Chapter Text
The radio was on. It was broadcasting some upbeat jazz tune to which Arthur couldn't help but tap his toes. He spun around once on his heels, distracted by the sound the soles of his shoes made on the hardwood. He didn't notice the black scuff it had left behind on the floor, but Uther would.
Uther would also roll his eyes at the music, and ask Arthur, "How many drinks is that today?" Arthur decided to save himself from that question by draining the remainder of his whiskey. He set the glass down on Uther's desk and puffed at the cigarette in his other hand.
The radio near the door kept him rocking on his feet.
And then the door opened.
"Arthur," came Uther's impatient tones. Arthur immediately stopped dancing, and the music was cut short. He spun around to find Uther's hand resting on the radio's off-dial.
"Father," Arthur said after clearing his throat. He straightened out his shoulders and made sure to keep his father's eyes as Uther closed the office door and paced toward the desk.
Uther didn't say anything for a long time, but his suit relayed his displeasure. The suit was pristine and immaculate and so black that it glistened. It seemed to have a life of its own. Uther leaned back into his cushioned chair and lit himself a cigarette. Finally, he motioned to the chair opposite him with the smoke. "Sit."
Arthur did as he was told. It was best to do so when Uther was in such a mood.
"Father, if this is about what happened in Soho—," Arthur began, ready to defend himself. Really, the happenings of the previous night weren't strictly his fault. Sure, he was in the Wolf Head Gang's territory, but they didn't have to make such a fuss about it. Odin's son started the fight; Arthur had tried to make him walk away. All he wanted was a night out.
Instead, he got a bruised head and a body for his boys to toss downriver.
"It isn't," Uther said through his teeth, in a tone that suggested it very much was.
Arthur shut up anyway.
"It's about New York," Uther went on, giving Arthur a hard stare.
Arthur didn't understand his meaning. He knitted his brows together and said, "We received a telegram from Leon yesterday morning. He says they've found a location in Chelsea—on the piers. I've already wired him the money to buy it."
"Yes, I've read the telegram," said Uther, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. He waved around his cigarette as he spoke, making the curls of smoke dance feverishly as though the radio were still playing. "You understand the success of this endeavor is paramount, son. Since the passing of Volstead Act, the Americans have been paying top dollar for their alcohol. A city such as New York is a gold mine. It will generate a substantial amount of revenue for the Knights."
Arthur nodded his head in a lolling sort of way. He'd heard this all a thousand times. "Yes, yes, and it will be our gateway to expand our territory into the States. I know, Father. What's this all about?"
Uther paused again. He stared, sizing Arthur up. Arthur had seen many men in Uther's command falter under that stare.
Then, Uther stood up and walked around the desk to perch himself on the edge. "Leon and Percival have done a fine job at getting us started, but they cannot run the business. I need someone who won't just follow orders, but is willing to give them. Someone in my stead."
So, that's why Uther had requested this meeting. He wanted one of Arthur's boys to go to America to run the speakeasy. He wanted someone with authority to represent the interests of the Knights of the Round Table. A few names turned in Arthur's mind, but he couldn't come up with a definite answer right on the spot.
Perhaps Gwaine. He was intelligent, commanding, and brutal when he needed to be. And he was certainly imaginative, but he was also a drunkard, which meant he was sometimes unreliable. Well, he was reliable for a good time, but that wasn't what Uther was looking for.
Lancelot, then! Lance was likeable and smart as a whip. He was responsible, and the other Knights looked to him for guidance. He was just as good at making rules as he was following them. Plus, Gwen would be thrilled. She'd wanted to run off to the States for years to perform in clubs. With a voice like hers, she'd be a star in a month's time.
Arthur was just about to offer up Lance's name when Uther said, "You."
"Me?" Arthur was shocked. More than that, he was in denial. "You're joking." Uther's expression remained still, and Arthur's dropped along with his hope. "You're not joking."
He let out a frustrated breath, trying to keep his anger down. There had to be some way of talking Uther out of this. "Father, think about this. I can't go to America! It's—it's—I have a life here! My boys are here!"
"I've selected a handful of them to accompany you. All their papers are in order," Uther said, too calmly for the situation, Arthur thought. "You won't be able to run the business on your own. You'll need help, especially at first. The gangs currently in New York won't like the new competition, so expect some run-ins. Especially with the Black Kings. They're responsible for much of the narcotics trade in the city, amongst other things. They're said to hold enough municipal bonds to control New York, and they have sufficient stock to own half of Wall Street. They no doubt have the local politicians and the police in their back pockets. Keep your eyes on them."
Arthur let out some choking sounds. He'd barely heard any of what Uther was saying. "Father—!"
"Enough," Uther spat curtly. Arthur should have known. Once Uther's mind was made up, there was no changing it.
"Besides, it will be safer for you in New York than it will be here," Uther said under his breath, like an insult.
A look of realization passed over Arthur's face. "This is about Soho!"
"Of course, it is!" Uther raged. He jumped up from the edge of the desk and towered over Arthur. Although he wasn't being touched, Uther's shadow alone pressed Arthur further into his chair like a weight. "Odin's men are furious! You could have started a war! Do you have any idea how long it will take me to make this right? You behaved rashly—like a fool."
Arthur swallowed hard. His cigarette had burned out. He couldn't look his father in the eyes. "I'm sorry," he muttered.
"It doesn't matter," Uther said in a stinging voice. He paced away from Arthur, towards the window, but he didn't looked outside. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, "They'll want revenge. I won't have your body wash up on the banks of the Thames, Arthur."
Arthur didn't say anything. He couldn't. Such moments of affection were rare for Uther, and Arthur learned long ago not to respond to them, or else the moment would pass more quickly. It hung in the air for a few moments before Uther took another drag of his cigarette. He turned around and commanded, "You will go to New York. You will run the speakeasy, and soon you will work on obtaining more property. You will not fail. That's final. Pack your things; you sail tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Arthur shouted, nearly jumping out of his seat.
"I suggest you pack quickly," Uther said, turning away again.
Arthur was fuming. He needed a drink, or twelve. He clamped his jaw tight, biting back all the abuses he wanted to sling at his father. None of this was fair.
He jumped to his feet and stormed towards the door, afraid of what he might do or say if he stayed in Uther's office any longer. However, when he tore open the door, Uther called his name. His voice was once again tender, and it was enough to stop Arthur.
Arthur's grip slackened on the knob as he looked over his shoulder. Uther didn't move to look back.
"I know you'll make me proud," he said.
Arthur didn't answer, but his hesitation spoke louder than words. He closed the door softly on his way out.
Of course, the sky was overcast. Of course, the morning carried with it biting cold winds that caused chopping waves to break against the ships. It was a suitable day, mirroring exactly what Arthur felt: brooding, miserable, glum, and entirely repulsed by the sun from too many drinks the night before.
It had been his last night on the town, so he and his boys had to do something special. After a while, Arthur lost count of how many pubs and parties they went to. It was all a bit of a blur, but he was pretty sure they lost Gwaine along the way to some pretty girl with a too-short skirt and feathers in her hair. Arthur was also fairly certain that he had gotten lost, too, with a girl of a similar description, along with her well-built boyfriend, and ended up at their place in Kensington.
How he got home, he hadn't the foggiest. All that mattered was, he was on the docks of the shipyard, ready for his weeklong journey to America.
"Oh, I'm just gonna miss you so much, baby," whined the pretty girl in front of him. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, much tighter than his were around her waist. Vivian, the daughter of one of Uther's allies. At least, there was one up side of moving away: he wouldn't have to deal with her anymore. "Are you gonna miss me?"
"Every day," he lied. She bought it and blushed.
"It's not fair. Why can't I come with you? Gwen gets to go!" Vivian pouted.
Arthur looked towards the Ocean Liner, which was puffing steam as the crew made ready to set sail. He caught sight of Gwen and Lance handing their luggage to one of the sailors. Elyan was close behind them.
"We need Gwen. Her voice will bring everyone in New York to our party," Arthur said, turning his eyes back to Vivian.
"And you don't need me?" she inferred, letting go of his neck. He assumed that meant he could take his hands off her, too.
"Don't be like that, doll," he told her. "I'll be back in no time."
"Promise?"
He gave her a beaming grin and placed his hat on his head. "Cross my heart."
She giggled happily and leaned in close to kiss him.
"Arthur!" someone called.
He turned towards the shout, letting Vivian's lips catch air. Gwaine was calling from over the railing of the ship. "We're headin' out! Hurry up and kiss the bird and get up here!" His whooping laugh that no doubt followed was drowned out by the blaring horn of the ship, signaling its passengers to get on board.
Arthur tipped his hat to Vivian before hustling away.
"Make sure to write, baby!" he heard her shout tearfully before he got lost in the bustle around them.
Just as he reached the gangplank, he heard someone else holler his name. The voice was snide and mocking and oh-so familiar. He found himself smirking at it, but he tamed his face before turning around and greeting, "Morgana."
She gave him a cat-like smile in return. She was dressed in a raincoat, opened to reveal her glamorous, sparkly dress beneath. Her long hair, which she refused to cut into a bob despite the trend, was done up and held in place by a thick, blue headband. The color matched the make-up on her eyes. She always dressed as though she were ready for a wild night out, even in broad daylight.
"I wasn't expecting you to come say goodbye," Arthur teased her. "Miss me already?"
She laughed loftily. "Hardly, dear brother. It's difficult to miss someone when you're going with them."
Arthur gaped. All color drained from his face. "You're what?"
Her eyes flashed at the ship behind him and she said in a cavalier tone, "America. I'm going, too."
Arthur wanted to jump off the port and drown in the Atlantic. It was one thing to be banished to America, it was another thing entirely to be banished with Morgana as his babysitter. They'd kill each other before they even made port in New York.
His sister laughed again. "Oh, don't look like that. You need someone to watch you—make sure you don't fuck this up. Think of me as your partner."
Arthur blinked, searching for any reason for her not to go. "Does Father know about this?"
"As if Father would say no to me."
"Answer the question."
"Arthur, I'm hurt," she said, not sounding hurt at all. Her tone was lyrical. "Of course, he knows. I'm not a bohemian."
"Oh, but you'd like to be," he scoffed. Suddenly, he realized, "You're trying to be a Bright Young Thing!" She certainly had the drinking and socialite lifestyle down; now, all she needed was to become a vagabond.
Her playful expression slipped, and Arthur knew he'd caught her.
"Says you!" she argued.
"I told Father to keep you away from those tabloids," Arthur said, shaking his head in victory. He loved getting a one up on her. "You're too susceptible, Morgana."
"Oh, screw off!" she said heatedly. She held her head higher in a stunning display of self-importance. "I'm nothing like those tramps. I'm much smarter, which is exactly why you need me. You'll run this business into the ground without me to stop you."
Arthur ground his teeth. "I'll be fine on my own."
She laughed into a scoff. "Of course, you'd be fine." She reached up and placed her palm on his cheek tenderly, but her eyes were triumphant. "But, with me, you'll begreat."
Morgana released him and started up the gangplank. Arthur watched her go with fire in his chest.
The horn blasted again, going straight through him. It was time to go.
Kanen had ordered everyone to the garment factory in Alphabet City, an area in Manhattan's Lower East Side. It was the hub of the Black Kings' operation in New York. His office was perched high above the factory floor, it's wall of windows overlooking the looms and machinery. Usually, when Merlin was in the office, he could hear the shouts of the busy workmen and the hum of the machines. They sent out shipments to every corner of the city daily—the boxes lined with dresses that hid a pound of cocaine each, the suits used to hide the whiskey, the shirts that disguised the heroin.
However, everyone on the floor was silent. Work had stopped for last ten minutes as Kanen made his speech about the news from Chicago: The King is dead; long live the King.
Lot, their leader, had finally succumbed to his illness. His son, Cenred, would take over as head boss of the Black Kings. In truth, it wouldn't make very much of an impact on their day-to-day operations in New York. They were one of the most successful factions of the gang, nicknamed the King's Bandits by the locals. Cenred would leave them alone.
But, then again, Cenred would most likely leave everyone alone. He was nothing like Lot, a hard man who rules his empire by any means necessary. Cenred, or so Merlin heard by reputation, was a member of the lost generation. He didn't care for the products or the lifestyle. There was doubt he even cared for the money. He was a soldier, but he would fill his father's shoes well enough. Honor and duty and all that.
Merlin wasn't really listening to what Kanen was saying. He just stood there, holding his glass of moonshine like everyone else, patiently waiting for the toast to be made so they could all go about their day. Next to him, Will shuffled with boredom. Merlin looked around the circle of men, all with glazed over expressions.
The Bandits wouldn't be the only ones toasting Lot's passing. There would be speeches from all the lower bosses: Helios in Miami, Aulfric in Los Angeles, Ari in Boston, Alvarr in the Kings' original home of Cardiff, and of course Cenred in Chicago.
Merlin wondered how many people were actually mourning. He'd only met Lot once himself, when Balinor was still the boss of the Bandits. Before he died and Kanen took charge.
"Alright, I'll say it," Kanen said, his voice louder than before. It broke Merlin out of his thoughts. His attention snapped back to Kanen, to find the man scanning the room with hazel eyes. They were his only light feature (except perhaps the gray peppered into his hair and trimmed beard) and were a startling contrast to his perfectly caramel skin. However, if you asked Merlin, Kanen's eyes were the darkest things about him. They were as dull as stone, as sharp as a blade.
There was a pink, raised scar slashed across Kanen's right eye. A thin line with its starting point hidden in the beard on his cheek; it ended halfway up his forehead where it sprouted into offshoots. Like the branches on a tree. Like a nerve. It had been there for as long as Merlin could remember.
"You've all heard rumors about the Prince. That he's a weakling and dewdropper." Some of the men sniggered. "And we'd be better off with a woman in charge." More chuckles. They stopped when Kanen gave the circle the death stare. "Well, forget them. He's the King now, and he won't bother us any if we all keep to business. So, get your asses back to work!"
Just before the men could move, Kanen added, "Oh, and yeah, here's to Lot, the poor bastard." He gulped down the whiskey in his fist.
"To Lot," everyone, including Merlin, droned, and threw back their drinks.
The machines were already whirring by the time Merlin stepped out of the factory and started down the sidewalk. The normal bustle of mid-afternoon Alphabet City was upon them. A woman was shrieking as she threw men's clothes out of the second storey to the sad sap, pleading for forgiveness, on the street beneath the window. Kids with stolen apples from the street vendor were racing away with their spoils in fits of laughter. Car horns were blaring. Steam was rising out of manhole covers. A vagrant sat in a doorway, rattling his tin can for change. A dog was barking. A man hopped up on drugs stumbled around. A prostitute was earning her money in an alley.
Another day in paradise. Merlin watched it all from beneath the visor of his newsboy-style cap.
"Hey, Merlin! Wait up!" came a familiar voice.
Merlin stopped walking and looked over his shoulder to find Will rushing his way. A grin cracked his cheeks.
Will was out of breath when he caught up. Still, he panted, "Where are you off to in such a hurry?"
Merlin shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. Inside, he fingered the money he'd taken from Kanen's safe that morning. "Nowhere special. Thought I'd go into town, see a picture."
Will snorted as they walked. "How can you afford a picture?"
Merlin wriggled his brows mischievously.
"What have you done?" Will reproved.
"Catch me and I'll show you."
Merlin shot off down the street, ignoring Will's shouts. Will would follow him. He was too protective of Merlin not to.
He ran from street to street, dodging people and food carts whenever he could. Every now again, he cast a laugh over his shoulder to see how close Will was getting. Cars honked at Merlin when he ran across the avenue and into the entrance of Tompkins Square Park. That's where he decided to have mercy on Will and slow to a halt.
Will caught up to him shortly. He doubled over, his hands on his knees, and heaved. Merlin giggled in his victory before moving to their usual spot beneath a massive elm tree, whose branches were budding with color. He stretched out on the grass and let his own breath catch up with him.
"Are you going to tell me now?" Will asked in frustration. He plopped down heavily next to Merlin.
"If I must," said Merlin. He sat up and pulled the money out of his pocket. A five and a ten.
Will gasped and gaped. "Where did you get that?"
"I liberated it from Kanen's office."
"Merlin!"
"Oh, he won't miss it."
Will shot him a scolding glare, but Merlin knew he was secretly pleased.
"You need to stop snooping. Kanen's gonna catch you one day."
Merlin rolled his eyes and put the money away. "No, he won't." He put on his best New York accent, "They don't say I got magic fingers for nuttin'."
"More like sticky fingers," Will muttered.
"Oh, come on!" Merlin exclaimed, crossing his legs and leaning in closer to Will. "We've got fifteen dollars. How about we paint the town tonight?" He sang enticingly, "I know there are few girls who'd be impressed if you could buy them some pansies."
"Won't do any good for you," Will reminded him.
"Not the point! I'm only looking out for you. You need a good petting."
Will looked like he was seriously considering it, but then he shook his head. "Nah. I'm going to the den tonight."
Merlin's expression dropped instantly and he looked away.
"Don't give me the look," Will said impatiently.
"I will give you the look! You deserve the look," Merlin reprimanded. "Every once in a while is fine, but you go too much."
"Do not."
"Oh, yeah? When was the last time you went?"
Will looked down sheepishly and muttered, "Two days ago."
"Will!" Merlin gasped, his eyes wide.
"What? It's free!" Will said in ways of an excuse.
"Of course it's free for you; we run almost every den in the city!" Merlin shook his head and stared down at his lap. "You're gonna overdose one day. Leave the dying to paying customers."
They'd had this conversation dozens of times before, but Merlin still prayed that one day the message would get through Will's thick skull. Merlin couldn't lose him. Will was like a brother to him. They grew up together in Cardiff.
When Will's parents died, Balinor and Hunith took him in. They lived as a family with Merlin's Uncle Gaius and Aunt Alice. And then Lot took Balinor to America with the Kings. A year later, the war broke out and Hunith and Gaius were deployed with the Royal Army Medical Corps. They never made it home. When news of the ambush on their camp reached Wales, Alice sent Merlin and Will to live in New York with Balinor. They never heard from her again. And now even Balinor was gone; he had been for five years.
Will was all Merlin had left.
"Thanks, Mum," Will groaned.
"I'm not kidding!" Merlin shot back. "If you die, who do you think has to clean up your body? That's right, me!"
"Alright, fine! If it makes you feel any better, I won't go tonight," Will conceded.
It settled Merlin.
"It would," he pouted.
"Fine," Will said again. He sat forward and grinned. "Now, then. What were you saying about birds and booze?"
Arthur was never one for open water, with no land or escape in sight. The entire weeklong trip to America, and he never gained his sea legs. He was glad when they finally reached the New York Harbor, and he even let Morgana and Gwen drag him to the deck with the other passengers to gawk at Lady Liberty.
"Oh, she's lovely!" Gwen had cooed.
"You're lovelier, and soon all of New York will know it," Lance had whispered back before giving her a peck on the cheek.
Arthur wasn't sure what made him want to roll his eyes more: the pair of them or the giant green statue that, honestly, was more impressive in photographs.
Uther had purchased apartments for both Arthur and Morgana in the Upper West Side, while Leon and Percival had found living quarters for the rest of them around Chelsea. After docking, Arthur and Morgana shared a taxi to their new homes. It took them up Forty-Second Street and through Times Square. Morgana squealed happily at all the giant billboards, lights, and vendors like she was a tourist.
"I can't wait to see it at night!" she proclaimed, hitting Arthur's knee, before telling him not to spoil her fun by looking so glum. He didn't know what the big deal was. After all, Morgana had lived in London all her life. She'd seen a city at night before.
After dropping her off, the taxi took Arthur to his new home. The apartment on West End Avenue consisted of a large room that was fully furnished with a rod iron bed frame, a dresser with a mirror hanging over it, a work desk, and an armchair. A radio and a telephone sat on the bedside table. Two long windows were adorned with thick, designed drapes. Electrical sconces were hung on the walls, whose wallpaper was striped gold and red. Next to the entrance door, there was another door leading to a small, porcelain bathroom. The communal kitchen was located on the first floor of the building, but Arthur doubted he would use that much.
He put his luggage on the bed and washed his face in the bathroom sink. He stared at himself in the mirror over the basin, trying to convince himself he could get used to life in New York. After all, his closest friends had come with him, he had his own place to live away from the ever-watchful eyes of his father, and, as much as he hated to admit it, even Morgana's being there was a comfort. He could start fresh, be whoever he wanted to be—be the boss of his gang.
He tried to convince himself the homesickness would pass, but his complexion was still too green and his stomach was still queasy from the chopping waves of the Atlantic. The ocean had never been so vast. London—his city, his kingdom—had never been so far away.
Forcing himself to man-up, he left his apartment and got a taxi to the address Leon had given him to the home of their future center of operations. The others were to meet him there.
The building was an old, small warehouse a few blocks away from Chelsea Piers. With the Hudson River at its back, the brick building stood two stories tall, and the only windows were high up on the ceiling. It had been an old fishing house, and remnants of the smell still lingered.
Arthur inspected the first floor with his arms held behind his back. Morgana, Gwen, and Lance were doing the same across the room. By the entrance, Gwaine and Elyan were catching up with Percy. Leon was following Arthur around, waiting for a verdict. He was trying not to make it obvious, but it was.
"Good work, Leon, Percy," Arthur said at last, making all other conversation fall silent. Morgana, Gwen, and Lance stopped looking around, too.
Leon smiled happily. "I thought it would be the best location. It's on the beaten path, but out of the way of any police officers."
"Yes, it'll do nicely," said Arthur.
"Well, we'll have to give the place a good cleaning before opening night," Morgana piped up, placing her hands on her hips. "It smells like the catch of the day."
"We could pay some kids to come in an give it a good scrubbing," said Elyan.
Arthur nodded passively in agreement. He slowly began to circle the room again, but no one else moved. "There's a basement?"
"Yes," Leon told him. "That's where I thought the speakeasy could go."
"We'll make this floor a boxing ring," Arthur told them. The floor plan was big enough. They could fit in a ring with plenty of room for spectators. "I want a fight here tomorrow night. The more fights we have, the more people will know about the speakeasy opening."
"There's another ring a few miles up the Hudson," said Percy. "It's been here a long time. Word is, no one owns it." Meaning, none of the local gangs had their fingers in it.
"That only means there's no muscle backing it," Morgana said. "You should go tonight and talk to the boxers. Find out what the prize money is and tell them we'll double it."
"Agreed," said Arthur before facing his men at the door. "Percy, you go tonight. Tomorrow, you'll go to factories and workshops and spread word about the fights. Take Gwaine and Elyan with you."
"We should go to schools, too," Gwaine reasoned, his cigarette wagging between his lips as he spoke. "Students are always ready to get the shit kicked out of them. I think it's all the stress of book learning."
"Do whatever you have to. Just get people here, fighters and spectators. I want this place packed," Arthur told them. "We'll take bets at the door, but no one's to bid against the house on the first night. We won't know who's worth backing until we've seen a few fights."
"And Gwen can sing before we start off," Morgana offered, casting a grin towards Gwen, who blushed.
"Oh, I don't know. I—I don't even have a band yet," she said coyly.
Morgana hushed her and placed a satin-gloved hand on her cheek. "A voice like yours doesn't need a band, sweetie."
"And, if it makes you feel better, we'll find you the best band in New York," Lance promised.
Gwen beamed gratefully and wrapped her arms around Lance's. "Really, you two are too good to me."
"Well, if that's settled, let's see where Gwen will be performing normally," Arthur urged, and everyone got the hint. Leon led them to the stairwell and through the heavy steel door to the basement.
It was one large room mostly made out of cement and beams. A thick layer of dust sparkled in the sunlight coming through the high windows, placed just above the sidewalks outside. Leon and Percy already had a bar put in, and shelves for spirits were in the process of being constructed. Other than that, the place looked pretty abysmal in its current state.
"How rustic," Morgana voiced politely, reading Arthur's mind. He was happy she spoke up before he got the chance. Her words were a lot kinder than his would have been.
"It's um—," Arthur began, clearing his throat, "a start."
"It's a fucking dirty basement," Gwaine said, holding nothing back.
Well, thank god someone said it.
"Uh, it needs a little work, but we're up for it," Lance said, stepping forward before tensions rose. "We don't open until Friday night. That's plenty of time to put in floors."
"And décor," Gwen added, and Lance gestured to her in solidarity.
"Fine. Morgana, I trust you'll be in charge of the décor," Arthur shot over his shoulder.
Morgana gave him a burning glare but said, "I'd like nothing more, dear brother."
"Uh, Arthur, I've been in touch with some bootleggers," Leon said hurriedly, following Arthur as he walked further into the room. "They're each sending a few bottles for us to sample."
"Good. We'll see which sells more before making a decision on who to use. Until then, my father's shipping over some crates of the real stuff. It should get us through our first few weeks."
"Leon, show him the storeroom," Percy reminded.
"Right, of course!" Leon bounded across the room towards the bar. On the side of it was another metal door. He opened it to reveal a short, wooden flight of stairs to a small cellar. It would be a good place to house the liquor each night. However, they would need to find a much bigger place for their full supply.
In the cellar, Arthur noticed a gas lamp hanging from the wall. He turned back around and surveyed the room, noticing similar sconces. "It's gas," he said. "We'll need to renovate for electric."
"Already taken care of," said Leon. "I found a man in Washington Heights who'll do it and keep quiet. But he'll cost us."
"I'll take a look at the books," Arthur told him, clapping a hand to Leon's shoulder. "There are few other things I'd like to go over. My office is on the top floor?"
Leon nodded.
