Chapter Text
At around ten o’clock on Christmas Eve, Arthur Pendragon walked his usual beat along Oxford Street towards Tottenham Court Road. The usually bustling street had begun to empty as shops shut for the night and people hurried home, or to the pub, or to holiday parties. Arthur would be doing the same in another hour; by then the festivities at his sister Morgana’s would be in full swing. After some persuasion, he’d promised to drop by after his shift ended.
His first Christmas without Sam didn’t feel like cause for celebration, but he never really could say no to Morgana. She and Leon were worried about him. Not that he could blame them, as he was aware he’d been on automatic pilot for months now. Still, he was tired of people hinting it was time to move on. They hadn’t been there during the end when the cancer was too strong, when Sam couldn’t even walk, eat, sleep without pain. Arthur had. He’d been there until the very last breath.
A woman overloaded with packages nearly slammed into him. She looked up, muttering profuse apologies. Arthur helped her hail a taxi just as his pager went off.
“There’s a 209 on Oxford and Vera. Restaurant owner says some kids are causing trouble, bothering diners,” said the dispatcher, who Arthur recognized as his friend Gwaine. “Can you respond?”
“Merry Christmas to me,” Arthur said, turning round to head back in the other direction.
“I hear you, mate. Bloody little twats. Cheers.”
Dealing with kids disturbing the peace was preferable to dwelling on things he’d rather forget. He figured it was the same group as always—kids from the suburbs with absentee parents who came into the city to bother tourists and generally make themselves nuisances, probably out for a lark on Christmas Eve. Arthur quickened his pace.
When he arrived at the rather posh restaurant to shouting in the back alley, he rounded the corner, hand on his baton as a precaution. It wasn’t likely things would get violent, but recent gang activity in the city had the Met on high alert.
There were two kids, older teenagers from the look of them, confronting a man dressed in black tie, who stood glaring at them, his mouth twisted with a sneer of disdain.
“—my money!” One of the kids was shouting up in the man’s face. The man didn’t flinch, but upon Arthur’s approach he turned his head and gestured, stepping around the yelling kid.
“What appears to be the problem?” Arthur addressed his question the man he figured was either the maître’d or the manager.
“Constable, these hoodlums are disturbing the guests of this restaurant. I’d appreciate it if you’d escort them off the premises.”
For the first time, Arthur got a close look at the two in question. The kid who’d been yelling was on the short side, face ruddy from cold. His clothes looked warm enough, but worn from wear. This definitely wasn’t a suburb kid—he was London through and through, and likely homeless.
But it was the other boy who arrested Arthur’s attention. He was tall, almost willowy, with prominent cheekbones and a set of the most ridiculous ears Arthur had ever seen. He bit at his bottom lip, focusing his wide-set, calculating eyes on Arthur.
“He won’t pay me my money,” the shorter kid said, crossing his arms. “I been workin’ here for two weeks, yeah? Doin’ dishes in the back for them rich geezers. Said ’e’d pay me twen’y quid a day.”
Twenty a day was hardly anything for a glass washer. Arthur looked to the manager, who stammered, “I-I’ve never seen this boy in my life. He’s lying.”
“I ain’t lyin’, am I, Merlin?”
“No,” said the taller boy. He crossed his arms, jutted his chin.
This wasn’t the first time one of London’s elite restaurants had exploited the underserved population. If the body language and discomfort of the manager proved anything, he was lying, though Arthur had no proof. Just his word against theirs.
“I had a contract, right?” the short boy said. He looked to the other for confirmation.
“A verbal contract. That’s right.” Merlin had a lilting accent, one that Arthur finally placed as Welsh. His tattered coat seemed worse off than his friend’s, but at least he had a scarf and gloves.
The manager scoffed. “A verbal contract, indeed.”
“Fine, don’ believe me. Yeah, that’s alright. It’s Christmas, mates, cheers. Bugger it, bugger all’a you.”
The shorter boy turned to storm away, but the other—Merlin, odd name—grabbed his coat to hold him in place.
“My mate Will Sacks has been working here for two weeks, and this man hasn’t paid him. Ask anyone in the back,” Merlin said to Arthur, gesturing toward the restaurant. Then he scowled. “On second thought, don’t. They’ll probably want to keep their jobs.”
Arthur cleared his throat, turned to the manager. What he was about to do was unorthodox, but he didn’t see any other choice, not with the way Merlin was looking at him, like he expected the worst from a policeman.
“I suggest you pay Will,” he said. “Or else we can wait until Monday and he can file a complaint to see if there’s any validity to his claim. It’ll be more of a hassle, probably cost you more in the long-run, but that’s the alternative.”
The man regarded Arthur curiously, surprised. “You can’t be serious.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes.
“Fine,” said the manager. “I’ll pay him.” Still, he made no move.
“I’ll wait here and see that you do,” Arthur said.
With a huff, the man disappeared back into the kitchen, opening the door and letting aromas of butter and bacon waft into the cold air. Arthur kept his eyes on the two boys, not missing the fact that Merlin turned his head toward the smell. The longing on his face was replaced by indifference when he noticed Arthur watching. None of them spoke.
The manager reappeared just as the silence became uncomfortable. He thrust a wad of notes into the short boy’s hands and cast a glance of displeasure at Arthur before turning and retreating from where he’d come without another word.
Will counted the notes in his hand, then shoved them into his pocket.
“Thanks,” he muttered in Arthur’s direction, though he didn’t seem particularly grateful.
