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Peter Drake was having a crap day. It was absolutely no consolation to him that the woman lying in the hospital bed was having a much worse one.

“I'm sorry, duck,” Nessie said sadly. “I've gone and buggered it all up.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Peter said, squeezing her shoulder. “It's not your fault.”

“It is,” Nessie insisted stubbornly in her soft Scottish accent. “If I hadn't been so bloody old, I wouldn't have fallen in my bloody bathtub and broken my bloody arm.” She tried to lift the appendage in question, only to give it up when she winced in obvious pain.

“Now Nessie, don't strain yourself,” Gareth admonished, coming closer to her injured side.

“Oh, leave me be,” Nessie snapped. “I've been straining all my bloody life, and it's never done me any harm. And besides, you're a history professor, not a bloody doctor; how d'you know when I've strained myself?”

Although he didn't want any part of the debate between the two, Peter had to agree with Nessie. Jean Margaret “Nessie” Kilgarrah was turning eighty this summer, and she looked younger than Gareth, who was more than ten years her junior. She'd started in an aeroplane plant during the war at the age of fourteen, and had been a welder ever since. Unfortunately for all of them, however, it looked as though her long career was now on hold, if not at a complete end, and Peter's dreams for the summer had been neatly scuppered.

“Don't worry,” Peter told her, when the two older folk had finally quit arguing, “I'm sure we'll be able to find someone else. Not as good as you, mind, but someone who'll be able to finish the project.”

He looked up to see Gareth staring at him over Nessie's head, a clear question in his eyes: We will? When he looked down again, he saw that the old woman was watching him in that inscrutable way she sometimes had, the one that always made him feel as though she were seeing clear through to his soul.

“You know, I think you will at that,” she said. “Perhaps this will all work out for the best. Fate moves in mysterious ways, my old dad always used to say.” She rolled her shoulders, wincing again at the sensation. “I just wish it didn't always have to boot you up the arse when it does.”

“So basically we're buggered,” Peter said, taking a sip of his lager. He was going to miss their regular table at the Eagle; after three years, his arse had practically worn an impression in the seat.

Tish frowned. “There's really no one else who can help you finish the plane?”

“No one who's available. There were a couple of local tradesmen we knew who used to lend their time when they could, but they're off on construction projects in the Middle East. They may be back in late autumn, but by then it'll be too late for me. And anyone else would want to charge for their time, and rightly so, but there isn't enough of a budget left to pay anyone decently.” Peter sighed. “I might have known it wasn't meant to be.”

“Now you're talking like Nessie,” Tish murmured.

“I can't help but feel a bit fatalistic,” Peter snapped. Tish only raised an eyebrow at him, and he subsided. “I've decided I'm going back to London early.”

Tish leaned forward in her chair. “What? Why?”

“Because there's no point in spending another summer here at the museum, having you and Gareth natter at me about staying,” he answered.

“I'd hardly call it nattering,” Tish said, bristling. “You're at the top of your class, and you've distinguished yourself both at uni and at the museum. Cambridge is practically salivating to see you do graduate work, and Cambridge doesn't salivate for anyone. Professor Braithwaite and I only want what's best for you –”

“I know you do,” Peter said, as gently as he could considering his heart was pounding in his chest. “And I appreciate it, I do. But it's impossible.”

“If you'd only talk to your father –” Tish began.

Peter shook his head. “There's no point in that, either. No, I've had my fun, and I wouldn't trade these years for the world. But it's time to grow up and accept my responsibilities.”

“Oh, Peter,” Tish said, placing her hand over his.

“And you needn't worry about the house – if you and Logan can't find another renter, I'll be happy to pay my share for the rest of the summer.” They had found a lovely furnished cottage midway between Duxford and Cambridge that would have been perfectly situated, and would have given them at least some chance to see one another considering their busy schedules. Tish would be interning at a law firm over the summer, Logan was teaching summer courses, and Peter had planned to spend as much time as possible at the museum. One would think that living for three months in close quarters with one's ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend would have been ill-advised, but Peter and Tish had called it off ages ago, and Logan was now his second-best friend, a real mate. Of course, it helped that Peter had finally admitted he wasn't nearly as straight as he'd fancied himself to be when starting at uni three years back.

“I'm not worried about the house, you git,” Tish said affectionately, “I'm worried about you. Oh, if only there were someone –” Tish's expression suddenly brightened. “Wait, maybe there is!”

Peter frowned, momentarily confused. “Maybe there's what?”

“Someone who can help you with the plane,” Tish said, in a rush. “Of course, I don't know if he'd do it. He's a little – erm – well, it's complicated. Actually, I shouldn't say complicated, but it might be, you know, difficult?”

“Letitia,” Peter said, pinching the spot between his eyebrows, “perhaps you could start from the beginning.” It astonished him how Tish could slice through her fellow law students in debates like a sword through soft butter and yet would still occasionally become flustered in conversation, as she had when he'd first met her.

“Well, Logan and I met him a couple of weeks ago. He's a metal artist – does some really amazing work with jewelry and small sculptures using scrap and recycled materials, though he says he's also working on a bigger piece.”

Peter looked up, a flash of hope flaring in him. “He sounds like a real possibility. What's his name, and how can I get in touch with him?”

“His name's Rhys Evans, and he's got a table at the All Saints Craft Market at the weekends. But Peter, Logan and I, erm. We met him at the Afghanistan rally.”

Peter frowned. “Right, so that would mean he's –”

“A total pacifist,” Tish said, nodding grimly. “Yeah. I mean, we went for tea afterwards, the three of us, and he has this whole theory about the military-industrial complex and the manufacturing of global conflicts...”

“Marvelous,” Peter sighed, the flash of hope crashing and burning on the tarmac. “Don't suppose he'd be too keen on working on restoring a World War Two fighter plane for the Imperial War Museum, then.”

Tish ventured a smile. “You could give it a try?”

“I'm going to have to,” Peter said, turning his palm up and giving her hand a squeeze. “It looks like for better or for worse, Rhys Evans is my only hope.”

The following week passed in a blur, as Peter finished sitting his exams, packed up the last three years of his life and gradually said farewell to friends. In between he spoke with Nessie on the telephone – she was home and chafing at the restrictions placed on her by the doctors – and avoided the ever-increasing number of e-mails from Gareth. The King's Affair was Wednesday, and if there was a more perfect way to kill forty-eight hours and several million brain cells, Peter couldn't imagine it. By the time Friday morning rolled around, he had a terrific headache and a vague memory of doing rather inappropriate things with that tall, ginger teaching fellow he'd had the raging crush on in first year. After deciding it was probably an alcohol-induced fantasy – after all, there were no marks on his wrists or ankles – he resolved to avoid any such events at LSE.

Saturday was occupied with moving Tish and Logan's possessions from King's to the house in Great Shelford, and since Peter had no other place to put them, he moved his possessions as well, though he left his boxes piled up in the hall. Tish eyed them forlornly and opened her mouth as if to say something, then shut it again when she looked at Peter's face.

Saturday supper was at least an enjoyable occasion, with a home-cooked meal of fresh produce from the market. Logan made his promised vegetable curry, and both Tish and Peter pronounced it 'surprisingly edible.'

“Cheers,” Logan said, smiling. “See if I cook for you again.”

“You'll have to soothe his wounded soul later,” Peter said to Tish around a mouthful of curry.

“Or you could give him a lovely blow job, that might cheer him up,” Tish said, smiling evilly. Logan turned bright red, and Peter coughed so hard he nearly aspirated a piece of cauliflower into his nasal passages.

“Seriously, though, this is a far cry from the gyp rooms,” Tish said. “We could barely make a decent pot noodle.” She paused, and Peter tensed, bracing for the blow. “You know, it's a real shame you're leaving. I was looking forward to seeing you in an apron.”

Peter speared a piece of pepper with his fork. “Look on the bright side. The two of you can scamper about the place starkers whenever you like if I'm not around.”

“Oh, Peter, we were going to do that even with you here,” Tish replied sweetly; this time it was Logan's turn to choke.

On Sunday, Peter girded his loins and took the bus into Cambridge. He went for a long walk through the college grounds, visiting his old haunts, finally sitting by the bank of the Cam and watching the herd of cattle grazing in the meadow across the water. It was a scene he'd never see in London, and he was surprised to find he missed it already.

Leaving for perhaps the last time through the Porters' Lodge, he walked along King's Parade toward the craft fair. All Saints Garden was bustling with artisans displaying their wares and brightly-outfitted tourists looking them over. The crowds were so thick that Peter grew increasingly frustrated trying to battle through them to get a good look at the people behind the tables. Tish had described Rhys to him – about their age, tall, skinny, dark-haired, overlarge ears – but unfortunately there were quite a few people who fit that description. Peter made a tit of himself several times introducing himself to random strangers before he decided to start looking at the displays rather than the people.

He found what had to be Rhys's work almost immediately; the pieces were exactly as Tish had said, extremely beautiful and finely wrought. Some of the pieces were cast, and others were welded, showing evidence of a skilled hand easily as talented as Nessie's. A few were made from obviously recycled parts, everything from bottlecaps and jar lids to watch parts and utensils. Peter found himself drawn to a small serpent made from odd bits. When he picked it up, he saw that it was articulated; it writhed in his hands like a living thing.

He looked up at the sound of a throat being cleared to see a woman in a strapless top with rather extraordinary blue eyes. Her flowing black hair was shaved on one side to expose a complex Celtic knotwork tattoo on her scalp.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, feeling an odd stab of disappointment that he still hadn't found the elusive Rhys. “How much are you asking for this?”

“Let me check,” she said, turning away to fetch a price list. Peter saw that the top of her bared back was adorned with another Celtic-themed tattoo that stretched from shoulder to shoulder. “That one's forty,” she said, turning to face him again.

Peter must have looked as surprised as he felt, because she frowned and said, “There's a lot of work goes into those, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Peter said. “I was just thinking how reasonable it was. If you don't mind my saying, you're selling yourself cheaply.”

The woman merely stared at him balefully for several seconds, and it finally occurred to Peter that he hadn't phrased that in the best possible way. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean –”

The woman's eye acquired an evil twinkle. “I know you didn't,” she said, mouth curling up on one side, “I just felt like making you sweat a little.” She nodded at the table. “Truth is, I tell Rhys the same thing; he could be selling this for twice as much, but he –”

“Rhys?” Peter interrupted, his heart leaping. “This is Rhys Evans' work?”

The woman's eyebrows rose. “It is. You know him?”

“No, but I'm looking for him.” When her eyebrows climbed even higher, he said, “That is, I'm hoping to speak with him about – a commission. Is he here?”

The woman shook her head. “We trade off days at the fair to help one another out. He works Saturdays and I work Sundays.”

“Oh,” Peter said, crestfallen. “Right.” He honestly couldn't imagine waiting another week to talk to a fellow who probably wouldn't agree to help them anyway. In the meantime, Gareth and Tish would have had a chance to work on him further, and there was no telling what would happen to his resolve in that case. “Well, I'll take this, then, please.” He set the serpent down and dug in his back pocket for his wallet.

As she took his money and boxed his purchase, Peter looked at the adjoining table, which was covered in ornate bottles of various colours and shapes. He read the sign propped in the middle:

“Are these yours, then?” Peter asked, picking up a small card that described the contents of a bottle made from blood-red glass. Cure for a lost soul, it said. Peter put it down hastily. “They look – erm. Very interesting.”

The woman – Naomi – only lifted an amused eyebrow at him. “Here you are,” she said, passing the bag over to him. As she did, their fingers brushed, and she pulled back as though burned.

Peter opened his mouth to apologise, then realised he had no idea what he'd be apologising for. Meanwhile, Naomi was staring at him as though she'd seen a ghost. “Are you alright?” he asked.

The woman shook herself, and her shocked expression cleared. “Yes, fine.” Staring at him for a few more moments, this time in an assessing way, she finally said, “I think it'd be best if you go to him. Today.”

Peter frowned as she ducked under the table and came up with a card in her hand, which she passed to him:

“Byron's Pool...” Peter murmured. It was a dim memory; he hadn't been punting on the river since first year, when he'd been dating Tish and trying to impress her. “Isn't that somewhere near the Orchard?”

“Yes, it's above the Orchard,” Naomi said. “Where Bourn Brook empties into the Cam.” At Peter's frown, she added, "It's on the eastern branch of the river, near the old weir."

Peter thought this was beginning to sound a bit odd, and really, what was the point? He'd go traipsing through the countryside looking for this man, and end up being tossed out on his ear as likely as not. “Erm, thank you,” Peter said. “I'll see if I can find it.”

Naomi eyed him a little coldly, as though she knew he was lying. Picking up the red bottle, she pressed it into his palm.

“What's this?”

“On the house,” Naomi told him.

“No, I –”

“Keep it,” she said firmly. “I can honestly say I've never seen someone who needed it more.” And with that, she turned toward a fresh customer, effectively dismissing him. Peter stood there for a few moments like a git, then began fighting his way through the crowds again.

When Peter got off the bus at the Trumpington Park and Ride station an hour later, he suddenly felt heavier, his limbs weighted down as though he'd been dropped off on another planet by mistake. It didn't help that the air had turned torpid and thick, dark clouds had appeared in the sky directly above him.

Wonderful. Now his foul mood was creating its own weather like in a bloody Gothic novel.

He was trying to clear his head – he should pick up a couple of things at Waitrose while he was here – when he felt a cold, hard shape in his front jeans pocket. Oh, that ridiculous bottle of Naomi's. He dug it out and turned it over in his hands, studying it. There were no markings or labels on it, but the glass was etched with intricate, curving patterns. It seemed a shame to throw it away; he could always dump out the contents and give it to Tish.

Something – he would never be sure what, exactly – compelled him to open it. The top was sealed with wax which peeled away more easily than he would have expected, and the cork stopper came free with a quiet pop. Cautiously, he held it under his nose and sniffed it.

And promptly began coughing as the acrid stench got right up his nostrils and stuck there. God, it was awful, like – he didn't have anything to compare it to; it was quite simply the most foul stuff he had ever encountered. How that woman was allowed to foist poison on an unsuspecting public, he'd never –

Peter opened his watering eyes, blinking furiously, and began walking. It occurred to him that he was going in the wrong direction – he was headed to the back of the shopping centre, not the front – but somehow it seemed to make perfect sense to go this way. Before he knew what was happening, he was marching along a dirt track carved between two fields, headed for a dense thicket of trees. Overhead, the clouds darkened further and the wind suddenly shifted, bringing a sharp-edged chill with it.

Halfway to the trees, the sky opened up, emptying literally buckets of water on his head. Peter kept walking.

He was thoroughly drenched by the time he reached the thicket, so that the protection afforded by the trees' canopy gave no relief from the sensation of his rain-soaked shirt and jeans clinging to his skin. Peter hated being wet in his clothes, and yet he kept going, picking his way through the wood. Through the trees, he could now make out the top of a weir which looked as though it had seen better days; it clearly hadn't been maintained in some time.