"Good. You'll come with me. Everyone else," he addressed the room as a whole, ready to rally them, "we open for business in less than five days. Better get to work."
Everyone started back up the stairs.
The next day, across Manhattan, Merlin swung through the doors of the Essetir, the speakeasy on Avenue C that the Kings owned. It was always so sad seeing a bar in the light of day. No one was in it, and it still hadn't been cleaned from the previous night's debauchery. A few chairs were overturned, shot and highball glasses (some still with liquids in them) were littering the tabletops, and the dance floor was scuffed up from the soles of too many shoes. The balls from the billiards table were strewn around. Not a soul was in the room, which was odd.
Freya should have been there. She was the bartender, which meant she should have been stocking the shelves. Sometimes, Merlin came around to help her.
He'd only known Freya for a few years, but it felt like she'd been there his whole life. She was an Irish native whose family moved to New York to find work during the war. Her parents died of consumption not long after, leaving Freya alone and virtually penniless. She'd gotten a job as the Essetir's barmaid about six months after Balinor's death.
When he didn't see her at the bar, he stopped walking and his smile fell.
"Freya?" he called out, confused. It wasn't like her to be late.
Almost immediately, the small, pretty brunette whipped around the corner leading into a short corridor next to the bar. She furiously hissed, "Shh!"
Merlin threw his palms up in mock surrender.
"Didn't think we were in a library," he whispered, lowering his hands.
"Kanen's in the back," said Freya under her voice. She shot him a devious smile, which he returned, and they crept around the corner together.
Merlin loved it when Kanen conducted his meetings at the Essetir, which he sometimes did when he wanted a pint mid-day, and he loved it when Freya was working during these times. They would press their ears up to the door and listen in. It was the only way Merlin got to know what was really going on anymore. Balinor used to tell him all the gang's secrets and plans. These days, Merlin was as much kept out of the loop as anyone else.
"Turns out, some of them have been in town for months now." That had been Cornelius Sigan's voice. He was Kanen's rat, and he even looked like one, too. Sigan would scuttle around the city, listening to all the gossip and learning all the comings and goings of the other gangs. Merlin hated him and his beady little eyes, and the feeling was mutual. "They were working under the radar—kept to themselves. It's all different now that the Golden Knight's in town."
Merlin and Freya met each other's eyes, silently asking if the other knew whom Sigan was talking about. Neither of them did.
"These Red Knights, what are they known for in London?" asked Kanen, his deep voice muffled by the door. Merlin focused harder.
"Gambling—fixing races and fights," Sigan informed him. "Uther Pendragon's built a reputation for himself. People fear the Knights. I heard talk that Old Goldie took out a key player in the Wolf Head Gang not last week."
"Well, then they won't stop with the speakeasy. They'll try to do what they do best here."
Merlin didn't see why that was such a problem. The Kings didn't trouble themselves with gambling, and there were thousands of speakeasies in the city, so they were used to competition. Something else had Kanen spooked.
"Yeah, I'd say," said Sigan. "There's a ring not far from them. They'll try to buy it, no doubt."
"Where?"
"In the Caerleon Bunch's territory. On Eighteenth and Twelfth, close to one of our dens."
Merlin suddenly realized why Kanen was so nervous about this new gang, whoever they were.
Apparently, Sigan didn't understand. He snorted a laugh. "We'll see how Annis likes that."
"Don't take this lightly," Kanen warned. "She's been trying to get her hands on our dens for years. If the Knights ally themselves with her—"
"They might just be enough to drive us out of the West Side," Sigan finally understood, his voice serious.
"And we can't let that happen." Merlin could almost hear the twisted smirk on Kanen's face as he said, "Send some of our boys to meet these Red Knights tonight. We'll welcome them to New York."
From inside the back room, a chair creaked and was scraped backwards on the floorboards. Merlin and Freya jumped up and rushed to the bar as quietly as they could. Merlin got there first. He grabbed two rags and tossed one to Freya, who immediately began scrubbing it in circles along the bar's polished wood. He picked up a rocks glass and pretended to polish it with the second rag.
Seconds later, the door to the back room opened and Sigan came through. He didn't cast Merlin or Freya a glance before exiting the speakeasy.
Freya let out a sigh of relief and stopped cleaning. Merlin looked at her heavily and blew out his cheeks.
"You better get out here. Kanen won't be in a good mood now," Freya told him. Merlin didn't want to leave her. Sometimes, if Kanen was angry enough, he would hit her, or whoever the nearest girl was. Still, even if he did stay, there was nothing Merlin could do to prevent it. Kanen was like an animal sometimes.
Freya pushed a brave smile on her face and reached under the bar for a Johnny Walker bottle. It was the real stuff. Only the best for Kanen. "I should go see if he wants another one of these."
"Wait, give him this one instead," Merlin said quickly. He picked up the bottle that had been next to it, another Johnny Walker label. The amber color of the liquid was barely a shade lighter than that of the bottle Freya was holding. Merlin handed her the second bottle and took the first from her. He hid it under his coat for himself.
"Why, what's the difference?" she wondered.
He winked at her before walking around the bar and towards the exit.
The first floor of the warehouse was standing room only. They had to stop letting people in. Percy was stationed at the front door, making sure no one could sneak inside.
Arthur did a few laps around the room, getting bumped and jostled by drunken men at every turn. He didn't mind it. It only meant business was already booming.
Of course, he couldn't hear himself think. There was too much cacophony, too much noise. The crowd was mostly men, but some had brought women along. They were all hollering and jeering and, above them, Arthur heard the sounds of fists on flesh and bones. Two men were in the ring, stripped down the nothing but their trousers as they ducked and punched and hit. It was only the third fight of the night and, already, one of the boxers was taken to a hospital.
Their reigning champion so far was a bald, muscular man named Orn. If he won, he'd be awarded fifty dollars that night.
Lance was in the ring refereeing. Before the fights started, Gwen sang. Her voice had made the room fall silent with reverence.
Arthur needed some air. The room was stifling from all the energy and the bodies packed in together, and sweat matted his hair. He made his way towards the stairs and descended into the speakeasy, where Gwaine, Elyan, and Leon were counting the bet money. Morgana was down there, too, not doing much of anything besides smoking at the bar.
They had set up a few tables, chairs, and barstools off Morgana's request. She said it would help her to better conceive of an ambiance for the speakeasy. However, they were currently being used to hold stacks of bills and mountains of coins.
"How much are we up to?" Arthur asked when he entered.
Gwaine gave a huff and complained, "You made me lose count!"
Leon and Elyan sniggered as Gwaine reached for the whiskey bottle in the middle of the table and took a swig from it. The ashtray in front of him was in a plume. Arthur took out his cigarette pack from his pocket and lit one up.
"We've still got a ways to go, Arthur," Elyan said, indicating another table of money behind them. "Some turn out."
"I suppose I have you fellas to thank," Arthur said, moving to stand between Elyan and Leon.
"Just doing our jobs," Gwaine said airily, which was fine with Arthur. They were good at their jobs.
Behind him, the door swung open again, and four men in suits and rimmed hats stepped in.
"We're not open until Friday," Arthur told them quickly.
"Well, we're not here for drinks," said one of the men. He must have been their leader. The others flanked him on either side. He was a dark-featured man with a sharply pointed nose. "Name's Jarl, of the Black Kings."
Immediately, Gwaine, Elyan, and Leon stood up. The three men next to Jarl pulled out their pistols in defense. Arthur's men did the same.
At the bar, Morgana continued to smoke. Arthur, too, took one last puff of his cigarette before flicking it to the concrete. He'd left his gun in his office two floors up.
"We're not open until Friday," he said again, his tone edgier than before.
"Yeah, we heard you the first time," Jarl said, and he had the audacity to take a few steps forward. "And, see, that doesn't work for Kanen. He'd prefer it if you stay closed indefinitely."
Jarl nodded backward to the door. "Nice fight you've got going up there." Even as he said it, the crowd erupted in gleeful cheers. "Why don't you boys run back home to London and keep your bets where they belong, eh?"
Arthur looked down at his shoes, pretending to consider it. He pulled an exaggerated frown, but his expression turned cold when he met Jarl's glare.
"I'll say this once," Arthur warned him, "get out of my club."
Jarl laughed and looked over either shoulder at his goons for support. They laughed, too.
"What? You think I'm gonna be intimidated by some pretty boy gambler from London?" Jarl mocked. He stopped laughing abruptly and decided to show his strength by shoving Arthur with both hands.
It made Arthur stumble back a few steps. When he composed himself, he looked down at the front of his suit like it had just been ruined behind repair. Everyone froze. Even Morgana tensed.
"You Red Knights should stick to fixing races," said Jarl.
Arthur's lips twitched into a sneer. "It's the Knights of the Round Table," he said, and punched Jarl squarely in the jaw.
In a heartbeat, Leon kicked over the table, making the paper money fly up and the coins clunk to the floor and scatter. He, Elyan, and Gwaine took cover under it. A bullet from one of Jarl's men's guns hit the edge of the table. Elyan whipped his pistol around the table and fired. It hit the man right in heart and he dropped in a spray of red.
Meanwhile, Jarl tried to pull out his gun, too. Arthur launched himself forward and grabbed Jarl's wrists, struggling to get hold of the gun. Jarl accidentally fired a bullet up at the ceiling, making bits of dust rain down. Arthur slammed him against the wall and beat Jarl's hand against it until the gun fell out. Jarl crashed their foreheads together to make Arthur stumble back. It worked, causing Arthur a momentary rush of dizziness. However, he recovered just as Jarl was swooping down for his gun. Arthur kicked him in the nose before he could retrieve it.
Upstairs, the crowd rang out in hysterical applause.
Gwaine had rushed out from behind the table. Forgoing his weapon, he attacked one of the men with his fists, instead. Gwaine slung a few sarcastic remarks at the man as he beat him, but none of them ever processed in Arthur's mind.
Leon was in a fistfight with the third man, having somehow managed to knock the gun out of his hand. However, it seemed the Black King was getting the better of him. Elyan urged Morgana to take cover behind the bar before rushing to aid Leon.
Jarl threw a punch, which Arthur ducked. While he was down, he elbowed Jarl hard in the gut, causing the man to double over and gasp.
Arthur seized Jarl's shoulders to hold him down, and attempted to knee him in the face. Before he got the chance, Jarl stomped down hard on Arthur's foot. Arthur hadn't been expecting that. It made him shout and lose composure. It was just enough of a distraction for Jarl to push him back. Arthur slipped on some of the money and crumpled to floor against the overturned table. The back of his head knocked hard into the wood, dazing him.
The spectators upstairs roared and jeered with fury.
Jarl stood over Arthur. He had blood trickling out of his lips and staining his teeth. Out of nowhere, Morgana appeared behind him with Gwaine's whiskey bottle in her fist. She smashed it against the back of Jarl's head hard enough to shatter it. Only the neck remained closed tightly in her hand.
The blow caused Jarl to shout and waver, but apparently it wasn't enough. "Bitch!" he cursed and pushed Morgana down to the floor with one hand.
Arthur saw red.
He jumped to his feet and pounced at Jarl, bringing them both to the floor. The crowd above their heads were stomping its feet and chanting in song. Arthur straddled Jarl and punched him over and over again, relentlessly exchanging one fist for the other until all his knuckles were bloody and bruised.
Nearby, Gwaine was bashing his man's head into the concrete until the body slackened. A gunshot rang through the air, but Arthur didn't know whom the bullet hit. It was out of his line of sight.
Jarl was struggling, trying to force Arthur off of him.
"Arthur!" Morgana yelled. She tossed him the broken neck of the whiskey bottle, and he caught it.
He drove the shard into Jarl's neck. Blood sprayed Arthur's cheeks and freckled his white shirt.
And then the only sounds were the crowd upstairs whooping and celebrating. Arthur tuned them out.
He sat back heavily and let his breath catch up to him. He let the broken bottle roll out of his hand.
Soon, he stood up and flexed his hands. His knuckles were already stiff. His head was pounding, and he felt his blood and sweat mixing like grime on his cheeks. He rushed to Morgana, who was lifting herself up to her feet.
"Are you all right?" he worried, grabbing her shoulders and scanning her up and down for any injuries.
"Yes," she hastily answered, nodding furiously as she did so. She only sounded a little shaken.
"Everyone else?" Arthur looked around—to Gwaine, Leon, and Elyan. They were all still standing. The floor was slippery with blood. It pooled around the man at the door, and around the wide-eyed corpse at Leon and Elyan's feet. It splayed out from the open skull of the body Gwaine was responsible for. Jarl's neck had stopped gushing. The money underfoot was soiled.
"No bruise a raw steak can't fix," Gwaine joked, speaking for the other two.
Arthur nodded, able to breathe regularly now. "Good. Clean this up. I don't want any stains in the floor on opening night."
He wrapped his arm over Morgana's shoulder and held her closer to him. She didn't protest.
"Come on, we'll get you home," he told her. She nodded again, and they made for the exit.
Behind them, Arthur heard Gwaine say, "Well, hell, now I've really lost count!"
Chapter Text
The machines were whizzing on the factory floor. Merlin walked down a row of them, idly watching the men and little boys at work. None of them paid him any mind, or looked him in the eyes. They were warned not to speak to any of the King's Bandits unless spoken to. Merlin was probably the only one who often gave them a hello.
At the end of the floor, Merlin climbed the staircase to the loft on which Kanen's office was located.
He walked through the door without knocking. Kanen was sitting at his desk, smoking and shuffling through some papers. Sigan was leaned against the back wall. He leered at Merlin with more contempt than usual, and Merlin couldn't help but question why that was.
Kanen looked up when he heard the door open, and scowled slightly at the blatant disrespect.
"You wanted to see me?" Merlin asked. Earlier that morning, one of the Bandits in Kanen's inner circle pounded on Merlin's door and told him Kanen had demanded a meeting. Merlin knew better than to blow it off. Doing so would cause more trouble than it was worth.
"Yeah, sit down, lad," Kanen said, gesturing vaguely to the chair across his desk. "Close the door."
Merlin did as he was told. When he sat down, he remained straight-backed and as close to the edge of his seat as possible, ready to spring up and leave at the first chance he got. He took off his cap and squeezed it, just to have something to do with his hands.
"I have a job for you," Kanen went on. It surprised Merlin. Usually, the only jobs Merlin ever performed for the Bandits were bartending at the Essetir and, if he was really unlucky, working one of the dens for the night. Even then, Kanen never personally dished out these responsibilities. If Kanen had a job for someone, it was big, and very unlikely to be assigned to Merlin. Kanen didn't seem to like Merlin very much; he'd only pretended to when Balinor was still in charge.
"A job?" Merlin stammered, just to make sure he'd heard correctly.
Kanen powered through. "There's this new gang in town. They come from London, call themselves the Knights of the Round Table. Have you heard anything about them?"
Merlin felt Sigan's eyes boring into him. He met them briefly before flickering them back to Kanen.
"No."
"They killed four of our men last night," Kanen said heavily.
Merlin gaped. "Killed them?"
Kanen shuffled through the papers on his desk again and took out a file folder. He handed it to Merlin. "This is the one that did it. He's their leader, Arthur Pendragon. People call him the Golden Knight."
Merlin opened the folder and, clipped on top of an immigration form, there was a sepia toned picture of a young, fair-haired man. "He's . . . a bit pretty." It was the understatement of the year. Pretty didn't cover it. The man was gorgeous. His jaw line alone must have been carved by Aphrodite herself.
Kane broke out into uproarious laughter. It was pushed, Merlin could tell.
"Pretty, did you hear that?" he guffawed, looking over his shoulder at Sigan, who pretended to laugh, too, but with much less zest.
Merlin's eyes flashed blankly from the picture, to Kanen, to Sigan. "What has this got to do with me?"
At once, Kanen stopped laughing.
"Pendragon and his Red Knights are opening up a speakeasy in Chelsea," he said sternly. "They're gonna need people to work it. And we're gonna need a way to bring them down."
Merlin blinked, still unsure as to what Kanen was expecting him to do.
"You're gonna get a job at their club. Something low-key," Kanen told him. "All we need you to do is keep your eyes and ears out and report back to us with what Pendragon's doing. No detail's too small."
Merlin scrunched his brows together, confused. "Why me?"
Kanen sighed. He wasn't used to people asking questions. He looked at Sigan and barked, "Don't you have some place to be?"
Sigan lingered for a moment, glaring at Merlin harshly, before exiting the office and closing the door behind him. Merlin was relieved he was gone, until he remembered he was alone with Kanen.
"What do you mean, why you?" Kanen asked impatiently. "You're the sneakiest man we've got! You've stolen something from, what, all our boys? If there's one person fit for snooping, it's you. We should put those skills to good use."
Merlin decided that was a compliment. Maybe. But there was something Kanen wasn't saying. Yes, it was true that Merlin was stealthy, but only because he had to be. It was the only way he could ever know what was going on with the Bandits anymore. Eavesdropping, stealing, shadowing—they had all become second nature to him. While that made him a good man for the mission, he doubted he was the best man.
For starters, Kanen didn't trust Merlin. Bottom line. And this was the sort of job for a man Kanen trusted. But, then, all those men were valuable. Merlin was not. If Merlin were caught, if he were killed, it wouldn't matter.
When Merlin didn't answer right away, Kanen sighed heavily and began, "Your father, god rest his soul, was one of the best fellas I ever knew. He was one hard-boiled bastard, always did what had to be done. Now this—this has to be done, before these Knights kill any more of our boys. You get that, yeah? You being the one the bring them down would make your old man proud, wouldn't it? You'd be worthy of his legacy."
Merlin squeezed his hat even tighter with aggravation. Kanen trying to sweet-talk him was one thing, but using Balinor's memory was an entirely different matter. Still, this could have been chance Merlin had been waiting for.
He looked back down at the picture of Arthur Pendragon and sat back in his chair.
"Where in Chelsea?" he asked.
"Absolutely not!" Will yelled.
They were under their favorite tree in the park. Freya was with them. She and Merlin were sitting stretched out on the grass, watching Will pace like an animal in a cage. He was furious. He hadn't even noticed the cigarette between his lips had burnt out ages ago.
Merlin shot Freya a humored look. She hid her giggle behind her hand.
"Are you mad? Tell me you're mad?" Will continued to rant. "And you just said yes? Just like that? You know Kanen's trying to get you bumped, right? He doesn't have an excuse to kill you himself, so he's just gonna let someone else do it!"
"I'm not gonna get bumped," Merlin said, rolling his head back in annoyance. "I'm not gonna get caught!"
"Famous last words!"
"He's right, Merlin. It is a bit dangerous," Freya fretted.
"A bit—? A bit dangerous?" Will screamed. "You think they won't know who you are? You're an Emrys, you idiot!" He bent down and knocked lightly at Merlin's temple, as though to rattle his thick skull. "People know that name!"
"So, I won't use that name," Merlin said like it was simple. "I'll make up something else. God, Will, relax. I'll just be working there. No one will even pay attention to me."
Will had his hands on his hips and was shaking his head at the tree like it was the only one listening to him. "That Kanen," he muttered. "Stupid fucking bastard."
"Will," Merlin sighed heavily, trying to make him understand how important it was that Merlin do this. "Don't you get it? Kanen isn't supposed to be in charge of the Bandits. I am! My dad was our leader. Only reason I'm sitting out here and Kanen is in my dad's office is because, when he died, I was a kid, and Kanen took that as an opportunity. Well, I'm not a kid anymore. This is our in, Will! This is how we get some power over Kanen. We'll know secrets before he does. We can keep some from him, hold them over his head so he has to beg for them—"
"So, Kanen's a right bastard. We all knew that," Will argued.
"And now we can do something about it." Merlin looked to Freya for support. "You see what I'm saying, don't you?"
She appeared to consider it. Her large eyes flittered from one side to the other. "It's not a bad idea," she said at last. "Kanen deserves it."
"Thank you."
Will still wasn't fully convinced. He huffed and dropped his shoulders. He was so close to agreeing, Merlin could tell.
Merlin picked himself up off the lawn and placed his hands on Will's shoulders, forcing Will to look at him. "If I get good enough information, Kanen will trust me. Once he does that, he'll never see us coming. We'll get enough dirt on him to run him out of his office for good. You and me, we'll run the Bandits. It'll be easy. Come on, Will, say yes."
"Okay," Will conceded after a pause. "But don't come crying to me when the Red Knights send you for a walk at the bottom of Hudson with cement shoes on."
Merlin grinned brightly. He clapped Will's shoulders happily.
"When do you have to go meet this Pendragon, anyway?" Will asked.
"Tomorrow afternoon."
Merlin felt giddy at the prospect of the future.
"Okay, that's plenty of time to figure out a fake identity for Merlin," said Freya. "It'll be a really good one, Will."
"A really good one!" Merlin exclaimed. "I've already got a few ideas."
Will rolled his eyes and plopped down on the grass. "Oh, great, you with an idea? You're a dead man already."
A lot had happened in two days as far as the warehouse in Chelsea was concerned. Some young kids Percy and Gwaine had found loitering around the railroad tracks along the Hudson had scrubbed the building top to bottom. At the end of the day, they were sent home with three dollars each and some sweets Elyan bought from a vendor.
The same day, Leon's man from Washington Heights came in and wired the place for electricity.
Next, they hired workers who laid out polished wooden planks across the cement floors and walls of the speakeasy. They were paid extra to finish constructing the bar and liquor shelves, and they were coming back to build a stage for Gwen to perform. The Knights handled painting the club themselves, using bright hues of their colors, gold and red. Morgana kept the décor simple, fashioning it after a typical ritzy club in London, only with a more modern, art deco style. She wouldn't stand for a billiards table, calling it "tacky" and "un-authentic."
The name of the club was carved in wooden letters and hung above the bar. The Camelot.
Shipments from the bootleggers competing for business came in, and so did half the cargo Uther sent from London. Leon bought a dock with a fishing shed on a shipyard a few miles down the Hudson for the Knights to stash the liquor.
Arthur was behind the bar, running his fingers along the bottles on the shelves. Their glass rattled as they knocked together gently. The club was empty, and the sunrays poured in from the high windows, casting soft glares on the tabletops.
He'd been interviewing people all day, trying to find cooks and servers, a bartender with enough know-how, and bootleggers worth his time. Half of them, he'd been suspicious of belonging to other gangs. He'd heard rumors about rival gangs sending men to be employed by a club, only to not show up for work on opening day. Arthur had to weed those out. Furthermore, some interviewees were just vagabonds looking for a quick dime before hopping a freighter West. He had over a dozen meetings that morning, and he only prayed he'd find enough competent people before opening night.
The door across the room opened and Elyan stuck his head inside. "Arthur, he's here."
"Send him in," Arthur said, turning his attention away from the bottles. This next meeting was the most important of the day.
Elyan disappeared and, after a moment and some murmurs from outside, another man came into the club. He was tall and broad with short brown hair and mean eyes. He was dressed in black from head to toe, from his hat, to his tie, to his shiny shoes. As he walked in, he surveyed the entire club with an upturned nose. He stopped midway to the bar and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, purposefully lifting his blazer to reveal the golden badge on his belt.
"Lieutenant Valiant," Arthur greeted, his mouth full as he lit his cigarette and shook out the match. With the smoke between his fingers, he waved behind him. "Drink?"
"You've got some balls, I'll give you that," Valiant said. It hadn't sounded like a compliment, but Arthur took it as one. The copper strode towards the bar and made himself comfortable on the stool in front of Arthur. "Vodka. No ice," he said, taking off his hat and setting it on the bar.
Arthur went to the cabinet on the side of the bar and unhooked the latch. It was where the supposed good, brand name bottles were, but it was just for show. The patrons wouldn't know the difference, and they would pay extra for moonshine in fancy dress. The actual brand names were hidden beneath the bar, but those were strictly for Arthur, his Knights, and their valued guests.
He took out a bottle labeled Sobieski and poured a few fingers into a rocks glass. Valiant drank it down without complaint.
"So, what's this meeting about?" Valiant said, pretending as though he had no idea why he was there.
"I thought the good city of New York would want to welcome their newest resident," Arthur answered with a side-smirk. "I believe you and I could get to know each other well."
"Yeah, I bet," Valiant said dryly into his glass. "Since we're such pals, how about cutting to the chase?"
"Fine," Arthur conceded. Valiant seemed to be a man of few words, and Arthur could respect that. "I'd like to offer you a deal. We open for business in less than two days, and I'm very much expecting a bright future for the Camelot. I'd like you and your boys to—," he gestured to the club as a whole, "turn a blind eye to what we're doing here. That includes the ring upstairs, until we get a license for it."
Valiant grinned crookedly. He forgot about his drink. "How's that my problem?"
Arthur didn't assume he'd sway Valiant just off his good looks. "I'm willing to give you a man a week to jail to help fulfill your monthly arrest quota."
"One?" Valiant repeated, looking like he was sniffing something foul. "That's not so sweet. Make it three."
"One man," Arthur repeated, resolute. "And, every now and again, on an agreed upon date, you can raid my club and arrested as many patrons as you wish. But my Knights and employees go free. This, of course, on top of a monthly twenty-dollar salary for you, and five for the rest of your men."
Valiant sniffed again. He was hard to crack, but Arthur saw the greedy glint in his eyes. He was about ready to deal. "Thirty for me and ten for my boys."
"Twenty-five. Ten for your sergeant and five for each of your officers," Arthur countered.
The grin that stretched Valiant's cheeks was that of a predator, all teeth. He tossed back the rest of his drink, hissed at the liquor's burn, and slammed the empty glass down. He shot out his hand for Arthur to shake. "Deal, Mr. Pendragon."