“In the future you shouldn’t take a job someplace unless you sign a written form of employment. Or else you might never get your money.”
“Right,” Will snorted a laughed. “No place’ll hire me on the books. I ain’t got no references, no address.”
“Are you at a shelter?”
Will shook his head, kicked the ground. “They’re full up, mate. It’s bloody Christmas. Listen, I gotta run. Merlin, I’ll see you later, yeah?”
He took off at a jog, leaving Merlin and Arthur standing alone.
“He’s in a bit of a hurry,” Arthur said, feeling uneasy.
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t trust pi—constables like yourself. Probably thinks you’ll arrest him all the same and pocket his money.”
“What about you?” Arthur had no idea why he cared what this kid thought of him. Still, he didn’t like the way Merlin’s face seemed untrusting, like he didn’t know what to think of Arthur.
“I figure if you were going to arrest me, you’d have done it by now.”
“Right.”
Arthur wasn’t exactly sure what he should do; maybe he should see if any spaces had opened up at one of the local shelters. He could call Gwaine . . .
“It was good of you, though, to get him his money,” Merlin said, interrupting his thoughts. “Most police would have taken that arsehole’s word. And Will needs it for his mam.”
“What’s wrong with his mum?”
“I can’t exactly tell you that, can I?” Merlin wrinkled his nose. It was probably something illegal, then; drugs, perhaps.
A few stray flakes had begun to fall, and Merlin looked up, frowning as the snow danced, whipped by the wind in the low light of the alley.
“So why’d you believe us?” Merlin asked.
“It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this,” Arthur admitted, though he had no business out here talking to this homeless kid when his shift was over and Morgana expected him. But even imagining a house full of happy family and friends seemed tedious, all of them watching him out of the corners of their eyes and talking in hushed tones when they thought he didn’t notice.
Poor Arthur.
Such a tragedy.
“I believe that. Bloody exploitation, and they get away with it too.” Merlin didn’t try to hide the bitterness in his tone.
“How old are you?”
“How old are you?” Merlin shot back.
One thing was for sure, the brat was quick. Arthur smirked. “Touché. So, where are you living then, Merlin?” It was a mythic name for a street kid, yet strangely, it suited him. There was something going on behind those eyes, something Arthur wasn’t sure he trusted.
“Around.”
He sounded older than his age—which Arthur guessed at around sixteen or seventeen—and he seemed smart. Arthur sighed at the vague answer, a momentary compulsion making him say, “There are programs, you know, for kids on the street. I could help you find a place to stay.”
“I don’t want anything to do with that.” Merlin’s voice darkened. “I’m legal to be on my own and you can’t force me.”
At least seventeen, then, if he was telling the truth. Arthur held up his hands. “No one said anything about forcing you.” Bloody hell, the kid looked hunted, eyes darting around. For his height, he really was far too skinny. It could be drugs as likely as hunger. They did it for warmth just as much as for the high—usually huffing, sometimes meth or crack. Not too long ago Arthur’d had the unfortunate experience of arresting a kid years younger than Merlin on possession. Fucking dealers.
“Right. I’ve had adults concerned about my welfare before. I’m really not interested.”
The snow fell more thickly now, whitening the ground between them.
“Do you have a place to sleep?” Arthur asked. It was his duty, after all, to help people, and this kid’s coat didn’t seem warm enough to get him through the night.
“I’ve . . . Yes, I do.” Merlin’s reply didn’t sound certain. Then his face lost all expression except for a certain glint in his eyes. “Why? Want me to come to yours?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, before he even had time to think.
Merlin smirked, fluttered his lashes. “I see. Well, why didn’t you just say so, Constable?”
“No, that’s not what I meant,” Arthur said, aghast. He held up his hands as if to fend off the accusation. He wasn’t a dirty policeman, and even if this kid was attractive, he would never take advantage of his power in that way. It was unthinkable.
“Whatever you say, Constable.” Merlin swayed his hips as he stalked forward, the predatory look on his face suggesting this wasn’t the first time he’d propositioned someone, or been propositioned. Arthur found himself frozen in place despite the warning bells thundering through his head, but got himself together to hold Merlin at arm’s length.
Up close, the kid was even more striking. His skin was fine, smooth and pale almost to translucence, except where the cold touched his cheeks and his nose. Under the thin layer of his coat, Arthur felt the bony protuberances of his shoulders. Bugger it, he was nearly skeletal.
“What gets you off?” Merlin asked, licking his lips. “Is it the age thing? Got a bird who doesn’t put out? You like tight young arse? You want me to suck you? I can do all of that.”
Arthur couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Sam’s face flashed before him, brown eyes and crooked smile slamming into Arthur like a punch to the gut. He released Merlin, stepped away as if he’d been burned. “No. I’m not looking for that kind of thing. But you should sleep someplace warm tonight. Since the shelter’s are full, you can stay in my spare room, have a good night’s rest and something to eat.”
“Oh, you’re a goodie, then.” Merlin hit Arthur with a flirtatious smile. “I was hoping you’d be bad.”
Arthur crossed his arms, gave Merlin his most practiced stern look. “Cut the shit, kid. I’m serious. You’re welcome to come with me and spend a night out of the cold, but under one condition; I don’t want drugs in my flat.”
Merlin’s face flashed with hurt before he schooled his features and said coolly, “I don’t do drugs.”
“Fine. Good. In any case, you shouldn’t be freezing out here on Christmas.”
Merlin took a step back, raised his eyebrow. “How do you know I won’t steal from you? Off you in your sleep?”