He soon saw the structures, a small brick cottage and a smaller wooden shed probably built around the same time as the now-abandoned weir. A thin trail of smoke was struggling its way out of the cottage's chimney, barely visible through the downpour. Peter was certain this had to be Rhys's shop, the way he was certain the sun would rise tomorrow. He knew he should be extremely agitated right about now, and wondering what the hell was happening to him, but all he could think about was that Naomi might've simply said, walk straight back from the Trumpington Waitrose a couple of hundred yards.

As Peter rounded the corner of the cottage, he noted the deep, wide water above the weir that must be the fabled Byron's Pool. He just had enough time to wonder whether Byron had ever had anything to do with the place when the front door of the cottage burst open, revealing a man – Rhys, he imagined – silhouetted in the door frame.

“Come in!” Rhys called, waving his arm in a beckoning gesture. Peter obeyed, feeling the weight on him lift from his shoulders as he climbed the stone steps to the front door.

“God, you must be soaked,” Rhys said. “What are you –” his voice trailed off abruptly as Peter brushed past him at the door. When Peter turned around, he saw that Rhys's face was ashen, and his expression was similar to Naomi's after she'd touched him. However, Rhys's look of shock was swiftly replaced with a carefully bland smile, which made Peter feel as though there were something terrifically important he was missing in all of this.

Pushing aside his confusion, Peter extended a hand. “Peter Drake,” he said.

Rhys stared at his hand for a moment, then took it. His hand was fine-boned, warm, and surprisingly strong. “Rhys Evans.”

“Yes, I know,” Peter said, “I came here looking for you.” That wasn't strictly true, but since Peter had no way of describing what had just happened, that would have to do.

Rhys's smile faded a little. “You did?” His hand was still holding Peter's, and Peter fancied he could feel his pulse jump.

“Yes, I – you see, you were recommended to me by one of my friends. I mean, your work was – ” Rhys's smile disappeared entirely, and Peter's teeth rattled from a sudden full-body shiver.

“Look, alright, never mind that for now,” Rhys said, letting go of him. Peter had a few seconds to take in the cottage as Rhys turned away and rummaged in a clothes cupboard in the corner. The cottage was essentially one room, with a small stove and sink on the far wall and a bed on the opposite side. What might have been a sitting area in front of the fireplace was taken up by workbenches covered with metalworking tools and half-finished projects and recycled metal waiting to be remade into something beautiful.

“Here,” Rhys said, returning with a towel and a pile of folded clothing, “loo's over there. Get changed into some dry clothes, and then we'll talk.”

Unused to being given orders, Peter drew himself up to speak. And then Rhys jerked the pile at him impatiently, and Peter was struck with such a feeling of – of familiarity that it nearly stopped his breath.

“Alright, yes, fine,” Peter muttered, taking the clothing and towels from Rhys and heading for the bathroom.

Peter wrapped his fingers around the mug of tea and took a long, blissful sip of the hot liquid. While he'd changed, Rhys had cleared a spot for a couple of chairs in front of the hearth and built up the fire in the grate, and so by the time Peter had finished his explanation, he was nearly warm.

“So that's the story,” he said. “The IWM would truly appreciate your help and your expertise. I understand you're not likely to want to volunteer, but we are able to pay you a little –”

Rhys snorted. “Well, if I have reservations at the prospect of working on a warplane – and I do – I hardly think money would help me forget my convictions.”

“Right,” Peter said, gritting his teeth, “good point. Well, I suppose there's no need to impose on you any further –” He rose to his feet.

Rhys leapt up after him. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Home. I'll just change back into my clothes –”

“But they're not dry.”

“Well, fine, if I can borrow these I'll return them to you tomorrow.”

“But it's still raining,” Rhys said, his expression oddly stricken. “Please. I –”

“What?” Peter murmured. Rhys was standing close, much farther into Peter's personal space than he usually liked, but Rhys was intriguing and strange and this whole day had been mad and slightly terrifying, and so Peter stood his ground and stared right into those wide blue eyes.

“I, erm –” Rhys's face cleared again, and his mouth quirked at the corner, “I thought you'd be more – determined. You know, give me a bit of an argument.”

Peter frowned. “What made you think that?”

Rhys's mouth worked before he spoke. “Tish told me,” he blurted. “She said you were – inclined to be stubborn.”

“Are you saying it's possible you could be convinced?” Peter asked, taking a small step closer to Rhys.

“I suppose I could,” Rhys hedged. “The problem is that while you've done a lovely job of explaining the mission of the Imperial War Museum and the importance of the Spitfire to history, you haven't told me why this is something I should want to do.”

Peter was momentarily at a loss. Suddenly, inspiration struck him; he walked over to his pile of clothes, picked up the cardboard box holding the serpent and opened it. “I bought this piece of yours today,” he said, unwrapping it and holding it out so that Rhys could see it. “I believe it's meant to evoke those articulated Japanese sculptures – something okimono, I think.”

Rhys looked surprised. “Jizai okimono, yes.”

“Well, some of the greatest masters of that genre were armourers – sword-makers. In addition to these incredibly intricate sculptures, they also made some of the most deadly swords the world has ever seen. They were graded by a rather pragmatic standard: how many human bodies they could cut through with a single stroke.”

Rhys's jaw twitched. “Yeah, I did know that. You could say I'm a student of history myself. But I don't make weapons, even if they did. That's my choice.”

“But they didn't have that choice,” Peter said gently. “They lived in a time and in a culture where creating beautiful, terrible weapons was simply what an expert metalworker did. It was the same for Nessie, for every other man and woman working in that plant sixty-five years ago. They turned out machines to kill people as fast as they could, because the alternative was even more unthinkable. It's important to remember those realities not only because they happened, but because understanding why and how we go to war is the only way to end it.”

Rhys was watching him closely, and Peter held his gaze, waiting. Finally, he said, “You're not what I expected at all.”

Peter frowned at the odd choice of words, and Rhys's tone. “You almost sound – disappointed.”

“No, I'm not, actually,” Rhys murmured. “It's just going to take some getting used to.”

Peter stared at him. “Does that mean you – that you'll help?”

“It means I'm thinking about it,” Rhys answered. “Why don't we argue about it some more over dinner? I have a chicken pie in the fridge that's far too big for one person.”

“Are you asking me to dinner?” Peter asked, nonplussed.

“You're here, and it's still raining, and I'm hungry,” Rhys said, his full mouth curving. “I'm just being polite.”

“Oh,” Peter said, feeling a smile tugging at his own lips. “Well. Thank you, yes. I'd be honoured to accept your very generous invitation.”

“Hmm,” Rhys said, turning toward the kitchen, “now that's more like it.”

For dinner, Rhys laid out thick blankets in front of the hearth and they sat cross-legged on them, eating a surprisingly good pie and drinking a local brew from a pub up the road.

“Good beer in Cambridgeshire,” Rhys observed, downing the last of his pint.

“How long have you been here?” Peter asked.

“Not long. A couple of months.” Rhys glanced at Peter, then looked away again. “I travel around a lot.”

“Restless spirit?”

“Something like that,” Rhys said. “I'm thinking I might stick around for a while, though.”

“You'll love it here,” Peter said. “I certainly did.”

“'Did?' Aren't you still living here?”

Peter took another sip of his beer. “Well, not past September, anyway. I'm starting at the London School of Economics in the autumn.”

“I thought you were an historian.”

“I just finished my undergraduate degree in history. That's as close as I'll ever get to being an historian, I'm afraid.”

Rhys frowned. “So what are you going to be studying in London?”

“Management,” Peter murmured, trying to sound enthusiastic. “My father owns a business – it sells luxury commercial aircraft. I'll be going to work for him once I get my master's.”

“So you got your love of aeroplanes from your dad?”

Peter shook his head. “Hardly. My grandfather started the company – he was a Spitfire pilot in the war – but Dad's never been keen on planes. He doesn't even like to fly for work.”

“Hm, the plot thickens,” Rhys said, leaning forward. Peter felt the full weight of Rhys's gaze on him; it was surprisingly heavy to bear. “Something tells me you're not terribly excited at the prospect of taking over the family business.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When you talk about history, your voice sounds alive. When you talk about your dad's company...” Rhys trailed off, leaving the obvious comparison for Peter to make.

Peter's jaw twitched. “It doesn't matter. That's what I'm going to do.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze softening. “You've always had a strong sense of duty.”

“How would you know that?” Peter demanded.

Rhys shrugged. “It's something you're born with, or not at all. But Peter, this is the twenty-first century, and forgive me, but you're not the Prince of Wales. The last time I checked, you were allowed to live your own life.”

And that was just about enough. “Forgive me, but you don't know anything about my life,” Peter said coldly.

Rhys stared at him as though Peter had struck him. “No, I suppose I don't,” he said softly. “Sometimes I forget – I mean, it seems as though I've known you longer than an afternoon.” He glanced up at Peter from under dark eyelashes. “I know that sounds odd.”

Peter thought back to the earlier moment with the clothing. “No, I – I think I know what you mean,” he said.

“Yeah?” Rhys was very close now, Peter noticed. There were a couple of pastry crumbs stuck in the corner of his mouth, and Peter gave in to the urge to brush them away with the pad of his thumb. Rhys's lips parted slightly and he stared at Peter, a little glassy-eyed.

Peter dropped his hand. “Well, I'd better –”

“What?” Rhys whispered.

Peter's gaze drifted helplessly to Rhys's mouth. “Go, I suppose. It's getting late.”

As soon as he finished speaking, the soft patter of rain on the roof turned into a sharp, angry pounding, as though the gods had suddenly taken to hurling rocks instead of raindrops. Peter started and stared up at the rafters; they seemed solid enough, he supposed.

“It's still raining,” Rhys pointed out mildly. When Peter looked at him, it seemed for a split second as though the firelight were reflected in Rhys's eyes. Peter's heart leapt in his chest for no good reason.

“So it is,” Peter murmured, and it was somehow the most natural thing in the world to lean in and kiss Rhys, softly at first, then with increasing heat. When Peter clasped Rhys's shoulder, he could feel Rhys's body trembling under his palm.

“You –” Peter began, but Rhys's mouth followed his, swallowing the question. And soon the certainty behind Rhys's kisses made Peter forget there had ever been a question.

“So what does the M stand for?”

“Hmmm?” Rhys raised his head from its post-coital perch on Peter's thigh. The fire was banked now, though the embers and the stone still gave off plenty of heat.

“I said, what does the M stand for in M. Rhys Evans? You know, on the card Naomi gave me?”

Rhys frowned in apparent confusion, then sighed. “Oh, yes. Naomi,” he said, as though that explained everything. “Well, what do you think it stands for?”

Peter reached down to tangle his fingers in Rhys's hair, tousling it further. Messy was a good look for him, he decided privately. “I suppose Michael would be too prosaic.”

“Oh, much,” Rhys agreed, smiling. He turned his head so that Peter's palm cupped his cheek; Peter stroked his thumb over Rhys' chin, scraping the nail over the stubble.

“How about...Martin?”

“Nope.”

“Mortimer?”

Rhys ducked his head and gently bit the tip of Peter's thumb. “That's horrid.”

“It's not horrid. I knew a Mortimer and he was a lovely chap.”

“Did you,” Rhys murmured, leaning down to nuzzle at Peter's softened cock. Peter shifted, about to tell him his recovery period wasn't quite that quick, but then Rhys's tongue flicked out, licking experimentally, and Peter groaned just at the sight of it.

“God,” Peter said, “I half think you've bewitched me.”

Rhys's head jerked up abruptly, a look of shock on his face. “Wh – what makes you say that?”

Peter blinked at him stupidly while his cock protested the interruption in the licking. “I – don't know,” he admitted. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

Rhys shook his head as if to clear it, then returned to his previous task. Peter sighed and spread his legs, letting Rhys settle more comfortably between them. “You're not – ohyes – you're not one of those religious nutters who burns Harry Potter books, are you?”

Rhys raised his head again and cocked an eyebrow at him. “If I were,” he drawled, “I hardly think I'd be doing this, now, would I?” And without further ado, he leaned down and sucked Peter in to the root.

“Ah! Right, good – fuck – good point,” Peter gasped, head flopping back uselessly against the blankets.

“Stop being such a baby.”

“I'm not being a baby,” Arthur snapped, twisting away as Merlin lifted Arthur's shirt and prodded at his ribs. “You're just – do you even know what you're doing?”

“'Course I know what I'm doing. I've been studying under Gaius for three years now, and I've tended to you often enough.”

Merlin's fingers skidded across his skin, and Arthur felt a shocking rush of heat that had him squirming again. “Yes, but Gaius still knows a bit more than you, I should think.”

“Well, he's in the lower town helping with a difficult birth, so you'll have to make do with me,” Merlin insisted. And then, alarmingly, he was pushing Arthur's shirt higher. “Here, let's get this off you so I can have a better look at you.”

Arthur considered resisting, but he really did need someone to inspect his ribs – that crack with the lance had been rather nasty – and Merlin was qualified to determine whether they were broken or merely bruised. In the end, it wasn't Merlin's fault that Arthur had been developing rather – odd – thoughts about his manservant lately, thoughts that usually began with the shedding of clothing. “Yes, alright, I can manage, thank you,” Arthur snapped, stripping off the shirt with the assistance of his good arm.

“Be careful,” Merlin admonished, helping him despite Arthur's insistence, as though his orders carried no weight at all. Arthur opened his mouth to deliver a lecture about the importance of obedience, only to to be halted by the sight of Merlin's mouth pinched and tight with what could only be worry.

Reminding himself that he was, after all, able to demonstrate some self-discipline, Arthur blew out a breath and spread his hands. “Do your worst, then,” he sighed, and knew he'd been successful when Merlin's mouth relaxed, even twitched a little at the corner.

“Yes, sire,” he said, putting just enough emphasis on the second word to make Arthur smile in spite of himself.

Peter awoke with a start when his mobile went off, the Mozart ring tone telling him it was Tish. There was a moment of disorientation as he frantically took in his unfamiliar surroundings – the rough-hewn wooden rafters, the stone hearth, the clutter of metalworking tools – and then he caught Rhys smiling at him from across the cottage, wearing black jeans that clung to his slim frame and nothing else. He was standing at the sink in the small kitchen area, pouring water into a kettle. In the morning light, he looked porcelain-pale and younger than he had the night before.

“I think your mobile's in your jeans,” Rhys told him, lifting his chin to indicate the chair near the fire on which Peter's clothes had been draped to dry last night.

“Right, yeah,” Peter said, sheepish, as the mobile droned on. Heaving himself up from the floor, he staggered over to the chair and dug it out just before it went to voice mail. “'Lo, Tish.”