Arthur put out his cigarette and firmly shook Valiant's hand. "Deal, Lieutenant."
When they released each other, the copper stood up and placed his hat back on his head. He tipped it towards Arthur before heading out of the club. When he was gone, Elyan stuck his head in again.
"Tell me that's it for the day," Arthur groaned. He was tired and hungry, and it was already the early afternoon. He wanted to save some of the day for himself.
"Just one more. He's been waiting out here. Seems like a nice fella," Elyan said with a shrug.
Arthur rolled his eyes. One more interview wouldn't kill him, he supposed. "What position?"
"Bartender. I'll send him in."
"Make it quick."
Elyan opened the door fully and held it open for the young man who walked through. He thanked Elyan with a kind smile, and Elyan smiled in return before exiting. Arthur realized he was staring, and that his mouth was hung open and his limbs were frozen to the floor. But he couldn't stop.
This man, whoever he was, looked as though he'd just stepped out of the pages of a fairytale. He was tall and slender with milky white skin and shocking contrast of black, unruly hair. Even from the distance, Arthur could see the deep blue of his eyes that sparked with curiosity and innocence. He was looking all around the club with interest, his lips curved into a soft, pleasant smile. Eventually, his eyes fell on Arthur.
"Hey," he said, sounding a little breathless. He was grinning again.
Arthur cleared his throat and mentally shook himself. "Sit," he told the man in a commanding tone, gesturing for the barstool in which Valiant had sat. "What's your name?"
"Merlin," was the answer as the man did as he was told. He fixed his posture under Arthur's glare. "Merlin Ambrosius."
Arthur quirked his brow at Merlin's accent. "You're a harp?"
There were plenty of Irish gangs in the city, but this man didn't seem to belonged to any of them. He didn't have the look of a gangster. There was always a chance he'd been hired by one. Arthur had to be on his toes.
"That's right." Merlin nodded. "From Galway."
"What brings you to New York?" Arthur interrogated.
"Me dad," said Merlin. "He ran out on us after the war, settled here. I came here about month back to give him a beating for what he put me mum through."
Arthur tilted his head, watching Merlin as he spoke. Merlin had very full lips.
"And did you?" Arthur asked, knocking his thoughts away. He couldn't imagine Merlin giving anyone a run for their money.
Merlin shook his head ruefully. "Turns out someone else gave him his beating first. He's been dead three years."
Arthur hummed. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Merlin's eyes wavered only slightly. "Yeah."
"So, what, you're hoping to get enough money to pay your way back home?" Arthur said, getting right down to it. He wasn't looking for temporary employees. He was looking for someone he could learn to trust.
Merlin shook his head. "I have no intention of returning. I just need some funds for myself, and to send home to mum."
"Attaboy," Arthur praised. Perhaps this would work out. Now, all he needed to know was if Merlin could properly work the bar. "Alright, then, Merlin," he said, walking out from behind the bar, "get to it, then. Make me a pansy. Your choice."
Merlin hesitated thoughtfully for the slightest moment and bit his lower lip. "Alright," he decided. He got up and dashed behind the bar. Arthur sat down and watched as Merlin looked around unsurely. "Where are the brand names?"
Arthur's brows shot up. "You'd give customers brand names?"
"Um, no," Merlin said in a small voice. "But I didn't think you'd want to drink the cheap stuff."
Well, he was right about that.
"Cabinet," Arthur said. As he reached into his pocket for his cigarette pack, Merlin unlatched the cabinet doors.
He took out a bottle marked Dewar's. He held it in both hands and inspected it closely with his eyebrows knitted together in what might have been confusion.
"Is there a problem?" Arthur asked after Merlin let out a tentative sound.
Merlin held up the bottle for him to see. "The color's wrong. This is still bootleg," he said.
Arthur was impressed.
When Merlin got to the Essetir, Will and Freya were already there, cleaning up for the night's rush. However, when they saw him, they immediately dropped what they were doing and bombarded him with questions.
"What happened? Did you get the job?" Freya asked with excitement.
At the same time, Will worried, "No one suspected you did they? Tell me everything!"
Merlin pushed a sincere look onto his face as he paced forward. He barely made it halfway through the club before a smile cracked his cheeks.
"I got it!" he laughed.
Freya squealed and jumped up happily. Will took in a deep breath and nodded, but he looked pleased. Secretly. Merlin could tell.
"Have you told Kanen yet?" Will asked.
Merlin shook his head and took a seat at the bar. "Wanted to tell you two first."
"Pendragon bought your story?"
"Every word." Merlin couldn't stop grinning. He wondered if it was now a permanent fixture on his face. It was likely to strain his muscles after a while. "I did what we said—kept my story close enough to the truth so I don't forget it."
He looked at Freya. She'd been instrumental with helping him come up with his fake identity, and she'd helped him get the Irish accent down. She crossed her arms on the bar and leaned in. "What job have you got?"
"Bartender. I start Friday. That's opening night."
"You'd better tell us all about it." Freya's tone was dreamlike, as though she was imagining herself in Merlin's shoes. "So, what's he like?"
Merlin shook his head as his eyes flickered between the two of them. They both seemed eager to hear Merlin talk.
"Who?"
"Arthur Pendragon! The Golden Knight!" Freya exclaimed like it was obvious. "You should hear what all the girls are saying. Apparently, he's got a reputation in London. And apparently, he's gorgeous."
Will rolled his eyes. Merlin looked down and tried not to blush.
Gorgeous wasn't quite the word for Arthur. It fell short, like it cheapened him somehow. He was even better looking in person than in the photograph Merlin had seen of him. The way he moved, the way he spoke—it added elements that a still could not possibly capture. Merlin hadn't been quite ready for it. When he first caught sight of Arthur, it was like the wind had been knocked out him.
He was beautiful. Plain and simple.
And then there was his personality . . .
"He was . . ." Merlin bit his lip, trying to put a word to the experience. If he was being honest with himself, Arthur was, "A bit of a prat, actually."
Freya's expression dropped.
"A prat? What's that supposed to mean?" Will questioned.
"You know—arrogant," Merlin went on, trying to find the right words. "Self-centered." He nodded to himself, happy with his choice. Then, he scoffed and continued, "Oh, and you should hear how he talks! My god, the king isn't even that posh!"
"He sounds like a bastard," Will said.
Merlin nodded his head in agreement. "A bastard that I'll be working for."
"Speaking of, you should tell Kanen you got the job," Freya reminded him. She stood up and started drying off glassware again. "He's probably in the factory."
"Yeah, better go break the news to him that you're still alive," Will droned.
Merlin shot him a humored look. He didn't care how Kanen reacted. All that mattered was that everything was going to according to plan. He couldn't wait for Friday.
Chapter Text
The next few days were a whirlwind of last minute planning and anticipation, but it was finally Friday. In the late afternoon, Arthur returned to his apartment to change his clothes before opening night.
He was expecting a big turnout. There would be a fight that night, too, so that more people would come and stay for the club. His Knights told him that people had been spreading news of the Camelot's opening by word of mouth since the night of the first fight. Arthur didn't show it, but he was nervous nonetheless. He wished he could have taken out an advert in the newspaper announcing the grand opening, instead of employing sneakier methods.
Morgana, who could always tell when he was putting up a front, was less nervous. "Build it and they shall come," she told him as ways of comfort. He hoped she was right.
Just as Arthur was about to head out, the candlestick telephone on his nightstand began ringing. He felt his stomach drop, worrying that something had gone wrong. Like, the club was set on fire or the roof caved in or Gwaine drank their entire supply of alcohol before anyone could stop him.
He calmed himself, trying to be rational. All was well: they'd gotten sample bottles from bootleggers all across the five boroughs and beyond, and they'd worked all week to prepare Camelot for the night ahead. It was ready. Only a natural disaster could prevent opening night now.
He picked up the phone and held the receiver close to his ear. The operator on the other end told him he had a call from England. There was only one man there who would want to reach Arthur.
"Son," Uther's voice came through.
Uther wasn't even in the same room, and Arthur still straightened his spine and tightened his jaw. "Father," he answered into the mouthpiece. His fist tightened around it.
"I trust everything is in order for tonight." It wasn't a question. Uther would expect—no, demand—no less than perfection. "You have received the last of my shipment?"
"It came in yesterday afternoon," Arthur assured him. He was gripping the base of the phone tightly to stop himself from trembling. It didn't work. He hoped the shakiness didn't seep into his tone.
"Good," Uther said shortly. And then, "Arthur, you haven't had any run-ins with the Black Kings, have you?"
Arthur's nerves were completely fried now. He froze, wondering how much Uther knew about that first night. It had been nothing. The Bandits knew what they were risking by coming into the Camelot. If there were repercussions for killing those men, they would have happened by now. The Kings were silent, and the two gangs stayed out of each other's way. Arthur was content to keep it that way.
Uther didn't have to know about the fight. He'd never learn of it all the way in England. He had his hands full trying to keep the Wolf Head Gang from starting a war; he didn't need to know that Arthur could have started a second one on his very first night in charge.
"Arthur?"
"No!" Arthur answered quickly and forcefully, trying to make up for his lack of response. However, it only made him sound guilty. Taming his voice, he said, "No, Father. They've left us alone."
There was a pause. If Uther had, in fact, actually been in the same room, his eyes would be surveying Arthur with intense focus.
"Good," Uther said again, at last.
Arthur remembered to breathe.
"Do well tonight, Arthur." It wasn't a well wish. It was an order. "Don't get too drunk. Mind the business. And say hello to Morgana for me."
"Of course! I will!"
Without a goodbye, the line went dead. Arthur blew out his cheeks heavily and set the phone back down on the nightstand.
He was fine. Everything was fine. He was ready to lead. He was ready for whatever.
The Essetir had never been this lively—not by a long shot.
It was only two hours since the Camelot opened, and Merlin's feet were already sore from moving so much. Bottles were practically flying off the shelves. Some people ordered mixed drinks that Merlin had never made before, and all he could do was cross his fingers and hope he'd gotten the ingredients right. No one was complaining; alcohol was alcohol.
Whenever he got a chance to look up from the swarm around the bar, it was to an ocean of bodies—standing against the walls, sitting at the tables, swinging on the dance floor. Above their heads, Merlin watched Gwen perform. She was mesmerizing, the way the sequins of her dress and her jewelry caught the light, the way she moved her elegant hands through the air as though playing it like an instrument. Merlin sometimes forgot about the jazz orchestra at her back. He thought everyone else did, too—everyone but her. She would cast smiles behind her every now and again to remind the dancers that the band did, in fact, exist, and deserved at least some credit.
As the night progressed, Merlin caught sight every now and again of the Knights. Leon and Elyan, who had been busy upstairs at the fight for the first half of the night, made an appearance at around eleven o'clock. They ordered drinks, but that was the last time Merlin saw either of them. Gwaine and Percy appeared in flashes. Morgana came up to the bar often, cutting through the crowd as though parting the red sea, and striking up a chat with Merlin as though he had all the time in the world and clubbers weren't demanding drinks from every direction.
However, more than anyone else, he kept his eyes on Arthur.
For hours now, Arthur had been at the end of the bar, flirting with some gorgeous brunette woman who seemed more than interested. He ordered her fruity drink after drink, which she held loftily with delicate, porcelain hands and sipped at through the straw. She even fed him a cherry garnish once, and he tied the stem into a knot with his tongue for her. When they ordered the next drink, Merlin decided the bar had "run out" of cherries.
He didn't even know why he'd done that. He couldn't explain the knot that formed in his chest every time he looked over at them—or way he kept looking in the first place. His job was to keep an eye on Arthur—to be objective, to spy. It wasn't to gawk over how handsome Arthur looked in his pressed three-piece suit that night; and it certainly wasn't to plot "accidentally" spilling a drink on that woman.
And Arthur didn't even look that good, anyway! Not at all like his portrait should have been painted by Michelangelo and hung in the Louvre to be admired for hundreds of years to come!
Merlin tried very hard to ignore Arthur and the woman. After all, neither of them mattered. Hell, maybe she could distract Arthur long enough for Merlin to snoop around and learn all of the Red Knights' secrets in one night. After that, he could relax and kick his feet up—preferably in Kanen's former office in the factory.
Still, daggers shot themselves out of the corners of Merlin's eyes whenever Arthur drew his attention. Merlin made excuses for the thundering of his heart (it was the vibrations from the music) and the flush on his cheeks (it was all the body heat packed into the club). And he ran down to fetch more bottles from the cellar more than he needed to because the air was cooler down there—not because he couldn't stand the sight of Arthur any longer.
A little before one in the morning, there was a lull in customers scrambling for drinks. Some of the crowd had moved on to other clubs, and those who replaced them apparently got the majority of their drinking done wherever they'd come from.
Merlin took the opportunity to catch his breath and roll the knots out of his shoulders. There wasn't much he could do for his hair, which was matted and curled with sweat, but when no one was looking he put some ice down his shirt. It did nothing but make him wet and uncomfortable in the long run.
Still, it was a distraction from Arthur.
Lance came in the form of another diversion. He took a seat at one of the barstools and offered Merlin a friendly, handsome smile. He seemed a little out of place in a speakeasy, like he wasn't quite part of the party, but rather a chaperone.
"Something I can get for you?" Merlin asked him.
"Just water, thank you."
Merlin quirked a brow. "Do you want some alcohol to go with that?"
To this, Lance chuckled down at the bar with rumbling shoulders. "No, afraid I don't imbibe." He sounded almost apologetic about it, or perhaps he might have been once, when he wasn't so accustomed to the strange looks the confession might have gotten him. Merlin wondered how many times Lance had uttered that phrase.
For some reason, Merlin didn't find it so strange—not for Lancelot. So, he did not make a joke out it. Something told him Lance wouldn't have respected him if he had, and Merlin found himself wanting Lance's respect.
Instead, Merlin got him a glass of water and said, "You're not going to tell me you agree with Volstead, then?"
"I believe people should be able to make their own choices," Lance said in ways of an answer. "Just because I choose not to drink doesn't mean everyone else should do the same."
"I'll drink to that!"
Lance had an easy laugh. It relaxed Merlin.
The vivacious song the band had been playing sobered, changing into something largo and soothing. A few women led their significant others to the dance floor to sway gently in each other's arms. Gwen crooned out something soft and sweet.
Merlin caught Lance staring across the room at Gwen like he'd forgotten there was anyone else in the world, never mind the club. Merlin leaned into the bar and complimented, "She's amazing."
"Yes," Lance agreed, smiling. He absentmindedly twirled the modest gold band on his ring finger. "She certainly is."
"You should be proud."
Lance snorted and returned his attention to Merlin. "Trust me, I don't have anything to do with it." There was a dreamy sort of look veiling his eyes; it caused warmth in Merlin's belly. The thought of Arthur flashed into his mind for a moment, and he didn't even fully realize it.
"I remember the first time I ever heard her sing," Lance recalled. "It was at a club in London. After the show, Morgana introduced us. I suppose, the rest is history."
However, it looked as though it were a history that Lance wanted to put in the books, so that one day in the distant future children would have to write reports on it for school.
"You'll have to tell me sometime," Merlin said, assuring that he'd listen.
"What about you? Is there a woman in your life?" Lance asked, shaking the fuzzy, lovesick expression off his face. He was always so attentive when being talked to, like he really cared about what was being said.
"Women? No!" It wasn't something Merlin usually admitted. These days, especially in places like New York, no one cared. As long as you liked jazz, it didn't matter with whom you danced. Still, there were enough people who were willing to beat you into the dirt in the name of their god and for the safety of their children's mortal souls, or whatever the reason. Then, of course, there was that pesky law. However, Merlin was certain that Lance wouldn't flitch away.
Sure enough, Lance didn't even blink. "Any gentlemen, then?"
Merlin stood up a little straighter, buckling his elbows and leaning all his weight into his palms on the edge of the bar. "Just me," he said, pushing a smile. He hadn't meant to do it, but his eyes darted towards the end of the bar. It was only for a flash, quick enough to miss.
Lance did not miss it. He followed the act until his eyes fell on Arthur and the woman, who were standing up and heading towards the dance floor. He stared long enough for Merlin to get embarrassed, and he hoped that Arthur didn't notice Lance.
"I understand," Lance said, keeping his cool exterior as he looked at Merlin.
"What! No!" Merlin panicked. "You don't—I don't—!" The very last thing Merlin needed was Lance telling his boss that Merlin was attracted to him. It would probably only freak Arthur out, and Merlin would be most likely sacked. He couldn't let that happen. Too much was at stake.
But Lance only chuckled again. "Relax, Merlin. Your secret's safe with me."
And Merlin did relax. He believed Lance.
He dropped his shoulders into a sigh and shook his head, staring off in the direction quite opposite from Arthur. He couldn't fool himself any longer: Arthur was hot; his target, the man he was supposed to bring down for his own personal gain, was smoking hot.
"It's stupid," Merlin said, more to himself than to Lance. "Arthur wouldn't look at me. I haven't got a skirt."
Maybe it was better that way. Merlin couldn't have these thoughts. He had a job to do.
As Lance took another pull of his water, his brows shot up to his hairline and he muttered, "I wouldn't say that."
Merlin's neck snapped back towards him. He was pretty sure his heart had skipped a beat. "What?"
"He doesn't discriminate."
Merlin wasn't sure what to think. He didn't know if the hope inflating his chest was a product of attraction, human nature to have something he shouldn't—couldn't—have, or something deeper. "I thought he would be after all the girls," he said, as though doing so would erase Lance's words. If Merlin knew he didn't have a chance in hell with Arthur, his focus wouldn't stray. His imagination, maybe, but that always had a mind of its own, anyway.
"He is," Lance assured. "All the boys, too."
Merlin bit the inside of his mouth, trying very hard not to look out of the corners of his eyes at Arthur, now circled in some woman's arms and swaying gently. He crossed his arms and leaned in closer to Lance. "What's he like? Really?" He asked it more for his own interest than for Kanen's. There had to be some reason Merlin was attracted to Arthur.
"Arthur, he—," Lance began, grappling for the right words. Arthur couldn't have been so complex as to warrant hesitation, could he? "His father thinks he's too focused on the pleasures in life, and not focused enough on the business. I disagree. Arthur acts tough, but he has a good heart. I've seen it. It's why we followed him to New York; not because we were told to. We would have gone, anyway. Maybe, you'll see it in him." He shrugged. With some melancholy in his tone, he finished, "Maybe he'll see it in himself one day, too."
Merlin looked towards the dance floor. As they danced, Arthur threw his head back in laughter at something the woman had said.
It was about an hour until sunrise. The club had been emptied a while ago, as even the most seasoned of the partygoers decided to call it a night and the employees decided the mess was a problem for the morning.
Merlin had stayed behind. In ways of an excuse, he'd told the Knights that he was too wired from the night to sleep and he might as well get some chores done. This wasn't strictly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth.
Arthur was still in the club, all the way on the top floor in his office. He might have even been alone.
Merlin hoped so. It was probably why he stayed, just to bump into Arthur one last time and quell his—well, there really was no other word for it—jealousy. Or maybe he stayed to convince himself that Arthur was unattainable and currently with the woman from the club, as Arthur probably wasn't one to chat up a person all night and not get what he was looking for. Merlin wasn't sure which would keep him awake at night more.
Both. Currently.
Both were keeping him awake at night, when he should have been in his own bed sleeping.
Deciding his being there was pointless, and probably counterintuitive to his mission, Merlin collected his jacket that he'd slung over one of the barstools and left the club. Upstairs, the ring was in much the same state at the bar: littered, and with scuffmarks on the floorboards. Merlin didn't envy the person whose job it was the polish the floors.
When he was halfway to the exit, he heard a woman giggling and saying, "stop it, you," from the stairwell leading up to the next floor. It was followed by Arthur's imperious laugh and the sound of footsteps. Merlin froze and looked over his shoulder at the stairs in time to see Arthur and the brunette emerge into the room. His eyes darted between the pair of them.
He wasn't really sure how to describe what he was feeling. Something in his gut fluttered with acceptance and even relief, but his chest constricted despondently. Mostly, he was just exhausted. It hadn't fully hit him until that moment.
Arthur, however, seemed stunned—and drunk.
"Merlin?" he stammered. "I—I thought we were alone."
Merlin said nothing. His eyes fell on the brunette woman, who was smiling at him pleasantly, and Arthur followed his gaze.
"Um—this is Mithian."
"Pleasure," she said in an English accent as upscale as Arthur's. No wonder he liked her.
Prat, Merlin mused.
"Mithian, why don't you go back upstairs? I'll get us that bottle," Arthur told her. She nodded and shot him another smile before scampering back up the stairwell.
Immediately after her footsteps faded, Arthur turned to Merlin and assured forcefully, "Nothing happened. Nothing really."
Merlin seriously doubted that, but Arthur eyes were big and adamant.
"Wouldn't be my business if it had," Merlin told him frostily.
"Of course, it wouldn't," Arthur responded in strong tones, as though retroactively warning Merlin not to ask after his affairs.
Merlin dropped his shoulders in a sigh he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "You wanted to know which bootlegger's bottles sold the most," he said, desperate to change the subject. Perhaps Arthur would see this as the reason Merlin stayed so late. Perhaps he wouldn't ask why it couldn't wait until morning.
"People seemed to like ones from Fort Greene and Yonkers. If you're looking to deal with one of them, go with Yonkers. The men in Fort Greene make theirs the cheap way and overcharge. Whatever you'd pay them, it would be too much."
"Right," Arthur said too heavily to be considering a business transaction. "Thank you."
Just as Merlin was going to turn away again, Arthur stopped him. "How do you know so much about alcohol, anyway?" he wondered. "You're not secretly mixing up moonshine in your bathtub and holding out on me, are you?"
Despite himself, Merlin chuckled. He wondered if Arthur actually thought Merlin was a drunkard. When, in reality, Merlin had worked hard to be able distinguish one drink from the other, where it came from, how good it was—the lot. He used to make Will test him by making him take shots while Merlin was blindfolded.
At the time, he was convinced the talent would make him invaluable to the Bandits.
"This isn't my first bartending job in New York. People keep hiring me. I think it's the accent," he joked, but nodded with conviction.
"Americans," Arthur played along with a roll of his eyes. "Although, in your case, the stereotype might be right."
Sarcasm: "Thanks very much."
Sarcasm: "You're welcome."
Silence fell between them, quiet enough to make Merlin think they were only people in the city. But they weren't, of course; they weren't even the only people in the building.
"I'll leave you to your . . . nothing," Merlin said quietly, nodding towards the stairs. His heart was heavy.
Arthur had evidently forgotten all about Mithian. "What? Oh! Yes." But still, he hesitated, and it appeared again as though were thinking hard. He wanted to say something, he just wouldn't do so directly. He asked, "Why did you stay here? You said you weren't interested in going back home."
Merlin shrugged. It had been so long since he'd been home, and there was nothing there for him anymore, anyway. But he couldn't tell Arthur that. Still, what he said wasn't a total lie: "I was nobody there. Here—well, I'm still nobody. But I think, if I play cards right, I could change that. I could belong here."
He realized at once that standing in the darkness, mooning over Arthur wasn't playing his cards right. But he was drawn to Arthur like a tide. Lance was right, there was something about him; something Merlin couldn't quite place, but had placed itself right beneath his breastbone.
Arthur was regarding Merlin as if he were thinking the exact same thing.
"Any luck?" Arthur asked, sounding probably more hopeful than he'd intended.
"We'll see."
"Arthur?" Mithian called from upstairs. It broke the eye contact between them.
"I'm coming," he returned as Merlin shuffled quietly in his shoes.
"Goodnight," he said when Arthur turned back to him.
By the time Arthur echoed him, Merlin had already started for the exit. He felt Arthur's eyes following him out.
Arthur had overslept. Usually, that wouldn't matter. After all, he tended to oversleep quite a bit. But he was in charge now and he had to set a good example. It wouldn't look very good if he consistently came in late.
Uther had never been late, not a day in his life. Arthur was convinced his father had even been born on the exact date he'd been expected to right at the stroke of midnight.
However, the night before had been a long one. And, at the end of it, he'd gone home alone.
When he got to the Camelot, the staff was already busy tidying up the ring, and probably had been for hours. He assumed the same was true for the club, and he paused briefly at the stairwell when he wondered if Merlin was down there.
He went upstairs instead.
He expected to find his office empty, but instead, when he rushed through its door, his Knights were standing around the desk. Morgana and Gwen were there, too, perched on the arms of his chair. They all began clapping at once.
Arthur didn't know what to make of it. He searched their grinning, exuberant faces, attempting to figure out what he'd done that deserved a standing ovation. They'd all seen him flirting with Mithian the previous night. Perhaps they thought he'd slept with her and were congratulating him for it. He doubted it: his sexual conquests never caused this much fanfare. So, why were they all waiting around in his office? More importantly, how long had they been waiting there?
"Am I . . . missing something?" He certainly thought so.
Morgana picked something up off the desk. It was a ledger, leather-bound and brand new. She cracked the spine open to the first page and brought it to him.
"Our profit from last night's earnings. Have a look," she said, handing the book to him like it was the Holy Gospel.
He read the writing, which was neat and careful and in Morgana's hand, on the topmost line. It was the only thing that soiled the pristine page. He gaped at the earning's statement.
"You're joking," he deadpanned. He fixed his eyes on Morgana's to judge whether this was a prank. "You're serious?"
She nodded.
As Arthur stared back down at the page, he didn't realize his cheeks were cracked with a wide smile until his muscles started to ache. He was aware of everyone staring at him, waiting for his reaction.
Schooling his features, he closed the book and brought it back to his desk. "Well," he said after clearing his throat. He tried so hard to act professionally, but he felt giddy. He turned back to his men and exclaimed, "God bless bloody Volstead!"