“I don’t. But I’m hoping you’ll restrain yourself,” Arthur said wryly. “And I promise to do the same.”
“Oh, I hope not,” Merlin said, offering another devastating smile. Arthur blushed, making a mental reminder to choose his words carefully around this kid.
“Listen,” Arthur said, his voice warning.
Merlin crossed his arms. “Fine. I’ll come with you. But you’re wrong about one thing,” his eyes flicked to Arthur’s badge, “Constable Pendragon.”
“And what’s that?”
“Everyone is looking for that kind of thing.”
— — — —
The taxi ride back to his flat gave Arthur plenty of time to wonder what the fuck he was doing.
He called Morgana and made his excuses, citing tiredness and yawning to emphasize the deception. No way he could tell her the truth; she’d think him insane for taking some street kid back to his place, or worse, suspect him of impure motivations, as Merlin had. For his part, Merlin had stopped making advances. Perhaps he’d finally decided Arthur was serious, or maybe he was just waiting for another window of opportunity. In either case, Arthur was grateful for the reprieve. This kid was more than he’d bargained for.
They pulled up in front of Arthur’s building, and Merlin spilled out onto the sidewalk behind him, all gangly arms and legs.
“Posh neighborhood,” Merlin said as they climbed the stairs. “You can’t afford this on your salary. What is it, a two-story?”
Jiggling keys in the lock, Arthur nodded. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I got a small inheritance from my father when he died.”
“Sorry.”
“I’m not. He was a right bastard.”
“At least he left you some money.”
“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t taken it.” Of course that was only partially true; it had helped pay for Sam’s treatment, and that had been worth it, even if it’d only bought him a few months in the end.
“My da’s dead, too,” said Merlin as they entered the flat. He shifted from one foot to the other, as if unsure where to stand, eyes roving around.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Arthur said, not wanting to press further.
“Yeah, well. Shite happens.”
Arthur divested himself of his coat and hung it up in the closet, then held out his hand for Merlin to do the same. Merlin complied, took off his scarf and gloves. Underneath he wore a blue jumper about three sizes too big.
They stood looking at everything but each other.
“Would you like some tea?” Arthur asked finally. “Something to eat?” He experienced a momentary fantasy of plying Merlin with cakes and cookies until he fattened up.
Merlin nodded, followed as Arthur showed him to the living room. “Wait here. I’ll give you the tour later,” he said. “Food first.”
Sitting with his hands clasped between his knees, Merlin looked almost obedient when Arthur left to throw something together. He was an atrocious cook; Sam had done most of it when he was healthy. Once he’d gotten ill, though, Arthur hardly gave a thought to food, caring little what he ate so long as he didn’t have to leave Sam to get it. Lately, Arthur had been living on marmite and toast and frozen dinners from Sainsbury’s. He scanned the disappointing contents of his fridge and finally settled on omelets. Omelets, he could manage.
“This is a nice place,” Merlin called from the other room. “Big fuckin’ posh sofa.”
Arthur cracked an egg against the side of the bowl and smiled.
“And Jaysus, look at your telly, mate!”
Things were quiet for a while as Arthur made them tea and cooked, and he had the unsettling suspicion Merlin was going through his things. He could be a thief, after all. Not that Arthur had anything he’d really miss; it was all just stuff. Still, he didn’t like the idea, although he’d opened himself up to it by inviting a stranger into his home.
He returned to the living room, two plates in hand, half expecting Merlin to have disappeared along with the telly, but was startled when he saw the boy standing at the mantle holding a picture of Arthur and Sam. It had been taken at Morgana and Leon’s wedding two years before. Sam was wearing a fitted grey suit, maybe the only time he’d ever put one on, and he was kissing Arthur on the cheek. Four months later, they’d learned about the tumor in Sam’s brain, the fast-acting cancer that would steal his life in less than a year.
Arthur cleared his throat; Merlin almost dropped the frame, and then hastily replaced it.
“Sorry, don’t mean to pry. This bloke, he’s cute.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, putting the plates down on the coffee table. “That’s Sam.”
“He your boyfriend?”
“He was.”
“What, did he dump you or something?”
“No,” Arthur said, “he died. Here,” he motioned toward the food, “start eating. I’ll get the rest.”
In the kitchen Arthur leaned his elbows on the counter and rested his head in his hands, took a deep breath, and then got the tea ready. Maybe he should have lied about Sam, gone along with Merlin. Somehow it seemed easier.
Merlin hadn’t touched his food when Arthur brought in the tea.
“Eat,” Arthur said, picking up his own plate. “It’ll get cold.”
The kid picked up the plate and the fork and did as he was instructed; the eggs disappeared in a few giant bites, and Arthur regretted he hadn’t made more. Looked like Merlin could use a couple dozen, at least.
“So you really are a poof,” Merlin said, staring at the empty plate in his lap.
“Yes, I’m gay. I thought you suspected as much when you propositioned me in the alley.”
Merlin smirked. “You’d be surprised how little straight men care about who sucks their dick, so long as it’s getting sucked.”
Arthur nodded, though in his experience straight men most certainly did care—to a fault, in some cases. He didn’t want to be having this conversation, though; it was hard enough imagining Merlin doing those things with nameless, faceless men who probably didn’t pay enough for the exploitation. As if there could ever be a high enough price.
“Do you want some more?” he asked.
Merlin nodded, embarrassed, and Arthur got up to make toast.
