why was a cop—detective—discussing burglar strategies with his boyfriend? And how the hell does he know—

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Arthur says, head tilted. “We’ve already handed it over when we got busted last night. Thanks for that, by the way.”

Emrys smiles. “My C.O. has given me exactly thirty minutes before storming this place and cuffing you lot. Do you really want to waste them lying to my face?”

“Oh, hell,” Elyan says. “He knows it’s a fake. How the hell does he know it’s a fake?”

“Arthur’s not actually going to hand it over, is he?” Percy asks.

“Shh!”

“Granted,” Emrys says, “it’s what you did for the entirety of our relationship. But we don’t exactly have one anymore, do we?”

“Alright, fine,” Arthur says. “The certificate is in a safety deposit box at MeesPierson. Account name Willem—”

“Groenewold,” Emrys finishes. “I know where it is. I just need the security code to get past your associate. And speaking of which, you can tell Tristan Meliodas he’s lucky his wife is who she is or they would’ve arrested him for obstruction of justice.”

“You really have gotten better,” Arthur says, amused.

“The code, arsehole.”

Arthur gives it to him, much to the devastation of Lance and the others.

Emrys grabs his radio and pass the information to his colleague.

“Copy that,” says a tinny voice. “And, uh, boss wants to know how much longer you’re going to take, over.”

“Tell him if he comes in before my go-ahead, he’ll be cleaning up his own mess, over,” Emrys says icily, switching off the radio and reattaching it to his belt.

“Pissface still giving you a hard time?” Arthur asks lightly. “Is it true he’s even promoted that baboon, Kanen?”

“Shut up.”

Arthur’s hands go up in surrender. “We done?”

“If only,” Emrys says, sardonic. “Once you get out of prison, you leave. Never set foot in this country for as long as I’m still posted here. Picnic elsewhere with your merry band of thieves.”

“Aw, won’t you miss me?”

Emrys takes a menacing step forward.

“Woah, okay,” Arthur says. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

“You’d better.”

“That all?”

Emrys is silent. For the first time since Lancelot first saw him, he looks… uncertain.

“No,” he says finally. “I want Kilgharrah back.”

Lance frowns. Kill—what?

On the speaker, Arthur’s voice hardens. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

“You gave me Kilgharrah.”

“Yeah, well, I want him back.”

It’s a person? Or an animal? Is Kilgharrah a dog? Does Arthur have a dog? Lance’s confusion intensifies. A quick look at his friends confirms they’ve got no idea what’s going on, either. But surely, Arthur will say yes. He’ll agree to return… whatever or whoever it is that Emrys is demanding. They’ve already given up the loot, there’s no reason—

“No,” Arthur says.

Emrys narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“I said, no. You gave him to me. He’s mine. I’m keeping him.”

Emrys stares at him. “You can’t be serious. You would break this deal, not just for yourself but for all your friends, simply because—”

“Correct,” Arthur says, sounding as serious as Lancelot has ever heard him. “So, unless you plan to use that gun on me—”

“Oh, you think I wouldn’t?”

“I know you wouldn’t.”

Emrys pulls the gun on him.

Lance and the others burst out of the study in a heartbeat. “Arthur!”

“Stand down,” Arthur orders.

“But—”

“I said, stand down,” he snaps, eyes not leaving Emrys. “Go ahead, shoot.”

“Arthur!”

“Quiet,” Arthur grits out. “Do it, Merlin. You’ve been waiting for this day, haven’t you? Aim wherever you want.”

“Why are you doing this?” Emrys demands, voice strained like Arthur was the one with the gun. “Why can’t you just give him to me and bugger off? Isn’t that what you’re good at?”

“Merlin.”

“It’s not like you give a shit. That’s why you left, isn’t it? Because none of it mattered—”

“Of course, it fucking mattered,” Arthur says, and Lance is startled to realize he’s upset. Arthur is never upset. He’s the calm, collected one. It’s his job. “I left because you were one lab result away from finding out who I was.”