They all whooped with laughter and started clapping again. Arthur joined in the celebration.
Merlin didn't see Mithian again after that night. He hated himself for reveling in that fact.
At first, Merlin assumed Arthur was the "love-'em-and-leave-'em" type. But he never saw Arthur trying to pick up anyone else as the days went on, and the weekend turned into weeknights—and then back into the weekend again. Every night after closing, Arthur would go up to his office alone.
And Merlin would be in the club alone.
He wasn't sure why Arthur stayed so late to get work done. Maybe he liked the quiet. He was rarely in his office during the day, in favor of filling the sunlit hours with other tasks around the club or in the city, and Merlin came to learn that Arthur wasn't a morning person by any measure. Perhaps Arthur found his focus in the darkness, when the Camelot wasn't buzzing in preparation for the night ahead.
Loose ends were more easily tied together when the rest of the world was too busy sleeping to get in your way.
Or perhaps Merlin was just projecting. After all, he found it easier to concentrate in the small hours of the night than he did in the day. "A clean space is a clean mind," Hunith had always told him when he was a child and she wanted him to tidy up. Much to her dismay, he took her words to heart with everything but his bedroom. He could never rest until everything he had to do for the day was done, that way he wouldn't have to worry about the task later.
In reality, he didn't know if Arthur shared that restless mentality. As many hours as they spent in the Camelot after closing, they never actually spent them together. Sometimes, Merlin would hear music from Arthur's radio filter down the staircase, or Arthur's murmured voice as he spoke on the phone to someone very far away, or the creaking of the floorboards as Arthur paced. On some level, Merlin knew that Arthur acknowledged his presence in the club, too. After a while, he took to sticking his head through Arthur's door and wishing him a good night just before leaving.
Merlin hoped it would eventually spur Arthur to joining him in the club. Arthur would have to make the first move; Merlin didn't want to appear too suspicious. They would start off with chat or idle conversation. Eventually, it would grow. And, one night, if Arthur wanted to divulge all the Knights' plans and secrets, Merlin wouldn't protest.
But, in honesty, Merlin knew his intentions weren't strictly objective. Not when he inwardly started referring to the hours after closing as "their time." However, he left that part out when he spoke to Will about it. As far as Will knew, Merlin was trying to gain Arthur's trust; he didn't know that Arthur was captivating all of Merlin's thoughts.
Before the crowds left, however, Arthur could usually be found around the bar. Merlin learned to keep a bottle of scotch—the real stuff—close by. Usually, Arthur was drunk before the night ended. The second Thursday since opening night was no exception.
The Camelot wasn't as packed during the weeknights as it was on the weekends, and clubbers usually went home earlier to sleep off the festivities before the workday. Still, more people came out on Thursday in a desperate attempt to convince themselves of the light at the end of the corporate tunnel.
Gwen and the band were on stage, playing a longer set then usual for a weeknight, and most people were on the dance floor. Merlin watched from behind the bar as they swung around and worked up a sweat.
Those customers sitting at the bar were contently sipping on their drinks or munching on the food they'd ordered from the kitchen. (On weeknights, the Camelot served "free lunch," an old technique of offering salty, cheap or even free, food so thirsty costumers would order more drinks.) Merlin was happy for the break.
He was just about to head to the cellar to cool off for a few moments when Arthur rushed up to the bar. His hair was askew and cheeks rosy from either the warmth of the scotch or the strain of the smile on his face. Even in the darkness, Merlin saw his pupils were dilated.
"Merlin!" he called over the music, sounding a little out of breath.
Merlin reached under the bar for the bottle, and Arthur practically launched himself over the wood to stop him. "No, no! I don't want another!"
Merlin shook his head, straining to hear over the explosions of saxophones.
"Come dance!" Arthur shouted, and Merlin was certain he'd heard wrong.
"What?"
"Dance! Come on!"
No. That was crossing a line. Late nights with barely any contact were one thing, but dancing was something else entirely.
Merlin gaped and stammered, trying to come up with an excuse. "I can't!"
He had to admit, it wasn't the most creative excuse.
"I'm working," he appended. Still uncreative, but true.
Arthur looked up and down the bar before raising his brows to Merlin. "I don't see anyone ordering anything."
Also true.
It led to more gaping and stammering.
"Stop hiding behind the bar and come have some fun, Merlin! For god's sake!"
"I've got two left feet," Merlin admitted, shaking his head. He just couldn't dance. His body didn't respond to rhythm that way. It was pathetic and embarrassing.
Arthur only rolled his eyes and said, "Don't be ridiculous." Or, at least that's what Merlin thought he said under the music. Next, Arthur grabbed an employee—a busboy—who'd been walking by and said, "You! Mind the bar for a bit."
The busboy looked harried, but Arthur only patted him on the shoulder and gestured for Merlin to follow him to the dance floor.
Merlin wondered if it was too late to run back to Alphabet City and tell Kanen the deal was off.
But Arthur wasn't taking no for an answer, so Merlin swallowed his pride and followed him into the crowd.
"Oh, come on, will you? The song will be over at the rate you're moving," Arthur chided. He grabbed Merlin's arm and pulled him along to the middle of the dance floor. On all sides, dancers jostled Merlin about. His eyes widened as he watched how their legs and arms turned into blurs of motion as they danced the Charleston.
Morgana and Gwaine were amongst them, dancing together. "Merlin!" she called brightly as Gwaine spun her. She didn't break stride once. "I knew you'd join us eventually."
Merlin had to bob his head up and down quickly to keep eye contact with her.
"Yeah, we were starting to worry you took your job too seriously," Gwaine laughed.
Merlin opened his mouth to reply, but before he got the chance Arthur latched onto him and jerked him in close. In that instant, Merlin forgot how to breathe, let alone basic motor functions. He froze against Arthur, close enough to smell the alcohol and nicotine on his breath. The slight inch of space buzzed between them like electricity.
Arthur didn't even seem to notice. Once he'd had a proper hold on Merlin, he started to dance as quickly as the music allowed, and Merlin's limbs—lanky and unsteady as they were—had no choice but to go along for the ride.
Merlin blushed hotly, trying to look anywhere but Arthur, who was probably regretting his decision to ask Merlin for a dance.
"You're rubbish!" Arthur shouted at him playfully.
It wasn't exactly a confidence booster.
"I told you!"
Arthur threw his head back in an uproar of laughter.
Happily, before Merlin could slap him, Morgana pried them apart. Arthur barked her name in frustration, but she only chuckled at him. "Go dance with Gwaine!" she teased with a dismissive wave of her hand. Then, she turned to Merlin. "I'm a better partner," she promised.
She was right. She took it slower, teaching Merlin where to tap his feet and what to do with his hands. She was patient whenever he made a mistake. Before he realized it, Merlin was having a good time.
"Spin me!" Morgana told him just before the song ended. When he did so, he watched the green feather in her headband flutter. When the music calmed into something slower, Merlin stopped dancing in order to catch his breath.
"See! It's not hard," Morgana exclaimed. She quickly pecked him on the cheek, making his ears flush.
"Now that you've stolen my dancing partner," Arthur said, suddenly reappearing at their side. He was throwing Morgana a filthy look, to which she was unfazed.
"Jealous, are you?" she quipped. It only made Merlin blush more.
"No! Of course, not! I—," Arthur stuttered angrily, and soon gave up on finding words. Instead, he stuck his finger in Merlin's face and ordered, "Don't you have work to do?"
"You're the one who told me to stop working!" he defended.
"And now I'm telling you to get back to it," Arthur returned.
Merlin felt a mild annoyance, and complete confusion over what to make of the experience. All he could manage was a shake of his head before about-facing back to the bar. Halfway there, he cast a look over his shoulder to find Arthur and Morgana arguing and attracting glances from the dancers around them.
Arthur was gesturing with upturned palms and leaning over her. She was crossing her arms and rolling her eyes at him in defiance. They were clearly trying to talk over one another; however, to Merlin, their voices were muted by the music.
As usual, Merlin decided to call it a night shortly before sunrise. With saxophones still ringing in his ears, he strode through the open door of Arthur's office and said, "I'm headed out."
"Don't you ever knock?" Arthur had scolded him once. After that, Merlin pointedly never knocked just to get under his skin.
Arthur was sitting at his desk, illuminated only by the small glow from lamp in its right corner. A cigarette was burning itself out in the ashtray as Arthur poured over some paperwork. But he really didn't seem to be reading anything. His forehead was resting in his hand. His suit jacket was flung over the top of the chair and his tie hung loosely in his collar. Merlin wondered if he'd drank too much that night and was already suffering the consequences.
He'd never seen Arthur hungover. It was like he was immune to it or something. Perhaps he wasn't, after all.
"Unless you need anything else?" Merlin asked as Arthur slowly looked up at him.
"No," was the soft reply. "Thank you, Merlin. That will be all."
Merlin nodded and turned away.
"Merlin?"
He spun back around attentively, dreading that Arthur was going ask him to perform another chore, after all.
Instead, Arthur looked again as though he were pondering something. He had both elbows on his desk now, and his fingers were laced together as they supported his chin. "You always stay longer than you need to," he said. Merlin wondered if it was supposed to be a question. "You're not looking for a pay raise, are you?"
Merlin chuckled at his feet. "No." He paced fully into the office and settled himself on the chair in front of the desk. Arthur's eyes followed him lazily. "I've never been very good at sleeping."
On second thought, he shook his head. "I might sleep well tonight, actually. Morgana tired me out with all the dancing."
"Dancing? Is that what you call it?" Arthur teased, but there was something heavier in his tone, too. He tried to mask it. Merlin couldn't entertain the thought that Morgana had been right and Arthur was actually jealous.
"I warned you I couldn't dance."
Arthur dropped his hands and perked up. "Nonsense! You just haven't found your rhythm." He stood up suddenly, perplexing Merlin. "Come on, I'll show you."
"What?"
"Well, since Morgana robbed me of a dance, I think it's only fair." He made it sound so logical.
Merlin blinked rapidly, wondering if he had already fallen asleep and this was some strange dream. "Arthur—"
"I won't have an employee who can't dance, Merlin," Arthur said firmly as he walked around the desk. "It's bad for business. On your feet."
He offered his upturned hand, level with Merlin's nose. Merlin stared at it warily, studying the lines on the palm like they were the fine print of a contract. He glanced up at Arthur with the same hesitation.
"There's no music."
"Then sing," Arthur said, taking Merlin completely off his guard. "You must know a song. Sing for me."
Merlin shook his head, feeling a pit in his stomach. "I haven't got a very good voice."
Arthur scoffed. "What sort of Irishman are you?"
"I don't see you singing for me."
"Yes, but I'm English," Arthur countered, pulling his hand away to straighten out his shirt and stand a little taller. "I have to be dignified."
Merlin snorted. It was the silliest thing he'd ever heard. "How's that working out for you?"
Arthur let the insult slide. "Go on, sing!" he nearly begged.
Merlin looked down at his lap. "Perhaps some other time."
"Fine, have it your way." Arthur moved away again, and for a second Merlin felt a little let down that Arthur gave up so easily. However, Arthur headed straight for the radio on the bookshelf and turned the dial. "If it really bothers you so much."
Scratchy music filtered out and flooded the room. A raspy male voice sang over a slow piano and long, drawn-out pulls from brass instruments.
Arthur reoffered his hand like it was a dare, and Merlin only paused for a moment before accepting it.
Arthur situated Merlin's hand on his shoulder before molding his own palm to Merlin's waist. The fingers of right hand knitted into Merlin's. His skin was warm and dry, and Merlin was certain his own was clammy and uninviting.
Merlin was pulled in closer, until their chests were touching. He tensed at the contact, but Arthur was as relaxed as ever. Merlin had never been so aware of the night, of the silence and the shadow pressing against him from every direction. The air was humming.
"Now, follow my lead. And try not to step on my toes," Arthur instructed in a belittling way.
"That might be hard if they're as big as your head," Merlin quipped back automatically.
"Very funny."
"I thought so."
It wasn't very hard to follow Arthur's lead. He really didn't do anything a part from rock from side to side slowly. Occasionally, he would move his feet in steps so small that Merlin barely noticed them.
Merlin looked down at their chests, hyper aware of the tingling sensation in his skin. He wondered if Arthur felt his accelerated heartbeat. If he had, he said nothing. His fingers felt strange on Merlin's hip—firm but almost not there, as if they had melted into Merlin. The line of his body was sturdy against Merlin's own. Merlin felt like his spirit had pushed itself to the outermost barrier of his skin, desperate to feel the touch for itself, and he had to cling onto it to keep it from leaving his body altogether.
Soon, the music from the radio didn't even penetrate Merlin's consciousness anymore. Arthur's breath mingled with his own, and it was the only sound Merlin could hear. That, and his heart in his ears. It created its own melody. He didn't know it, but later, when Merlin thought on it, he'd realize that was the moment he fell completely for Arthur—somewhere between the chorus and the second verse.
"This isn't dancing," Merlin whispered. "This is just swaying around a bit." Like leaves in the breeze.
"Well, I wasn't going to start you off with the waltz, now was I?" Arthur said. Merlin only knew it because he was watching Arthur's lips when he'd said it.
And there was silence again until the song on the radio ended and faded into something slightly more lively. The new song felt like an invasion of privacy, and it brought Merlin back down to earth.
If dancing with Arthur in the club had been crossing a line, this was crossing an ocean.
But Merlin couldn't tear himself away, even after they'd stopped dancing. They stood still in each other's arms.
"I should go to bed," Merlin said under his breath. He needed to sleep. He needed to clear his head.
"What?" Arthur whispered, his mouth barely moving, as though he hadn't understood. However, the words quickly formed meaning. "Oh! Right." He let Merlin go and they each took a step backward.
Just like that, the spell was broken.
"I'll be right behind you," Arthur then said.
It was Merlin's turn to be confused. His heart skipped a beat. "What?"
Arthur's eyes widened at what he's said. "No! To my own—I should—I need to sleep, too." He cleared his throat and looked away sheepishly. It was another first: Merlin had never seen Arthur flushed. It was kind of adorable.
But he kicked himself for not understanding Arthur's meaning in the first place. "Right. I'll see you tomorrow, then."
"Yes. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
Merlin decided not to point out that he'd already said that, as Arthur probably already knew. But he didn't say it back again, lest they'd be standing there wishing each other a good night until noon.
He hurried out of the office, his heartbeats louder than his footfalls.
He thought, from then on, he and Arthur would be too embarrassed to look at one another again. In reality, the exact opposite happened. He saw more of Arthur during the days and, at night, Arthur took to doing his paperwork at one of the tables in the club after closing.
He said it was cooler down there then it was in his stuffy office. However, even on the drafty, rainy nights so common for spring, Arthur was there.
Chapter Text
It'd been a month since Arthur got to New York, and he still hadn't settled in completely. If it hadn't been for Morgana, he'd still have some of his clothes in his suitcase rather than folded neatly into the dresser. He often caught himself unconsciously making plans for "when I get home to London."
He compared everything to its English equivalent: the food, the radio, the subways, the architecture—everything. He always found fault in the American versions, voicing them in droll comments that Morgana waved away by calling him close-minded.
Perhaps she was right. Or perhaps the British simply just did everything better and with more dignity. Period.
But, when it really came down to it: the sidewalks of New York were not Arthur's alone. They did not belong to him, like they had in London. He had to share them with too many other gangs, all of which had been established a lot longer than the Knights. They had more credibility than he had. More reputation. The Knights weren't the most notorious bunch by a long run.
Arthur elected to change that.
They had enough money being filtered in from the club and gambling, and enough of a backing thanks to the prizefights. It was time to expand their reach.
"The Dragon," Arthur said, pointing to a place on the map just a few miles from the Camelot. He was standing at his desk in his office with his Knights gathered round. Morgana was there, too. She ensured she wasn't left out of any of the important meetings.
"The boxing ring?" Gwaine asked. It was the ring Percival had told Arthur about on that first day, the one that no other gang had yet claimed.
Arthur nodded. "I've sent Lancelot there to poke around a number of times since we've been in business."
Lance cleared his throat before speaking when all eyes fell on him expectantly. "Their fights have been suffering since our ring opened. Since no one's supporting them, they have less money than we do. They can't afford the amount of prize money we can, so more fighters are coming to us."
"And taking their fans with them," Elyan inferred.
"Yes." Lance's dark eyes swept towards Arthur, carrying concern in them. "But the Dragon is under the National Boxing Association. They're licensed, and their fights are legal. That's enough to keep any fighter with a big name attached to him."
"Exactly," Arthur agreed. "Which is why we need our license, too."
Morgana snorted and crossed her arms. "And how are you to go about getting it? Tell them you'd really like a legal ring to use as a cover for your speakeasy in the basement?"
Gwaine and Percy tried to hide their laughter. They failed, and Arthur shot them a scolding glare before turning back to Morgana. "No," he said in a patronizing tone. "We buy the Dragon."
"Buy it?" She laughed.
Arthur powered through. "If we own a legal ring, all our other boxing operations will be licensed."
Morgana continued to laugh, and she began shaking her head down at the desk. It was starting to grate on Arthur's nerves.
"Arthur, she may have a point," Leon said, apparently interpreting Morgana's laughter as a new language. "The owner has managed to keep away every other gang. He may resist us, too."
"Not to mention, it's in Annis' territory," Gwaine added.
"The Caerleon Bunch doesn't care about prizefighting or gambling," Arthur addressed the group as a whole. "Their only interest is narcotics. As long as we stick to the ring, we should be—Morgana, will you shut up!"
Immediately, silence overcame the office. Morgana looked mutinous, holding Arthur's glare, but she didn't say anything further.
"This is what we're doing," Arthur said at last, turning back to his men. "Gwaine, Percival, and Elyan will accompany me there tonight. We'll make a deal with the owner. Lancelot, what's his name?"
"Kilgharrah. You'll have to call ahead for the meeting. I don't think he's one for surprises."
"Fine," Arthur agreed. "The rest of you will run the club tonight. Now, go, get the place ready for opening." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Everyone left but Morgana.
When the room was empty and the last of the footsteps resonated down the stairs, Arthur leaned into his desk and hung his head in frustration. He was aware of Morgana's incessant eyes on him.
"What?"
"You're expecting too much too soon," she said as though she'd had the line ready. Arthur expected she did. She would have voiced it whether he'd asked her or not. "If this Mr. Kilgharrah fella can say no to Annis and Alined and god knows who else, what will make him say yes to you?"
"I don't know, Morgana. My good looks?"
She rolled her eyes. "Then, you shouldn't even bother going."
He shot her a mocking hum of laughter and a grimace, which she gave right back.
"The point is, you should build a little bit of a reputation for yourself before growing your empire," she advised.
"Or growing an empire is how I'll build a reputation," he countered. "Like Father says, conquer them and they'll have no choice but to respect you."
"You're not Father. Everyone secretly hates him, anyway," she reminded him. She stepped closer and touched his forearm with delicate fingers. "But they love you. Win respect in your own way."
He sighed heavily, knowing she was right, but he wouldn't admit it. He turned to meet her eyes and said, "I'm not taking no for an answer, Morgana. I'll get the ring under our control. Now, call 'round and see if you can set up a meeting with this Mr. Kilgharrah for tonight."
She tore her hand away from him like she'd just been burned and stormed off. She hated being treated like his secretary, and he knew it. But he hated when she belittled him in front of his men. It was a war with no beginning and no end in sight.
Arthur lingered once she was gone. He sat down heavily in his chair, trying not to dwell on her words.
You're not Father.
He knew what came after was intended to be the important part, but the words still stung. He still wasn't used to his own office—his own desk. When he was a boy, he would play at Uther's desk, pretending he was a big boss. Uther always caught him and told Arthur to go play somewhere else. He half expected his father to waltz in and do that just now.
Mostly, he wondered if the call he made was the right one, or if he should have listened to Morgana's advice. Maybe he was being too hasty, after all.
He shook his head, trying to focus less on the decision and more on what he was going to say to Kilgharrah in the meeting. There had to be some way he could make the Knights more appealing than any other gang that walked through the ring's doors.
But soon his mind drifted even from that predicament. He thought of the Dragon itself, and wondered if it would be like the rings in London. It had been so long since Arthur had been in a proper ring, not like the one currently beneath his shoes. Illegal rings were animalistic. The fighters turned into beasts and the spectators were buzzards waiting to pick at the remains once the brawl was over.
From what he'd heard, the Dragon wasn't like that. It was more sophisticated. Arthur imagined a sea of people cheering for him. It was a memory, and a longing.
Really, it had been too long since he was in the ring.
Maybe one night, Arthur would get into the Camelot's ring himself. Maybe, on that night, he'd make sure Merlin was watching.
He wondered if Merlin even liked boxing. Perhaps he should test the waters before he showed off his expertise in that particular skill.
Arthur was on his feet before he knew it, bounding down two flights of stairs until he was in the club.
There were some employees milling about, sweeping the floors or dusting. The band was in the midst of rehearsal on the stage. Gwen was amongst them, but Arthur could barely hear her voice over the instruments. Her microphone hadn't been turned on yet, nor had the others. Still, the music was loud enough.
Merlin was sitting at one of the tables in the center of the club. He faced the stage, watching the band, as he munched on an apple. Arthur pulled up a chair next to him.
"There you are," he said.
Merlin turned towards him and asked, "Where else would I be?"
"I don't know. Perhaps stocking the bar for tonight?" Arthur's tone was reproving, which made Merlin flush a little guiltily. It was adorable how pink his ears went.
On stage, Gwen stopped the song they were rehearsing prematurely. The music fumbled to a halt as she turned around and asked the band if the song would sound better with a faster pace. As they discussed it, Arthur caught Merlin's attention again.
He said, "Some of us are going to a boxing ring tonight. I wondered if you wanted to join us."
Merlin chuckled a little nervously, seeming confused. "Me?"
Arthur shrugged and leaned back coolly in his chair. "Why not? You like a good fight, don't you, Merlin? You must. You're Irish."
"Right," Merlin said vaguely, looking away again.
"Anyway, are you interested?"
Merlin didn't answer right away. He took another bite of his apple and, as he crunched, said, "I have to work."
Arthur waved it away like it wasn't an issue. "Oh, we shouldn't be gone too long after opening. We'll have someone else cover for you until you get back."
Merlin looked interested in the prospect of getting off work. "Really?"
"Of course," said Arthur, hoping it would sway Merlin. As invaluable as Merlin was as a bartender, it wasn't the only reason Arthur liked having him around. In fact, Merlin was the one thing Arthur actually liked about New York. "But don't get used to time off," he warned.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Arthur took that as a yes. He jumped to his feet, but held Merlin's eyes. "Excellent. Why don't you meet us at the Dragon tonight at eight o'clock? I have an appointment with the owner, but you and I can stay afterward to watch a fight."
As the music started up again, Merlin nodded. There was a hint of a smile on his cheeks, and Arthur noticed he was still a little flushed. "Okay. Yeah."
"Good." At the last second, he remembered to be the boss again. "Now, get back to work in the meantime."
As Arthur walked away, Merlin didn't move. He continued watching the band practice.
There was a rumbling of voices from the ring downstairs as the spectators waited for the next fight to begin. The Dragon was a big enough venue, with two rings in separate auditoriums. The smaller was for the amateur prizefighters, with the ring at the same level as the standing onlookers. The larger of the two, however, had rows of benches for the audience to sit and the square circle was raised in the center of the room. In the entrance, there was a booth to which bets could be made.
Arthur sat in Kilgharrah's office above the ground floor. It was suspended on a landing that overlooked the main ring. Kilgharrah hadn't made an appearance yet. His men had led Arthur to the office, insisting that Gwaine, Percy, and Elyan stay behind. Arthur was secretly skeptical about a one-on-one meeting, as Morgana's words still rang doubt in his ears, but he didn't let his nervousness show. He hoped he could keep it together when he faced Kilgharrah.
Until then, Arthur's legs bounced and his toes tapped. He rubbed his palms on his trousers a few times to dry off the excess perspiration. He rehearsed what he was going to say, and tried to make it sound commanding. He'd seen Uther make deals hundreds of times. If he stuck to Uther's methods, everything would go swimmingly.
Only, that left a knot in his stomach.
Below him, a bell gonged and the muffled sounds of a man using a microphone announced the two fighters. The crowd hissed with anticipation. Suddenly, their applause flooded the office, and Arthur looked over his shoulder at the man who had just entered the room. The door closed, and the noises softened again.
Arthur jumped to his feet to greet Kilgharrah, who was older than Arthur had anticipated. He was a hunched, worn looking man with ash colored hair licking up in every direction like flames, and his skin was folded, discolored with liver spots, and appeared as tough as leather. His eyes, however, were strikingly youthful, despite the bags beneath them. His irises were such a light brown that they were almost gold, like whiskey in the sunlight or the ichor of the gods.
He wore a light brown three-piece suit with the golden chain of a fob watch hanging from his jacket pocket. He produced the watch and checked the time as he paced further into the room.
"Mr. Kilgharrah, I'm—," Arthur began, extending his hand. Kilgharrah didn't take it. He kept his eyes on his watch and walked around his desk.
"I know who you are. Sit down. There's only fifteen minutes until our champion fights."
He shoved the watch back into his pocket and sat down. Then, he ruffled through the desk drawer and produced a thick cigar. It was lit quickly, before Arthur even realized a match had been struck and blown out, and Kilgharrah started puffing.
"Well, sit," Kilgharrah said again, gesturing, and Arthur did as he was told.