— — — —
“Here’s where you’ll be sleeping,” Arthur said, opening the door across from the guest bathroom, “and there’s the loo. I guess that’s all you need to know.”
Merlin trailed behind him, looking uncomfortable.
“I’m tired, so I think I’m headed to bed. Do you need anything else?”
“I would really like . . . um . . . a shower would be nice,” Merlin said. The bravado he’d exhibited earlier had vanished, and Arthur wasn’t sure if he missed it or not.
“Of course,” Arthur replied, shamed he hadn’t thought of it. And clothes. The truth was, up close, Merlin smelled.
Arthur went to his room and grabbed his smallest t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms he’d had since uni and brought them to Merlin, along with a warmer cotton jumper and a towel.
“They might be a little big, but they should be long enough.”
“Thanks,” Merlin said, holding the clothes as if trying to discern whether they’d been doused with poison.
“There’s soap and shampoo and all that. If you want to shave, there are razors under the sink. And toothbrushes.”
The kid nodded, met Arthur’s eyes for a moment, and there he saw it—shame. He wasn’t used to accepting help. They stood awkwardly in the hallway for another minute until Arthur said goodnight and went to bed, satisfied he’d done the right thing. Still, he locked his bedroom door.
— — — —
Arthur woke up late on Christmas morning; the clock read after eleven. He lay looking at the ceiling for a moment, an awareness of something or someone skirting on the edge of his consciousness. Merlin.
When he got up to check, the door to the spare room was open, the bed empty and made up. An odd panic swelled in his chest, but then he noticed Merlin’s old clothes folded neatly in a pile on the desk, his worn trainers placed side-by-side under the chair. He grabbed the clothes, wrinkling his nose at the smell, and brought them down the hall to the laundry for a wash.
Downstairs, Merlin was in the kitchen. Singing. Arthur stifled a laugh because his voice was terribly off-pitch, and yet he was singing with such gusto as might wake the neighbors. Arthur hovered in the doorway, watching as Merlin stirred something in a pot. The pajama bottoms were slung low on his hips, giving just a peek of bare skin, and Arthur remembered he hadn’t thought to give Merlin pants . . . but that would have been strange, wouldn’t it? And why was he even considering such things? He shook his head and cleared his throat.
Merlin jumped, turned, hand clawing at his chest.
“Jaysus fucking Christ! You scared the piss out of me.”
“Sorry,” Arthur said. “I didn’t want to interrupt the performance.”
“What performance?” Merlin looked down, hoisted his bottoms. Arthur glanced away as the fine trail of hair disappeared.
“You were singing.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were singing some God-awful Christmas carol.”
Merlin’s skin mottled with pink from his neck to his ears. “Well, so what,” he said defensively. “It’s Christmas, after all.”
“It is.” Arthur felt a bit bad for poking fun. “And you’re cooking.” There was coffee too, which smelled perfect. He poured himself a cup.
“Yeah. I hope you don’t mind,” he said. Arthur shook his head. “Not much to work with, though. What do you eat? I mean, you’re obviously not starving.”
“What are you saying? That I’m fat?”
Merlin’s eyes traveled up and down. “Maybe just big-boned,” he said with a grin, arching one brow.
Deciding not to pursue the matter further, as it was entirely inappropriate and possibly illegal, Arthur sipped his coffee. And no, he should not be thinking about how soft Merlin’s hair looked now it’d been washed, feathering over the tips of his ears.
He sat down at the kitchen table and grabbed the paper. “What are you cooking?”
“Uh.” Merlin glanced down into the pot. “Tomato jam.”
“Jam?”
“Yeah. You had tomatoes and onions and some spices. Sugar. My mam used to make it. I don’t know how good it’ll be, but options were limited.”
“Sounds . . . interesting. I have tomatoes?”
Merlin grabbed a couple slices of bread, stuck them in the toaster. “You don’t have to eat it. And yes, you have cans of tomatoes. A lot. You must really like them. Or else maybe you’re a weirdo tomato hoarder.”
Arthur didn’t like tomatoes all that much, but Sam had. He barely knew what sorts of things were still stowed away in the cupboards, collecting dust. It happened again, that old familiar knife twisting in his chest . . . last year on this day Sam had been alive. Of course he’d been so sick it wasn’t like they’d really celebrated. He’d wanted a tree, though, and they’d gotten one, Arthur decorating as Sam lay on the couch giving him instructions of where to put what until he’d dozed off, exhausted from pain medication.
It hadn’t been a good Christmas, but Arthur had wanted to memorize every moment. Even now those moments slipped from him, elusive.
He breathed deeply, the sting in his eyes abating as Merlin chattered on. “—with clotted cream. What’s yours?”
“Hmm?”
“You’ve not listened to a word I’ve said. Reading something interesting?”
Arthur glanced down at the page of adverts, then up at Merlin, whose bottoms were sagging low again, and bloody hell, his hipbone . . .
“Sorry.” Arthur reached for his coffee to distract himself. “What were you saying?”
“It’s not important. Just that I wish we had some scones and clotted cream. What’s your favorite breakfast?”
“Bangers and eggs,” Arthur replied absentmindedly.
“I’ll bet, Constable.”
Arthur shook his head at Merlin, who grinned and went back to his cooking.
A few moments of companionable silence passed, allowing Arthur to wonder what he was supposed to do with the kid now. Obviously, he wasn’t going to send Merlin away on Christmas, not with the shelters over-capacity. But he couldn’t exactly keep Merlin, either.