“Oh, lovely, you're not dead, then,” Tish said, by way of greeting.

“Not dead, no,” he replied, watching the long muscles in Rhys's back stretch as he strained on tiptoe to take a teapot down from the top shelf of the cupboard. “Sorry for not ringing you, but I lost track of time. I, erm – I ran into an old friend.”

Just then, Rhys's hold on the teapot slipped and it fell to the floor with a crash.

“Peter?” Tish said archly. Peter could picture her eyebrows rising toward her hairline. “What's going on?”

“Nothing,” Peter assured her. “Listen, I'm heading directly to the museum soon, so I might not see you until late. Say hello to Logan for me.”

“Wait! Did you manage to get a hold of Rhys?”

Peter stared at Rhys's arse in the tight jeans as he bent over to pick up the pieces of the teapot. “Yes, I got a hold of him.”

“And? Is he going to help you?”

“Mmmm? I'm not sure yet,” Peter murmured. “See you later.” And with that, he rung off.

After hastily throwing on some of his now-dry clothes, Peter ambled over to the kitchen, where Rhys was still picking up the last of the pot shards. “Don't get too close; the bits went everywhere,” Rhys warned, but it was already too late; Peter yelped as something sharp dug into the sole of his bare foot.

“Oh, bugger,” Rhys breathed, rushing to him and guiding him to a chair. “Let me have a look.”

“It’s fine,” Peter grunted, lifting his foot to inspect it. There was a small cut on the ball of his foot near the big toe; he prodded at it with his thumb, wincing as he felt a sharp pain and blood welled up from it. “Hm. Still seems to be a chunk stuck in there.”

“Bugger,” Rhys said again, scrambling to his feet and rushing over to the sink. Within moments, he returned with a large bowl full of water, which he set on the floor. “Stick your foot in that,” he ordered, then ran off the the bathroom.

“It's not that –” Peter began, but Rhys was already gone. Sighing, he did as instructed, lowering his foot into the water and wiggling it about a bit to try to dislodge the pot shard.

Rhys came back with towels, tweezers, bandages, and a small bottle that reminded Peter of the one containing Naomi's foul potion. Setting them aside, he pulled up a chair and sat directly in front of Peter. “Alright, let's have a look,” he said, wrapping long fingers around Peter's ankle and lifting it up to rest on his thigh.

Suddenly, Peter had a flash of a dream from the night before, one that had immediately faded upon waking: a skilled, gentle touch, possessive and caring where it had no proper claim to be either. Rhys's fingers pressed in the vicinity of the cut, without causing pain the way Peter's own inspection had. Leaning down to peer closely at Peter's foot, he manipulated the tweezers like an expert and plucked the offending shard out on the first try. He then dabbed on a small amount of liquid from the bottle and bandaged the cut while Peter stared, dumbstruck, at the top of Rhys's bowed head.

When Rhys set his foot down gently, Peter finally found his voice again. “Thank you,” he murmured, flexing his foot experimentally and feeling no pain. “You're very good at – erm – first aid.”

Rhys looked away. “I took a course a long time ago.” His gaze rose to Peter's face. “I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened.”

“Don't worry about it,” Peter assured him. “After all, it's not as though I've been mortally wounded.”

Rhys stared at him for a long moment, and Peter began to feel again as though he'd missed something. “No,” Rhys finally said, voice raspy. “Though you should get a tetanus jab to be on the safe side.”

“For a bit of a teapot?” Peter asked. When Rhys looked at him sharply, he added, “Everyone who works on the restoration project gets them regularly. I'll be fine.”

“Right, yeah,” Rhys murmured, a bit sheepishly. They paused, staring at one another rather stupidly until the kettle began to whistle.

“Tea?” Rhys asked, hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

Peter checked his watch. “I'd love to, but I have to be at the museum inside of an hour. I'd better –”

“Go, yeah,” Rhys murmured.

Peter ran a hand through his hair. “Look, what are you doing later on this afternoon?”

“Nothing much, why?”

“I'd like it if you could stop by the museum.” At Rhys's wary look, he added, “Let me give you a free guided tour. And if by the end of it you're still not interested in helping us, I won't bother you again.”

Rhys smiled and took a step closer, settling tentative hands on Peter's hips. “You could still bother me in other ways.”

“I suppose I could,” Peter murmured, leaning in. He knew that he should explain his plans to return to London as soon as possible in the event the Spitfire project had to be put on hold, but that seemed too complicated. Besides, as he wrapped his arms around Rhys and drew him in, kissing him deeply, it occurred to him that his carefully-laid plans seemed to be unraveling like a ball of yarn under a cat's paws.

By the time Peter finished his third and final flight of the day in the Rapide, he had pretty much given up hope of seeing Rhys. He landed the passenger craft smoothly and taxied in toward the museum.

“Thank you for flying with us, ladies and gentlemen,” Gerry said over the intercom. “Please remain in your seats until the aircraft has come to a complete stop.” Flipping the switch, she said to Peter, “Good landing, mate.”

“Thanks,” Peter said. His copilot had several years' experience on him, and had helped to train him to fly the seventy-five year old biplane that took tourists on short hops round the countryside and down to London. It had been a bit of a change from the tiny prop aircraft he'd first learned on at sixteen.

After the passengers departed and Gerry left, Peter sat in the now-silent cockpit for a couple of minutes, staring out through the windscreen. He'd had a few hours to think about the previous night, and he'd come to the conclusion that he'd gone a bit mad. Sex with a bloke he'd just met was not usually Peter's style, and he was a bit appalled at himself for hopping into bed (well, into floor, that was) with Rhys, no matter how beautiful his mouth, how blue his eyes, how skillful his hands...well. The point was – the point was – oh, bugger, whatever the point was, Rhys wasn't coming, and Peter might as well get back to the house and pack up his life. It was time to get back to London, and reality.

After changing back into his street clothes, he decided to pay one last visit to the Spit. As he approached the hangar housing the museum's current restoration projects, he felt a strange, electric thrill dance over the surface of his skin, as though another thunderstorm were on the way. Pushing open the door, he was surprised to see the lights on; perhaps Gareth or one of the others had popped in to do a little tinkering.

“Hello?” Peter called out, patting the fuselage of the Spit as he passed. “Anyone here?” Rounding the skeletal nose, he was startled by the sight before him: Nessie and Rhys sitting together.

“Hello, duck,” Nessie said, smiling at him. “Come sit with us.” She patted the free work stool beside her. As Peter approached, Rhys darted an oddly furtive glance at him, as though he were a naughty boy who'd just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Shaking himself from his daze, Peter came forward and bussed Nessie on the cheek. “It's wonderful to see you up and about.”

“Gareth drove me in,” she said. “He was hovering, so I told him to bugger off somewhere else for a while and leave me alone with the old girl. And then who should arrive but this treasure.”

“Yes, I – well, I suppose you've been introduced,” Peter said, nodding at Rhys. “I'm glad you could make it. I, erm, I wasn't sure you'd come.”

Rhys's mouth quirked. “I was,” he murmured, and Peter felt his cheeks heat.

“Your young man and I have just been having a lovely chat,” Nessie said archly. Peter nearly stumbled as he made to sit on the high stool; he shot a raised eyebrow at Rhys, whose eyes widened comically in response. Peter knew that look; it was the don't blame me, she just found out look that people often got around Nessie whenever she demonstrated her rather alarming prescience. Why the old woman should be interested in Peter's romantic life now when she never had been before, however, was something of a mystery. “And what do you know? He's agreed to help us with our baby.”

Peter stared, utterly gobsmacked at the news. “That's – that's brilliant,” he said, turning to Rhys. “Thank you.”

“Thank Nessie,” Rhys said. “She's very persuasive.”

“Having principles are all well and good, of course,” Nessie said, “but sometimes you're put in a time and a place for a reason, and destiny has other plans for you. There are turning points in everyone's life, and this is one of them.”

Oh, dear God; Nessie got like this frequently, and while those who knew her were used to it, Peter didn't think that exposing Rhys to it on the first day was the best strategy for keeping him – on the project, that was. “Well, we really must be going, Nessie,” Peter said, hopping off the stool and leaning in to kiss her again. “Do you want us to drop you anywhere, or are you staying here?”

“Staying, I think, m'dear,” Nessie drawled, the twinkle in her eye so bright it was nearly blinding. Turning to Rhys, she said, “Young man, I'll expect you here at oh nine hundred sharp tomorrow. Then we'll see what kind of alchemist you are, won't we?”

“I hope I won't be a disappointment to you,” Rhys said. Peter was surprised at the edge in his voice.

For her part, Nessie seemed undisturbed by Rhys's tone. “You could never be that, my boy,” she murmured, patting his arm, “never that.”

“Let's go,” Rhys murmured, turning suddenly, and Peter had to jog to catch up with him. They walked across the tarmac in silence for a bit, while Peter tried to work out what the hell had just happened. If he didn't know differently, he would have sworn that Rhys and Nessie knew one another much better than two people who had met that afternoon.

“You didn't tell me you were a pilot,” Rhys said, almost accusingly.

Peter stared at him, taken aback. “Erm, no, I didn't. I'm sure it would have come up today. In fact, if you'd been here earlier, I'd hoped to take you for a ride in the Dragon.”

Rhys stopped dead, nearly tripping over his own feet. “The what?”

Peter pointed at the aircraft sitting a few dozen yards down the tarmac. “The de Haviland Dragon Rapide. It was one of the first commercial airliners to go into service in Britain. Ours is from 1934, and we take museum visitors on tours with her.”

“Oh,” Rhys said, staring at the plane. “Of course, right.” He ran a hand through his hair, and he looked so befuddled and dear that Peter couldn't help putting his hands on Rhys's hips and tugging him close.

“Thank you for doing this. You don't know how much this means to me.”

Rhys's gaze searched his. “I got a fairly good idea from Nessie.”

Peter smiled. “Not even Nessie knows everything.”

“Really?” Rhys asked, mouth twitching. “I could have sworn she did.”

Peter laughed and kissed Rhys briefly before letting him go so that they could continue their walk. “Nessie's the heart of our project,” he said. “She's truly an amazing woman, but unfortunately she's the last of her kind; we don't know of any other female welders from the war who are still working. And now, I'm afraid this may be the end of her career, too. It's sad, really.”

“Yes,” Rhys murmured, staring over Peter's shoulder at the Rapide, “that is sad.” The look on his face was similar to the one Nessie got when she was reminiscing about the war, although what Rhys could have lived through in his short life to produce it was anyone's guess.

“Hey,” Peter said, bringing Rhys back to the present with a gentle hand on his cheek, “how about you let me take you to dinner?”

Rhys shook his head. “You don't have to do that. I said I’d do it, and I will.”

“Not for that. I need to pay you back for the chicken pie.”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “Hm, I suppose you should. It was a pretty nice chicken pie.”

“Delicious pastry,” Peter agreed solemnly, and Rhys finally broke, laughing.

“Alright, where?”

“Come on,” Peter said, taking Rhys's hand and tugging him forward.

Although Tish, Logan and Peter had picked Great Shelford mainly because it was halfway between Cambridge and Duxford, the presence of a top-notch Indian restaurant had been another key point in its favour. While the exterior of the building had seen better days, the interior was welcoming and smelled utterly delicious.

Peter realised he'd monopolised the conversation last night, so he concentrated on drawing Rhys out tonight. He learned Rhys's mother was Welsh, and had raised him alone; that he'd taught himself metalworking when an uncle had died and left him his old tools; and that he'd travelled the world for the last two years. He'd only recently returned home, and had decided on Cambridgeshire by closing his eyes and sticking a pin in a map of Britain.

Despite everything Rhys told him, it felt to Peter as though he were holding back, keeping a great secret – or perhaps a collection of smaller ones – to himself. It was an odd thought, made even odder by the realisation that it was mad to expect it to be any different. They'd only known one another a day, for heaven's sake; of course they were going to have some secrets from one another. It surprised Peter to know, however, that he was keen to learn all he could about Rhys, from his favourite colour to how he felt about the future of the planet to how he liked his eggs in the mornings. He couldn't remember ever feeling this interested in someone this quickly, and to such an extent. It was exhilarating and a bit terrifying all at once.

They ended up back at the house, which elicited a low whistle from Rhys. “This is quite the castle,” he murmured.

Peter shivered for no reason he could determine; the night was as warm as the previous one had been chilly. “It's only a three-bedroom cottage,” he murmured, and then he remembered Rhys's cottage had two rooms in total. “I mean –”

“Just how rich is your dad?” Rhys asked, an assessing look in his eye.

Peter shifted. “The house I grew up in is a little bigger.”

“Are we talking Balmoral levels of 'big', here, or something modestly upper crust with only twenty servants?”

“Only two, actually,” Peter muttered.

“You're a bit touchy about your money, aren't you?” Rhys asked softly.

“Let me guess: it's not what you expected.”

Rhys opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I – look, I'm not trying to cry poor little rich boy here. It's only that – I don't want to think about it, alright?”

Rhys nodded. “Fair enough.”

“Erm, d'you want to come in?”

Rhys frowned and cocked his head as though he were listening to distant music. “Tish and Logan home?”

“Yeah, probably. Want to say hello? I'm only popping in for a minute. If I just grab the car, they're going to think someone nicked it.”

Rhys studied him before shrugging. “Sure.”

Tish was sitting in the darkened living room with her laptop when he entered, her glasses perched on her nose. “No wonder you're going blind,” Peter said.

Tish's serene expression of exaggerated forbearance disappeared when she saw Rhys. “Oh, hello!” she exclaimed, breaking into a wide grin.

“Hullo, Tish,” Rhys said, smiling.

“Does this mean what I think it means?” Tish asked, excited.

Peter swallowed, wondering how the hell she could tell they'd – oh. Right. “Yes, it does. Rhys said he'd help with the Spit.”

“Oh, that's marvelous,” Tish said, beaming. “Now you can unpack those boxes after all.”

Peter grinned. “Yeah, I can. Not tonight, though, I, erm – we have to go.”

“Oh?” Tish said, raising an interested eyebrow as her gaze darted back and forth between the two of them. “Where to?”

Peter hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I'm just going to drive Rhys home.”

Tish bit her lip. “I won't wait up, then. Are you still coming to Rowena's concert tomorrow night?”

“I'm sure I'll see you before then,” Peter muttered, his cheeks heating.

“Are you? I'm not.”

“I'll be there,” Peter gritted.

“Good,” Tish said. “I hope you can come, too, Rhys.”

“Sounds like fun,” Rhys said. The bastard sounded like he was biting back a laugh.

“Good night, Tish,” Peter ground out, taking Rhys by the arm and tugging him out the door.

“Oh my God,” Peter groaned, when the door closed on Tish's merry laugh, “that was horrifying.”

“It's always nice to know that Mum approves of your date, though,” Rhys said, chuckling.