“You think I’d be mad about you being a thief?” Emrys says, incredulous. “I don’t care about that, Arthur. I care that you lied to me. I care that you left.”

Arthur scoffs. “So, what, I should’ve stayed? You wouldn’t have turned me in?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have.”

“That’s real reassuring, yeah. You sure know how to make a guy feel better.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Emrys says. “It was my decision to make. You didn’t—You never gave me the chance to make that choice.”

Arthur is silent this time, face unreadable.

Lance racks his brain trying to think of what to do. In all the years he’s been with this crew, there’s never been any protocol for the particular scenario where your leader and friend is held at gunpoint by his detective ex-boyfriend. Christ, maybe they should’ve called Morgana when they had the chance.

Emrys lowers his gun, holsters it. “Forget it,” he says tiredly. “Sod this. Just… go. Do what you do best.”

Arthur watches him for a moment longer, then instead of walking to Lance and the others, he comes closer to Emrys, until they’re within an arm’s reach.

“Remember when we went to Rome?” Arthur says lowly, Lancelot and the others straining to hear him.

“They went on a holiday to Italy together?” Gwaine whispers furiously.

Percy shuts him up with a hand over his mouth.

“We booked the tickets at 3AM on a Thursday,” Arthur continues. “You packed too little sunscreen and too many hats.”

Emrys glares at him. “I packed two.”

“Two too many. They had them by the dozens at the airport, Merlin.”

“It’d be too expensive. I’ve told you this.”

“I’m not having this argument again,” Arthur says. “Do you remember what you said when we made a stop at that café on the way to the hotel?”

Emrys frowns, shakes his head.

“You were complaining about the heat. You had charmed the café owner into surrounding us with what appeared to be all the fans in the world. And then you said, ‘Arthur, I really like you, but I’d sell you for a half-eaten ice cream cone right now.’ ”

Leon snorts. Gwaine looks like he’s holding on for dear life as his shoulders shake.

Emrys shrugs despite the pink blooming on his cheeks. “It seemed a fair trade at the time.”

Arthur smiles. “That’s when I knew.”

Emrys swallows. “Knew what?”

Arthur is quiet again, just looks at him with soft eyes.

Lance feels a bit breathless. They can’t be…

Emrys ducks his head. From this distance, Lance can barely make out his words as he mutters, “You know your friends are on the other side of the room watching us, right?”

“I don’t blame them. It’s been rather dull lately.”

Emrys gives him a dubious look. “You hit all three of Cenred Marbeck’s casinos on the same night, not four months ago.”

Right, Lance thinks with a sigh. He might as well know about that, too.

Arthur grins. “Been watching me?”

“Of course not. Are you admitting it was you?”

“Of course not.”

Emrys bites his lips. Then, with a hesitant hand, he reaches up and touches the bruise on Arthur’s cheek. “I told them not to hurt you.”

Arthur closes his eyes, leans into it. “And here I thought you were watching from somewhere with stroopwafels.”

“Maybe next time.”

Elyan swallows, whispers, “Guys. He’s…”

“Yeah,” Lance says, equally stunned.

“They’re…”

“Yeah.”

The radio at Emrys’ belt starts blinking and vibrating, but Arthur grabs his hand before he can pay it any mind. “Come with me.”

Emrys flinches. “Arthur—”

“I mean it. Your mother is gone. There’s nothing left for you here.”

“Nothing left? My life is here.”

“Not the one you want; you told me that yourself.”

Emrys shakes his head. “We can’t. You… They’ve got you surrounded.”

“You and I both know they wouldn’t even be aware of my being in the country, if it weren’t for you. And Alined is as slimy as he is a buffoon.” Arthur squeezes his hand. “There are other ways to find your father.”

Emrys looks up in shock. “You—” His comms, which has been vibrating on and off, starts up again. With a curse, he grabs it. “What?”