Merlin interrupted his train of thought by sliding a piece of toast in front of him. It smelled peculiar—a mixture of tomato and a sweet something that Arthur hoped to God wasn’t cinnamon. The bite that followed burned the roof of his mouth with one of the most horrible substances he’d ever willfully ingested.
“How is it?” Merlin asked, his face expectant.
Arthur tried to chew without tasting, swallowed. “Really good,” he lied, taking another bite. “But it’s hot.”
Merlin sat down across the table with his own slice. “So, why did a posh bloke like you join the police?”
“I wanted to help people,” Arthur said, deciding to ignore the almost-insult. “I guess it sounds foolish.”
“Nah. I get it. Theoretically, I guess that’s what police are supposed to do, you know, serve and protect and all that.”
“I take it that hasn’t been the case in your experience?”
“Correct.”
“I’m sorry about that. Most police aren’t arseholes,” Arthur said, though he didn’t know if that was the truth or not. He’d been harassed by people for being openly gay, and had seen some pretty atrocious treatment of societies ‘undesirables’, even by members of the Met.
Merlin leaned forward to blow on his jam. “Well, you’re all right.”
“Thanks.” Arthur forced another bit of toast down, wondering how on earth Merlin could like this stuff. “What about you? You’re not from London.” For a minute Arthur didn’t think Merlin was going to answer, but then the kid cleared his throat.
“I’m from Wales, a village with more sheep than people. You probably haven’t heard of it; no one has. Town called Ealdor.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is,” Merlin said. “Or it was.”
“What happened?”
“My mam remarried.”
“You didn’t like the bloke?” Arthur asked, trying to keep his voice casual. He was curious, but Merlin was like a skittish colt.
“I didn’t like the way he used my face as a football, not really, no.”
Just because it was a familiar story, it didn’t make it any easier to hear. The thought of anyone hitting Merlin made Arthur’s guts twist with anger. He frowned. “So you ran away.”
“Yep. When I was fourteen.”
“What about your mum?” As soon the words left his mouth, Arthur knew he’d asked the wrong question. He found himself on the receiving end of a vicious glare.
“I left her, all right? I left her there like a fucking coward.”
“I’m not accusing you. Jesus, Merlin. You were just a kid. You should have been protected. It was her job to protect you.”
Merlin’s chair screeched across the floor as he stood up, furious. “I’m leaving. You can’t talk shite about my mam. I’m not your Christmas charity case.”
Arthur stood, too. “Don’t. Please. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t that sorry, but he didn’t want Merlin to go, which was a bit absurd because he barely knew Merlin, and the kid had baggage too heavy for Arthur to deal with, at least without professional help.
“He never touched her, it was me he hated. He hated me because she loved me. She loved my da.”
“I’m sure she did. Does,” Arthur corrected, holding up his hand.
“She tried to stop him, but she was afraid. I wanted . . . it was okay if he hit me as long as he didn’t hit her,” Merlin said. The logic was alarming, but Arthur nodded all the same.
“I’m sorry, look, we’ll talk about something else. Here, you haven’t even eaten.”
The kid slumped back into his chair. “Fine. But I’m leaving after this.”
“Okay,” Arthur said, watching as Merlin took a bite.
Merlin pulled a face, spat the food onto his plate. “Ugh, ugh, ugh,” he said, swiping at his tongue. “It’s horrible.”
Arthur grinned as Merlin groped for his coffee to wash away the taste.
“How did you eat this?” he asked, gasping.
Arthur shrugged, polished off the last bite. “It kinda grows on you.”
— — — —
“I have stuff, you know,” Merlin said the day after Christmas. Despite his threat to leave, he hadn’t, and Arthur hadn’t brought it up. It was nice to have company, even if it was that of a moody street kid. They’d ordered take-away from the only restaurant open in Notting Hill and watched a film, then played videogames until Merlin started nodding off.
“Yeah?”
“I mean, I don’t just walk around with nothing. Will and I have a spot. But we rotate, you know, so you blokes don’t catch on.”
Arthur knew a lot of rough sleepers, so the fact he’d never come across Merlin or Will before suggested they didn’t stay in the same place for long. It was a hard life. Most homeless people spent the majority of their nights in shelters, but some chose to sleep in the open. Mental disorders and drug problems were rife in that population; many died before they reached middle age.
“Have you ever thought about getting a job, maybe going to uni?”
Merlin barked a laugh. “Oh you lot’re all the same. It’s easier said than done, yeah? Gotta have an address to get a job. And the jobs I’ve had have all treated me like shite, like I’m nothing. So I quit.”
“What about school?”
“Didn’t finish. Maybe I will, one day. I was pretty smart, you know, got good grades.”
“I can believe that.”
As he readied to leave for work, Arthur contemplated what to do about Merlin. He still wasn’t comfortable with Merlin alone in the flat, though thus far the boy had proven himself to be honest. He was lounging on the couch in a pair of Arthur’s jeans and a jumper (swimming in it, really) and flipping through channels on the telly.
“There’s crap on in the morning,” he complained. “What is this bollocks? Do people really watch this stuff?” He’d landed on some morning talk show with sarcastic, over-compensating hosts.
“Apparently.”
“You know, I could come up with something better than this in my sleep. Maybe I’ll write for the BBC. Maybe I’ll—” He finally noticed Arthur preparing to leave and sat up.
“I’ve got to work,” Arthur explained.
“I should probably get leave, too. Will’s gotta be worried about me by now.”
“You can stay another day,” Arthur said.