“Shut up,” Peter said, knocking his head against the door. “You have no idea. That woman has seen me naked.”

“Really,” Rhys drawled. “And now you're living with her and her new boyfriend? That's very – modern.”

“It's not like that. They're just marvelous people to be around. Tish is – I don't know, she's going to be the next Prime Minister, or Secretary-General of the UN, I'm sure. She's destined for great things.”

“And Logan?”

“Head of OXFAM, maybe. Or a diplomat. Something involving saving the world.”

“The pure of heart usually try,” Rhys murmured. “And what about you, Peter? Where will you be in twenty years?”

Peter felt his stomach do an unpleasant little flip. “Richer than Croesus, I expect,” he muttered. “Come on, I'll take you home.”

Rhys's hand shot out to grip Peter's arm, halting him before he could walk away. “What did Tish mean about finally unpacking boxes?”

“If you hadn't said yes, I'd be leaving for London right now,” Peter said. At Rhys's raised eyebrows, he added, “There would have been no point in staying, really; the Spit was going to be my last hurrah, as it were. Now you've given that back to me, and it's – I can't thank you enough.”

Rhys shifted on the balls of his feet. “Don't thank me yet. Nessie still has to see if I can weld.”

“You can,” Peter murmured, taking him by the hips. “Your work is beautiful.”

Rhys's face broke out in a completely unguarded smile. “You really think so?” he asked, almost shyly.

Peter nodded, not trusting his own voice. There was something utterly compelling – and eerily familiar – about Rhys like this. They stared at one another for several moments, and then Rhys stepped closer and kissed him, winding his arms around his neck as though they were lovers reuniting after a long time away.

“We're giving my neighbours a fine show,” Peter murmured, lips trailing over Rhys's earlobe.

“I don't care,” Rhys said heatedly.

“Neither do I,” Peter whispered, losing himself – or perhaps finding himself – in another of Rhys's kisses, then another, and another.

“I don't believe it,” Peter muttered to himself, leaning down to get a better look.

“Now I know the romance is dead.”

Peter looked up to see Rhys standing in the doorway of the loo, a fondly bemused expression on his face. He supposed he must look a bit odd, sitting stark naked on a pile of blankets on the floor, staring at the sole of his foot. “How's that, then?” he asked.

“Picking your toenails before the big event is a sure sign something's seriously wrong with your sex life. I read it in Cosmo.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm not picking my toenails,” Peter huffed, “I'm looking at the cut from this morning. Or at least I thought I was.”

Rhys seemed to fly the length of the cottage. “What's wrong? Is it hurting?” he demanded.

“No, just the opposite, in fact.” He angled it for Rhys's inspection as Rhys knelt before him on the floor. “I can't even see where it used to be.”

“Hm,” Rhys said, one hand gently prodding Peter's foot. “I think I see something here.”

“Rhys, it's completely healed. In less than a day.” He paused, then plunged ahead. “The stuff in that bottle you used – was it one of Naomi's potions?”

Rhys's fingers stilled. “Why would you say that?” he asked, tone a little too casual.

Because two bizarre things happening in a little more than twenty-four hours is a bit too much of a coincidence. Peter hadn't told Rhys about his theory that whatever had been in Naomi's bottle had compelled him in some unexplained fashion; Rhys would think him mad, and he still wasn't entirely convinced it was the truth. He kept thinking he'd come up with a more logical explanation for yesterday's events, but so far nothing had presented itself.

“The bottle,” Peter said. “I thought it looked like one of hers.”

“Oh. Well, it was one of her bottles, but I'm afraid there was just boring old disinfectant in it,” Rhys said. “Sorry.”

Peter frowned at Rhys's tone; it was too casual, too blasé. He was no expert at telling when someone was lying, but if he had to hazard a guess, he would say that Rhys had just told him – well, if not an outright lie, an evasion at best. But what could he possibly be hiding?

Rhys's fingers glided up Peter's calves to his knees. “As fascinating as this is, I can think of some more interesting body parts of yours to focus on,” he murmured, gently pushing Peter's legs apart and moving between them.

Peter's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. “You can?”

“Mmm,” Rhys said, nuzzling Peter's neck as his hands continued their journey up his thighs. Peter tugged Rhys's t-shirt upwards, but Rhys made a noise of protest when he tried to pull it over his head.

“I'm busy,” Rhys growled, licking Peter's collarbone.

Peter palmed Rhys's cock through his jeans. “I'd like to be able to do this without two layers of cotton in the way.”

Rhys groaned and pushed his hips forward. “I see your point.” Pulling back, he skinned out of his t-shirt while Peter started on his trousers. Once Peter tugged down the zip, however, he slid his hands under the waistband of Rhys's shorts, cupping his ass.

“I thought we were getting me undressed,” Rhys said, nipping at Peter's jaw.

“I got distracted.”

Chuckling, Rhys wriggled out of his jeans and pants, then pushed Peter down onto the blankets and straddled him.

“Someday I hope we can do this in a real bed,” Peter said wistfully.

“Yeah, sorry about that. My mattress isn't even wide enough for me.” Rhys did a brilliant sort of wriggly thing with his hips that left Peter gasping. “But you're young, I think your back will survive.”

Peter reached up to tweak his nipples. “Twat.”

Grinning wickedly, Rhys took one of Peter's hands and wrapped it around his cock. “I believe you are mistaken, sir. Guess again.”

“Hmm,” Peter said, firming his grip and smiling as Rhys's eyes fluttered shut, “I see your point. I think I'll need to study it thoroughly before I say for certain, though.”

“I'm all in favour of – fuck – rigourous academic standards,” Rhys groaned, hips beginning a sinuous, ancient dance.

“You’re a sorcerer.”

“Yes,” Merlin said, gaze direct and challenging, the same way it had been that first day. “I am.”

The confirmation of something Arthur had suspected for weeks – perhaps even months – was more of a relief than a shock. To know, finally, to be certain that it was the truth – it was oddly comforting.

“Why aren't you shouting?” Merlin asked, suspicious. “I honestly thought that when this moment came, there'd be a deal more shouting.”

“If you knew this moment would come, why didn't you bloody well tell me yourself?” Arthur snapped.

Merlin threw up his hands. “I wanted to tell you! But I'd grown strangely fond of my head over the last twenty years, and I wasn't keen on losing it, thanks!”

“I wouldn't have allowed any harm to come to you, you idiot!” Arthur shouted, gripping Merlin's bony shoulders in his hands. “How could you not have known that?”

Merlin stared into his eyes, and Arthur realised he hadn't let go of Merlin's shoulders. “If Gaius had really been a sorcerer, would you have let him burn?”

The words were a punch to the gut, the blow even harder for the fact that they were true: Arthur had never truly given Merlin any proof that he could be trusted with this secret. His hands dropped from Merlin's shoulders and he took a stumbling step back.

“Right,” Merlin said heavily. “Well, I'll just –” he gestured at the door.

“Where are you going?”

Merlin barked a mirthless laugh. “I don't know, really; I hadn't planned anything out.”

“That's typical of you, at least.”

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, the flash of a real smile dimmed by the regret in his eyes. “I – probably won't go far. Thing is, I've kind of gotten in the habit of keeping you from killing yourself, and I'd hate for you to arse it up and ruin all my good work the first chance you got.”

Arthur frowned. “So – what? You're going to go into hiding, sleeping in alleyways and eating scraps, peering round corners to watch over me?”

Merlin raised his chin. “Something like that, I expect.”

“God damn it, why?” Arthur hissed, stepping close again. He didn't touch Merlin this time, but they were so close that their chests almost brushed. “Why would you do that?”

Merlin shrugged, infuriatingly. “I used to think it was my destiny, but I'm not so sure about that any more.” His lopsided smile emerged like an unexpected sun from behind thick clouds. “Mostly I suppose it's because even though you're a giant, steaming prat, I can't imagine a world without you in it.”

Arthur cleared his throat and tried to look stern; after all, he had an image to maintain. “Well, it's the same for me,” he murmured, “so there'll be none of this – skulking about in alleyways.”

Merlin's face fell. “You – you're banishing me from the kingdom?”

“Don't be thick, Merlin. You're not leaving at all.”

“I'm not?” Merlin stared at him. “But – you'll have to lie to your father about me.”

“Not exactly,” Arthur hedged. “I mean, it's not as though he asks me every morning whether my manservant's a sorcerer. I just won't be – volunteering certain information.”

Merlin said nothing to this, only continued to stare at him.

“Alright, so that's settled,” Arthur said gruffly, clapping Merlin on the shoulder. “Now, I suppose we'll have to explain this somehow. Any ideas?”

Merlin surveyed the blasted, smoking crater in the middle of the forest where the giant spider had been a few minutes before. “Erm. Lightning?”

Arthur squinted up at the cloudless sky. “That one might not pass muster.”

Merlin blew out a breath. “I think I liked you better when you were oblivious.”

“Hmmm,” Nessie said, leaning close, her spectacles low on her nose as she inspected the cooling metal.

Peter glanced at Rhys, who was biting his lower lip. He wanted to tell him not to worry – he'd wielded the Tig welder with a finesse that matched Nessie's – but he wasn't the ultimate judge on this. Welding was far beyond his own metalworking ability, none of which required as much skill as the engine mount assembly, the last major task before the plane could be finished. Without an experienced hand, the welds could fail at an inopportune time, such as when Peter was a thousand feet in the air. Nessie was essentially deciding if Rhys's skills were sufficient for Peter to trust his life to them.

“Peter,” Nessie said finally.

“Yes?” Peter asked, stepping forward.

Nessie sat up slowly, pushing her glasses back on her nose. “You'll be flying by September.”

The joy smacking him upside the head, Peter seized Nessie by the shoulders and kissed her soundly on the cheek.

“Peter, Peter!” Nessie spluttered, fending him off with her good arm. “If you're going to kiss someone, kiss your new welder.”

“I believe I will,” Peter declared, turning around to give Rhys a smacking kiss on the lips. When he pulled back, Rhys stared at him, stunned, and then blushed to the roots of his hair.

“Well, now that's taken care of, shall we try a spot of work?” Nessie enquired sweetly.

The rest of the day flew by, with some of the other volunteers on the project working with Peter on the wings. Every rivet had been removed, the corrosion on the frame had been painstakingly repaired, and now the panels were finally ready to be reattached.

The steady hammering of rivet guns made conversation impossible, and Peter was grateful for the chance to reflect on last night as he worked. There was no question that the cut on his foot had been too deep to heal so quickly, just as there was no doubt in his mind that Rhys hadn't been entirely truthful with him about it. Unfortunately, try as he might, he was at a loss to explain either.

And then there had been the dream. Just like the first one, it had faded quickly, but he remembered a young man with Rhys's face, eyes flashing gold and mouth shaping words Peter didn't understand, just before a startling torrent of flame burst forth from his outstretched hands. That he would dream about Rhys was no surprise, but why he'd imagine him to be some supernatural creature was bizarre. If there was one thing of which he was certain, it was that Rhys was completely human.

Of course, that led to much more pleasant memories, and Peter decided to focus on those instead. There was no point in dwelling on dreams and wild theories, not when Peter's summer had been handed back to him, with the bonus of Rhys in his arms every night.

At the end of the day, Peter drove Rhys home with the promise to return later to pick him up for Rowena's concert. He was dreading the return to the house in Great Shelford, because he knew he'd be subjected to a grilling the second he stepped through the door.

Sure enough, Tish was sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and her stockinged feet propped on the opposite chair. “How was work, dear?” Peter asked, giving her a kiss on the forehead.

“Let's just say I'm looking forward to getting out tonight,” she said, taking a sip of her tea. “How about you?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Bloody marvelous, actually. Rhys is a brilliant welder.”

Tish fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Oh? And what else might he be brilliant at?”

“You're a shameless hussy, aren't you,” Peter said, as evenly as he could.

Tish sighed and took her feet off the chair. “I know, I'm being nosy. But I'm just – well, I'm a bit shocked, really, at how quickly you two – hit it off. You're usually more – erm, what's the word?”

Peter sat down. “Cautious?”

“Uptight, more like,” Tish said.

“Oh, cheers.”

“You know what I mean.” Tish propped her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “What was it about him that made you want to leap before you looked?”

“I don't know,” Peter said honestly. “I suppose being with him seemed – natural. No, that's not quite it.” He frowned, shaking his head. He wanted to say familiar, but that made no bloody sense at all. How could he feel that way about a man he'd only met two days ago?

“Well, as long as you're happy,” Tish said, smiling.

“I am,” Peter said, though the frown didn't entirely leave his face as he said it.

“So how do you know this Rowena?” Rhys asked, above the sound of the crowd in the club.

Logan nodded at Peter. “Peter introduced us a couple of years ago.”

“She's the closest thing I have to a sister, God help me,” Peter said. “Her dad and my dad were best mates, and we grew up together.”

When Rhys didn't respond, Peter turned to him to see he had another of those faraway looks on his face. “What's wrong?”

Rhys shook himself. “Nothing. So she's – a musician now?”

“She's been an accomplished pianist since she was a child,” Peter said, “but she'd always studied classical music. Then a couple of years ago, she suddenly decided she wanted to play jazz.”

“And she's bloody brilliant at it,” Tish interjected.

“Tish has a bit of a girlcrush,” Logan said, grinning.

“I have a big girlcrush,” Tish admitted, raising her glass.

“Why did she change her style of music, do you think?” Rhys asked.

Peter paused, then said, “She lost her dad around that time. She loved him very much, but I think the classical career was more his dream than hers.”

“Sounds like someone we know,” Tish muttered; Logan took her hand where it lay on the table and squeezed it, shooting her a meaningful look when she glanced at him.

Thankfully, at that point Rowena's band members began trickling onto the stage, testing microphones and warming up horns. Rowena's group was a sextet – bass, drums, guitar, saxophone and trumpet – and she had once explained to him why it was the perfect arrangement for her sort of music. Peter had shot back that she simply enjoyed anything with “sex” in it.

Already a favourite among the university jazz crowd, Rowena emerged on stage to near-deafening applause. Sitting nearly shoulder to shoulder with Rhys around the small table, Peter noticed how Rhys's body stiffened at the sight of her. Turning back to Rowena, he saw that she was staring right at them, her expression as inscrutable as the Sphinx's. What the bloody hell –

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Rowena said, turning to smile at the crowd. “So lovely to see so many familiar faces tonight.” She turned back to them. “And some old, and very dear, friends.”

The music was, as ever, brilliant, and while Peter enjoyed the performance as much as he always did, he was distracted by the obvious tension between Rhys and Rowena. It was obvious to him, though Tish and Logan didn't seem to notice it at all.

At the end of her first set, Rowena left the stage to thunderous applause, and immediately came over to their table.

“Tish, Logan, hello,” she said warmly, stepping behind them to put her arms around them both. “So glad you could come.”