So far, none of this was what he'd expected. He felt vastly out of his element, and he didn't know where to begin. He'd forgotten all the lines he'd practiced.
Luckily, Kilgharrah leaned back coolly and began for him. "They told me there was a new gang in town from London, one famous for their gambling." Arthur had no idea who they were, but he tried not to focus on it. Instead, he paid attentions to Kilgharrah's voice, antiquated and shaky but authoritarian. He was English, which meant he probably knew the Knights' reputation.
"Your Knights have been here a number of times, I'm told," he continued, and again Arthur didn't know where he'd gotten the information. His Knights were always careful to remain undetected when they wanted to. "I was wondering when you and I would finally meet."
The cigar smoke between them was thick and clouded Kilgharrah's face. Or, perhaps the smell was just blurring Arthur's vision. He cleared his throat and readjusted himself on the chair.
"Our meeting is long overdue," he said, forcing diplomacy into his tone, like Uther had always done. "After all, we are men of common interests."
"Common?" Kilgharrah spat like it was an offensive joke. "Hardly. I have something you want; that is your only interest."
Arthur blinked, trying not to be blindsided. "Since the Camelot opened, the Dragon's revenue has been cut almost by half. You're losing money. You don't want it back?"
Kilgharrah roared with laughter, and Arthur couldn't tell whether or not it was genuine. "Is that what you're offering me? Money?" he asked like the notion of capitalism was suddenly new and preposterous. He leaned forward, looking severe, and propped his elbow onto his desk to keep his cigar hand steady. "Do you think you're the first gangster to offer me money for this ring?"
"I don't," Arthur said shortly. "But I'm willing to double their offers—"
Kilgharrah laughed again. It was starting to anger Arthur. He clenched his fists in attempt to stifle the emotion.
Meanwhile, the man across the desk surveyed him up and down with mild amusement. "You are young, and very new to this, Arthur. One day, you will learn that a blank cheque isn't always the answer." He took another puff, as though to let Arthur mull over his words. Arthur wasn't sure if they'd been advice or a warning.
"All you gangsters are the same," Kilgharrah mused, almost to himself. His voice was very far off. "And all you want is turn this ring into a meeting place for your illicit affairs or to store your narcotics—but none of you will admit this to me. One after the other has come in here with the promise of money, protection, expansion, and when that didn't work, a few threats." His bright eyes flickered back to Arthur. "Money can buy many things, Arthur, but there are some things for which there is no currency. Trust is among them."
Arthur shook his head, trying to decipher Kilgharrah's meaning. "I can't make you trust me," he said when he thought he'd figured it out. "All I can give you is my word that your position at the Dragon will be secured if you sell it to the Knights."
Kilgharrah seemed amused again. "I should think so! Like I said, you're new to this. You already have your hands full with other matters. I know my position here, Arthur, but I do not know yours."
Arthur blinked uncertainly.
"Why do you want this ring? It can't be to wipe out the competition. More of my fighters are going to you every night." He narrowed his eyes into slits. "So, tell me, why the Dragon?"
There was silence between them, or there would have been if not for the cheers below. The bell gonged again and the winner of the fight was announced.
Uther had always taught Arthur that, when in a negotiation, never to tell the full truth. Barebones intentions were never to be brought to light. The truth must be padded.
Perhaps that wasn't the case in all situations. "We need a boxing license."
Kilgharrah raised his bushy brows like he'd expected the response. "So, you want mine?"
Arthur nodded. "Yes. I don't want to store alcohol or drugs here; I don't need another meeting space. With the ring under our control, you'll still manage its affairs. The only thing that would change would be my name on the license."
Another puff, another plume of smoke. "This doesn't sound like my problem."
"It is. You said it yourself, your fighters are coming to us. Perhaps they aren't the big names, but the smaller fights held in your second auditorium give you enough money to attract the champions. Soon, you won't have enough prize money to offer them, and they'll go elsewhere, too." Arthur sat up straighter, confident that he'd gotten Kilgharrah's attention. He hadn't brought his cigar to his lips once since Arthur started talking.
"If the Dragon could match the prize money we offer at the Camelot, more fighters would return here. They'd bring spectators, and the spectators would bring their bet money. Soon, you'd have money to burn, like you had before we opened our doors."
Again, Kilgharrah appeared amused, if not a little impressed. "Your plan was to steal my business and then attempt to sell it back to me?"
Arthur shrugged, feeling a twinge of pride in his chest. "How do you find it?"
Kilgharrah puffed and muttered, "Honest."
Arthur took that as a good sign, and he jumped on it. "Good, then name a figure. There's no need for competition between us if we do business together."
Kilgharrah's expression dropped. He crushed the smoldering tip of his cigar into the ashtray. "I'm afraid I'm not interested, Arthur."
Arthur jerked his head back in surprise. They'd been so close to coming to a deal; he could sense it. "Mr. Kilgharrah, the Knights of the Round table can be very valuable to you."
He was silenced when Kilgharrah held up a lined palm. "I don't want your money. Goodnight."
Arthur ground his teeth, staring at Kilgharrah hard and searching for something that would change his mind. There was nothing he could fathom. He let out a breath of defeat and stood up again. He tried not to sulk towards the door.
"And, if you do stay to watch our champion fight, do place a bet," Kilgharrah taunted from behind. "There's five minutes until the match begins."
It halted Arthur. His mind buzzed with the words, and he got an idea. Kilgharrah didn't want money; he wanted character. He wanted a man he could count on.
Win respect in your own way, Morgana had said. There was only one way Arthur knew how to do that. It was a gamble but they were, after all, in a boxing ring.
Arthur spun around again. "What if I offer you something other than money?"
Kilgharrah barely looked up. He flicked his wrist in annoyance. The smoke around him hadn't quite cleared, but Arthur had long since gotten used to the stinging it caused in his eyes. "I've heard it all. There's nothing you can give me that hasn't already been offered."
"No," Arthur said resolutely. "This is something the other gangs don't have. Me."
Kilgharrah lifted his chin up. Arthur stole forward to tower over him across the desk.
"Put me in the ring against your champion—tonight," he asked. "If I lose, I'll shut down the ring in the Camelot. All the fighters will be forced to come back to you. If I win, I get the Dragon. You've got nothing to lose either way."
Arthur placed his palms on the desk and leaned forward to keep Kilgharrah's eyes. "Let me prove myself to you."
Kilgarrah was intrigued as he thought it over. A smile slithered across his face.
Merlin arrived at the Dragon a little after eight o'clock, when dusk had settled on the Hudson and the neon lights of Manhattan were painting the sky with multicolored lights. The ring was surrounded by the peep shows and crack houses of Hell's Kitchen. Burly men stumbled down the sidewalks, some with emaciated women wearing caked on amounts of bright make-up.
Merlin supposed it was good for business for a boxing ring, with enough men around looking to blow off steam and waste their money. He kept to himself and made sure not to make eye contact as he made his way into the ring. He was only asked if he was looking for a good time twice.
After he paid the entrance fee, he felt compelled to place a bet. He didn't know very much about any of the fighters, or boxing in general apart from what he'd heard from Will. But gambling was the thing to do in places such as these, so he put down the minimum amount on the champion, deciding that was probably a safe decision. After all, he was probably the champion for a reason.
The audience on the benches was humming with chatter as they waited for the next fight to begin, and Merlin searched the crowd for a familiar head of golden hair. He didn't see Arthur, or anyone else for that matter, amongst the faces. Then, he heard his name over the din, and turned to find Gwaine waving at him from a little ways down the first row. Percy and Elyan were next to him. Merlin didn't know why he felt so relieved, but it caused a smile to break onto his face.
When he reached them, they shuffled a little to make room for Merlin to sit, despite the surly looks from the men next to them. Merlin fitted himself between Gwaine and Percy.
"Hey, glad you could make it!" Gwaine said happily, clutching Merlin's shoulder and giving it a shake that widened Merlin's grin.
Elyan leaned forward to look at Merlin over Gwaine. "Arthur said you'd be joining us."
Merlin scanned the area, trying to spot Arthur. He had to be close. If his Knights were watching the fight, their meeting with the owner must have been over.
"Where is he?" Merlin had to shout to be heard. He tried to sound casual, not like his heart had been racing from the very moment Arthur asked him along. He was eager to see Arthur in a different setting than the Camelot, and to get to know him a little better. Merlin tried to convince himself that he was gathering information for the Bandits, but he fell shy of believing it.
"Still in the meeting with Kilgharrah," Gwaine said with a shrug. "The goons wouldn't let us in. Guess this a meeting of brains, not brawn, eh?"
Merlin snorted. "And Arthur's the brains? He should have sent Morgana."
The laughter it elicited from Gwaine and Percy on either side made Merlin glow a little with warmth. Percy even clapped Merlin on the back, which admittedly almost knocked the wind out of Merlin but it was nice nonetheless.
Over the last month, Merlin had noticed a bond between the Knights of the Round Table. It wasn't the dutiful bond usually found within a gang, in which the members looked out for each other for the benefit of the whole. These men really cared for each other. They laughed together, drank together, fought side-by-side together, wasted day after day together—because they wanted to, not because they had to. Circumstance had brought them together, but friendship made them stay. That included all of them, even and especially Arthur.
It must have been nice to be needed.
Merlin ached for that kind of acceptance, not the cliques and the secrecy of the Kings. The only relationship he had that came even close to what the Knights possessed was with Will, and even that was different. To be even on the peripherals of the Knights' brotherhood was exhilarating. He imagined how different things could have been if the Bandits were like that.
Maybe when Kanen was gone, maybe when Merlin was in charge . . .
All of that rested on Merlin getting the advantage over Kanen. All that rested on—
"Arthur!" Elyan called, knocking Merlin out of his thoughts. He looked up to find Arthur, looking stern and determined, stalking towards them. Warmth flared in Merlin's chest again.
All four of them stood up when Arthur reached them.
"How'd it go?" Gwaine asked immediately. "What's the price?"
Merlin furrowed his brow with interest. He figured Arthur was meeting with Kilgharrah to buy the club, he just didn't expect it to work. He strained his ears to block out the chatter of the crowd, trying to hang on to every word. The Dragon had a reputation of turning gangs away.
Arthur shook his head. "There is no price. We made a bet."
"A bet?" Elyan echoed, sounding wary. "Arthur, what have you done?"
"I'm going to fight their champion."
Merlin's stomach dropped. He pictured Arthur gushing blood on the square circle, having to be rushed to the hospital. So much of Merlin's future hinged on Arthur being alive, but in his worry Merlin forgot to think such selfish thoughts. He just wanted Arthur unharmed. The concern was a kneejerk reaction; autonomic, like a heartbeat.
"You're going to what?" Merlin shouted, and Arthur looked at him like he'd just noticed Merlin was there at all.
His face softened. "Stick around, Merlin. You may learn a thing or two."
Merlin gaped, and not just because Arthur was taking off his waistcoat and shirt. The golden hairs on Arthur's chest were only visible when they caught the light, and otherwise blended into the soft pink of Arthur's broad chest. He handed his discarded clothes to Gwaine, who balled them up under his armpit.
Next, Arthur nodded at them and made for the square circle. Merlin watched him go with horror, but the other men were acting as though their night had just gotten interesting.
"Finally, we might actually get a fight worth watching!" Gwaine exclaimed happily. It was as much of a compliment one could get out of Gwaine. Merlin wondered why none of them were worried.
A bell rang loudly, and the crowd quieted down by half. A referee and a formally dressed man with a microphone stand walked up the steps into the square circle. "Gentlemen, welcome your reigning champion, league member Robert Derian," the announcer boomed with the proper amount of flare, "and his opponent, Arthur Pendragon!"
The crowd erupted around Merlin as the announcer got out of the way and referee got into position. Elyan, Percy, and Gwaine were hollering, too. Merlin chewed his bottom lip raw and attempted to halfheartedly clap, too.
He glanced upward to the railing on the landing above the ring. He could just make out a man standing in the dark, looking down at the match. He was smoking a cigar.
Arthur ducked under the ropes and appeared on one side. The light above him illuminated his hair like a halo, but shadowed his eyes into deep pits. He bounced slightly up at down, preparing for the fight. However, he froze for the fraction of a second when Derian entered the ring. So did Merlin, only for a much longer time.
It wouldn't be fair to call Derian huge. No. He was giant. A mythical giant. Hulking and massive and mean looking. Merlin assumed the man ate children and small animals like popcorn. His hands were big enough to grind Arthur's bones into dust.
If Merlin's heart had been racing before, it was now threatening a heart attack.
"Kick his arse, Arthur!" Gwaine whooped, and Merlin's eyes widened towards him with terror.
Maybe the Knights weren't brotherly at all, not if they were this eager to watch their leader get horribly, brutally killed!
The bell rang again. Merlin jerked his neck forward so quickly it almost caused whiplash.
Arthur and Derian circled each other a few times, their gloved fists raised, daring each other to make the first move. It was Derian who took the first swing. Arthur leaned out of the way before the fist connected with his cheek. Then another swing that Arthur ducked from.
Merlin's throat felt dry. His eyes flitted from one man to the other, following every movement, every blow. The cheering of the crowd fell deaf on his ears.
Arthur threw a punch towards Derian's chest. It was blocked. The distraction allowed for Arthur's left fist to connect with Derian's gut. The larger man backpedaled to regain composure.
"Yes!" Merlin shouted through gritted teeth before he realized he'd done so. He unclenched his fists and eyed the men on either side of him in slight embarrassment, but neither Gwaine nor Percy seemed to notice.
As the fight progressed, the two men managed to block the majority of each other's punches. A few times, Derian's glove managed to find a patch of Arthur's skin. It caused Merlin's heart to jump every time. Arthur got in a few blows, too. But mostly, he jumped circles around Derian, making the larger of the two have to turn in place to follow him. It looked a bit like a dance instead of the bloodthirsty sport it should have been. Arthur made every movement seem natural, graceful, easy. As though it had been choreographed.
The bell rang again, signaling the end of the first round. Arthur was panting as he made his way to his neutral corner. He wiped some sweat off his brow. The hair on his head was matted and darkened. He looked over his shoulder and up at the landing, where Kilgharrah was still standing. Merlin followed his gaze.
When Merlin looked back down, Arthur's attention had shifted. He was staring into his crowd, at his Knights.
No.
He was looking at Merlin. Directly at him. Merlin couldn't stop staring back.
"Quit holding back, Arthur!" Gwaine shouted, even though it would have been impossible for Arthur to hear. But it broke Merlin's focus. He looked away; so did Arthur.
Maybe Arthur had heard Gwaine, after all, because the second round was more viscous than the first. The movements were quicker, and both men used more of the space available to them. Arthur still kept moving around Derian, but sporadically now. He jerked one way, changed location, faked to the left or to the right, or ducked to protect himself from the swings.
It seemed like an odd tactic to Merlin; but it also seemed to be working.
Or, it worked most of the time.
At one point, Derian socked Arthur hard under the chin. Making Arthur's head jerk back and sent the rest of his body flying against the ropes.
Merlin unconsciously grabbed Gwaine, but his wide eyes stayed on the ring.
Arthur bounced back to his feet and recovered as quickly as if nothing had happened. The only sign he showed of injury was a quick rattling of his head.
For Derian, the third round had the same level of ferocity as the previous. He was out for blood. Arthur, however, didn't even look like he was trying. His jabs were weak, and never caught flesh or bone. Merlin thought he might have been tired out, if not for the fact that Arthur was rushing around the square circle like he was trying to outrun a monster. Derian practically had to chase after him, but his own movements were becoming clumsy and slow.
"What the hell is he doing?" Merlin asked no one in particular.
Next to him, Percy answered, "He knows what he's doing."
Merlin wasn't so sure. Derian got a clear shot. He reeled his elbow back and punched Arthur in the eye, causing Arthur to stumble backward. The move looked more like it belonged in a street fight than a boxing match. Merlin clamped his jaw when he saw the blood oozing down Arthur's face, shining in overhead light.
The audience was going berserk, either raving with excitement or gasping loudly.
Arthur didn't recover as quickly as he had the last time. He grasped on to one of the ropes to keep his balance as he shook away the hurt. Derian tensed, like he summoning all his energy. He used it to barrel towards Arthur, and at the last moment Arthur jumped out the way, leaving Derian to bounce against the ropes.
Derian fumbled to regain composure, but in the interim Arthur made his move. He punched Derian squarely in the jaw, and the man fell to the canvas with a thud that boomed over the audience's constant cheering.
Arthur floored him. Derian struggled to get up under Arthur's grasp, which should have been easy for a man on his size but he didn't seem to have it in him. The referee did a countdown, and when he finished the bell gonged.
Merlin suddenly felt very light. He was giddy, with a smile that cracked his cheeks until they hurt. He was letting out breaths he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. Percy clapped him on the back again, but he barely even felt it.
The announcer's voice boomed throughout the room, barely audible against the mixed reactions of the spectators. From the sound of his voice, he was in disbelief that the Dragon's champion had been defeated. Inside the square circle, the referee was holding up Arthur's wrist over their heads.
Arthur was breathing very heavily, his chest rising and falling as quickly as Merlin's hammering heartbeats. He was grinning in a way that outshone the overhead light, despite the blood caking the left side of his face.
When his arm dropped, he glanced upward and his smile changed to something even more victorious, but not at all gloating.
Merlin looked up Kilgharrah, who must have been the only person in the auditorium not clapping. The silhouette gave another puff before turning away and receding from the railing.
After the fight, Arthur spent the rest of the night with Kilgharrah, negotiating terms and planning out the future of the Dragon. They didn't get back to the Camelot until the small hours of the morning, when all the partygoers and employees alike had gone home but left their mess behind.
At the Dragon, Arthur had managed to stop the bleeding from the gash above his brow. He had cleaned the dried crimson off his face as much as he could in lowlight of the ring's toilet. Still, each time he accidentally itched at the wound or winced from the tenderness the match had left in his muscles, the cut opened again.
He fell into one of the barstools and leaned his sore back against the hard wood as soon as they got back to the Camelot. "Someone pour me a drink," he grunted while rolling the kinks of out his shoulders.
Merlin was fussing over him, like he had been since the moment they left the Dragon. Standing too close, walking at a proximity that made their arms brush, touching Arthur with a fumbling grip as though he expected Arthur to drop dead at any moment.
It was all rather annoying, even though Arthur intentionally stumbled a few times on the walk back to the Camelot just so Merlin would touch him again. Of course, he'd deny it in front of judge, jury, and executioner with his hand on the Bible if he were ever questioned about it.
Elyan went behind the bar and poured Arthur a few fingers of the good stuff in a rocks glass. The alcohol burned as it slid down his throat and caused a fire in his chest, but it instantly soothed his body and mind.
"You won't need stitches. It's not deep enough for that," Merlin was saying. He was doubled over and leaning in towards Arthur's face, inspecting the gash now that he had enough light.
Arthur turned to him, catching his eyes for the briefest moment before Merlin's gaze flittered away again. There had been so many moments like that between them over the last month. Arthur tried so hard to keep Merlin's stare, but Merlin's eyes were less like windows into his soul and more like locked doors to which Arthur didn't have the key.
"Put some ice on it so the swelling will go down," said Merlin, and he immediately took matters into his own hands. He walked around the bar, scooped a few cubes of ice from the icebox into a rag, and folded it like a pouch. Arthur decided to take the compress without an argument and press it to his eye. At first, he felt nothing but a dirty rag that reeked of dried liquor, but soon the ice began to melt and chilled the cloth.
He looked to Percy and Gwaine, and then over his shoulder at Elyan. "It's late," he told them. "You should all go home. I'll lock up."
As though on cue, Gwaine yawned. "Fine by me."
"You're sure you don't need someone to carry you home?" Elyan asked, half-teasing and half-concerned.
"No. Thank you. I'll see you all tomorrow."
They bid each other goodnight and Gwaine, Percy, and Elyan started for the door. On second thought, Arthur called out, "And remember, no telling anyone we own the Dragon. I don't want that information getting out before we're ready to deal with the repercussions."
Owning the Dragon and gaining a boxing license was basically a more subtle way of proclaiming "the Knights are here to stay" than building a giant neon sign announcing the news. There were more than a few gangs that wouldn't be too happy about the competition, and Arthur wasn't ready to take on all of them at once.
"And not a word to Morgana about—," he gestured vaguely to his eye, "this. I'll deal with her when she sees it tomorrow. We don't want to give her all night to come up with insults."
He wasn't sure which he dreaded more: rival gangs or his older sister.
When his Knights reached the door, Elyan smirked back at him before shutting it. It was the only indication that any of them had heard him and agreed, but he trusted them to keep their silence on all accounts.
It was then he realized that Merlin was still there. Arthur spun around on the barstool to face him, and he watched as Merlin busied himself by washing up some glasses. They clinked whenever he set one down on the bar, and caused droplets of water to pool on the wood. Merlin was pretending to mind his own business, but Arthur knew he'd been listening. He could see it in how set Merlin's jaw was.
"I don't have to tell you to not say anything, do I?" Arthur asked.
Merlin shook his head and answered dryly, "Or else you'd have to kill me?"
"Immediately," Arthur droned sarcastically. The melted ice in his compress was soaked through the rag, making his eye numb with cold. Frigid water was running down his face and wrist, so he withdrew the ice pack and set it down.
"How do you know so much about treating wounds, anyway, Merlin? There must be a story there."
"Not really." Merlin shrugged. He never looked up from his chore, but Arthur wished he would. "I come from a long line of doctors and nurses. You pick up on a few things." A smile, or the memory of one, ghosted his features. "Mum was a nurse."
"And she's not anymore?" Arthur asked, quirking a brow.
At last, Merlin glanced up, seeming a little caught off guard. "No. She was let go."
"It's a good thing she has you to send her money, then." Arthur drained his glass and slid it across the bar for Merlin to clean.
Merlin didn't say anything at first. And then, "When you asked me to the ring today, I thought you meant we'd watch a fight together. You should be clearer next time so I know what to expect."
Arthur hummed in mock thought. "I couldn't help myself. I needed a good fight." He sat up straighter to stretch out his spine, ignoring the soreness it caused. "In fact, I think it's the most fun I've had since I got to New York."
"You really don't like it here?"
So many people had asked Arthur that question, but their tone had always been condescending or disapproving. They thought Arthur wasn't giving New York a chance, and maybe they were right. Merlin, however, was genuinely asking and looking for a response. He sounded like he really wanted to know.
It made Arthur want to give New York a chance, after all.
"There are some things I like about it," he admitted. Something in his tone was heavy. It made Merlin lock eyes with him—guarded and distant, of course—and he did not ask Arthur to elaborate.
"I didn't know you could box," he said, either changing the topic or getting it back on track. "Especially against someone that big."
"Ah!" Arthur exclaimed, his eyes lighting up. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his cigarette pack. "There's a trick to it. Someone that big is slow. Tire him out enough and he'll stay down with one well-dealt blow." He patted himself down, trying to find his matches.
Merlin reached under the bar and pulled out a matchbook. He struck one and held it in offering.
"Thank you," Arthur murmured with his cigarette between his teeth. As he leaned into the flame, he tried not to dwell on how slender Merlin's fingers were, or how quickly they moved when Merlin shook out the match. He refocused on what he was saying, and on the smoke scratching his throat and the lightheaded buzz it gave him. "Anyway, you know what they say. The big ones fall the hardest."
"I'll remember that next time." Merlin half-smirked. "I bet against you."
Arthur's mouth dropped open as he feigned offense. "Well, I showed you!"
"I said I didn't know." He got back to work, probably to distract himself from Arthur's eyes. Arthur realized he was staring, and that must have been a little nerve wrecking for Merlin. "I should have. I never thought of you as the one balancing the books. You'd rather experience the business first hand."
Arthur narrowed his eyes, suddenly calculating. "What do you mean by that?"
"You fix fights," said Merlin, like it was the simplest explanation in the world. "That's what your gang does."
It turned out, Merlin wasn't as stupid as he looked.
Arthur didn't know whether to be nervous or impressed. He kept his expression neutral. "Is that what I am, Merlin? A gangster."
Now, Merlin had completely forgotten about the dishes. He looked at Arthur full in the face to show he meant it when he said, "I won't tell anyone on the staff, but they'll figure out who they're really working for sooner or later."
Arthur wasn't too worried about it. By the time that happened, he'd know which of his employees were loyal. In fact, there seemed to be at least one of them he could count on already. "But not from you?"
A thin ribbon of smoke curled upwards between them.
"Not from me."
Arthur's eyes fell to the bar top. It was scuffed from the night, but polishing it could be left for the morning. He stared idly, and scoffed with humor. "Trust has no currency."
"What?"
Merlin's brows were knitted together in confusion. At first, Arthur was perplexed, too. He hadn't realized he'd said it aloud.
"It's something Kilgharrah told me," he answered, shaking the thought away. "I don't know what he meant by it. You don't think he was being literal? He doesn't seem like the sort of man who'd be literal."
Merlin hesitated like he didn't know whether or not the question was rhetorical. "I've never met him."
"Too bad. I was hoping you'd understand him."
But Arthur thought, maybe, he did understand—at least, he did in Merlin's case. He trusted Merlin, for whatever reason. Merlin was safe.
For the first time, Arthur looked past Merlin at the empty spaces on the shelves. He supposed most of the bottles in the cabinet would be gone, too, and there wouldn't be enough stock in the cellar to get them through tomorrow night.
"We should restock," he said, making up his mind and standing up. It reclaimed Merlin's attention in a snap. Arthur put out his cigarette by smashing the tip into the countertop, causing a choked utterance of protest from Merlin that was just a second too late. "Whoever bartended tonight didn't leave very many bottles. He probably over-measured the drinks. I knew giving you the night off was a bad idea."