“Emrys,” a surly voice hisses. “You’re on my last fucking nerve, boy. What is your status?”

“Give me a minute,” Emrys snaps. He switches the device off again and turns to Arthur with confliction.

“That café in Rome,” Arthur says, “I’ll wait for you there in a month’s time.”

Emrys looks away. “Arthur… This is too sudden. I don’t—I can’t—”

“Maybe you can,” Arthur says, stepping closer. “Guess I’ll leave the decision to you this time.”

A forceful bang echoes up to their floor. The police have breached the building.

“Leon!” Arthur calls.

“Snowstorm!” Leon says. “Third variation!”

Arthur throws a nod their way. Lance has just enough time to register him pressing a kiss to Emrys’ temple and whispering something to him, before Leon says, “Clear!”

Seconds later, the entire street turns black.

It’s damp and dusty and too bloody cramped and maybe Percival was right to hate this plan so much. Lance reminds himself that it was either this or back in the slammer as he tries to keep his apprehension to a minimum—Gwen told him he tended to hyperventilate a little when he’s stressed, and the last thing they need right now is to run out of oxygen. His eyes have thankfully adjusted to the dark, so he turned his head just so to look at his companions. Gwaine is already twitching but otherwise dutifully quiet. Leon’s eyes are closed, his breathing even and measured as if he was meditating on a mountain retreat and not stuck under the floorboards with two other grown men.

Up above them, Alined is still mid-rant.

“—audacious, insolent little fool!” he spits, sounding close to the front door now. “Do you have any idea how much resources I’ve wasted on this?”

“Seeing that I did most of the legwork for them? Yes, I do,” Emrys says, voice drifting as he inspects the suite. The uniforms have already combed the entire building, but of course he isn’t so easily persuaded.

“Watch your mouth, Emrys,” Kanen snarls. “You’re addressing a superior officer.”

“I told you to wait for my signal.”

“Damn your signal,” Alined says. “We’ve been out there for almost an hour—”

“Forty-one minutes,” Emrys mutters. Lance hates that he’s apparently close enough for that to be audible at all.

“—and look how much good that’s got us. An entire criminal organization gone in a blink of an eye. What, did they capoeira out of this room? Fat fucking chance. You’ve just lost them like a halfwit does his fucking pants. I always knew you were too much of a smug little shit for your own good.”

“Probably why his daddy ran off in the first place,” Kanen jeers. “Good thing he’s already snuffed it in jail, aye, Emrys? Doesn’t have to hear about your massive fuck-up now.”

“The things I’d do if he were one of mine,” Alined sniffs. “I’d love to wipe that impudent look right off his face.”

Lance would bristle at the verbal abuse, he would, but right now he’s far too occupied with the fact that he can no longer track Emrys’ location in the room.

“Yes, you would’ve made a wonderful father,” Emrys says eventually, Lance nearly choking at how close he sounds. “As your children would agree—when they’re done suing you, of course. Remind me, will this be your second or third time buying off the jury? I lose track.”

“You—How dare you accuse—”

“Save the indignant posturing for the press, boss,” Emrys cuts in. “Especially since one of these days they might find out about that whole debacle in—”

“Alright, enough,” Alined snaps. His boots make heavy thuds as he strides towards Emrys and Good God they’re right above them. “You may have the Director’s ear after that fluke in Romania, and that may be keeping you safe for now. But the moment you break our deal, I don’t care if you’re her long-lost fucking grandson, I will end your career before you can say ‘please.’ Is that understood?”

“Of course,” Emrys says, impassive.

“I doubt she’ll want anything to do with you, though, after this,” Alined says. “Your third time losing Pendragon’s Six. Might get you off her good books for good, Boy Genius.”

“That won’t be a problem, because I know where they are.”

Lancelot feels his heart drop to his stomach.

“You do?” Alined asks, clearly sceptical.