“We wouldn't miss it,” Tish told her, smiling. “You were wonderful, as always.”

“Thanks,” Rowena said, flashing a genuine smile in return. “Peter, darling, how are you?” she asked, as he stood to hug her.

“Just fine, love,” Peter answered, squeezing her tightly before releasing her. She usually complained he'd wrinkled her blouse when he did that, but there was no protest this time. “This is Rhys, Rowena. Nessie broke her arm last week, and he's agreed to help us on the Spitfire in her place.”

Rowena cocked her head as she took the hand Rhys offered. “You're a welder?”

“He's a metalworker,” Peter supplied, when Rhys didn't seem inclined to answer. “A very talented one.”

“Isn't it fortunate he happened to be here when you needed him,” Rowena murmured, her gaze cool and fixed on Rhys.

“Yes, it's really – look, have you two met before?” Peter said, unable to contain his curiosity any longer.

Rowena jerked as if struck. “We – yes, we have.” Her gaze returned to Rhys. “It's been quite a while though. Things have changed.” This last was said rather pointedly, and Rhys's chin lifted in silent response. Rowena nodded once, then clapped her hands together.

“Look, I must go freshen up, but I promise I'll be back. It really is lovely to see you again, Rhys.” She lowered her head, her look obviously conveying more than she could say aloud, and Peter felt a hot, unreasoning wave of jealousy sweep over him.

“You, too,” Rhys murmured, but she was already gone.

Tish raised an eyebrow at Peter, then turned to Logan. “I think you should ask me to dance,” she told him.

“Why don't you ask me?” Logan shot back, eyes twinkling with mirth and affection.

“Alright,” Tish said, rising to her feet and executing a grand, sweeping bow. “Would you do me the honour, monsieur?”

“Always, my lady,” Logan said, taking the hand she offered and allowing himself to be led to the dance floor.

“So,” Peter said after they left, “it's a small world.”

“Yes,” Rhys said absently, then sighed. “I'm sorry, I should have known – I mean, I should have made the connection.”

“It's true, then,” Peter said, a hard lump forming in his gut, “you and Rowena...”

“– Were friends,” Rhys finished pointedly. “Good friends. Until there was a – misunderstanding.” He chuckled hollowly. “Truth was, I bollixed things up. But maybe – maybe that's behind us now.” He looked away, gaze shifting to the dance floor. “This seems to be the season for fresh starts.”

“Have I ever told you you're a bit odd?” Peter said.

Rhys stared at him, then burst out laughing. Reaching up to stroke Peter's cheek, he said fondly, “No. But it sounds like something you'd say.”

At the weekend, Peter drove down to London to spend Sunday with his dad. Throughout Peter's childhood and into his teenaged years, they'd been close; Arnold Drake had done all he could to make up for the loss of Peter's mother, being as involved and interested in his son's life as any parent could be.

That had changed drastically when Peter had left for Cambridge. Part of it was an inevitable consequence of being separated for the first time, but Peter knew it was more than that, and that most of the responsibility for the distance rested on his shoulders. As he'd become more interested in history and less interested in taking over the business, he'd begun to shield parts of himself from his father's scrutiny. At eighteen or nineteen, he'd fancied himself fairly good at subterfuge, but now he realised that his hamfisted avoidance tactics had hurt his dad. The trouble was Peter wasn't exactly sure how to bridge that gap any longer.

Of course, the other unspoken elephant in the room was that he no longer wanted the company his grandfather had founded and his father had worked all his life for. Peter hadn't always agreed with him, but he could say with pride that he'd never once disappointed his dad. Being the man his father had raised him to be was incredibly important to him, and he refused to throw that away on a fanciful dream.

Their visit on Sunday was one of the most uncomfortable Peter could remember. Where he was usually the picture of calm, his father seemed strangely agitated today, as though he'd received bad news. A few years ago they could have discussed it easily; now, Peter didn't know how to approach him. The two of them had pursued lives apart from one another for the last three years, and it shocked Peter to think that perhaps he didn't know his father nearly as well as he used to.

After a subdued dinner in which nothing of any consequence was discussed, Peter's dad abruptly rose from the table and said, “I'd like to show you something.”

Peter stared at him. “Sure,” he said, rising and following him.

The 'something' turned out to be an old Jaguar in racing green sitting in the garage, its chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lighting.

“It's a 1965 XKE,” his dad said in a rush, as though he were confessing an unsavoury secret. “I bought it for tuppence and I've been restoring it in my spare time for over a year.”

“You've been restoring it,” Peter echoed, surprised. His dad had never been what he would have called 'handy'; he'd employed tradesmen whenever he needed work done round the house, and mechanics whenever he needed his cars serviced or repaired. He was a great dad, but he wasn't the type to clean gutters, build decks or change tyres. It was a bit of a shock to learn he'd been getting his hands dirty.

“You must think your old dad's gone barmy,” his father muttered.

“Not at all. I'm seeing a whole new side of you,” Peter said, folding his arms and affecting a critical eye.

His father rubbed at an invisible spot of dirt on the roof with a finger. “Well, I had to have something to do with my spare time after I was no longer ferrying you to football matches,” he said quietly.

“It's been three years since my last football match,” Peter murmured. “What did you do before this?”

“Turned to drink,” his dad said blithely. After they both laughed, he added, wistfully, “I was absolutely mad about cars when I was a boy. If I could've, I probably would've become a mechanic, or a racing car driver, or a mechanic and racing car driver.”

“Why didn't you?” Peter asked, intensely curious about this unexpected look inside his dad's childhood dreams.

His father cleared his throat. “Oh, Dad wouldn't have heard of it. He'd always imagined I'd take over the firm someday.” More brightly, he said, “But that's just as well, because if I had I probably wouldn't have a penny to my name today, and your legacy from him would be long gone.”

“Yeah,” Peter murmured. “I suppose you're right. Still, it's a beautiful machine.”

“Yes, it is,” his dad said fondly. “How's the Spit coming, by the way?”

“Better. I think it'll be ready it in time for the Battle of Britain show.”

“That's wonderful, Peter,” his father said, putting an arm around him as they left the garage. “I know it would have meant a lot to your grandfather to know you were doing this. And perhaps he does.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Peter said, swallowing everything he wanted to say, everything he knew he couldn't. “That means a lot to me.”

Arthur buried Excalibur to the hilt in the last of Mardigan's men, the blade encountering only the lightest resistance as it did its deadly work. The body dropped away, and immediately Arthur was overwhelmed by fatigue, nearly falling to his knees himself. Right now, it felt as though his armour was the only thing holding him up.

“Sire!” Lancelot came running up to him. “Are you wounded?”

“If I am, I cannot tell. Where's Merlin?”

“I do not know. When last I saw him, he was still engaged with Mardigan's warlock.”

“That's just bloody typical,” Arthur muttered. The idiot had waded into the thick of the battle after the enemy's secret weapon – an elvish sorcerer of great power – had been revealed, not caring that Arthur's knights were still unused to seeing him practicing his craft openly. Arthur supposed they would have to accustom themselves, but after his father's death two months ago, he had been hoping to break them in slowly with a few parlour tricks. Of course, Merlin had railed against having his magic revealed in such an undignified fashion, as though the clot had ever had any dignity to begin with. And now he was missing, and possibly dead, and it was his own bloody fault for not pulling a few rabbits out of hats.

“Merlin!” Arthur called, using his last reserves of strength to lend his voice as much power as he could muster. “Merlin, you incompetent twat! Where are you?”

“Right behind you, Your Highness,” Merlin said cheerfully.

“Gah!” Arthur exclaimed, nearly toppling over from the shock. Lancelot seized him by the arm, but Arthur shrugged him off.

Merlin had the gall to be grinning, the prat, which was made even more ridiculous by the fact that half his hair seemed to be singed off. “I suppose you took care of the sorcerer, then,” Arthur muttered. “Or did he just give you a bad haircut and leave the field in dismay?”

Merlin reached up and gingerly prodded at his scalp. “Forgive me for not making myself more pretty for you, sire. I was a little distracted by the fact that I was saving your arse. Again.”

“I'll leave you alone, then,” Lancelot said, holding up a hand in a semblance of a wave before taking off as though the hounds of hell were on his heels.

“I saved my own arse, thank you very much,” Arthur said, as pleasantly as he could considering he was torn between wanting to smack Merlin and wanting to kiss him. He took a step forward and wobbled dangerously; immediately, Merlin had him by the shoulders and was staring at him anxiously.

“Arthur, are you hurt? Are you wounded?”

Arthur took stock of himself; now that the battle-fever was leaving him, he could feel every ache and pain in him, but none of them was life-threatening. “No. Just tired.”

“I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have left you,” Merlin murmured, his hands now helping Arthur off with his helmet, just as he used to.

“Stop mothering me,” Arthur said. “I'll have you know that before you came along, I'd got through plenty of battles without your help.”

“Yes, but they're so much more fun with me, aren't they?” Merlin said, smiling.

“Oh, yes, nothing but pure euphoria from start to finish. You go wandering off and leave your king wondering if you've gotten your fool head blown off...”

“You – were you worried about me?” Merlin asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Arthur snapped, stripping off his gauntlets and letting them fall to the ground.

“You were!” Merlin cried, breaking into an idiotic grin that did more to make Arthur's knees weak than the exhaustion wrought by the battle.

“Merlin,” he growled, laying a heavy hand on Merlin's neck and tugging him forward until their foreheads touched, “be quiet.”

“I can do that,” Merlin murmured, and Arthur closed his eyes and simply leaned.

Peter awoke gasping for breath, his nostrils still filled with the stench of the battlefield. He had never experienced the peculiar combination of death, shit, blood and roasted horseflesh, but he was certain that he knew it now. Although that wasn't nearly so terrifying as the memory of his own hands taking a life, of knowing that it was something he had done so many times before that he felt no remorse over it.

“Peter?” Rhys shifted beside him, and Peter felt a warm hand on his shoulder. “What's the matter?”

Peter closed his eyes briefly, trying to dispel the dream. “Nothing.”

“It's not nothing,” Rhys said softly, rolling to his side and propping himself up on an elbow. “You're still not sleeping well.” When Rhys had started noticing Peter's restlessness, he'd gone out and bought a double mattress for them, but of course it hadn't helped.

“I'm just a light sleeper,” Peter said, which was bollocks; even before exams, he always slept like the dead. But there was no way he could tell Rhys the truth – he'd think Peter was going mad. The trouble was, Peter was already half-convinced of that himself.

“How did things go with your dad yesterday?” Rhys asked softly, stroking his fingers through Peter's hair.

Peter stiffened. “I didn't tell him I don't want the company, if that's what you mean.”

“It isn't,” Rhys said evenly. “I could tell you were worked up about going to see him, and I was worried.”

Peter blew out a breath. “Sorry.”

Rhys's fingertips glided over Peter's jaw, his lips. “S'alright.”

“It's just – I'm all he has, you know? And I wouldn't let him down for the world.”

“I understand,” Rhys said, and to Peter's surprise, he really sounded as though he did.

Peter caught Rhys's hand and twined their fingers together. “You know, London isn't exactly far away. Maybe in the autumn I could still come up at the weekends. If you liked.”

There was a long pause; Peter held his breath. “I'd like that, yeah,” Rhys murmured.

“Well,” Peter said, smiling in spite of himself. “That's – that's good.”

“Did you really think I would say no?” Rhys asked, and Peter could tell from the sound of his voice that he was smiling too. When Peter didn't answer, Rhys leaned close, and Peter felt the puff of breath against his mouth just before Rhys's lips brushed his.

“I'll be here for as long as you want me,” Rhys whispered, and Peter could think of no better answer to that than to sink his fingers in Rhys's hair and kiss him breathless.

The weeks flew by, as all good times seemed to do. Peter and Rhys worked on the Spit nearly every day, and tumbled onto the mattress by the fire at night. Here and there, they carved out some time just for themselves, such as when Peter took Rhys punting on the Cam when he found out Rhys thought the whole notion was silly. They had a picnic lunch at Grantchester Meadow; Peter insisted on feeding Rhys grapes and cheese and even brought Logan's guitar along, on which he thumped out a truly excruciating rendition of All My Loving until Rhys begged him to stop in between bouts of helpless laughter.

“Logan says this always works for him,” Peter pouted. “Tish is mad about his singing.”

“Yes, well, perhaps Logan can actually carry a tune,” Rhys giggled, which prompted Peter to put down the guitar and pounce on him. They both ended up with grass stains on their clothes, but it was worth it.

Peter's dreams continued, though he could never remember more than a snippet of conversation, a scent, a random glimpse of a time long gone. He knew the names they used weren't their own, but they always vanished from his mind upon waking as though they'd been erased. Rhys never asked him again about his restlessness, though Peter knew he had to notice.

Finally, the time came for the engine to be fitted into the mount. Nessie was in attendance, of course, as was Gareth. His duties at the university had kept him away from the project for most of the summer, but he stopped in every now and then to check in. Every time he visited, he seemed to be surprised at the sight of Rhys, as though Rhys reminded him of something important he'd forgotten. Peter tried not to think anything of it – compared to the other odd things that had happened around Rhys, this was hardly the oddest.

The hoist slowly lowered the engine into the cradle Rhys had made for it, while Peter and several of the other volunteers helped to guide it. Not surprisingly, Nessie was watching over the proceedings like a hawk, bellowing orders as soon as she saw the engine going a hairsbreadth out of alignment. Rhys was watching from the corner, gnawing on the end of his thumb; it was a surprising display of nervousness from a man who'd always seemed confident in his abilities.

After what seemed like forever, the engine settled into the mount, resting perfectly in its new home. There was a brief silence while everyone let out the breaths they'd been holding, and then there was a collective whoop of joy that reverberated off the shed's corrugated metal walls. Peter strode over to a still subdued Rhys and picked him up, causing Rhys to emit a surprised squeak. “Peter!”

“You did it!” Peter exclaimed, spinning him round.

“Let me go, you prat!” Rhys demanded, laughing and pushing at Peter's shoulders.

Twirling him once more for good measure, Peter looked up and met Rhys's amused gaze, and then everything went to hell.

“Let me go, you prat!” Merlin exclaimed, wriggling in Arthur's hold like a fish.

“Oh, so I'm a prat, am I?” Arthur said calmly, tightening his grasp. “What did I say would happen to you if you called me that again?”

“Yeah, well, that was before you knew I was a sorcerer. You're supposed to – fear my mighty wrath.”

Arthur laughed and waded further into the lake, past his knees. “In case you haven't noticed, Merlin, you're terrible at wrath.”

“If you do what I think you're going to do, you'll see some,” Merlin promised darkly.

“Oooh, I'm so terrified I think I wet myself. And speaking of wetting...” he added, preparing to drop Merlin into the lake.

