Strategic Tempo

Plates clinked. Drinks shifted. Nobody touched the menus anymore.

They weren’t exactly comfortable, but they’d settled.

Crown was lounging in the corner seat of the booth, arm resting along the back cushion, picking through a bowl of fries like she hadn’t just hijacked their mission less than forty-eight hours ago.

Tristan had the edge seat, elbow resting on the table. Gawain was sprawled—stretching his legs under everyone’s feet like he was owed the space. Galahad sat straight-backed, arms crossed, mouth pinched in thought.

Lancelot was visibly tense. Not combative, just coiled, seated between his Commander and the enigma herself.

Percival leaned forward, his shoulder brushing Bedivere’s, who sat next to him, tablet in one hand, fork in the other—food untouched.

Crown didn’t seem to notice the weight of the table around her. Or maybe she did, and didn’t care.

Tristan nodded toward Merlin, then to her. “So you’ve cooked for him.”

Crown didn’t look up. “Unfortunately.”

“Don’t ask.” Merlin sighed.

Tristan raised a brow. “Can’t be that bad.”

Gawain chuckled. “Seems like he’s still holding a grudge.”

“I’m not,” Merlin said.

“She’s not denying it,” Galahad added.

Crown dipped another fry in hummus. “He hated boxed cookies for a week after I made real ones.”

“Girl Scout cookies,” Merlin muttered. “She made them better than the real thing and ruined all nostalgia.”

“So just naturally a menace,” Lancelot muttered.

Arthur finally spoke up, eyes never leaving hers.

“You mapped the op,” he said. Calm. Direct.

Crown raised an eyebrow. “Bit blunt, Commander.”

“Am I wrong, Agent Crown?”

Her smile curled at the edge. “Yeah. It’s true.”

Percival leaned in. “How?”

Crown tilted her head. “You lot want the short version or long?”

“Start short,” Galahad said.

Crown stretched slightly. Her movements were lazy, but her eyes were alert.

“I read people,” she said. “That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Percival asked.

“When you break a person down, they stop being unpredictable. Not fully. But enough.”

She pointed at him. “You lead with your body before your head. Lancelot here feints left even when he thinks he won’t. Galahad stalls when his line breaks—just a breath too long.”

Galahad scowled. “I do not.”

“You do,” Merlin said.

Crown gestured to the whole table. “Merlin calls them algorithms. I call them patterns.”

Arthur’s posture didn’t shift, but his focus sharpened.

“The long version?”

“I read the team. The layout. The mark flow. I clocked the drones the moment I turned onto the block. Recognized Merlin’s signature.”

Crown’s voice didn’t rise, but her cadence shifted—measured now.

“Bugged cameras. Delayed feeds. Tactical misdirection in the wrong places. I knew the op was compromised before I stepped inside.”

“And you still stepped in,” Arthur said.

“I didn’t care about the gala,” she said simply. “But I wasn’t going to walk away if his team was heading into a kill box.”

She didn’t look at Merlin, but everyone else did.

Merlin stared at his drink. Said nothing.

Arthur studied her for a long beat.

“You predicted the collapse point.”

“I saw your command logic with excellent tools running parallel to broken terrain. You were pushing the right rhythm but half visibility wasn’t doing you any favors.”

“And you adjusted for it,” Arthur said.

She nodded once. “Before it cost anyone their life, Commander. You’re very welcome.”

Arthur exhaled slowly through his nose.

“You think in overlap.”

“So do you,” Merlin said.

Arthur looked at him.

Merlin shrugged. “It’s why I didn’t have trouble adjusting to you. I was already used to her.”

That landed.

Lancelot leaned back, clearly recalculating.

Percival looked at Crown like she’d rewritten the floor plan under his boots.

Gawain muttered, “We were matching her tempo without realizing it.”

Crown smiled. Just a little.

“I didn’t write your playbook,” she said. “I just got the gist of it enough to edit the margin notes.”

Arthur leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table.

“You followed the intent,” he said.

Crown didn’t blink.

“I matched it, Commander. There’s a difference and you’ve seen that yourself in play.”

Arthur leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“Then tell me where I would’ve cracked.”

She didn’t hesitate. “06A.”

He nodded. “Galahad’s fallback.”

“You flagged it early but didn’t open it. Smart—keeps the path in reserve. But your lock routing was still connected to the external override.”

“It didn’t trigger.”

“No. Because it was set to trigger after fallback was declared.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened slightly.

“I watched him run toward it,” Crown said. “Watched the delay. The hesitation.”

“You kicked the other available door open.”

“Not too hard. That’d be unladylike.”

Percival made a sound that might have been a laugh.

Arthur glanced at her. “You saw that moment coming before I did.”

She shrugged. “You would’ve seen it half a second later. By then, too late.”