“Nah, I couldn’t impose on you anymore. This has been great and all, but I can take care of myself.” Merlin stood, patted his pockets as if he were locating keys, or his wallet.
By charging for sex? Arthur wanted to ask, but held his tongue. Why the thought made him so bitter, he didn’t know.
“Listen, I appreciate all of this,” Merlin said, gesturing around, “But this isn’t my life.”
“Just stay another day.”
“Why?”
“Because,” Arthur said, thinking on his feet. “I need someone to cook for me.”
“You tasted that shite I made. It was horrible.”
“But there are cookbooks; I even own a few. You can follow recipes, I presume?”
Merlin rolled his eyes.
“Just stay one more day. I’ll be hungry when I get home. Look,” Arthur said, pulling out his wallet. He tossed Merlin a couple of notes. “Go to the store, make whatever you like. I’ll eat anything.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“The spare key’s under the mat.”
Merlin frowned at the money in his hand. “I have to go see Will. Let him know I’m all right.”
“Fine,” Arthur said. “Just come back tonight. Will can stay, too.” He didn’t particularly want another houseguest, but he’d allow it if it meant Merlin wouldn’t be on the street.
“Will would never, ever stay here.”
“Okay, well, that’s up to him. But I’m counting on you, Merlin. Have some pity; you can’t let me starve. You’ve seen the abysmal state of things in the kitchen.”
“Your reverse psychology is extremely rusty.”
“Is it working?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Good,” Arthur said, holding in his grin.
“Wanker.”
— — — —
At the station, Arthur’s curiosity got the better of him. He looked up Merlin’s file.
Merlin Emrys, now aged 17, missing since October 2009. The rest of the report was short. Hunith and Cenred Jenkins had reported the disappearance of their son three days after they’d last seen him.
Three bloody days.
After an initial search around the local area, officials had determined Emrys a runaway. There were no signs of foul play. His photo had been distributed around the UK, but no further developments had been reported. Disappearing into a city of millions, Merlin had left his past behind. But not really. Arthur knew you never really forgot your past, even when you wanted to.
Fourteen-year-old Merlin smiled out at Arthur from the computer monitor. His face looked open without the hard, distrustful stare Arthur’d seen plenty since they’d met. Damage like that couldn’t be undone, so why did Arthur want to try?
If Merlin suspected Arthur had researched his case, he never asked. Arthur certainly wasn’t going to turn him in; he was legal now to do what he liked, and Arthur wasn’t the kind of officer who thought being homeless was a crime.
For the next few days, a routine of sorts developed.
Arthur got ready to leave for work, and he and Merlin had the same conversation; Merlin would declare it was time for him to go, and Arthur would convince him to stay, citing his need for Merlin’s culinary expertise. Arthur would leave Merlin some money, more than Merlin would need for groceries, and hope Merlin understood he was to pocket the difference. He seemed to, because Arthur never received any change.
The food was generally terrible. Merlin turned broccoli to mush, made crunchy rice, and overcooked steaks to the consistency of shoe leather. Still, Arthur washed the food down with beer or water and pretended he couldn’t get enough, while Merlin looked at him with wide-eyed incredulity.
“You can’t actually like this,” Merlin said on the fourth night, scraping the remains of their dinner into the bin.
“I loved it,” Arthur said. “Best meal I’ve had in ages.” Even as he said the words, his stomach muttered in protest.
“You’re mental. I mean seriously mental.”
“Maybe so,” Arthur said. Merlin washed the dishes, and Arthur couldn’t help noticing how ridiculously large his clothes were.
“Here,” he said, once Merlin had finished. “Get yourself some new jeans tomorrow, something that fits. And whatever else you need.”
“Oh my God.” Merlin eyed the cash in Arthur’s hand. “At least let me suck your cock if you’re gonna get all Pretty Woman on me. I’ll do it so nice for you, Arthur. I bet you have a delicious cock.” Merlin looked down at Arthur from underneath long lashes, and Arthur felt a stab of hopeless longing, punctuated almost immediately by guilt.
“It’s not a lot; I just think you should have some clothes that fit, is all,” he said.
“Why? You worried my trousers’ll fall off?” Merlin wiggled his hips and the loose jeans slipped dangerously low, showing a hint of that pale skin. Arthur swallowed, looked away. “Oooh. That is it, isn’t it, Constable?”
“I just want my clothes back,” Arthur snapped. Leaving the money on the table, he stalked upstairs and shut his door. What the hell was he doing? He knew he needed to examine his motivations; they couldn’t go on like this indefinitely. Merlin needed a place to live and a job, and Arthur would inquire with his colleagues tomorrow. Gwaine had worked at some half-way houses before he’d joined the Met, so he’d have information, maybe even some tips on how to deal with Merlin, get him to cooperate. It just wasn’t on for Arthur to be giving the kid money and making him stay when he didn’t want to. Yes, he’d figure out a way to get Merlin off the street and out of his flat.
— — — —
Arthur meant to bring up Merlin’s situation to Gwaine the next day, but there was a vicious mugging near Selfridges that left a woman badly wounded and Arthur and a few other officers chasing the suspect through the post-Christmas shopping crowds. By the time he got home, he was exhausted—and pleased to see Merlin in a new set of trainers, jeans, and a jumper that actually fit.
“Wow,” Arthur said without meaning to.
“You like?” Merlin asked, twirling. Arthur rolled his eyes and tucked into pasta that was just shy of al dente, unwilling to let his mind even go there.
“No, I’m just surprised you have the capacity to listen.”