“Right, that's it,” Merlin muttered, and then he murmured one of those gibberish phrases of his. Arthur felt the prickle of magic shimmer over his skin, and suddenly he was holding not an extremely disrespectful court sorcerer, but a squirrel. It easily freed itself, made three circuits of Arthur's head as he tried to catch it, then latched itself onto his shirt front. Just as Arthur got his hands round it again, it turned back into a grinning Merlin, now with his legs wrapped securely around Arthur's waist and his hands laced together behind Arthur's neck.

“There!” Merlin crowed, ridiculously pleased with himself. “Now if you dunk me, you'll be dunking yourself too.”

Arthur, for his part, could only stare. To be fair, though, Merlin flushed and glowing from his exertions and twined around Arthur like a common whore was a bit too much like one of Arthur's fantasy scenarios for him to be able to manage a coherent reply. Merlin's face was very close to his, and his grin was the wicked kind that Arthur always wanted to bite off him. As he continued to stare, however, the grin faded as Merlin finally caught on to the implications of their situation.

“Arthur?” Merlin said, and for all that it was only one word, Arthur understood everything Merlin was asking, after all the years of watching one another and wondering. And so Arthur merely held Merlin's gaze and nodded, slowly, and the joyous smile that broke out on Merlin's face was almost as satisfying as the kiss that followed.

“Peter?”

Peter shook himself. Rhys, now standing on firm ground again, was staring into his eyes with concern. “Are you alright? It seemed as though you – went somewhere else entirely just now.”

“I'm fine,” Peter said. He took a step and stumbled at the lack of resistance, as though his legs had expected to be surrounded by water.

“You're not fine. Let me –”

“For heaven's sake, stop mothering me,” Peter snapped, and then he stopped, mortified. For his part, Rhys looked equally shocked.

“I – I think I am feeling a bit odd,” Peter babbled, “I'll just – go get some water.”

“Peter,” Rhys said, but Peter had already turned and was heading for the exit, ignoring the stares of the other volunteers.

Two hours later, Peter was sitting with Rowena in her favourite café in West London, a place that was so avant-garde there was no clue on the outside of the building that they even sold food and drink. Not that it mattered, because you couldn't even get a boring old cup of black tea.

“Are you sure you don't want a rooibos?” Rowena asked, lifting her own cup in his direction. “They're really very good.”

“No, thanks,” Peter said, sighing. “I have a simple rule: if I can't spell it, I won't drink it.”

“It's a shame that discovering your inner gay man hasn't made you more adventurous,” Rowena sniffed.

“I am and ever shall be a hidebound traditionalist,” Peter lamented.

Rowena studied him over her teacup for a few moments before sighing. “Alright, so what were you wanting to speak to me about?”

“I –” Christ, now that he was here, it seemed ridiculous. “I wanted to ask you about Rhys.”

Rowena set her cup down. “I was afraid that was what you were here for.”

“I'm not interested in prying into the details of your relationship. I only want to know – you seemed surprised when you found out he was a metalworker. What was he doing when you knew him?”

Rowena flicked an invisible speck of dirt off her skirt. “I suppose you could say he was a handyman of sorts. Odd jobs, that kind of thing.”

“You're not being honest with me,” Peter said, and Rowena's head snapped up, her gaze pinning him.

“What do you think the truth is, then?” she bit out.

“I don't know!” Peter ran a hand through his hair. “I've been having these dreams. I could write them off as irrational flights of fancy if they didn't seem so bloody real.”

“Am – am I in them?” Rowena asked, voice uncharacteristically small.

“No, just Rhys,” Peter said. “Only he's not Rhys, and I'm not me.”

“Who are you?”

“I can never remember the names,” Peter said, shaking his head. “But otherwise – I've never had dreams so vivid. And there's more. Things I should have no knowledge of, skills I've never possessed –” He sighed. “But then, people dream they can fly all the time. Perhaps it doesn't mean anything.”

“What does Rhys say about them?”

“I haven't told him. Didn't want him to think I was barmy. You already do, of course, so there was no danger there.”

Rowena didn't smile. “Somehow I think he'd understand.” Taking a deep breath, she added, “There is something I need to tell you about – about me and Rhys.”

“Rowena...” Peter began, shifting in his seat.

“The last time we saw one another – we had a falling out,” Rowena said. “It's not my place to tell you what it was about, but when you do find out, I hope – I hope you and I can still be –”

Peter was shocked to see tears brimming in her eyes. “Hey, hey,” he soothed, taking one of her hands in his, “whatever it is, it can't be that bad.”

Rowena chuckled hollowly. “Oh, believe me, it can,” she said. “I did something – well, horrible doesn't even begin to describe it. But I'm not the same person I was then. None of us is. Please remember that. Everything's changed. Everything.”

“Alright, darling, I'll remember, I promise,” he soothed, squeezing her hand until she pulled away from him to root in her purse for a tissue. As he watched her dab at her eyes, it occurred to him that he had come to see Rowena for answers, and had only ended up with more questions.

When he returned late that evening, Peter found Rhys in his shed working on his latest creation, a massive version of the serpent Peter had bought for Nessie. Privately, Peter had been wondering how Rhys was going to get it out of the building when he was done.

Rhys was hammering away at an old hubcap that would serve for one of the scales. The noise was deafening, and yet he turned round a moment before Peter reached the doorway, as though he'd sensed his approach somehow.

“Hey,” Peter said.

“Hey yourself,” Rhys murmured. There was nothing in his expression that seemed to indicate anger or resentment.

“Sorry for running out on you earlier.”

Rhys put down his tools and came closer. “Are you feeling better?”

“Not especially, no,” Peter said, taking a step toward him.

“What do you need?” Rhys asked, placing his hands on Peter's shoulders, neither tugging him closer nor pushing him away.

It was an unexpected question, and so Peter took a few moments to think about it. “I – erm – I need a couple of nights to – be by myself,” he said, surprised by his own words. “This has all been kind of –”

“Sudden?” Rhys said, a fond smile curling his lip.

“And intense. Not that that's not a good thing,” he added hastily. “But the truth is – being with you like this – it isn't like me.”

“It isn't, hm?” Rhys cocked his head.

“You're taking the mickey.”

“I'm not, really,” Rhys said softly. “Just enjoying getting to know you better.”

“I don't – I'm not trying to end it.” He took a deep breath. “That's the last thing I want.”

“I know,” Rhys murmured. “Same here.” He leaned closer, then stopped, leaving it to Peter to close the final distance between them. Rhys's mouth was yielding against his, inviting him deeper, and Peter wanted nothing more than to forget the dreams and Rowena's inexplicable tears and his looming responsibilities and just be with the man in his arms for as long as fate would allow.

“Well,” Rhys said several minutes later, his eyes glazed and his mouth red from kissing, “good night, then.”

“Good night,” Peter said, leaning in for another kiss; one more couldn't hurt. This time, however, Rhys stopped him with two fingers on Peter's lips.

“You don't go now, I don't think you'll be going at all,” Rhys said. “Is that what you want?”

“It is and it isn't,” Peter murmured, closing his eyes. He felt Rhys's warm fingers brushing his fringe to the side, and then Rhys's lips pressed against his forehead, making Peter's skin tingle. Peter opened his eyes, startled at the curiously tender gesture.

“Take a couple of days,” Rhys whispered. “I'll still be here.”

Peter nodded, then turned on his heel and headed down the moonlit path to his car before he could think better of it.

The next three nights Peter spent in the house in Great Shelford, he slept like the dead, with no dreams of swords or blood or Rhys's eyes turning to fire. He tried not to think about what that could mean.

In the remaining three weeks before the air show, the final work on the Spitfire began. Since most of it involved the electrical systems, there was little for Peter or Rhys to do. They fell into a new rhythm, Rhys spending most days working in his shop, and Peter at the museum either flying the Dragon Rapide or interpreting a World War Two pilot for the visitors. They still spent most of their nights together, and to his relief Peter found the dreams had disappeared, hopefully for good.

Finally, the Spit was declared ready for its first test flight, and Peter was scheduled to take it up first thing in the morning. In his excitement, he decided to ask Rhys to fly in the Rapide with him one last time, and to Peter's surprise, he agreed. Though he would have denied it, Rhys had been putting him off all summer about going up for a flight, and Peter had assumed it was a lost cause.

Peter glanced at Rhys's white-knuckled grip on his knees as he finished the Rapide's preflight check. “Listen, if you're not sure about this, we don't have to go.”

Rhys took a deep breath, blew it out, then shook his head. “No, I want to. I mean I don't want to, but I'd like to, if that makes any sense. I've never been particularly interested in flying, and I want to understand what you see in it.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “When you say 'never been particularly interested...'”

“I actually mean 'terrified out of my wits,' yeah,” Rhys said.

“You're not going to start screaming or anything?”

“Oh, no,” Rhys said pleasantly. “Perhaps a little quiet whimpering, though. It shouldn't be audible above the engine noise.”

Chuckling, Peter reached across to the co-pilot's seat and gripped Rhys's shoulder silently, and Rhys leaned into it and smiled. Releasing him, Peter gave the thumbs-up to the ground crew, who took hold of the props. “Trust me, you're going to love it.” Rhys nodded, but didn't look convinced.

Each man gave a great heave on the props, and they spun and caught, starting the engines. Privately, Peter thought of the moment as a bit magical, the way that a simple application of human power could breathe life into a machine that took to the sky. He looked over at Rhys, and found him staring out the side window. When he turned to Peter, there was an expression on his face that told Peter he was beginning to understand.

“Ready to fly?” Peter yelled over the roar of the engines.

Rhys nodded, smiling, and Peter squeezed his shoulder once more before he nudged the stick to move the Rapide forward.

As soon as Rhys's feet met the ground again, he dropped to his knees and kissed the tarmac.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Peter said, rolling his eyes. “You're such a drama queen.”

Rhys laughed and sprang to his feet, then looped his arms round Peter's waist and kissed him. “Alright, it wasn't that bad.”

“Not that bad? Who was screaming, 'Top of the world, Ma!' when we flew over Cambridge?”

“Alright, so it was mildly enjoyable,” Rhys conceded, grinning. Peter pinched him hard on the arse for that, and he yelped and twisted away, giggling.

“Admit it, it was fun,” Peter said, nuzzling his ear.

“It was fun,” Rhys said, lips ghosting over Peter's cheek to the corner of his mouth. “It was spectacular. Thank you for taking me.”

“Rhys,” Peter murmured, turning to kiss him lightly, letting their lips cling briefly before pulling back, “Rhys, I –”

“Yeah?” Rhys was looking at him in a way that made Peter's heart threaten to burst from his chest, and while Peter had never been impulsive, he'd never been a coward, either. Taking Rhys's face in his hands, he looked into Rhys's eyes and smiled.

And then a flash of movement over Rhys's shoulder distracted him. Looking up, he spied a familiar figure standing by the hangar.

“Oh, shit,” Peter breathed, hands falling to his sides.

Rhys frowned. “What is it?”

“It's my dad. My dad is here.”

Rhys froze. “Erm. Your dad.”

“Yeah.”

“Does he know – you fancy blokes?”

Peter closed his eyes briefly. “I may have failed to mention that fact to him.”

“Right, well, I'd say he probably knows now,” Rhys said brightly.

“Yeah. Maybe I'd better go see what the bloody hell he's doing here.”

“Sure, and I'll just check if they need me for any last-minute adjustments over at the Spit, shall I?”

“Yeah, brilliant,” Peter said, smiling at Rhys as best he could. “Sorry.”

“Don't be. I'll see you later, yeah?”

Peter's hand rose to caress Rhys's face briefly; in for a penny, in for a pound. “Yeah. Thanks.” Squaring his shoulders, he headed off toward his father.

As he drew nearer, he could see that his dad's expression was carefully neutral, though perhaps a little stunned as well. “Dad, hi. I didn't know you were coming up.”

“I called the house and Tish answered. She said you were taking the Spit up tomorrow, so I got in the car. Thought I'd spend the night and see your flight in the morning.”

“It's not going to be terribly interesting, Dad,” Peter sighed. “Just a few circuits and bumps, testing the landing gear, that sort of thing.”

His father stared at him with a stricken look. “You weren't going to tell me, were you?” he asked. “I know how important this has been to you, and you weren't even going to ring me. But then, there are a lot of important things you haven't been telling me,” his father added softly, nodding toward Rhys's retreating back.

“I'm sorry I didn't come out to you before this,” Peter said stiffly, “ but I only admitted it to myself a short time ago.”

His father shook his head. “I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about that young man. Who is he?”

“His name is Rhys, and he's an artist. A metalworker. He's been helping us on the Spitfire.” He took a deep breath. “He's a wonderful man, and I'm in love with him.”

His father swallowed, nodded. “I'm – I'm glad of that. I only hope he loves you as much as you deserve to be loved.”

Peter sucked in a breath. “Dad –”

“Peter, I wish you could tell me what I've done so that I can at least try to make it right,” his father said, stepping closer.

Peter frowned. “You haven't done anything.”

“Then what is it? Why can't you tell me about yourself any longer?”

Peter shifted on his feet, horrified to feel his throat closing up. “I'm not – Dad, I'm sorry. I just –”

“When you were a wee boy,” his father said, “I found you crying one day, quietly, the way you did sometimes because you never wanted me to worry. I tried to get you to tell me what was the matter, but you wouldn't say. Do you remember what I said to you?”

Peter forced the words out. “You said that I could always tell you anything, and you would always understand.” He wiped at his eyes. “I didn't think you'd understand this.”

His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Try me. Please, son.”

Peter took a deep breath, wiped at his eyes again. “I want to stay at Cambridge and continue my studies.”

“In history,” his father said.

“Yes,” Peter said. “I'm graduating with a high first, and my supervisor – he thinks I've got great potential.”

“Of course you have,” his father said, “I don't doubt it. And afterwards?”

“I'm not sure. I'd love to get a museum job, and write, of course.”

“But I always thought you wanted to take over the company after you were finished school.”

Peter looked his father in the eye. “I don't. I really don't.”

“You don't want the company,” his father said, clearly shocked.

“No.”

There was a pause in which Peter was certain his heart stopped beating.

And then his father whooped with joy and gathered him into a crushing bear hug.

“Dad?” Peter croaked out with the little oxygen left in his lungs.

“Peter!” his father exclaimed, gripping Peter by the arms and grinning at him, “I've been keeping the bloody company for you!”

“I know, and I'm s –”

“Don't you understand? I've wanted to sell it for over a year, only I thought I should hold onto it for your sake! Well, to be honest, I've wanted to be shut of it since I inherited it, but I couldn't disappoint Dad, and I lived twenty-five years of my life trying to do what he wanted. It was only a few months ago, working on the Jag, that I finally decided I didn't want to live that way any longer. I was looking forward to handing over the company to you in a couple of years – I thought you were keen on it since you always loved planes so much more than I ever did – but this! This is even better!”

Peter's heart started beating again. “You – you're happy about it,” he said, still not quite able to believe it.