“You knew Tristan had the angle.”

“I adjusted for it. Saw the corridor line from the room his mark’s companions ran out of. He was a variable. You were the constant.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed just a touch. “I don’t usually like my variables making decisions before I call them.”

“Well, I don’t usually like watching well-run ops get turned into footnotes.”

That should’ve landed sharp.

But Arthur didn’t flinch.

Instead, he nodded slowly.

“Fair.”

At the end of the table, Bedivere cleared his throat. “She rerouted five enemy patrols with no access to our map. I reviewed it.”

“Because she didn’t use your map,” Merlin said, tone mild. “She built her own.”

Crown sipped her drink. “Yours was three minutes behind real-time in key sectors because of the video feeds looping. You were catching up quickly though, that’s honestly impressive.”

Arthur studied her. “Your timing is calculated.”

“So is yours.”

“Your instinct is to interfere.”

“My instinct,” She leans towards him, “Is to correct.”

Arthur looked at her a beat longer.

“I should hate that.”

“But you don’t,” she said.

The silence that followed was heavy—but not hostile.

Like the air had thickened around them. Not with tension. With recognition.

The team wasn’t just listening anymore.

They were watching something settle.

Something new.

Something aligned.

The Offer on the Table

Arthur set his glass down with quiet precision.

“You’ll be coming in under consultant status,” he said. 

“That’s in the blasted paperwork, yes.”

“If you need adjustments from the team to function—”

Crown’s expression shifted.

Not sharp. Just—annoyed.

Merlin might have muttered here we go under his breath.

“Oh, how generous,” she said, mockingly polite. “Good to know my general impression after my performance is ‘delicate’.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t the implication.”

“No?” She leaned forward, elbow braced on the table, fingers loose around her drink. “Because it sounded like you lot were asking if I wanted special treatment.”

The rest of the table went very still.

“I don’t want accommodation, Commander.” she said. “I don’t want anyone shifting around to make space for me. I’m not here to belong.”

Her gaze locked with his. Calm. Certain.

Arthur didn’t react.

No flicker. No tilt of the head. Just a man waiting to see how the next sentence landed.

Crown smiled faintly.

“There’s no need to impress me, Commander. I’m not here to outmaneuver your people. I’m not replacing anyone.” She leaned in just a little. “But since you’re making it worth my attention, I’ll bite.”

“Bottom line here is I want to see where your team breaks.” She continued. “Then I’ll write the parameters to make sure it doesn’t happen twice.”

She tilted her head. “Or I want your best—and I’ll show you how easily I can melt your wax wings.”

That was when it hit the room.

Gawain choked on his drink.

Percival’s ears flushed pink. He stared hard at the table.

Bedivere looked genuinely offended by how close this sounded to a romantic threat.

Galahad muttered, “Nope,” under his breath and sat back with crossed arms.

Lancelot, unfortunately seated directly between Crown and Arthur, looked like someone had locked him in a heat lamp.

Tristan didn’t move but he did raise a brow.

Merlin rolled up the pub menu and thwacked her on the shoulder.

“Too strong, Grayson,” he snapped.

Crown didn’t flinch. “He asked.”

Arthur was still looking at her.

Not smiling.

Just... watching.

Not like she was dangerous.

Like she was interesting.

“Almost smiled,” she said softly.

Arthur didn’t confirm.

But he didn’t deny it either.

Team GC, Post-Dinner

[Bedivere]: she said wax wings.
[Galahad]: she said it like it was a compliment
[Percival]: was it not???
[Tristan]: i think it was a threat
[Gawain]: why did it SOUND LIKE FLIRTING
[Lancelot]: i was RIGHT THERE.
[Lancelot]:BETWEEN THEM
[Lancelot]: you all owe me hazard pay.
[Gawain]: bold of you to assume you weren’t collateral
[Bedivere]: she didn’t even blink when Arthur locked eyes
[Galahad]: i’m not built for this level of psychological threat
[Percival]: i’m not convinced they weren’t communicating in strategy-speak and emotional violence
[Gawain]: she’s like if a chessboard wore boots and had cheekbones
[Tristan]: she saw all of us and chose to aim for him.
[Lancelot]: you’re making it worse.
[Merlin]:
[image attachment: Crown at a market, basket full of brownie ingredients]
[Merlin]: congrats. she’s making brownies
[Merlin]: you’re all going to hate café food for a month
[Bedivere]: i’m not ready
[Galahad]: you mean we’ll survive long enough to taste it???
[Percival]: i’ll take my chances
[Gawain]: what do you mean “hate café food,” café food is—
[Merlin]: inferior.
[Tristan]: i’ll bring the milk.
[Lancelot]: DO NOT ENCOURAGE HER