Merlin bit back a smile. Arthur wished he hadn't, but it made him beam nonetheless.
"Why don't you come with me?" Arthur asked, taking even himself by surprise. He must have trusted Merlin more than he'd originally thought. "I can show you the dock where we store the extra supplies. Besides, I—," he rolled his stiff shoulders again, "—probably need help lifting the crates tonight."
Merlin seemed stunned. He blinked a few times and finally settled on asking, "Now?"
"Of course. There aren't many watchful eyes at this time of night. It's the perfect time to smuggle some illegal goods across town."
He smacked the bar and strode towards the door. "Are you coming?"
He didn't look back to find out if Merlin had followed. He knew he had. He'd heard the water in the sink stop running.
Chapter Text
More and more customers started coming to the Camelot as the weeks went on, and pretty soon familiar faces turned into regular patrons, with names, personalities, and stories. There were some flappers: like Nimueh, who could usually be found gossiping and drinking fruity mixed drinks with Morgana; Elena, a pretty girl who seemed to never leave the dance floor, despite her clumsiness; and Sophia, who, Merlin thought, never actually purchased her own drinks, but rather left the spending up to the hoard of men vying for her attention.
By that time, the employees and most of the regulars had worked out that a gang ran the Camelot. No one spoke of it explicitly, but there was a silent understanding. Once, Merlin had heard secretive whispers from one of the kitchen staff, who quit not long after. Merlin was relieved; he didn't like her very much. She hated him for some reason. Probably because he kept stealing food from her pots when he thought she wasn't looking.
Most of the patrons, of course, didn't care about the gang. They were just happy to get their alcohol and listen to Gwen sing.
Some regulars were intrigued, however; most notably, Mordred, who seemed to spend every waking hour trying to become a Red Knight. He didn't just show up for drinks and fights, but also during the day to help clean, stock the storeroom, or shoot the breeze with Gwaine and Percy. Mordred had already been in Valiant's jail twice for Arthur, and every other week he interviewed again for another shot. Merlin doubted Mordred did it for the money.
When he wasn't locked up, his sweetheart, Kara, was usually on Mordred's arm. She became just as popular with the Knights as Mordred had, but probably not for the same reasons.
Other familiar faces included Gili, who would always sit at the bar and ask Merlin for advice with girls (and Merlin hadn't the heart to tell him that wasn't exactly his area of expertise), and Eira, a blonde to whom Gwaine had taken an interest. There was Edwin, a man with a kind smile that was at odds with his scarred face. It was a burn he'd received as a child while working in a mineshaft. There was Eoghan, Forridel, prizefighter Owain, and, most annoyingly, George.
True to his word, whenever Valiant raided the club (it had happened twice already), he would leave the Knights and employees alone. On other occasions, Valiant or one of his officers would show up to escort the week's hired arrest to jail for a few nights. Soon, an unspoken relationship formed between the Knights and the coppers.
They were all potential targets for the Kings—every policeman, every patron, every employee. However, Merlin never reported any of their identities to Kanen. A few men beaten in an alleyway wouldn't do the Bandits much good, anyway, nor would it harm the Knights very much.
Merlin waited for something big. He remained ever watchful, and before he knew it, another month had gone by, bringing the hot days and cool nights of early June.
And he liked working at the Camelot.
It was nothing like the Essetir. The crowd at the Camelot was younger and richer, full of reputable boxers and men and women from the Upper West Side. Those who earned their wages in the tall office buildings of Midtown blew their money on the Camelot's liquor. Sometimes, sailors who had docked in Chelsea Pier stopped in to stretch their sea-weathered limbs with a fight in the ring, or to sing lively songs that enraptured the rest of the customers.
Merlin liked hearing all their stories and jokes—the sailors, the businessmen, the young hopefuls. He learned their usual drinks and got to know their lives. During the day, he liked spending time with the Knights, especially Gwaine, who was loyal and good-natured under his loud mouth, and Lance, who didn't at all seem like he should belong to the mobster world of crime and violence. He adored sweet, gentle Gwen and Morgana, who was like a storm wrapped up in skin and sparkles.
Most of all, he liked Arthur.
He liked the way the sun would glint on the tips of Arthur's hair. He liked the sweat on Arthur's chest whenever he was in the ring. (He liked the way Arthur always won the fights.) Merlin liked Arthur's smile, which was rare but blinding, and heart wrenching whenever Merlin caused it. He liked the way Arthur spoke loftily, haughtily, with a cigarette rolled between his perfect fingers. The way Arthur's cheeks reddened when he was drunk. The way Arthur's eyes always dragged down to Merlin's lips when they spoke . . .
He liked Arthur. Very much.
There was an easiness between them, even on the days Arthur was a nightmare to be around. He had a short fuse and a quick temper. He was a perfectionist. He was proud. He was a sore-winner. He was bossy and controlling and often got in Merlin's way to demonstrate the "proper" way to mix a drink or stock the shelves or use a mop. Merlin would insult him by calling him a name, rolling his eyes, insolently arguing back, or ignoring Arthur altogether. On a bad day, it earned him a slap on the head; but, more often than not, it got Merlin a smile or a bark of laughter that Arthur tried so hard to bite back.
Once, while Arthur was dishing out orders, Gwaine tried to call Arthur a prat, like Merlin had done countless times. It didn't go over so well. "You let Mrs. Pendragon get away with it!" Gwaine defended, which only served to make Arthur angrier and to make Merlin blush.
When he wasn't at the Camelot, Merlin couldn't shut up about it. He must have told Freya and Will the same stories at least a dozen times. Freya ate them up, her doe eyes sparkling as she lived vicariously through Merlin. She would ask questions and get excited. Will never said much of anything.
Until one day, he did.
It was early in the morning. The sun was just rising in purples and pinks across the city. Merlin was exhausted, but happily so, like he was after every night at the Camelot. A song that Gwen had sung during her set was stuck in his head. He didn't know the words very well, but he hummed the melody. It was something about love and longing set to an upbeat tune.
Merlin opened the door to his tiny apartment on Avenue D. It was above a cigar shop in an ancient brick building that was no stranger to vermin or bugs. The apartment consisted of one room crowded with mixed-matched hand-me-down furniture. It was usually messy, unless Will or Freya scolded him to clean. The bathroom, which Merlin shared with the other tenants, was down the hall.
When Merlin got inside, he was ready for sleep. He was not ready to find Will sitting at the small table next to the entrance. The gas lamp on the table was flickering, and Will was staring into it.
"Will?" Merlin asked, slightly worried. He shrugged off his jacket. "What are you—?"
"Freya overheard Kanen at the Essetir today," Will interrupted, getting right to it. "He's not happy, Merlin. You've been hanging around the Red Knights for over two months now and so far, nothing."
"I'm biding my time," Merlin excused, pulling out the chair across from Will and sitting down.
"For what?" Will demanded, finally looking up. He was weary with worry. It stilled Merlin. "You've been sitting on information all this time. You know where their supply is, you know about the Dragon. You know every face that goes through that club. Why haven't you said anything yet?"
With each word, Will got more frustrated. Merlin blinked a few times, trying to understand his anger. "Because," he started, "our plan was—"
"Fuck our plan!" Will yelled. "Our plan was to get Kanen to trust you! You've got to tell him something soon or he'll start to suspect. He'll kill you if he finds out what you're playing at. Don't you get that?"
Merlin's temper was rising, cut short by how tired he was. Will always treated him like he was a child, all their lives. Will always assumed he knew best and he could order Merlin around. Merlin was sick of it.
"I know what I'm doing," he shot back, a bite to his tone. "Everything I know about the Knights is small so far. I need something big, and then I'll tell Kanen."
Will scoffed and stood up. He began to pace. "You're not even trying, are you? You said Pendragon's office is right above the club? Go sneak around! Find out what he's got in store. Find something big!"
Merlin shook his head. "It doesn't work like that. I need him to trust me first—completely."
"Why? If you find something big enough, you'll never have to see him again. We can squash them and move on. Get Kanen's trust. Be in charge. That's still what you want, right?"
Merlin's heart sank at the very idea of leaving Arthur.
"You've been there too long, Merlin," Will worried, but it sounded more like a reprimand. "Getting all chummy with Pendragon and his boys. You like it there!"
Merlin shot him a mutinous glare. "I'm doing the job."
"Bull! They're not your friends, Merlin. They don't need you!"
"You're wrong."
"What do you think would happened if they find out you're a Bandit?"
Merlin had enough. He wasn't a child, and Will wasn't his father. He jumped up to be level with Will. "Get out," he demanded.
Will glared at him hard. Merlin stared him down.
"I'm not gonna wait around for your thick head to get you killed," Will said at last. "If you're not gonna find some dirt on Pendragon, I'll find it myself."
He wouldn't. Will was all talk, always had been. He was just a boy from Cardiff. He would have never been in life if it weren't for Merlin, or for Balinor. Will didn't have it in his blood.
"Get the fuck out, Will."
At first, Will remained still. Then, she shook his head into another scoff. He shoved past Merlin and tore the door open. When it slammed back into the frame, the wall rattled.
Merlin ground his teeth, trying to forget about what Will had said. It didn't matter that Merlin was enjoying his time at the Camelot. Gwaine didn't matter. Nor did Lance, Gwen, or Morgana. Nor Arthur.
Merlin hadn't forgotten what he was there for. He hadn't forgotten to put on his disguise whenever he entered the Camelot, to assume his fake identity. His true accent never slipped out. Not once. Even if he was found out, he always kept his gun on him, hidden safely in the waistline of his trousers and covered by his jacket. He knew what he was doing and why he was doing it.
He lay in bed, trying to force Will's words out of his head. All he did was toss and turn and watch the light of the sun turn from red to blue through the curtains.
It had been easier for Merlin to push Will out of his thoughts as the day went on. By the time the club opened, Merlin was too preoccupied to mope about their fight. The Camelot was jammed packed again, mainly because of the fight that went on upstairs beforehand. Orn had won again (unsurprisingly, since his opponent was paid to throw the fight), and he threw his victory money away on a round of shots for the entire club, including the staff.
The Knights loved when Orn won for that reason: he always attracted a crowd, and he always gave his prize money right back.
At around three in the morning, the last of the customers stumbled out for a few hours of sleep before the workday. Lance, Gwen, and Morgana called it night, too; as well as the rest of the employees. As always, Merlin stayed behind. He was tired, but he couldn't bear to be idle. Especially if Will was waiting to scold him again.
Arthur, Gwaine, Leon, and Percy were sitting around the dirty tables counting the night's earnings. They were almost through when Gwaine scrubbed his hands down his face and groaned, "This is killing me. I can't wait for payday." He drained the last dregs of his whiskey and leaned into Arthur. "Hey, Arthur, any chance I get my share early?"
"Looking to take Eira somewhere, are you?" Percy asked, reading Gwaine's mind.
"Thought I'd take her to a picture," said Gwaine. "Figure, if I take her to a show, she'll show me something in return."
From behind the bar, Merlin snorted and shook his head down at the rocks glass he was drying off.
"Keep talking like that, and the only thing she'll give you is a slap to the face," Arthur advised.
"No problem there. I like it rough."
A wide, sly smile spread onto Gwaine's features as the rest of them chuckled despite themselves.
They were cut short by a sudden yell from the stairwell. It was followed by heavy footsteps and grunts—like there was a struggle.
"What the hell?" Arthur breathed.
All of them jumped to their feet and pulled out their weapons. Merlin watched the door, his guard up.
Shortly, the door opened and Elyan burst through. He had a man, who was struggling with his arms held behind his back, in his grip.
Merlin froze. It was Will.
Will met Merlin's eyes from across the room. His pupils were large and the whites of his eyes were bloodshot, like they always were when he spent the day in a den. Silently, Will warned Merlin not to do anything stupid. There was no trouble there. Merlin was petrified.
"I found this one snooping around your office," Elyan said, thrusting Will forward so Arthur could get a better view of him. "When I asked him what he was doing, he said—What was it?"
Will glared up at Arthur and spat, "Looking for your sister. She promised me a good time."
Arthur looked over his shoulder at Percy and nodded. Percy strode up to Will and punched him hard in gut, causing a sharp shout of pain.
Merlin jumped. The air left him, as though he'd been punched, too.
Will laughed. "Look, I paid the quiff in advance," he taunted.
Arthur's jaw tensed. Percy hit Will again, making Will grunt and double over.
Merlin didn't know what to do. His mind was racing so quickly he couldn't latch onto a single thought. He remembered the revolver hidden away beneath the back of his jacket.
"Who are you?" Arthur asked, sounding calm.
"You don't know me? I'm a King in this town."
"I see," Arthur realized, his eyes lighting up. "Let me guess: Kanen sent you?"
No. Kanen wouldn't even know Will was there. Merlin prayed for Will to tell the truth. He would look like some kid taking initiative to please his boss, not a spy. The Knights would let him go in the end.
"That's right," Will said, the words echoing through Merlin's head. "He has a message for you: Go fuck yourself."
Arthur nodded; Percy hit. From the sounds Will was making, the punches were getting harder.
"Fuck yourself twice," Will wheezed.
Merlin wanted to be sick. He tried to get Will's attention to beg for him to stop. Maybe it wasn't too late. Will never cast him a glance.
"Alright, I've heard enough," Arthur said with a wave of his hand. "Take him for a ride."
"No, wait!" Merlin shouted. Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at him in question. He was shaking, and unable to find coherent words. He swallowed hard, forcing composure. The hardest part was remembering to speak in an artificial accent.
"It's just," he began, willing a lie to come out. He couldn't stop looking at Will with pleading eyes, no matter how hard he tried. "The Bandits will be angry, won't they? If you kill him. They'll want revenge?" He forced himself to look at Arthur. "You could start a war if you don't let him go."
Kanen didn't send Will. This would be different if he had, if Will were on a job. But now, it would only look like the Knights targeted Will and killed him. It would start a war, but that was the least of Merlin's worries. He just wanted to get Will out alive. He'd start a war himself, if only for Will to stay alive.
Arthur shot Merlin sympathetic eyes. Behind him, Will was only sending out more warnings.
"That's Kanen's doing," Arthur told Merlin, like he was explaining something to a child. "If he wants a war, he'd better be ready for casualties."
"But—"
"Go home, Merlin," Arthur said, more of an edge to his tone. "This doesn't concern you."
"Yeah, Merlin," Will said, trying to sound threatening. Only Merlin heard the meaning underneath. Will was scared to die, but he was even more concerned for Merlin's life. He always had been. After all, someone had to be. "Leave this to the adults."
This time, Arthur punched Will himself and warned harshly, "Don't talk to him."
Merlin was about to shatter. He couldn't fight the stinging in his red eyes, or the way the muscles of his jaw quaked. He had to get out there, to collect himself and think about what to do next. He wouldn't let Will die—not for him. Not at all.
He couldn't look at Will or Arthur as he pushed past them and rushed out of the club. He ran up the stairs and out of the Camelot. The fresh summer air blowing off the Hudson didn't do him any good. He still couldn't breathe, even when he gasped.
They were going to take Will somewhere and kill him. He didn't know where they'd go. He had no way of knowing.
Then, parked on the side of the building, he spotted the shine runner Arthur had bought for the club. It was a car the Knights used to move crates of liquor from the supply house to the Camelot. That night, it would be used to bring Will somewhere quiet and out of the way. Merlin rushed to car and crawled into the boot. He held it open just a hair as to not lock himself in.
Almost immediately, the door of the Camelot opened again. Leon, Gwaine, and Percy came through, holding Will between them. He had a canvas bag over his head.
They pushed him towards the car. "Get in," Merlin heard Gwaine say. The car rocked as they shoved Will into the backseat and went in after him. The engine rumbled as it turned over, and soon they were pulling out onto the highway.
As they drove along, Merlin tried to calculate the route they were taking in his head, trying to figure out which streets they turned down and where they might lead. He was convinced, if he knew where they were going, he could come up with a plan to save Will. He knew the city better than the Knights did. However, the turns were convoluted by design, and Merlin had no idea where they were or how long they'd been in car. It seemed like forever.
Eventually, they slowed to a stop and the car's body jounced again as Will was manhandled out. Merlin closed his eyes and waited until the count of ten before getting out of the boot.
They were on a dock on the East River a few miles from Battery Park. No one was around at that time of night, save for the pigeons that hooted in sleep along the wooden posts of the wharf. Somewhere distant, a bell tolled in the chilled breeze that swooped off the water and combed through Merlin's hair. A cargo ship was docked at port, but all its windows were dark. Only a few gas lamps cast their weak light around the dock, but they were hardly enough to illuminate anything but a circle around their posts.
Gwaine, Leon, and Percy were marching Will around the office shed. They were shadows in their long black coats, all but for the orange tips of their cigarettes.
Merlin crept around the other side of the office, ignoring the wooden planks protesting under his feet. Crates, leftover fishing nets, and buoys lined the outer wall of the office, but there was enough space at the edge for Merlin to fit against. He peered around the side of the shed.
The Knights had stationed themselves near the edge of dock. They were just in the glow of a nearby lamp. Will was on his knees before them, execution style, as Leon raised his pistol.
Merlin pushed his back against the wall and tried to think, despite his own breathing causing a racket. He could cause a distraction, but that didn't mean all three men would investigate. It wouldn't give Will much of an opportunity to escape.
He felt the cold metal of his gun press against his lower back. He took out the weapon and held it up, close to his chest. From a distance, he might just have a shot at getting all three of them before they reacted.
His heart raced at the very idea. He couldn't remember the last time he'd fired a gun, but he was sure it had been for target practice under Balinor's watchful eyes. He'd never killed anyone before, much less three men at once. And especially not men he knew. But it didn't matter. He'd known Will longer and better. He would trade Will's life for any of theirs in an instant.
Making the decision, he pulled down the hammer of his gun and rounded the corner.
Percy pulled the bag off of Will's head.
Merlin kept walking as he raised his revolver.
A single shot rang out, spooking the birds and making them scatter into the air.
It hadn't come from Merlin.
He gasped liked he'd been the one shot. Will's silhouette fell forward, near Leon's shoes.
Merlin had tunnel vision, and he vaguely processed Leon putting his gun back under his jacket. The whole world went wobbly as the three Knights headed back for the car, leaving Will's body on the dock. From somewhere very far away, Merlin heard Percy's voice murmuring and Gwaine's laugh cut through the night. An engine sounded. Then there was nothing but the gonging bell on the water.
Merlin was shaking so much that he had dropped his gun. As soon as he could feel his legs, he ran towards Will and fell to his knees.
"Will? Will!" he called like a prayer, hoping that Will was somehow, miraculously alive. But, when he turned the body over, Will's eyes were veiled and unseeing. There was a perfect circle between his eyes. Wet crimson trickled out of it and trailed down the bridge of his nose, across his cheek, and dripped onto the wood beneath them.
Merlin started sobbing all at once. He tried choking out Will's name again, but his throat was blocked. He clutched the lapels of Will's jacket and sunk his forehead into Will's chest. The body was still warm, and still smelt so familiar. Merlin's tears soaked through Will's shirt as he shook uncontrollably.
Merlin was back in his room, his head resting in Freya's lap as they sat on the edge of the bed. Her fingers were stroking his hair as she whispered to him. She kept saying everything would all right, despite her wet cheeks, despite how thick her voice was. She was wrong. It wouldn't be all right.
But Merlin was too empty to tell her.
"This is my fault," he said some time after dawn. On the street below, he heard people starting their day like normal. Life managed to go on, everywhere in the world. The enormity of that struck Merlin. He's been staring at the wall next to the window with stinging, sore eyes all night.
"No, Merlin, don't say that," Freya cooed in ways of comfort.
Merlin sat up and looked at her, searching her face in question. Her cheeks were puffy and her eyes bloodshot. His head was pounding from dehydration, but that was nothing compared to the weight in his chest. It felt like an anvil had been dropped on him.
"Yes, it is," he said matter-of-factly, like everything was so simple. "He wouldn't have been there if it wasn't for me. If I had just done what I was supposed to."
"Merlin—"
She tried to reach out for him again, but he stood up and paced away. He felt her eyes on his back.
"All this time, I've been treating Kanen like he's the enemy. He isn't. Arthur is. Him and his Knights." Merlin's sorrow was turning to anger, fueled by the maddening hate of grief. He felt his heart start up again. "Will knew that."
"Will hated Kanen as much as you do," Freya reminded him.
Merlin wouldn't hear it. He spun around to face her and said with fire, "So what? Will knew it was us against them. He tried to tell me."
He let out a sob. He hadn't known there was one left in him. Hot tears burned his tired eyes.
"Well, I hope he's happy, because I'm listening now."
Freya sighed deeply and looked at her hands in her lap. "You're not going to get yourself in trouble, too, are you, Merlin?" she asked in a small, desperate tone.
Merlin swatted his tears away before they fell. He knew she wouldn't like his answer. He didn't even like it. Just thinking about it made the heavy feeling in his chest drop into his gut and twist his intestines into knots. "I have to tell Kanen everything, before someone else gets killed."
Even before he'd finished, her eyes shot open wide and she jolted to her feet. "Merlin! Are you mad? He won't be happy!"
"What else am I supposed to do?" he asked thickly, hoping she had a better option. She didn't, but she stood close and wrapped her fingers around his elbows. She fished for his eyes, but he turned towards the window, to the bright summer day outside. "The Knights have to pay for what they've done. Kanen will know how to do that as soon as I've given him all the information I know—"
"He'll ask you why you've waited so long to tell him."
He nodded. They both knew what that would entail. Freya was right. Kanen wouldn't be happy.
"I know."
He rattled his head determinedly. The sensation in his gut remained. "But I have to. Even if it means I have to tell Kanen everything I planned against him. I don't care what he does to me, so long as I bring the Knights down with me."
"It won't bring Will back," she said. He looked at the worry lines on her brow and at the tears shimmering in her eyes.
He agreed, but it was all he could do for Will now.
"What about Arthur?" Freya asked. Merlin had not expected the question. The very sound of Arthur's name caused an array of emotions that Merlin wasn't ready to process yet. He'd burst if he even tried. How could one name make Merlin feel so heavy but so light at the same time?
He focused on the negative, convincing himself that he would never honor Will's memory if he felt anything but contempt for Arthur.
"What about him?" he forced out in a stony tone. Freya did not answer.
Extracting himself from her grip, he headed for the door. Will's body would have been found by now by a sailor or a docksman. Merlin could not wait for the news to reach Kanen. He had to tell him himself.
Kanen sat at his desk, staring heatedly across it as Merlin slumped solemnly in the opposite chair. He almost certainly wasn't upset about the loss of Will's life, only that the Red Knights had taken it. If this was a war, after all, the Bandits was the only side that had suffered causalities.
"I tried to save him," Merlin admitted, hanging his head. He obviously didn't try hard enough.
He ignored Sigan's eyes burning into his back from his place next to the office door.
"What was he even doing there in the first place?" Kanen asked, grinding his teeth like he was already dissatisfied by the answer.
Merlin shuffled, letting his gaze fall to his upturned palms in his lap. "He—." He choked back his tears, fighting past the constriction in his throat. "He was worried about me. He was snooping, trying to find out information on the Knights."
He didn't look up, but Merlin was sure Kanen had narrowed his eyes in scrutiny as he stated, "That's your job."
Merlin nodded. "I was waiting for something big to report back."
Kanen leaned forward. "And how much information have you got on them?"
Something in the hollow pit of Merlin's stomach squirmed. There was a sinking feeling of betrayal at the very thought of giving away the Knights' secrets. Arthur had trusted him to be loyal. In a way, Merlin supposed he was.
But he fought the sensation. Arthur didn't deserve his loyalty! Not after he ordered Will to die. He deserved Merlin's hate, but the uneasiness in Merlin's stomach slowly crept its way upwards to pull at the strings in his chest.
He looked at Kanen through his eyelashes and confessed, "Enough."
Perhaps Sigan had jolted. Kanen's posture turned rigid as he looked behind Merlin to hold a silent conversation that Merlin was too weary to intrude upon.
"Get out," Kanen told Sigan in a neutral tone.
What came next couldn't have been good, but it couldn't have been any less than Merlin deserved. The door whined open and clicked shut, and then there was silence. Kanen surveyed Merlin, to Merlin's imagination, like he was trying to decide what fleshy bit to stick his knife inside.
But then Kanen sighed heavily. It might have been disarming to someone who had never met him, but it awoken the primal instinct of self-preservation in Merlin.
"I understand, lad," Kanen said, leaning back in his chair. "You have a hell of a good reason to hate me. This—," he gestured to the desk, and then to the rest of the room, "All this. It should be Balinor sitting here. And, after him, it should have been you."
Merlin realized he was holding his breath. This was building up to something—something bad. It had to be.
"You gotta blame someone, so you blame me for it," Kanen went on. "So, you get a little taste of power, and you think you can call the shots. You think you know what's best for the Bandits."
Merlin inwardly braced himself. He held up his chin, determined to face his punishment with bravery.
"I envy you, Merlin."
Merlin blinked. He jerked his head back, unable to hold in his shock. It had been said with so much emotion, Kanen had to have been genuine, but Merlin found it so difficult to believe.
"You what?" escaped from his lips before he could catch it.
Kanen nodded, like he didn't notice Merlin's rude tone. "I envy all of you, really. Even him." He waved towards the door Sigan had disappeared through. "You try so hard to get on top, and to stay there. Hell, I did, too. The only reason I'm here is because your father was killed. And why? Because he was our boss. That's what it takes to be in charge—one wrong move, and either you get a bullet in the head or one of your men does."