“Whatever gave you that impression?” His dad burst out laughing and hugged him again, briefly. “Now, why don't you fetch this young man of yours, and we'll all go out to dinner to celebrate, hm?”

Feeling a little as though he'd been run over by a bus, Peter nodded silently and turned on wobbly legs in the direction of the Spitfire shed.

“You're staying,” Rhys gasped, sinking his hands into Peter's hair as Peter shoved him against the closed door of the cottage and bit his neck. “You're staying.”

“I'm staying,” Peter murmured, lips moving on Rhys's skin. His fingers caught the hem of Rhys's t-shirt and pushed it up, nails scratching lightly over Rhys's nipples as they passed. It felt as though his hands on Rhys were the only things keeping him grounded; it seemed like he'd been floating for hours. “Christ, I can't believe it.”

Rhys tipped his head back against the door as Peter flung the shirt aside and tugged off his own. “I can't believe how great your dad is,” Rhys said, wonderingly.

Peter paused and drew back. “You sound surprised.”

Rhys blinked at him. “Erm. Not exactly,” he hedged. “But he's like – Superdad or something. And he actually seems to like me.”

This time it was Peter's turn to blink. “It's almost as though you expected him to be some kind of ogre.”

“No, I – look, never mind. Your dad is lovely, and he doesn't hate me for debauching his son, so –”

Peter burst out laughing. “Debauching?”

Rhys's hands slid to Peter's arse. “Do you prefer compromising? Despoiling? Sodomizing?”

Peter popped the button on Rhys's jeans and yanked down the zip. “I'd prefer to stop talking about my dad and continue with the mutual debauching.”

Rhys cocked his head. “I'm in favour of this plan.”

“Good,” Peter said, pushing Rhys's jeans and pants down until he could step out of them. Rhys pushed against him, getting enough room between them to do the same to Peter, and then they were skin to skin, pressed together from knees to chest.

“Peter, god,” Rhys groaned, burying his face in the crook of Peter's neck. “I want –”

“Yeah, me too,” Peter murmured, hands gliding up and down Rhys's back lightly. “Rhys, I –”

“I love you,” Rhys said, head still on Peter's shoulder. “I love you, Peter.”

Rhys lifted his head, the warmth in his gaze confirming his words. Peter took Rhys's face in his hands and kissed him slowly, lingeringly.

“Damn,” Peter whispered, “you beat me to it.”

“Sorry 'bout that,” Rhys said, mouthing along his jaw, “I'll do better next time.”

Peter felt an odd, inexplicable thrill at that, and then he was taking Rhys's hand and tugging him toward the mattress. They fell on it together, Peter rolling on top of Rhys, pinning his wrists on either side of his head.

“Mm, now your dominant streak comes to the fore,” Rhys purred, angling his hips so that their cocks brushed. Peter ground down against him and they both gasped at the exquisite friction.

“Maybe I just want you to beg for it,” Peter murmured, kissing his way down Rhys's chest until he reached a nipple. He grazed it with his teeth, then soothed it with gentle licks and suction until Rhys was arching under Peter's mouth.

Encouraged, Peter moved lower, following the sparse trail of midnight-dark hair down to Rhys's navel. He poked his tongue into it, making Rhys giggle, then moved on. Rhys began groaning and writhing in anticipation before Peter had even touched his cock.

It had been clear since the beginning that Rhys was rather partial to blowjobs, and Peter liked to think Rhys preferred his blowjobs in particular. Still, he was deriving a surprising amount of enjoyment from being in control of things, so he drew it out, tracing the sharp juts of Rhys's pelvis with his tongue, pushing his legs wider and biting the soft, pale insides of Rhys's thighs.

“You – are – a bastard,” Rhys panted, his hands fisting in the sheets. His cock was red and leaking, lying neglected against his belly, and Peter's mouth watered at the sight of it, his own anticipation honed to a desperate edge.

“My, we're bitchy when we want to be sucked off, aren't we?” Peter asked sweetly. He leaned in and nuzzled the base of Rhys's cock, and Rhys whimpered. “What's the magic word?”

“I wish I knew,” Rhys gritted, “how to turn you into a toad.”

Peter raised his head, frowning. “Not that kind of magic word,” he said. “Try again.”

Rhys shook his head. “Not gonna beg,” he insisted, mouth stretched in a stubborn line. “Not when you want it as much as I do.” Pushing himself up on his elbows, he looked down at Peter, meeting his gaze with a challenge that was new and familiar at the same time.

And because he was right, Peter didn't hesitate in wrapping a hand around Rhys's straining cock, didn't hesitate to open his mouth around the head and slowly take him in, his gaze never leaving Rhys's face. Rhys stared back, helplessly, his own lips parted as he gulped in air, whispered curses and endearments, fuck, I need, and you're so beautiful, so – please, yes, just like that.

But there was something else Peter wanted tonight, and so he pulled off before Rhys reached his peak.

“Why – why'd you stop?” Rhys demanded, eyes heavy-lidded with lust and endearingly confused. By way of answer, Peter padded across the room and rummaged in the drawer that held a few articles of clothing and other possessions he'd left here over the course of the summer. He dug out the supplies he'd bought a few days ago and quickly returned to Rhys.

Rhys stared at Peter, then at the condom and lube packets in his hand. “You want to –”

“Yeah,” Peter murmured. “If you do.”

Rhys rose to his knees and kissed Peter hungrily. “Yeah, I want to. How do you want –”

“Could you lie down again?”

“On my back?” Peter nodded, and Rhys complied eagerly. His cock hadn't lost any of its enthusiasm for the proceedings, which Peter took as a good sign. He tore open the condom packet with fingers that he was proud to note were only shaking a little.

Rhys reached for the condom. “Let me put it on you, yeah?”

Peter shook his head. “Put it on yourself,” he said, moving to straddle Rhys's thighs.

Rhys's eyes widened. “You mean –”

“Yeah,” Peter said, tearing the lube packet and squeezing it onto his fingers, then reaching back.

“Peter, god,” Rhys breathed, staring at Peter as he worked his fingers inside himself. He'd been doing this in the shower for weeks, and it was easier than it had been, but he knew it would still hurt. Rhys's hands glided up his thighs, squeezing convulsively, and Peter pushed his fingers deeper and rocked his hips.

“Fuck, I could come just from watching you,” Rhys groaned, fumbling the condom on with only half his attention on his task.

“You'd better – not,” Peter gritted, removing his fingers and wrapping his slicked hand around Rhys's cock.

“Peter,” Rhys sighed, as Peter slowly sank down, taking him in.

Peter would have responded, but he was too busy gulping in air. He let his head hang down, concentrating on dispelling the pain and accepting the intrusion.

“Peter, are you – you have, I mean before –”

Peter lifted his head to frown at Rhys, understanding what he was trying to ask. “What does that matter?”

Rhys stared at him wonderingly for a few more moments, then pushed himself up on an elbow and took hold of Peter's flagging erection. Peter arched into it, then back down onto Rhys's prick, until he was sitting on Rhys's thighs, his own legs trembling like leaves in a hurricane.

“Fuck, god, so tight,” Rhys gasped, closing his eyes.

“I thought – that was generally considered a good thing,” Peter shot back, beginning to lift himself up again.

Rhys's free hand shot out and gripped Peter's hip, stilling him. “It is,” he gritted. “It's so good I'm going to come in the next five seconds if you don't hold still.”

Peter chuckled, and Rhys cracked open an eye and glared at him, then tightened his grip on Peter's cock. Peter groaned and shuddered, and his hips twitched involuntarily.

With a growl, Rhys sat up and wrapped an arm around Peter's neck. Peter met him, tongues and teeth clashing as they kissed. As Rhys lay back down again, Peter followed him, mouth still joined to his.

“Okay,” Rhys whispered against his lips, “slowly,” and Peter swiveled his hips, gasping when his own cock slid against Rhys's belly. Rhys's hands glided over Peter's back, his ribs, his hips, feather-light, raising gooseflesh wherever they touched. And then Rhys raised his knees and pushed back, and his cock touched something inside Peter that made him cry out in shock at the sudden, blinding pleasure.

“Yeah, that's it, come on,” Rhys murmured, nipping at Peter's ear, hips moving now in counterpoint, “come on, love,” and Peter could do nothing but gasp and shudder and move with him, as though together they were rediscovering an old, familiar dance whose steps had been all but forgotten.

It was barely dawn when Peter and Rhys drove to Duxford. Neither of them had got much sleep – not that that had necessarily been a bad thing – and even when they'd tried Peter hadn't had much luck, being too keyed up about the morning's flight. Rhys had finally shoved Peter out of bed and told him to get dressed.

“It's either go now or lie here waiting for you to explode from the anticipation,” he'd grumbled good-naturedly, and Peter had laughed and agreed. They'd showered together, trading lazy, langourous kisses and slow, lust-drunk hand jobs, and piled into Peter's car after Rhys had downed three cups of black tea and declared himself sufficiently awake to cheer Peter on.

Once they reached the museum, Peter had the night watchman let them in – he didn't seem terribly surprised to see them – and headed off to the staff area to change into his flight gear. While he'd flown the Battle of Britain Spit a few times, and thus knew basically what to expect, this was a late war model equipped with a more powerful engine. The handling characteristics would be different enough that he would need to stay on his toes when he took her up.

His stomach fluttering in anticipation, Peter suited up in record time and jogged out to the tarmac. There was no doubt he'd be ready to sleep the day away as soon as the flight was over around ten, but for now he felt alert, alive, and brimming with so much joy he could barely keep his feet on the ground. The whole idea that his life was now completely his own would take some getting used to, and for now he still couldn't quite believe it. He had to keep telling himself that he was going to get to do what he loved, and be with a man he loved. Add to that the fact that in three hours he was going to be flying in a Spitfire he had helped resurrect with his own hands, and his life was looking fairly perfect right at this moment.

As he pushed open the door to walk onto the tarmac, Peter felt an odd tingling sensation, as though the air were somehow charged with electricity. Scanning the sky, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw there was no sign of an approaching storm; the sunrise was brilliant and unobstructed by a single cloud, just as the forecast had predicted.

He gave the Flying Fortress a pat to its fuselage as he passed it, his heart speeding up as he imagined seeing the Spit on the tarmac. The ground crew had hauled it out of the shed last night, and this would be the first time he'd see her out in the open. When he rounded the Fort's huge tail, however, the sight that greeted him was – inexplicable.

The Spitfire was there, looking just as he'd imagined it would except for one small detail.

It appeared to be – glowing.

Peter advanced on the plane slowly, shock turning his steps wooden. He could see Rhys standing near the nose, his hand outstretched toward the spinner but not touching it. Rhys seemed oblivious to his approach, his mouth shaping words too low for Peter to hear.

When Peter was only a few yards away, Rhys startled and turned to him. His eyes were the same gold as the glow around the plane.

Merlin .

The sharp spike of pain followed swiftly on the heels of the thought, staggering him. It felt as though a gaping hole had opened up inside him, and pouring forth from the void was a flood of memories – the dreams he'd been having in their entirety, and so much more: Rowena and Tish and Logan and his father, the clash of swords and the unmistakable tang of magic in the air, nights in his wide bed with Merlin writhing beneath him, eyes shining with mischief and love –

“Peter!” Rhys – no, Merlin – ran to him and clutched his arms, but his strength wasn't enough to keep Peter from falling to his knees onto the tarmac, or was it the cobblestones in the courtyard?

“Peter, gods, no, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry –”

“My name,” he rasped, between gritted teeth, “is Arthur,” and then the world went black.

He awoke to Tish and Logan's anxious faces staring down at him.

Lancelot and Guinevere, he thought, closing his eyes again briefly against the sudden sting of tears. It had been so long since he'd seen them, and yet it had only been a little over a day; the contradiction was making his head swim again.

“Peter?” Gwen's – no, Tish's – voice asked anxiously. “Peter, are you awake?”

“Yeah,” Peter managed, opening his eyes, “yeah, I'm fine.”

“You're not the least bit fine,” Tish admonished, and Peter had to bite his tongue to keep from chuckling; that, at least, was the same, “You collapsed, and you're in hospital.”

Frowning, Peter took in the room around him for the first time. “Well, that's bollocks,” he said, making to sit up, “'m perfectly –”

“Hang on.” Logan's hand was firm on his shoulder. “Why don't you wait for the doctor's opinion on that first?”

“Lan –” Peter caught himself. “Logan, you're being ridiculous.”

Logan nodded tightly. “That's as may be. But you're not moving from this bed until you've seen the doctor.”

“Well, then, where is the bloody doctor?” Peter said irritably.

“Your dad's in with her,” Tish said. “He's being a complete tyrant, demanding to know what's wrong with you. I've never seen him so worked up.”

Father, Peter thought, a sharper pang knifing through him at the conflicting memories of two fathers, as different from one another as day from night. And yet both were Uther, as surely as Merlin was –

“Where's – Rhys?” Peter asked.

Tish and Logan exchanged a look, and Logan finally let go of Peter's shoulder. “He's outside,” Logan said. “He's – well, when we arrived, we took one look at him and thought you were in much worse shape than you actually seem to be.”

“He wouldn't come in,” Tish said. “Peter, what happened at the museum?”

Peter shook his head. “I'm not sure. I was overtired; I think I may have just stumbled and tripped over my own feet. What did Rhys say happened?”

Tish frowned. “He hasn't said much. It was the night watchman who rang for the ambulance; he found the both of you on the tarmac by the Spitfire, with Rhys holding you, saying over and over that he was sorry.” She paused. “What was he sorry for?”

Peter schooled his features to calm. “I have no idea.”

“Peter –”

Peter sighed. “Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm quite keen to get the hell out of here. Since you won't let me up out of bed to do it myself, one of you needs to fetch the doctor before I throw a tantrum like a six-year-old.”

Tish and Logan exchanged glances again, and Tish nodded. “I'll go,” Logan said. “Stay put.”

“Yes, mother,” Peter sighed, closing his eyes so that he wouldn't have to deal with any more questions.

It took another four hours of tests in which the doctor could find nothing wrong with him and approximately a thousand assurances to his dad, Tish and Logan to let them know right away if he felt ill before Peter was finally cleared to leave. When he did, he wasn't surprised to find out Rhys had already left. He wasn't eager to think about the fact that he knew exactly where Rhys was without being told.

He wasn't eager to think about a lot of things, but they had a way of worming their way to the forefront of his brain, making him even more distracted as he drove away from Duxford. The Spitfire had looked completely normal, of course, but now that he knew what to look for, now that the workings of Merlin's magic were once again as familiar to him as the operation of his computer, Peter could lay a hand on the aluminium skin and know what he'd done. The spell was simple, a variation on the one he'd cast on Arthur's armour before each battle: it was a protection, a prayer to the old gods that the man inside would come home safely.