“Yes. Before sunrise, they’ll be at Schiphol, where a private jet will be waiting for them.”

“Ah, so you don’t actually know where they are, just where you think they will be.”

“Their getaway pilot arrived there yesterday morning,” Emrys says. “Contact ground control and have them do a sweep. They’ll tell you there’s an unlicensed aircraft on the perimeter, and it will have been there for no more than half a day.”

“If you’re bluffing…”

“Contact ground control,” Emrys repeats. “Look for light to mid-size jets.”

A connected call with Schiphol confirms Emrys’ intel, and Alined gives his men the order to move out with one last threat to pin it all on Emrys should it go sideways.

“If it doesn’t, though,” Kanen says over the sounds of policemen clearing out of the room. “Thanks for the arrests, pal.”

“Oh, Kanen,” Emrys exclaims. “When did you get here? You should’ve said something.”

“Fuck you, Emrys.”

“Love you, too.”

Kanen stomps away, after which it takes a couple of minutes for Emrys himself to leave, and a few more for Daegal to radio them the all-clear form the front desk.

Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon gingerly get out from under the floorboards.

Leon goes to the nearby wall, knocks twice, pauses, then knocks twice more.

The heavy closet blocking the jib door slides smoothly away as Arthur, Percy, and Elyan emerge.

“So…” Gwaine finally says, brushing the last of the spiderwebs from his hair. “You think he knows we’ve already ditched the jet?”

Arthur doesn’t say anything, just smiles as he dusts his jacket.

Gwaine grins. “That’s a yes, then.”

Leon sighs. “I have to call Morgana.”

“Oh, this I gotta hear,” Gwaine says, following him.

“Percy…” Leon starts.

“Yep,” Percy says, grabbing Gwaine and dragging him in the opposite direction.

“Oh, c’mon!”

“Arthur,” Lance says when it’s only the two of them. “Earlier. We… You…”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “I…?”

Lance wants to say, He lied for us. For you. He wants to say, I feel like I’ve just met you for the first time. He wants to say—

“Nothing,” he says instead, swallowing. “Let’s head to Viv’s. I’ll tell her we’re coming.”

“Yeah.”

With the exception of Lance, the rest of the crew spend the entire trip to Vivian’s attempting to grill Arthur about Emrys: how they met, what he thought Arthur did for a living, if bodily harm was part of their flirtatious patois like their initial conversation had suggested, what the hell a Kilgharrah was… Anything they could think of. Keyword being “attempt,” though, because despite their incessant questioning, Arthur is already back to his usual self, which means he knows exactly what to say to throw them all off the scent.

(“A bloody ‘organization,’” Elyan says with disdain. “Who in God’s name even started this damn label, anyway?”

“It was probably back in Chicago when we did that job for that guy who was obsessed with forms—”

“Well, then somebody should’ve bloody consulted us,” Gwaine says. “This is a collaboration. I’m a private contractor!”

Lance snorts.

“I am!”

“Either way,” Leon says. “I’m fairly sure we have to be organized to be an organization…”

“Hey, come on, we’re organized,” Percy argues. “Gaius’ got binders.”

“I meant structurally organized. We don’t have an HR person, now, do we?”

“What else do you call Morgana?”

Leon splutters. “I don’t know, my wife?”)

And by the time they arrive at the pub, Mordred has finished cooking his famous lamb cawl, which means talking is no longer appropriate.

For a while.

“Wait, hold up,” Elyan says with a mouthful of food. “Did you say you two went to Rome?”

Arthur breaks a loaf of bread in half. “Yeah.”

“And this was two and a half years ago.”

“Yeah.”

“After the Bulgari job?”

“…”

Percy looks up from his beer. “When we were supposed to be steering clear of Rome?”

“…”

“When we were supposed to be steering clear of the entire nation of Italy, especially Rome,” Leon says through gritted teeth.

“…”

“Arthur!”