“Prat,” Merlin said, taking a bite of his own meal. He shrugged, looked surprised. “I’d call this a triumph. Maybe pasta is my signature dish.”
“It’s good,” Arthur said, and meant it. “It’s actually good.”
“Of course it is. I’m a wizard in the kitchen.”
Later, after they’d eaten, Arthur and Merlin settled on the couch to watch the news.
A woman is still in critical condition after being repeatedly stabbed by a gang member outside of . . .
“Oi!” Merlin exclaimed, pointing at the telly; Arthur, who’d been halfway to unconsciousness, opened his eyes, only to be greeted by video footage of himself and Leon, a mate from the force, bringing the mugging suspect into custody.
“That’s you!” Merlin bounced excitedly.
“Oh, bother,” muttered Arthur, moving to turn the channel.
“No, no, I want to watch. I know that tosser! His name’s Mordred and he’s a real arsehole; stole fifty quid from me last year, gave me a black eye.”
“Merlin,” Arthur said, shocked. “Why didn’t you report it?”
“Are you kidding, mate? Come on.” Merlin rolled his eyes. “They wouldn’t have cared, believe me, and then I would have gotten my arse beaten worse on top of it all. Mordred has connections, get it?”
Arthur felt indignant; he would have cared. Fuck.
“So you arrested him?” Merlin asked.
“Yeah.”
“He stabbed that woman pretty bad, sounds like.”
“She was bleeding out when I arrived on scene, but we got her to hospital quickly. She should be okay.”
“Glad that bastard finally got his,” said Merlin, brow furrowed as the news cut to another story. Arthur could have pressed for details, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He did wish he’d been a little more forceful with the suspect, though, maybe given him something more substantial than an elbow to the ribs.
They flipped the channel to a stupid game show for some mind-numbing entertainment, though Arthur’s fatigue had worn off. He couldn’t explain the protective urge that formed as he watched Merlin’s features gradually soften until the kid was snoring, mouth open, drooling on a throw pillow. Arthur chuckled and stood, covering Merlin with a blanket and shutting off the light.
Up in his own bedroom, Arthur immediately noticed something . . . off. He couldn’t account for it until he saw the pile of laundry folded on his dresser: all of the clothes Merlin had borrowed during the past few days. And his bed, which he never made, was neat, the sheets smelling of fabric softener. Merlin had cleaned.
The master bathroom, too, seemed to have gotten some attention, though Merlin’d left the toilet brush in the bowl.
Back in his room under the cover of darkness, Arthur drifted to sleep, a bloom of something sweet and unexpected spreading over his limbs like the fall of warm rain.
— — — —
On New Year’s Eve, Morgana called to invite Arthur out, but he made more excuses. He couldn’t exactly bring Merlin, and he didn’t want to leave the kid on his own. He claimed he had to work, which wasn’t exactly truthful since he’d put in his holiday time on Christmas Eve.
They ordered pizza and Arthur bought virgin apple cider for Merlin and some beer for himself.
“I’m seventeen,” Merlin complained as Arthur unloaded the groceries. He frowned at the cider, wrinkling his nose. “I’m allergic to apples. And I’ve had beer before, Jaysus.”
“You’re not allergic to apples.”
“How do you know? Ever seen me eat an apple?”
“You’re not legal.”
“God, you’re worse than a parent. Just let me a have a beer for fuck’s sake. I promise I’ll behave.”
Merlin batted his eyes and Arthur rolled his. “Fine. One. But that’s it. I can’t believe I’m allowing this.”
“Relax, Constable,” Merlin said, puckering his lips to take a swig of his beer. “It’ll be our little secret.”
That was precisely what Arthur feared.
Merlin, it turned out, didn’t need more than a beer to get very silly indeed. His face flushed as he ate his pizza, pulling off the mushrooms because he thought they tasted like dirt.
They watched the bells, and when Arthur came back from the loo after midnight, he found Merlin in the kitchen swilling another beer.
“Hey,” Arthur said, crossing his arms. “You sneaky bugger.” The chastisement came out more as bemused, since Arthur wasn’t exactly sober himself.
“Oh, lighten up. Like you never drank before you were eighteen.” Merlin gave him an innocent grin.
Feeling a bit hypocritical, Arthur thrust his hands in his pockets. “Fine. But it’s the last one.”
“Okayyy.” Merlin breezed by him, still holding the bottle to his lips. “Let’s do something fun,” he said when they were back in the living room.
“Like what?”
“Dance.”
“What?” Merlin was fiddling with the stereo, turning on some hip-hop Arthur’d never heard before. He was more of a classic rock kind of bloke—the Beatles, the Stones. Most contemporary music sounded the same: terrible and loud.
Merlin didn’t seem to share Arthur’s taste. He twirled around, moved his hips to the beat.
“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand.
“No,” Arthur said. “I don’t dance.”
“Suit yourself. But I’ll have you know you’re a sorry excuse for a gay man.”
Arthur settled in an armchair, the farthest seat away from where Merlin was dancing, and tried not to stare. It was difficult, because Merlin was mesmerizing. He bent his knees and rolled his pelvis, and Arthur’s face grew hot. He took a swig of his beer and willed himself not to get a hard on. Unfortunately, his body didn’t seem to be communicating with his brain, especially when Merlin ran a hand along his torso, pulling up his shirt a bit to reveal his flat belly, the happy trail that made Arthur’s throat dry. It was wrong on so many levels; Arthur willed himself to think of Sam, of anything but the fact that Merlin’s arse looked incredible in his new form-fitting jeans.