Merlin had loved Arthur with a depth and ferocity that had humbled even a king, and after all these centuries, it would seem that love had not abated. Peter supposed he should be grateful for that, but the only emotions he could summon were resentment and jealousy.

He was fairly sure that being jealous of yourself was more than a little insane, but then he wasn't feeling terribly stable at the moment.

Just as he'd expected, Rhys was sitting by the water in Grantchester Meadow, his arms round his bent legs. His knees were just as knobby as always, and Peter felt a wave of affection surge in him, nearly making him stumble with the strength of it. He plunked down beside Rhys, and together they stared out at the water.

“I'm sorry,” Rhys said, eyes still on the river. “I didn't mean for it to happen that way.”

“You're still clumsy with magic,” Peter murmured, picking up a pebble and tossing it into the water. “I suspected from the beginning.”

“You didn't,” Rhys countered, staring at him. “You didn't even know there were such things until this morning.”

“Well, I didn't suspect that, but I knew something odd was going on. A cut doesn't heal in a day, Merlin. Didn't Gaius teach you anything?”

Rhys stared at him, his expression stricken. “I know. I just – I couldn't stand to see any more blood on –”

“Yeah, let's,” Peter said, feeling his gut churn, “let's agree not to reminisce about absolutely everything, alright?”

Rhys nodded curtly. “How much do you remember?”

Peter scrubbed at his face with his hands. “Nearly all of it, I expect. But it's – very unsettling. Like living with two people inside my head.”

“It'll get easier,” Rhys ventured.

“Oh, brilliant, thanks,” Peter muttered. “Glad to know I'll learn to live with schizophrenia.”

“That's what I've heard, anyway; I wouldn't know.” Rhys's gaze turned inward. “I was born knowing. I always know.”

“You always – you mean this has happened before?”

“A few times,” Rhys said blithely, as though he were announcing the weather. “You never remember anything but the first time.”

“That's a blessing, I suppose,” Peter rasped, reeling from this new revelation. He thought about asking what happened in the other lifetimes to the other Merlins and Arthurs, but decided that was far too much information for him to absorb today. “What about Lance and Gwen and the others?”

Rhys shook his head. “The people without magic don't regain their memories – well, apart from you, of course, and as I said, your recall is more limited than ours. Gaius remembers sometimes. Bits and pieces.” He paused. “Sometimes he doesn't want to remember.”

“That's why he's been standoffish all summer,” Peter mused.

“Yeah, I – I didn't want to push things. He's happy the way he is.”

Peter opened his mouth to unleash a retort, then closed it again. “Did you come to Cambridge to find me, then?”

Rhys rested his chin on his knees. “I guess so.”

“What do you mean, you guess so?” Peter demanded.

Rhys blew out a breath. “It doesn't really matter whether I look for you or not; I always end up finding you.”

“Or I find you.”

Rhys nodded. “Once I met Lance and Gwen, I knew it was just a matter of time, but I didn't know Nimueh was going to stack the deck.”

Peter made a face. “That stuff was vile. It smelled like poison.”

Rhys had the audacity to laugh. “She did that on purpose, you know. Just for old times' sake.”

Peter stared at him, shocked, and Rhys waved a hand. “No, really, it's fine. About five hundred years ago, we came to – an understanding.”

“And Morgana?”

Rhys's smile disappeared. “She's found it more difficult to deal with what happened back then.” He stared at his hands. “So did I.”

“I can see where she would,” Peter murmured, trying to reconcile the Morgana he'd known at the end – bitter, consumed by her own hatred and fear – with the Rowena he loved like a sister.

“Please don't blame her,” Rhys said. “In the end, I believe it was as much my fault as it was hers. It took me a long time to forgive her, but then it took me even longer to forgive myself. And for all the memories, we do start fresh, in a way, when we return.”

“So,” Peter said, “what now?”

Rhys held his gaze. “It's up to you.”

“Is it?” Peter asked. “I thought everything was foreordained.”

Rhys shook his head. “I'm not so sure it works like that any more.”

“And the Dragon? What's her verdict?”

Rhys's mouth quirked. “Nessie's actually the Dragon's daughter, and she's a little more – erm, down-to-earth than he was.”

Peter glared at him. “If that was a pun, so help me –”

Rhys rolled his eyes. “Anyway, I tried to get her to tell me what was in store for us, but she said she didn't believe in spoiling the surprise.”

“I don't want to be – him,” Peter blurted. “I feel like I've just been handed my fondest dreams for the future, but they're small ones. They're not destined to live on in song and story.”

Rhys looked at him for a long moment, then reached out tentatively and took Peter's hand in his. “Do you think I care about that?”

Peter's jaw twitched. “Do you?”

Rhys cocked his head. “You know, we did have a few quiet moments here and there – remember those?”

Peter watched his fingers twine of their own accord with Rhys's. “Yeah.”

“Well, I loved those times best of all, because that was when it was just you and me – Arthur and Merlin. Not the king and his sorcerer, not the destiny and the great deeds and the future hanging over our heads. And if I get a whole lifetime of quiet moments –” Rhys cleared his throat “– well, I think I'd like that very much.”

“Oh,” Peter said, stupidly. “That's – that's good.”

Rhys flashed a smile. “Of course, if you end up becoming PM or saving the world from alien invasion, I'll be fine with that, too. I believe in being a supportive boyfriend.”

“Christ,” Peter gusted, burying his face in his hands, “this is all completely mental.”

Rhys's fingers brushed the fringe from his forehead, and Peter's head snapped up, recalling a similar gesture from a couple of weeks ago. “You stopped the dreams,” he said.

Rhys nodded. “Yeah. I could see how much they were eating you up.”

“But – didn't you want me to remember?”

“Your memories would have come back eventually no matter what I did, and I couldn't bear to see you in pain. And I suppose I – wanted to be with Peter a bit longer. I know that sounds horrid,” he added hastily. “Because I do love you – I mean, I love Arthur, of course – but Peter wasn't anything like I expected. I mean, you weren't – oh, bugger –”

Peter had heard enough: he took Rhys by the shoulders and hauled him in, kissing him hard. When they finally parted, Rhys looked more than a little dazed. “You love me,” Peter said, “Not just Arthur.”

“Yeah,” Rhys said, grinning. “Yeah, I do.”

“Say it,” Peter ordered.

“Well, now you're sounding more like –”

“Please.”

“I love you, Peter,” Rhys whispered against his lips.

Peter wrapped his arms around Rhys and buried his face in Rhys's neck while Rhys hugged him just as tightly. Swiftly on the heels of his relief, however, another thought struck him. “When you said it gets easier – that's not because I disappear, is it?” He lifted his head and pulled back to see Rhys staring at him, confused. “I mean, am I still going to be Peter?”

“Oh,” Rhys said, taking Peter's face in his hands. “No, don't worry, you're not going anywhere.”

“Okay,” Peter breathed. “Good to have that sorted.”

“Anything else bothering you about your sudden reincarnation?” Rhys asked, eyes twinkling.

Peter barked a laugh. “No, that's about it for now, thanks. Though I'm sure there will be other outpourings of existentialist angst over the coming weeks.”

“I'll do my best to answer all your questions about life, the universe and everything.”

“Now who's being the prat?” Peter asked, gripping Rhys's shoulders and tugging him closer.

“I learned from the best,” Rhys murmured, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he closed the last remaining distance between them.

“And there's Cassiopeia,” Arthur said, pointing up at the familiar shape.

“The Palace of Don,” Merlin countered.

Arthur continued on as though he hadn't just been corrected like a schoolboy. “And Perseus.”

“Lleu Llaw, the God of Summer.”

“And below that, Auriga,” gritted Arthur.

“Wrong again. Those are the yoked oxen.”

“I'm not wrong, Merlin,” Arthur growled, rolling to face him. “Those are the proper names for them. Everyone knows that. Well, everyone with an education.”

There was just enough light for Arthur to see the scowl on Merlin's face. “I have a perfectly good education, thank you.” He pointed to the west. “Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Cepheus. Draco. Hercules. Arcturus. Corona Borealis.”

“Then for heaven's sake, if you know them, why don't you use them?”

“Because they're not our names for them,” Merlin insisted. “Albion doesn't have to discard the old knowledge in favour of the new. That's something you've already started to put into practice with your emissaries to the Celts. But peace treaties are only the beginning. If you don't respect the traditions of the people you seek to unite, you'll never win their hearts.”

Arthur sighed. Merlin was always going on like that, giving him not-so-subtle hints on how to be a ruler destined to go down in history, as though he had the faintest notion of how that might be achieved. It was better, Arthur had learned, just to go along with him, or they'd be arguing about it for hours and then Merlin would be in such a snit he would storm off to his tower for the night. That might be fine in the heat of summer, but not now that the nights were starting to get cold again. For all that he was as skinny as a maypole, Merlin gave off more heat than ten hot bricks.

“Alright, fine,” Arthur grumbled. “So what was that last one? Oxen, you said?”

“Yeah. Hu Gadarn used them to drag the Afanc from a lake. Can't remember which one.”

“Well, it's a hearty relief to learn you don't know everything.” When Merlin poked him in the side in retaliation, he added, “They might have come in handy a few years ago with our Afanc.”

“Mmmm,” Merlin said. “We should have some trained just in case.”

Arthur swept his arm to indicate the broad swath of light that crossed the sky like a luminescent cloud. “And do the Celts have a name for the Via Lactea, then?”

“Sarn Gwydion,” Merlin said, without hesitation. “The Great Star-Serpent.”

“Great star serpent, hm?” Arthur nodded. “Not bad.” He looked down at Merlin, whose eyes were closed. “Are you falling asleep?”

Merlin opened his eyes halfway. “It's been a long day.”

“Wedding days generally are,” Arthur observed dryly. “And the nights are even longer.”

There was a weighty pause. “Is that – is that why you wanted to leave early?” Merlin asked, voice uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant.

“What do you mean?”

Merlin's chin lifted. “I mean that today you watched her marry someone else. You can't tell me that didn't hurt.”

Arthur stopped himself from calling Merlin an idiot, because the truth was that Arthur had never actually told him how he felt. He'd always been crap at discussing feelings, but suddenly he realised the conversation was long overdue, no matter how difficult it might be. “Merlin, when I gave Guinevere and Lancelot my blessing, I meant it with all my heart. They love one another so truly I would have been a fool to stand in the way of that.” He paused, took a deep breath. “And I haven't wanted to come between them for quite some time.”

“You haven't?” Merlin asked. “But you loved her.”

“I did, and I still do, in a way. She would make a wonderful queen. And she may well do someday, if she and Lancelot are blessed with children.”

Merlin frowned. “I don't understand.”

Arthur sighed. “Well, unless you've figured out a way to magick yourself a womb, I don't see myself producing an heir.” As Merlin gaped, he added, “This is years down the road, of course, but if all goes well, I can't think of anyone I'd rather see on the throne of Camelot after me than a child of Gwen and Lancelot.”

Merlin shook his head. “But – Camelot needs a royal heir.”

Arthur shrugged. “Exactly. Which is why I'd need to name Guinevere as queen and Lancelot as her consort.”

“But – that's not how it's done!” Merlin protested.

“Look, in case you've failed to notice, I'm the bloody king,” Arthur told him. “I think that means I can do as I like.” He leaned over Merlin, blocking his view of the stars. “And I never would have expected you'd be the voice of convention.”

Merlin stared up at him, wide-eyed, then burst out laughing as he reached an arm around Arthur's neck and tugged him down. “What the hell am I arguing about?” he asked.

“I was beginning to wonder,” Arthur murmured, lips gliding over Merlin's cheek. “I'm sorry you ever had cause to doubt me. You mean more to me than all the stars and all the kingdoms. You are my conscience, and my heart, and my soul.”

Beneath him, he felt Merlin stiffen, then relax, as though a great weight had suddenly been lifted from him.“Arthur,” Merlin breathed, winding his arms around Arthur's neck and turning his head to meet him in a kiss, and another, and another.

Some time later, they were gazing up at the stars again, more comfortable now that Merlin had conjured them a mattress and some lovely soft blankets. Having a sorcerer for a lover meant never having to pack for a night in the wood, Arthur realised; it was quite convenient.

“You do realise that if you do go through with your plan, the men who write the histories will change it to suit them,” Merlin said, his head resting on Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur chuckled. “Yes, they're all overly concerned with morality, so doubtless you'll be old and ugly with a grey beard to your knees and an owl that shits on your robe. No prospect for buggery there.”

“I wasn't talking about that,” Merlin huffed. “If there's a king and a queen, they have to be married. That's the way the story is supposed to go. So Lancelot will get short shrift, or worse, you'll be set down as the greatest cuckold who ever lived.”

Arthur stroked his fingers through Merlin's hair. “Let them write what they like after I've gone, as long as they don't take this from me now. I can only live my life as I see fit, and hang posterity.”

“As you wish, Sire,” Merlin said, but Arthur could tell there was a smile in it.

Arthur turned his head and kissed Merlin's temple. “I like you subservient. It's very arousing.”

In a moment, Arthur was flat on his back with Merlin straddling him, his eyes glittering more brightly than the Star-Serpent's shimmering scales. “I'll show you subservient,” he growled, hands bracketing Arthur's head as he ground down against him, and Arthur groaned and hauled him close.

While it was wonderful to see everyone turned out for his rescheduled test flight a couple of days later, it felt to Peter a bit like running a gauntlet. After words of encouragement from Gareth, his father, Logan and Tish, Nessie was next, and Peter was surprised to see tears in her eyes as he stepped up to her.

“You're marvelous, lad,” she said, reaching up and smoothing her hands over the front of his battle dress. “I know you'll do them proud.”

Peter flushed. “Nessie –”

“Dad used to talk about you, you know,” she murmured, and Peter's breath caught. “Warriors and kings come and go, but the heart lives on, he said.” She tapped his chest with one finger. “Don't ever ignore it again, you hear me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Peter said, smiling.

Rhys was waiting for him beside the plane, the way he might have beside Arthur's destrier. It was fitting, then, that he took Peter's helmet from him and strapped it on firmly.

“For old times' sake?” Peter murmured, smiling.

“Something like that,” Rhys answered. His hands slid down the sides of Peter's helmet and over his shoulders as he whispered words that made Peter shiver in remembrance.

“I thought you'd already written my insurance policy.”

Rhys looked up at him from under his eyelashes. “Can't hurt to have a little extra.”

“Alright, then, give us a kiss for luck,” Peter said, leaning in. Rhys obeyed with a brush of lips that left Peter shaken by the sweetness of it.

“Merlin,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Be here when I get back, will you? I'll be needing a few more of those.”

“How many, exactly?” Rhys countered, eyes dancing.

“Well, I was thinking it would be more of a regular thing, spread out over the next sixty years or so.”

Rhys's answering grin was as wide as the sky. “Anything for our lads in uniform.”