Merlin bit back his sorrow and looked away. The surprise of Kanen's soft words was forgotten at the reminder of Will.
"You got a taste of that tonight, lad."
Kanen's expression was somber when Merlin met it again, and for the first time he saw Kanen as a real person. It comforted Merlin's grief, but strengthened his guilt. If only Merlin had trusted Kanen before, Will would still be alive. If only Merlin wasn't so stupid!
"Now, you were young when Balinor died. You're still young. He never got to teach you what you needed to know about leading the Bandits. But I was his second in command. You may not like it, and you may hate me for it sometimes, but I know what I'm doing to make sure New York stays our town."
"I know," Merlin answered past the lump in his throat. It's why he came.
"I think you do now. Which is why I'm keeping you with the Knights."
Merlin started again. When he walked into Kanen's office, he was sure he would leave it as a corpse. Now, his heart was pounding so loudly, it was impossible to forget he was still alive. Mostly, he was relieved that he was getting another shot at the Knights. He'd do it right this time, for Will.
"You are?" Merlin said breathlessly. A smile was cracking his cheeks. He didn't think he'd ever smile again.
"Fuck yes, I am!" Kanen said with enthusiasm, slapping the surface of his desk and returning Merlin's grin. "Who's got more incentive than you to put Goldie in his place?"
There was probably a more practical reason for it. Merlin had already made himself a part of the Knights' business, a part of their lives. It would be a waste of time for someone else build that level of trust from the bottom. But Merlin didn't care. Kanen was right: He deserved to do this.
"I won't let you down!" Merlin vowed.
"No, I know you won't." Perhaps Kanen's grin had turned plastic. Perhaps there was a look in his eyes that made his words a threat instead of praise. Merlin overlooked the twisting of his nerves, and tried only to be grateful for the second chance.
"Now," Kanen said, settling, "tell me all the information you have on Pendragon."
Chapter Text
The ringing phone had woken Arthur up early in the morning. Morgana sounded urgent over the line, but she wouldn't tell him what was wrong. That only made him panic more. She told him to get to the club as quickly as possible, and he haphazardly threw on the previous night's wrinkled trousers and jacket and barely had his shirt buttoned up all the way by the time he left his apartment.
When he got to the Camelot, he heard the club under his feet buzzing. Instead of heading up to his office, he went down. His Knights and the entire staff were scurrying through the club. The cellar door was propped opened and the crates and barrels of liquor were hauled out and brought into the kitchen, and then to the shine runner idling outside the backdoor.
Arthur's stomach dropped. He couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat, and his eyes skittered all over the room. They landed on the employees behind the bar, who were quickly plucking bottles off the shelves and loaded them into boxes on the bar top. Merlin was among them. When he turned to pack the bottles in his fists away, he caught Arthur's eyes. He froze dead.
Arthur silently pleaded with him to tell him what was going on. Merlin gave nothing away, save for a slight tensing of his jaw.
"The car's almost full," Arthur heard Leon say, sounding out of breath. He and Morgana came into the club through the kitchen door, and drew Arthur's stare. "It won't fit all the crates. We'll need to make a second trip."
"We haven't got time for that," Morgana said, as though it would solve the problem. She must have felt Arthur's eyes, and she met them. "Arthur." Like Merlin, she, too, froze.
Arthur forced himself to swallow his panic. He squared himself and marched towards them. "A second trip for what? Morgana, what the hell is going on?"
She and Leon shared a look before Leon cleared his throat and explained, "Elyan and I went to the dock for a supply run. Arthur, the police were raiding our storehouse.Not Valiant's men."
Arthur felt a headache coming on. He brought his palm to his eyes, like shielding himself from the light would block out the pain. "How did they find it?" he demanded.
"We're not sure," said Leon.
Arthur lowered his hand. It was doing him no good. "Where are you taking all the liquor?"
"To the Dragon," Morgana supplied. "The storehouse is under your name, Arthur. The dock master will give it up to the police, if he hasn't already. They'll come for you."
And the Camelot would be the first place they looked. Another pit formed in Arthur's stomach. He'd promised Kilgharrah they would never use the Dragon to hide their supply, but he couldn't think of another viable option with so little time. He had no choice; he'd take care of the damage it would do to Kilgharrah's trust in him later.
He said to Leon, "If the shine runner's full, get it out of here now. We'll keep the rest hidden in the cellar for the time being. It'll take some time for the police to get a search warrant."
Leon nodded dutifully and disappeared back into the kitchen.
"What about you?" Morgana demanded. "They'll come looking for you any minute now."
As if they'd heard her prediction, sirens wailed distantly. In New York, sirens were commonplace, and there was a good chance they weren't for Arthur. Still, they sounded as though they were getting closer. Arthur's eyes flickered towards the high windows as though he could see the approaching police cars.
"Get in touch with Valiant. We'll need him," he ordered, tearing his eyes off the window to look at his sister.
"Right."
"Get everything back into the cellar now, and look after the club while I'm gone."
The sirens were definitely getting louder. He turned to the exit and started out to meet them.
"And I want to know whose fault this is!" Arthur shouted over his shoulder. Before he reached the door, he cast another glance behind the bar. Merlin was packing the last of the bottles away.
Arthur ensured to close the club's door behind him when he reached the stairwell, where he paused. Now out of sight, he allowed himself to gasp heavily, sucking in the dusty air like it was as sweet as that of a country field.
He didn't know why his chest was so constricted. After all, this wasn't the first time the police had come looking for him and he was willing to bet it wouldn't be the last. But this was different. This time, he didn't have Uther's protection. Everyone and everything was relying on Arthur. He certainly couldn't run a gang from prison. Or worse. He'd be too ashamed to show his face in London again if he were deported.
That would only mean he'd failed. He wasn't a leader, after all. He wasn't Uther.
The sirens were nearby now. Arthur braced himself and continued up the stairs. He didn't stop until he was outside and two police cars rocked into the dirt patch next to the Camelot. The sirens were silenced.
Out of one car, a brawny man stepped out of the driver's side. His shoulder length salt and pepper hair fell about his round, bearded face. His smile, wicked rather than friendly, was exceptionally handsome as he made eye contact with Arthur.
"Arthur Pendragon, I'm guessing?" he asked, and Arthur nodded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge, brandishing it like it gave him license to do whatever he pleased. "Detective Inspector Ragnor. You're going to come with me so I can ask you a few questions."
Arthur glanced over Ragnor's shoulders at the two uniformed police officers getting out of the second car. They were only the back up.
"May I ask what about?" he inquired, playing dumb.
Ragnor bared his teeth into his smile. "About the crates of illegal liquor we found under your name at the shipyard."
Arthur raised a brow. He deadpanned, "And which shipyard would this be?"
Ragnor laughed. He looked around at his officers and called, "Stay here 'til we get the okay to search the place. No one gets in or out, you hear?" They nodded, and he faced Arthur again.
"We can do this with you in handcuffs," he warned, making it sound like a lighthearted joke.
"No need," Arthur promised, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
Ragnor gestured towards his car. "Lead the way."
He followed Arthur towards the car and opened the back door so Arthur could slide inside.
Arthur sat in the interrogation room of the precinct on East Houston Street. It was in the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a few blocks up from Alphabet City, which meant Arthur had a pretty good idea of who was behind all this.
After what must have been close to an hour of letting Arthur stew, Ragnor entered the interrogation room with a file folder held between his fingers.
"Guess what just came over the line from London?" he asked, pulling out the chair opposite Arthur and sitting down. He flicked through the telegraph message contained in the folder. "Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther." He whistled, as though impressed. "He has quite the reputation, doesn't he? You haven't done so bad yourself."
He listed off, "Assault, battery, drug use. What's this? Earlier in the year, you were taken in for questioning for a murder." He dropped the folder and shot another grin Arthur's way.
Arthur didn't break eye contact, but said nothing.
"Bet Uther's the reason none of this stuck, am I right? The Knights of the Round Table. How much power have you got in London?"
He shrugged when Arthur didn't answer. "Doesn't matter. You don't have any power in New York. That's what counts."
Arthur tried not to grind his teeth at the reminder. He had to keep himself collected. The police were all about intimidation, so the trick was to not be intimidated. Somehow, that was easier in London, when Arthur knew Uther would never allow him to be arrested.
"Okay, you don't want to talk about the past? Let's talk about the docks," Ragnor said, finally getting down to business. "I think I gave you enough time to remember which one I'm talking about."
"The one next to Chelsea Piers," Arthur allowed, breaking his silence.
Ragnor sat up straighter, feigning shock. "He speaks! But does he sing?"
"You said there was liquor stored in my dock shed?" Arthur went on as though he hadn't been interrupted. "Even if I did know anything about that, I think your first concern should be breaking and entering. Whomever informed you about the supply was clearly trespassing on my private property."
Ragnor snorted after a pause. Clearly refusing to be bested, he shot back, "Immigrants don't get private property."
"Well, there goes the myth about the land of opportunity," Arthur droned. He added an eye roll just for effect.
It seemed to do the trick. Ragnor stopped grinning and jumped up to shadow over Arthur. "Now, you listen," he spat, "pretty soon, me and my men are gonna have the go ahead to search your club. Do you think you'll keep being so funny behind bars after I find that speakeasy in your basement?"
Arthur hoped they'd found a way to get the rest of the liquor out of the Camelot. Getting a search warrant wouldn't be difficult, since the Kings probably paid off most of the judges in New York. He didn't give away his worry as he said, "You'll find a restaurant, underneath a boxing ring—which I have a license for, by the way."
"We'll see," Ragnor warned.
Perhaps it would have been more threatening if not for the commotion coming from the corridor. There were two muffled voices, and the deep tone of one sounded all too familiar. Both Arthur and Ragnor looked to the door as it slammed open. Valiant filled out the frame. Behind him was a very overwhelmed-looking uniformed officer.
"What the fuck is this?" Valiant demanded, stepping into the interrogation room.
"Sir, I tried to stop him," the officer told Ragnor.
"Fuck off!" Valiant boomed, and the officer hurriedly did just that.
Arthur ensured not to make eye contact with Valiant, and instead let the two corrupt officers of the so-called law face off while he basked in the soothing sensation of relief.
"Lieutenant," Ragnor said in a way that sounded more like asshole. He was both broader and taller than Valiant, but somehow seemed less powerful. "What makes you think you could barge into my—?"
"I believe I asked a question," Valiant cut him off. "It was, 'what the fuck is this?' A raid, I'm told."
Ragnor squared up, apparently having completely forgotten about Arthur. Valiant must have done so, too, which Arthur was fine with. He sat back and watched the brawl.
"That's right."
"Not in Chelsea, it isn't," Valiant shot back. "That's my jurisdiction. And where are we now? The fucking Lower East Side. That's as far as you and your boys should be poking your noses."
"And here I thought you'd be happy for the back up," said Ragnor. "With all that liquor sitting on your docks, who knows what else you've overlooked?"
"You let me worry about that. I'll take it from here." Valiant turned to Arthur and barked, "We're going."
Arthur didn't need to be told twice. He calmly pushed back his chair and walked around the table. He tried very hard not to shoot a victorious smirk in Ragnor's direction, but he couldn't help himself.
It must have incensed Ragnor further, because he threatened, "Maybe I'll let the Bureau know about this? They don't waste time with jurisdiction."
"Yeah, you do that. See if the Bureau's got enough money to even afford a subway ride to Chelsea," Valiant answered loftily. For show—or possibly not—he grabbed Arthur's arm and manhandled him out of the room. He didn't let go until they were on the sidewalk outside the building.
"Thanks," Arthur said, rubbing the pins and needles out of his arm.
"Don't get used to it," Valiant answered. He didn't have to say that keeping Arthur from being incarcerated wasn't a part of their deal. "And find a safer place to hide your supply this time."
"Right," Arthur mused. "Somewhere the Kings can't find it." They had to be the ones behind this. Uther had warned Arthur that the Kings had the police in their pocket. They'd done this, and taking Arthur in for questioning all the way in Alphabet City was to make sure he knew it.
"The less I know, the better," Valiant reminded him. As though that were his goodbye, he made his way for one of the cars parallel parked outside the precinct.
"Valiant," Arthur called, regaining his attention. "I need a lift back to the Camelot."
Valiant snorted. "Unlikely. I've gone out of my way for you enough today."
"If the Kings are the ones who did this, they'll know I'd be released sooner or later," Arthur tried to reason. "They could be waiting for me to be alone. You can't expect me to take the subway."
Valiant was unsympathetic. He opened his car door and told Arthur, "Then take a taxi." He got behind the wheel and peeled away from the curb.
Arthur groaned, feeling that headache again. He was happy for the fresh air, but he'd be able to breathe it more easily when he was back on the West Side. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled with the paranoia of being watched.
He spotted a taxi coming down East Houston Street. He rushed the edge of the curb and hailed it with a whistle.
The staff had been told to wait in the kitchen until further instruction, but Merlin couldn't just sit and wait amongst the pots and pans. He paced behind the bar, his hands on his hips as his eyes flickered between the empty shelves on his one side to the Knights, Morgana, and Gwen on his other.
They were all sitting around the tables with a mixture of boredom and anticipation. Gwaine was slouched in his chair, asleep with his hat placed on his face to keep the sun out. Percy was playing with his lighter. Conversation had died between all of them long ago, and Merlin really wished it hadn't. He wanted to know what their next move was, what they'd do against the Kings in retaliation.
But he also knew they would never plan anything without Arthur.
Because Arthur was coming back. He wouldn't be arrested. Valiant would get him free. Merlin knew that, as did the Knights, as did Kanen. Ragnor even knew it. Arthur would walk; it was only a matter of when. Merlin couldn't bear the waiting any longer.
And he didn't need to. The upstairs floorboards creaked, causing everyone to snap to attention. Merlin stopped pacing, his eyes fixed on the door to the club. More footsteps sounded down the stairs, and soon the door opened to reveal Arthur. Except for the loose knot of his tie, he appeared as though the day had been like any other.
Merlin was a little disappointed that Arthur hadn't been arrested, after all.
"Well, it's about time," Morgana snipped. "I was starting to think Valiant had gone back on his word. Those two officers aren't still loitering outside, are they?"
"They're gone," Arthur said, still standing in the doorway. "Everyone to my office, now."
Merlin knew "everyone" meant everyone present but him. Arthur held the door open as the rest got to their feet and filed out the door. Morgana was last. She quickly said Arthur's name like she wanted to tell him something urgent, but he stopped her with, "Upstairs."
Before he followed her out, Arthur briefly glanced at Merlin in a way that made Merlin's heart jump into his throat. The fear that Arthur had figured him out overwhelmed him. He had to rattle it away in order to listen for the last of the footfalls on the stairs. Once they'd died away, Merlin snuck after them, all the way to Arthur's office on the top floor.
The door to the office was shut when he got there. Carefully, he placed his ear against the wood and listened to the conversation on the other side.
"The Kings? Arthur, are you sure?" came Leon's voice.
"Positive. I was practically in their backyard," said Arthur. "Kanen obviously wanted revenge on us for killing his man."
Merlin's fist clenched at the mention of Will. Kanen didn't want revenge; he wanted to seize an opportunity to wipe the Knights off the map of Manhattan. Merlin wanted revenge. It just so happened the end result was the same.
"But if he's dead, how did the Kings know where our supply was hidden?" Gwen pointed out. Merlin's breath caught at the words. He knew the question was inevitable, but he'd hoped it wouldn't be asked.
Morgana agreed, "Exactly. You said you shot him . . . You didn't miss, did you?"
"No, I didn't miss," Leon hurried to say. "Arthur, I didn't miss."
"Relax, mate, she was joking," said Gwaine.
"It could be we were followed during a supply run," Lance's disembodied voice provided.
"Speak for yourself. Me and Percy are careful whenever we load up." That was Gwaine again.
"Yes, but the Kings know New York better than any of us do, and we could never know who they have watching us."
Merlin's heart started at the words.
"We're careful," Gwaine insisted.
With frustration in his tone, Arthur got back on track. "Then why strike now? If they'd known where our supply was, they wouldn't have waited until we killed another one of their men." There was a pause, and then, "Elyan, you're certain didn't see anyone else snooping in here that night?"
Elyan didn't seem to take it personally. "Of course, not, Arthur. If I had, they would have been dead, too."
"Just because Elyan didn't see him, doesn't mean someone else couldn't have been here," Gwen reasoned. "We should consider the chance that the Bandit you caught was a decoy."
Gwaine said, "He did seem pretty eager to get his head blown off."
"You think he was covering for someone?" Arthur asked.
Me, Merlin thought, awash with guilt. He was covering for me.
"It doesn't matter how they found out," Morgana cut in. "What matters is, they got what they wanted."
"Hardly," said Arthur. "They got me in for questioning, but, as you can see, I managed to keep out of Sing Sing for the time being."
"Getting you in for questioning is all they needed," said Morgana.
"What are you talking about?"
She sighed heavily enough for Merlin to hear it through the wood, or perhaps the room beyond had fallen too quiet.
"It's what I tried to tell you before. Word about the police raid has already gotten out. The Kings must be spreading the news," she explained. "Our bootleggers phoned while you were away, Arthur. They won't supply us anymore."
"What? Why not?"
"They're afraid the police will be watching us now. They don't want to take the risk."
Merlin had to remember not to laugh. This victory was sweeter than Arthur behind bars for the rest of his life. There wouldn't be a bootlegger in the whole city that would want to work with the Knights, and those who weren't too scared were owned by the Bandits. The Camelot would be bone dry.
"I'll leave for Yonkers immediately," Leon offered. Merlin heard movement from inside and frantically looked around for a place to hide. "I'll get them to change their minds."
"No," Arthur said, halting him. Merlin settled. "Don't bother. They'll only raise the price of their alcohol. We should use our energies to find someone willing to sell."
"And if there's no one?" Morgana asked what everyone was thinking. "Our supply is gone and we don't have enough bottles in the cellar to get us through more than one night."
There was another long, quiet pause. Merlin could picture everyone looking to Arthur with rapt expectation. Merlin felt it, too; he realized he'd even silenced his own breathing.
"Shut it down," Arthur said, his words weighted with the decision. "The club and the ring. They don't open again until we find a new bootlegger."
Merlin leaned himself against the wall for support. He felt as light as sunshine. Will would have been so proud.
"In the meantime, the Dragon will continue to make a profit."
"Arthur, we can't rely on the Dragon alone," Lance said gently, "not unless we fix every fight."
"Or we could move the club there for the time being," Morgana suggested. "We could sell whatever liquor we have left at the fights."
"No," Arthur said with determination. "I promised Kilgharrah we wouldn't use the Dragon for that."
"Promised him?" Morgana echoed with incredulity. "Who cares? These are desperate times."
"I said no," Arthur repeated with finality.
"There might be another way of keeping the Camelot open," Leon began. It piqued Merlin's interest. "If this really is the Kings' doing, we could seek help from the Caerleon Bunch. They've been in a feud with the Bandits for years."
Merlin pressed his ear closer to the door, as if it would help him to better hear.
"Yeah, we've seen a few of them around," Gwaine said. "The Bandits have taken over almost all their dens in Hell's Kitchen."
There was silence into which Arthur must have been considering the option. He decided it was worth a shot and said, "Right. Morgana, get me a meeting with Annis. As soon as possible. Tomorrow, if you can."
And there it was: the Knights' next move. Kanen feared an alliance between the Knights and the Caerleon Bunch, but they would find a way to prevent it. The Bandits would come out on top in the oncoming war. Merlin reminded himself that a knight, no matter how golden, is more easily captured than a king.
"The rest of you, send everyone home for the night. I want both the Camelot and the Dragon guarded at all times in case the Kings are planning another attack."
As they were dismissed, Merlin heard shuffling from inside. He wouldn't be able to escape down the stairs in time, so he elected to find a quick place to hide. He supposed he was lucky that the Camelot had once been an old warehouse, held upright by two thick wooden support beams jutting from the wall to the ceiling on each of the building's floors. He rushed towards the closest one and hid on its other side.
He heard the office door open, and those inside made their way downstairs. Merlin waited until they were all gone before coming out of his hiding place. He tiptoed back to the office door, which was left open, and peered inside. Arthur was standing in front of his desk, carding his hands through his flaxen hair and squeezing his eyes shut.
He was nervous. He was positively radiating doubt.
The satisfaction it gave Merlin was . . .
Not as satisfying as it should have been. In fact, it wasn't satisfying at all.
Merlin made an excuse for it, telling himself that this was only the beginning, and triumph would come when Arthur and the Knights were destroyed. With the hollow pit in his stomach, he couldn't make himself believe it.
He turned to head back downstairs, but his foot connected with a loose board. Arthur immediately reacted.
"Merlin," he realized, settling. "I didn't hear you come upstairs."
Merlin cursed under his breath. He pushed a pleasant smile onto his face and acted as though he were coming rather than going. "I didn't mean to startle you." He meant to do a lot more than that.
"You didn't," Arthur insisted. He sighed and waved his hand in a loose gesture. "You might as well go home for the rest of the day. Everyone else is."
"That's a shame," said Merlin flatly.
"I thought you would have been happy for the night off."
Merlin snorted a laugh. It was a sincere one. It made him pause to mentally kick himself.
"Is there something you wanted, Merlin?" Arthur asked, now surveying Merlin up and down.
Merlin tried to come up with a reason for his visit. "I wanted to make sure you were all right," he decided on. His words were soft as they left him, and his eyes locked with Arthur's.
Arthur's expression turned gentler. He wouldn't have suspected Merlin as a spy if Merlin admitted it. "I've been arrested before, Merlin," he said, playing it off.
Merlin wouldn't let him get away with being so blasé. "Yeah, but not like this," he said innocently. "All on your own, that is, with everyone counting on you. Different country, different laws. No reputation to help you. You aren't even an American citizen and—"
"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, cutting off the feigned word vomit. "Shut up!"
Merlin played innocent. "Right. Sorry."
"No, I . . ." Arthur appeared to turn the words over in his mind, and Merlin had to bite back a smirk. Arthur was too easily affected, and Merlin knew him well enough to know how to play him.
Arthur blew out his cheeks and sat on the edge of his desk, coming to the lighthearted conclusion, "I'll just have to watch my backside from now on, then."
Merlin nodded in agreement. "I will, too."
And that had been unintended word vomit.
He realized what he'd said a hairline too late, but Arthur hadn't. He raised his brows dubiously.
"No, I didn't mean—," Merlin stumbled.
"I know what you meant," Arthur said, sounding heavy again. "Thank you, Merlin."
Merlin couldn't be in the room any longer, not with embarrassment heating his ears. That fire should have been stoking his heart with hatred.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," Arthur answered.
The Caerleon Bunch's center of operations was above a pawnshop on Fifty-First and Ninth. A bell above the door tinkered when Arthur pushed inside. He was met instantly with an assortment of old junk and the rank smell of mothballs to go with it. What little sunlight streaming through the smudged storefront window made the layers of dust sparkle on rows of assorted home appliance, fur coats, and instruments. The till on the far side of the shop was on a display case loaded with diamonds, gold watches, and jewelry.
A man, flipping through a newspaper with a cigarette hanging carelessly from his lower lip, sat behind the counter. His dirty-blonde hair fell down to his shoulders in unkempt waves and his beard was scraggily rather than fashionable.
Arthur walked up to the counter, and the man glanced at him over the paper with watchful eyes.
"I'm told you're selling a Rolex Oyster at a reasonable price," Arthur told him.
Promptly, the man folded up his newspaper. As he stood up from his wooden stool, he crushed his cigarette into its ashtray. "Follow me," he said gruffly. He didn't check to make sure Arthur was doing so as he walked through the doorway behind the counter.
Arthur was led up a narrow flight of stairs, through another door, and down a tight corridor of closed doors to the very end. The man knocked on the very last. From inside, a woman curtly beckoned, "Come in."
The man twisted the knob and held open the door for Arthur.
Arthur only acknowledged him with a side-glance as he shuffled into the small, barebones office. There was a cheap, weathered desk pushed against the wall with a metal folding chair beneath it. Except for a few stacks of papers on the desktop, it looked as though it had never been used.
Annis sat at the end of a six-person table in the center of the room. She was a middle-aged woman with thick, auburn hair and facial features as sharp as a hawk's. She was in a knitted navy dress with a brown fox fur boa thrown loosely around her neck, despite the warm early-summer day. She didn't turn her eyes on Arthur, but rather kept them on the document she was currently reading. Other files were piled in front of her, as clearly she preferred the table to the desk. A forgotten plate of chicken and beans rested near her elbow.
"Sit," she told Arthur stiffly.
As he did so at the chair to her left, he mused on how much she and Uther would get along. Or perhaps they wouldn't; strong personalities tended to butt heads more often than not.
"I'm sorry to catch you on your lunch break," Arthur said, trying to attract her focus away from her paperwork. He nodded towards the food when he succeeded.
"Don't be," she said, making it sound more like a command than a pleasantry. She folded up the file she was reading and replaced it with her plate of food. "Our meeting is long overdue."
"I should say it is."
"And I should say it isn't a coincidence you've arranged it now," she countered.
He patiently tried not to sigh in defeat. "You know why I'm here, then."
"Of course, I know," she snipped, not bothering to be patient. "The entire city knows. Word travels quickly through the dark corners of Manhattan."
"So I'm still learning," Arthur admitted.
She narrowed her eyes at him in close scrutiny, not unlike Kilgharrah had done before commenting on how young Arthur was. "Yes, I assume you are," she said thoughtfully.
"So. Arthur Pendragon," she said with the air of getting down to business. "I know why you're here, but why don't you tell me what it is you want?"