“I love this song,” Merlin called out, shaking the object of Arthur’s attention. “You sure you don’t want to dance?”
“Yes,” Arthur said, shifting in his chair. He was well past half-mast now, and feeling more than a bit disgusted with himself. Merlin was just a fucking kid and he trusted Arthur; there was no way anything could ever happen between them. And Sam, there was Sam smiling at Arthur from his place on the mantel. Arthur set his beer down.
“I’m going to bed,” he said, trying to keep his voice calmer than he felt. “You have fun. But no more beer, okay?”
Merlin pouted, stopped dancing. “You’re boring, Arthur. It’s bloody New Year’s.”
“Yeah, and I’m tired. I’m old.”
“You’re not even thirty yet.”
But he would be soon, and Merlin was just a teenager. For his New Year’s resolution, Arthur vowed to take a good, hard look at what the hell he was doing. “I have to work in the morning,” he said.
“Bo-ring,” came the sing-song reply.
It was difficult to stand without giving his predicament away; luckily, Merlin chose that moment to turn around and switch off the stereo, enabling Arthur to adjust himself.
“Goodnight, Merlin,” he said.
Merlin threw him a displeased look, flopped down on the couch. “’Night.”
— — — —
Arthur couldn’t sleep due to his rather persistent erection. It was days since he’d last wanked, and the memory of Merlin’s dancing was playing havoc with his libido.
He grabbed a tissue and reached under the covers, stripping himself with quick, harsh strokes, not letting himself think about it. If he could just get this over with, he could fall asleep. In the morning things would be back to normal.
Just as his orgasm started to build, there was a knock at his door.
“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, panting.
“Arthur?”
“What is it, Merlin?”
“Can I come in for a second?”
Frustrated beyond belief, Arthur blew out a sigh, straightened the blankets. He removed his hand from his aching cock and said fine.
He was not expecting Merlin to enter clad only in his pajama bottoms. He turned on the light. Arthur’s dick leapt at the sight of Merlin’s naked torso, his dusky nipples, collarbones. The soft jammie bottoms didn’t hide anything, either; Merlin was sporting a rather substantial boner, completely unashamed about it.
“What do you want?” Arthur asked hoarsely. Merlin smiled, his eyes traveling over Arthur.
“I want to help you out,” Merlin said.
“What?” The arousal fogging his brain stopped him from protesting when Merlin sidled toward the bed, slipped under the covers.
“Is this for me?” Merlin asked, his hand cupping Arthur’s cock over his pants. “I saw you watching me downstairs. Is that why you came up here so fast?” He squeezed and Arthur’s eyes rolled back in his head—he’d been so close . . . if he could just get Merlin to . . .
“No, don’t.” Arthur pushed the hand away, biting back a moan as his body tightened with want. Merlin smelled good, and his hair was soft against Arthur’s shoulder. The kid slid against Arthur’s thigh, letting him feel the evidence of his own erection.
“Why not? I want it. Let me get you off, Arthur. I want your cock so bad. It’s not like I haven’t sucked dick before.”
It was exactly the right, or wrong, thing to say. Arthur stiffened, pushed Merlin away. The kid’s pupils were blown wide, his mouth made for kissing.
“Go to bed. Now.”
“But—”
“This is absolutely not happening.”
“But you want me. Arthur—”
“No.” Arthur hardened his voice. Merlin’s face grew stormy.
“Fine,” he said, flinging back the covers. “I don’t fucking care.”
Arthur groaned as Merlin shut the light and slammed his door. Despite everything, his dick was still rock hard. It was wrong, so wrong. He hadn’t wanted anyone since Sam. It was a betrayal; and worse, Merlin was only a helpless kid. God, but he was so. Fucking. Beautiful. Arthur came hard in less than ten strokes, painting his stomach in a release that felt like pain.
— — — —
The next morning, Arthur went down to breakfast with plans of being an adult about the whole thing.
Merlin sat on the couch, fully dressed and freshly showered, which wouldn’t be unusual, save for the shopping bag at his feet filled with clothes.
“I’m gonna go,” Merlin said. “Get out of your hair.”
“Listen, about last night. I just don’t think—”
Merlin held up his hand. “I get it. I do. You don’t want a filthy cocksucker like me in your bed.”
Arthur’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, that’s not it at all. I don’t think you’re filthy. I think you’re confused. It wouldn’t be right—”
“You don’t get to tell me I’m confused, because I’m not.” Merlin stood up, came around the couch and got up in Arthur’s face. “I think you’re the confused one. You’ve got a boner for me but you’re not gonna take advantage of a street kid, hmm? So noble,” he said, scoffing. “You’re worse than the tossers I’ve got off with on the street because at least they’re not hypocrites. You think I would’ve come to you last night if I didn’t want it?”
“Maybe,” said Arthur. “There’s a power difference, here, Merlin, whether or not you want to admit it. It would be wrong for me to . . . do that with you.”
Merlin’s eyes flashed. “Fuck you, Arthur. Just . . . fuck you. I’m not your charity case. I don’t need saving. You can go straight to hell. And take your money with you.”
Merlin threw down a wad of notes; Arthur watched them scatter on the floor. “No, that’s your money. You’ve earned it from everything you’ve done around here. Take it, please.”
The corner of Merlin’s mouth curled up. “Ha! Maybe I would have earned it, if you’d have let me.”
Arthur reeled as if he’d been slapped. He didn’t call after Merlin when he stormed out the door.