Arthur couldn't afford to be as direct as Annis, not if he wanted her to accept his offer. His plea, more like.
"I'd like to discuss the Black Kings," he said calmly. "I understand your relationship with Kanen has been a rocky one."
She snorted out a chuckle. "Say it for what it is. It's a war."
"That would imply both sides have a chance of winning," Arthur put bluntly. Her eyes suddenly turned hard, and he was glad she was finally taking him seriously. He leaned in closer to the table and continued, "The Knights of the Round Table are in the same boat. The Kings believe they can take us down without a fight, and they may be right. Resistance is tough when you cut down one man and two more take his place."
"And you thought I'd be sympathetic." It wasn't a question. Yes, she and Uther would have definitely hated one another.
"I thought you'd be fed up with them trying to monopolize this city," Arthur returned politically. "They've been trying to take over your territory. They now have control of more than half of your dens in Hell's Kitchen, and you haven't the strength to take them back." Not since her husband and a dozen of his best men were killed. Arthur decided to leave that unsaid.
"Together, we could change that. We could push the Bandits back to the East where they belong. The West Side could be ours alone."
"And what makes you think I want to share the West Side with you?" she asked. It wrong footed Arthur. He sat back and blinked, trying to regain composure.
"Do you really think I don't know what you've done? You bought property in my backyard," she clarified. "You're just as bad as Kanen, and Balinor Emrys before him."
Arthur gaped for a moment, wondering why a boxing ring would matter to Annis. "The Dragon is in no competition with you," he said. "The only business you have with it is in the back allies, selling heroin to those who lost their bets and want to drown their sorrows. I'd have thought a few fixed matches would do you some good."
"It's common courtesy to meet with me before encroaching onto my territory," she shot back sternly as though scolding him. "Didn't you mother ever teach you manners?"
He clamped his jaw, trying not to let it sting. "I'm afraid my mother never got the chance to teach me much of anything," he answered evenly.
She didn't look very apologetic. In fact, the comment may have only antagonized her further.
"You may be used to getting everything you want, Arthur, but you're not in London anymore. This is New York. The name Pendragon means nothing here."
"Not yet," he promised. It didn't impress her, and he needed something that would. "But you don't need a reputation. You need brute strength to fight the Kings. The Knights could provide that."
"And what do you ask in return?" she inquired, not missing a beat. "You haven't answered my question. What do you want?"
There was no way around it now. Arthur could harp on how beneficial an alliance would be for Annis for hours, but it would not sway her. Shiny, pretty things could not blind this woman of the price tag.
"The police raided our storehouse under Kanen's instruction," he admitted. He didn't mean to cast his eyes down at the tabletop as he did so. He trained them back on Annis. "The Kings destroyed whatever hope we have of building a network. Our bootleggers pulled their business. We've looked, but there's no one who will sell to us." Those that were willing to deal set the price too high for their product. The Camelot would lose more money than it earned.
At first, Arthur had tried to deal with a bootlegger gang in Long Island City, bossed by a man named Ruadan. The alliance never got off the ground. Ruadan wouldn't admit it, but he was scared teaming up with the Knights would start a war with the Kings that he could never win.
"But they'll sell to me," Annis inferred.
"Just until we find another bootlegger. We'd only need enough to keep the Camelot afloat."
Annis was scoffing and shaking her head.
"We'll compensate you for all the bottles obtained, plus interest. Name a figure," Arthur hurried to add.
"I am no middle man," she hissed through her teeth.
"And if you lose another den to the Bandits, you'll be nothing at all," Arthur reminded her.
She leaned back and shook her head again, like denying it would make the problem disappear. It gave Arthur an idea.
"Annis, we have to stand united if we have any hope of keeping control of the West. You'd rather have the Knights in your neighborhood than you would the Kings. Trust me. And we'd rather have you. Allow me to persuade you of this."
Anger still lingered on the lines around her lips, but her eyes flashed with interest. "How?"
"We take the offensive. Instead of waiting around for the Kings to attack us, we strike first. I'll reclaim one of your dens for you. Tonight."
Her eyes stared through him, to some place very far away, as she thought over the possibilities. He wondered if she was picturing a specific den.
"If I succeed, will I have your attention?" he asked.
She did not answer for a few moments as she considered. But soon, when she made up her mind, she leaned in again and answered, "If you reclaim one of my dens, Arthur Pendragon, then I will listen to what you have to say."
Chapter Text
Most of the employees of the Camelot hadn't come in that morning. There wasn't much work to do with the club temporarily shut down, but Arthur asked a few members of the staff to keep the place in shape for when they eventually reopened. Arthur was glad they were there. He knew at least three of the men in the staff who would prove useful in reclaiming Annis' den.
Inside the club, Morgana and Gwen were sitting at a table pouring over sheet music. Without the aid of the band, they were coming up with possible sets to perform. Lance was behind the bar with Merlin, and they conversed as Merlin polished the bar top and Lance dried the glassware. It wasn't Lance's job, but he'd probably decided to aid Merlin out of the kindness of his heart. Besides, there wouldn't be much else for Lance to do with the upstairs ring still closed.
As for what Merlin was doing there, Arthur had no idea. It wasn't like there was any alcohol for him to stock.
Leon and Elyan were guarding the Dragon, just as Gwaine and Percy had been doing at the Camelot until Arthur had them follow him into the club.
"Arthur?" Morgana realized urgently not a moment after Arthur, Gwaine, and Percy entered the club. She was already glancing up from the music at Arthur, like she knew he was coming by some sixth sense. Every other neck in the room craned his way.
"What did she say? Will she supply us?" Morgana questioned.
"There's something we've got to do first," Arthur told her before beckoning Lance over with, "Merlin, stop taking advantage of Lancelot. I need him to listen."
Merlin muttered something under his breath that Arthur didn't catch across the room, but it as definitely ended in something that sounded like ass.
"What was that?"
"He offered to dry the glass," Merlin returned quickly, innocuously.
Arthur didn't believe it for a moment, but he let it slide.
"What do I pay you for, Merlin? Lance, get over here."
He barely noticed the agitated pursing of Merlin's lips, or the apologetic glance Lance offered Merlin before walking out from behind the bar.
Once Arthur had everyone's attention, he began, "Annis is considering our offer, but she's asking us to prove our mettle before her decision is made. As you all know, the Black Kings have been pushing onto her territory for years ever since they killed her husband. She's lost many of her dens to the Bandits. Tonight, we're taking one back."
He was met with only assenting nods.
"Good," Arthur said shortly, after giving ample time for anyone to voice any qualms. "Annis will be providing us with a handful of her men, but we're going to need a lot more. I'm not expecting the Kings to give up the den so easily. Luckily, we'll have surprise on our side. Lance, go to the Dragon and tell Leon and Elyan what's going on."
Lance left immediately.
"Gwaine, Percy, you've gotten to know our patrons. Find anyone you know to be loyal."
"Like Mordred? He'll be eager enough to fight for us," Gwaine supplied.
"Get everyone in your network," said Arthur. "I'll talk to our staff."
With two curt, almost simultaneous nods, Gwaine and Percy left after Lancelot. Finally, Arthur turned to Morgana and Gwen. "Dismiss any on the staff we can't use. I'll need the Camelot for a rendezvous point tonight."
As the two women tidied up the sheet music and then disappeared through the kitchen door, Arthur's eyes were drawn to the bar. He and Merlin were the only ones left in the club, and Merlin's head was ducked as he pretended to focus on his chores. He'd been listening the entire time, but Arthur decided not to call him out on it.
Instead, he made his way to the bar and asked, "You don't happen to have any of my scotch left, have you?"
Merlin reached under the bar and pulled out half a bottle without hesitation. He placed a rocks glass next to it on the counter. "Is it a good idea to get jazzed before going into battle?"
"Are you concerned?" Arthur teased as he poured himself a drink.
"No. Get your head blown off. See if I care."
Arthur snorted out a chuckle. "I'm not getting drunk. I just need to relax myself. Long night ahead." As though to prove his point, he held Merlin's gaze and capped the bottle.
"What time are we leaving?"
Arthur almost choked on the burning liquid in his throat. "We? You're not coming."
Merlin stammered, trying to form an argument. "But—but you said, the staff—"
"Yes, those who can fight," Arthur rebutted. He wouldn't put Merlin in the middle of firefight. He wouldn't let the Kings or anyone else lay a finger on Merlin—innocent, thin as a rail Merlin. Arthur was pretty sure bringing him to a gang fight was counterintuitive. Besides, Arthur would be too distracted with Merlin there, and he couldn't afford for anything to go wrong.
"Please, Merlin. You barely know how to use a mop. Why would I think you could fire a gun?"
"Don't you just pull the trigger?" Merlin answered dryly, apparently not wanting to justify the question with an answer. It only furthered Arthur's belief the Merlin had never even seen a gun, much less used one.
Merlin must have picked up on Arthur's growing resolve, because he whined, "Come on, Arthur! You said it yourself, you need all the help you can get."
He had a point: the more men the better, and Arthur wasn't exactly flush with allies.
"Are you going to come anyway even if I say no?"
"Yes!"
Arthur figured as much, and he hadn't the time to convince Merlin otherwise.
"Fine," he conceded, earning a bitten back smirk from Merlin. "But if you die, I expect your ghost to report for work tomorrow."
"I'll be here," Merlin promised. Then, leaning in as though sharing a secret, he whispered, "Which den are we going after, anyway?"
Arthur tightened his jaw at the question. He promised Annis, after they decided on the place, he'd keep it a secret in case the Kings caught wind of the plan. Merlin was awaiting an answer with big, harmless eyes, and Arthur knew he wouldn't intentionally let the information get out. But, as much as loyal as he was, Merlin was a blabbermouth, and Arthur couldn't risk it.
"There's one on Forty-Eighth and Eleventh. That's where we'll be headed," he lied, recalling one of the dens Annis mentioned during planning. It was a white lie. Merlin wouldn't mind it when he found out.
Merlin appeared to let the information sink in. "Right . . ."
Arthur drained the rest of his glass and started for the kitchen to recruit the rest of the staff, but Merlin called him back.
"Um, Arthur? Is it alright if I go home first?" he asked, his voice a higher pitch than before, like a child asking its parent for sweets before dinner. "I, um—I need to change my shirt."
Arthur would have let him go without a reason, but the one given made him knit his brows together. "Your shirt?"
Merlin shrugged. "This is my favorite. I don't want to get—um, blood, and stuff on it."
Arthur's eyes flickered down to the offending article. It was a plain, black button-up under a cheap blazer. Arthur didn't see what was so special about it, but he shook his head and granted, "Do whatever you have to, Merlin. Just be back by sunset."
"Don't worry, I will!" Merlin called as Arthur started again toward the kitchen. "Sunset! I'll be here! I will see you th—!" The closing door cut off his last words.
Merlin was bouncing on his toes the entire subway ride to Alphabet City. His patience wore thinner which each stop. The sooner he told Kanen what the Knights were planning, the more men he could amass to out-number them. Every minute was precious.
When he finally emerged onto the street from the Astor Place Station, he booked it towards Thirteenth and C. The cars racing down the avenues forestalled him a few times, and when he finally got close to the garment factory, the strong gusts of wind sweeping off the East River tried to force him backward. He was out of breath by the time he reached the closed door of Kanen's office.
It would have been easy to open, had Sigan not been barring the entrance. He was harder to walk through.
"Kanen's busy," he said flatly before Merlin even got a chance to speak.
"This can't wait," Merlin managed to get out through his panting.
Sigan remained resolute. "He said he doesn't want to be disturbed."
Merlin shot him a cold glare. If they missed this opportunity to bring down the Knights, Kanen wouldn't blame Sigan. Merlin would take the punishment. Still, Kanen's temper for the rest of the month would run hot, and that directly affected Sigan.
"Kanen won't be very happy if he missed out on urgent news about Arthur, will he?" Merlin spat.
Sigan narrowed his eyes in contemplation. Then, without turning around or taking his eyes off Merlin, he rapped his knuckles on the door.
"For fuck's—What the fuck is it?"
"Emrys is here," Sigan called. "Says he's got important information."
There was a pause, and then, "Send him in."
Sigan reached for the knob behind him and shoved the door open. His stare almost challenged Merlin to go in, but Merlin ignored him and pushed through. Inside, Kanen was sitting at his desk with a tall, bald man standing on the other side. The man twisted silently to eye Merlin in a cool, disconcerting way.
Merlin had seen him around, but never spoke to him. He was rarely at meetings or in the Essetir; and when he was, he was always looming in some dark, eerie corner. He never said a word.
Myror was his name—at least, Merlin was fairly certain. He was rumored to be an assassin who did Kanen's bidding. Merlin wondered what poor soul he was ordered to kill this time.
"We'll continue this later," Kanen told Myror, offering the man more reverence than Kanen had given anyone. Myror bowed his head in acknowledgement and swept out of the office.
As soon as he was gone, so was Kanen's respect. "What's so important that you had to interrupt—?"
"Arthur and Annis are working together," Merlin cut him off. It seemed to get Kanen's attention straight away. "Or, well—they will be. Arthur's going to take back one of the Hell's Kitchen dens for her. He's trying to prove himself to her."
There may have pride in his tone during that last bit. His heart skipped a beat upon realizing it, and he prayed Kanen hadn't caught on. It was a memory of fondness, nothing more. It would pass.
Kanen didn't appear to notice. He leaned back in his chair, letting the information circle in his head. Merlin really wished it would circle faster.
"Which one?"
"The one of Forty-Eighth," Merlin spoke quickly. "He's assembling his troops as we speak."
Kanen hummed thoughtfully.
Merlin blinked a few times, frustrated when he didn't get an immediate answer.
"This could be our chance," Kanen muttered at last. And then, louder, added, "How many men does he have?"
"I don't know. But it can't be many. We could send more than he could ever hope for," Merlin reminded him. It would be an easy win.
Kanen nodded, appearing to think hard again. His eyes were moving back and forth, reminding Merlin of the machinery on the floor below. "You can make it look like he was caught in the cross-fire," he said, as though thinking it aloud, but Merlin was pretty sure he'd been referring to him.
For a quick moment, Merlin couldn't breathe.
"What?" he asked when he remembered how to speak.
Kanen stopped thinking. He fixed Merlin with a securitizing stare. "This is our chance. You have to kill the Golden Knight."
"Me?" No, he couldn't. He'd never killed anyone before! The Knights would know it was him, and they'd kill him in retribution. And Arthur—!
It's Arthur! Merlin thought it, screaming it in his mind, before he caught himself.
"You," Kanen said like he was wondering if he should teach Merlin the ABC's and 1-2-3's while he was at it.
Merlin stammered a few times as his heart pounded against his ribcage.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .
Kanen leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. He scratched his beard idly.
"You see that man who just left?" he asked.
Merlin blinked rapidly, trying to pay attention to what Kanen was saying. He tried to think about anything but Arthur. He wondered what Myror had to do with anything, but he collected himself as best he could and nodded his head anyway.
"He was there the night your father got killed."
Merlin's stomach dropped. He wasn't sure if he visibly reacted; it felt like he'd frozen on the spot. Suddenly, Arthur's face vanished from his mind.
"I was there, too," Kanen went on, and now he wasn't looking at Merlin at all. He was looking somewhere far away. "We went out to kill Caerleon. We were just the distraction—to draw Caerleon and his boys out while Myror was off in the distance somewhere, playing sniper. It was just me and Balinor. I wanted to bring more men but . . . Your father said it would be an easy job."
Pressure was building in Merlin's eyes. They were stinging and probably swollen with glistening red. He blinked hard, his Adam's apple spasming as he attempted to get a hold of himself.
"Only, Caerleon managed to put a bullet through your old man's head before Myror was able to take a shot at him or any of the men with him."
Merlin let out a breath he'd been holding in for five years. He never knew the exact circumstances of Balinor's death. Kanen never said, and Merlin never asked. Maybe he didn't want to know.
"Balinor was a good man, he was. The best. I admired him. Didn't always agree with him, but I admired him," Kanen said mournfully and nodded. He seemed to come back to the present. "And the Caerleon Bunch took him away from us. From his son," he said pointedly. He scoffed, like something was funny. "And now, they're forming an alliance with the bastards who killed your best mate, too."
Merlin's chest burned as hot as his eyes. He hardened his expression to meet Kanen's stare.
"You should be the one to put a stop to this," Kanen told him. "Don't you worry about the den. I'll send all the men we've got to make sure the Red Knights don't take it. But you—you focus on the Golden Knight, yeah?"
Merlin hesitated. Then, he nodded. He knew what he had to do, despite the twisting in his stomach.
"You make sure this alliance never happens, for your dad's sake. For Will."
"I'll get it done," Merlin resolved, more to himself than to Kanen.
Kanen grinned with graying teeth. "Good lad."
The sun had already set by the time Merlin entered the Camelot. It was a hive of activity, with fifteen men preparing for the night ahead. Some of them, Merlin knew by face or name; others were foreign, and he assumed they were Annis' men by the way they stood to the corner and watched the proceedings as though judging whether or not the Knights were worthy.
Fifteen men, Merlin thought. It was going to be easy for the Kings to take them out.
"Ah, Merlin, nice of you to finally join us," came a familiar voice filled with hauteur. Arthur had swaggered to his side. At first, Merlin almost jumped out of his skin. The weight of his gun hidden in his belt became heavier, and he wanted to run away and hide.
He clenched his fists at his side, trying to build his nerve; but, when he turned around, all hope of that disappeared. Arthur was smirking at him playfully, a teasing glint sparkling in his light eyes. Merlin had seen that look so often during their hours together after closing. The fists at his sides loosened, and he couldn't meet Arthur's gaze.
Guilt budded in the pit of his stomach, waiting to bloom.
Suddenly, Arthur's brows knitted themselves together. "Your shirt?" He pointed his index finger loftily at Merlin. The thick silver band he wore every day shimmered in the low light. It was his mother's ring; he'd told Merlin one night full of considerably more gloom than usual. Arthur told Merlin stories of his mother—stories he'd only heard second-hand himself. There had been a longing in his tone that Merlin understood so well.
"What?" Merlin asked, too preoccupied to catch his meaning.
"I thought you were going to change?"
Merlin's heart leapt. He looked down his front at the dark button-up and stammered, hoping for an excuse to present itself. "Oh!" he said, his voice louder and an octave higher than he'd intended. "Right, I—I knew I was forgetting something!" What was supposed to be a lighthearted chuckle came out nervously.
"Right," Arthur said slowly, like Merlin was the silliest man in the world. Then, concern passed over his features. He stepped in closer, so it was impossible for Merlin not to breathe in him. "Look, Merlin, if you're having second thoughts about tonight—"
"No!" Merlin panicked, making Arthur start. He wasn't being very convincing. "No, I . . ." He clenched his fists again and focused on the cold metal of his gun against the small of his back. Thinking of Will and Balinor, he mustered up all his bravado and nodded once firmly. "I can do this."
"Good," Arthur said. He probably wouldn't have if he knew the truth. "Go pick your weapon, then—," he gestured towards one of the tables with a group of men crowded around it. "We leave shortly." With that, he was gone.
Merlin walked towards the table Arthur indicated. Scattered weaponry, mostly hand pieces, rifles, and knives, was laid upon it. The young men who stood around it inspected the weapons unsurely, as any of the more experienced fighters most likely had guns of their own. Merlin picked up a pistol for show.
"Oi! Quiet, all of you!" Gwaine's voice cut through the crowd. Everyone craned their necks towards the bar, upon which Arthur was standing.
Merlin's frustration was instinctual, as he was the one who would have to clean the boot prints off the wood the next day. But then he remembered, after that night, it wouldn't be his problem anymore. He'd never step inside the Camelot again.
And neither would Arthur . . .
Merlin shook the thought from his mind. He couldn't afford for his thoughts to waver.
Now that no one was watching, he put the pistol back on the table and removed his own gun from his waistline.
When all was silent, Arthur scanned the crowd once and began, "Some of you may believe this isn't your fight. And you may be right. Anyone with remaining doubts, leave now." He paused. No one moved. "The rest of you," he started up again, "will not just be reclaiming a crack den for the Caerleon Bunch. And if your only reason for being here is because you don't like the Kings' prices—Who am I to judge you?"
There was a low chuckle amongst the men that died away not long after.
"But tonight is about more than that. Tonight is the beginning of the end of the monopoly the Black Kings have on this city."
Around Merlin, there were nods of assent.
"We let them know the West is ours—"
"Yeah!" one of Annis' men shouted.
"—And we will not allow them to take it from us!"
The men whooped with fire in their voices. Arthur jumped off the bar and ordered everyone to move out.
Merlin wasn't ready. He scanned the club quickly, trying to make every detail sink in. Soon, it was back to the Essetir. It was back to the Kings, only everything would be different. Will wouldn't be there. What's more, Merlin would be a nobody again, and Kanen would remain in charge. A vast uncertainty stretched out into the future, warping the familiar into the strange. Merlin wasn't sure he wanted to go back to all of that, to that place he never belonged.
He swallowed it down and collected himself. He could not think of the future, only the man who robbed him of it. Ignoring the sloshing in his stomach, he followed the group out.
Merlin was put into Leon's car for the trip over. It was second in the caravan of three, right behind Arthur's. It would be a quick drive to Forty-Eighth Street, and Merlin didn't really pay attention to where they were going. He kept his stare fixed on the car in front of them, squinting at the silhouettes inside and latched onto the one he was fairly certain belonged to Arthur. It comforted him a little, seeing Arthur as no more than a shadow. He was less of a human being now.
Just as Merlin built up his nerve for what was to come, his stomach lurched upon the realization they'd been driving for too long. He looked out the window at the street sign for the passing intersection.
Fifty-Third and Twelfth. The car in front of them turned down the street and headed up the avenues.
Merlin tried not to panic. He tried to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why they'd overshot Forty-Eighth so much. However, when they skipped over Eleventh Avenue, he felt as though he'd be sick.
"I thought Arthur said it was Forty-Eighth and Eleventh," Merlin said, attempting to sound casual. He looked at Leon's profile for an answer.
"Hmm? Oh, no," he said. "He didn't want the actual location getting out. He only told us the real address."
Merlin blinked and gaped. There was no way he could have told Kanen to protect the wrong den!
"He—he lied to me," Merlin said when it finally sunk in. His vision was spinning.
"Sorry, Merlin," Leon answered lightly, as though the world wasn't about to end. As though the Kings weren't about to lose their hold on the West, and it was all Merlin's fault.
Merlin sat back in his seat. His wide eyes fixed on Arthur's shadow.
"I'm gonna kill him!"
Leon chuckled like it was a joke.
They parked curbside a few streets down from the real location and started on foot to the den. Merlin kept his eyes peeled for any twitching curtains or hooded men who would appear drunk as they stumbled down the sidewalks. Scouts were usually positioned around the dens to watch out for police. That night, the street was empty, and Merlin wondered if Kanen had put all the scouts around the wrong place.
As the group passed an alleyway, a movement caught Merlin's gaze. He paused, letting the other men shove by him, as he scrutinized the alley for something more than rubbish bins and vermin.
It could have been a scout. Merlin prayed it was, and they'd run off to tell Kanen the real target. But Merlin couldn't shake a strange paranoia from his head, a feeling of something more sinister.
"Merlin?" Lance asked with genuine concern, placing his palm on Merlin's shoulder. Lance had been bringing up the rear of the group. "What is it?"
"I thought . . ."
Merlin tried blinking it away. Perhaps it hadn't been anything, after all.
"It's nothing." He offered Lance a tight smile, and Lance accepted it easily. They caught up to the group together.
They all paused a block from the den, allowing Merlin and Lance to shoulder their way to the front, to where Arthur was standing with his back against the wall of a building. He was peering around the edge in anticipation. Gwaine, Elyan, and Percy were with him. Mordred was there, too, hovering a little too close.
"Hey," Gwaine said, looking up from the gun he was loading and nodding to the pair of them in greeting. "Ready?" He spun the cylinder of his revolver and clicked it closed.
"As always," Lance assured him.
"Merlin?"
"What?"
Merlin hadn't paid attention to the exchange. All he could focus on was Arthur's profile, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Despite the warm city air, Merlin suddenly felt very cold.
"Oh," he said, shaking his thoughts away. He managed a pushed smile. "Yeah."
"He's back," Arthur said suddenly, lifting himself off the wall. Seconds later, Leon appeared around the corner and Arthur didn't hesitate to ask, "How many?"
"One outside the door, and one on the ground floor," Leon replied.
"And on the upper levels?"
"I couldn't see."
"Shouldn't there be scouts? Where are they all?" Mordred asked, and Merlin tried very hard not to shoot him a death glare. That was a question he didn't need Arthur pondering on. "We haven't seen a soul the whole way over here. Did you see anyone closer?"
Leon shook his head.
"Merlin saw something in an alley," Lance volunteered, making all eyes fall on Merlin.
"Did you?" Arthur demanded.
"No!" Merlin answered in a knee-jerk reaction. He became meek when he briefly met Lance's confused expression. "I don't—I don't think so. It was probably just a rat."
"Are you certain?"
"It was nothing," Merlin emphasized.
Arthur nodded once before turning his eyes on the rest of his men. "Fine. Percy, you go ahead of the group. Take out the bouncer."
Merlin's heart skipped. "I'll go!" he said with a start. If he could get ahead of everyone else, he could warn the Bandits they were coming. Someone could get word to Kanen.
"Now's not the time for jokes, Merlin," Arthur huffed, and began to turn away.
Merlin sidestepped back into his line of vision. "I'm serious. The bouncer will suspect Percy on first sight. Look at him. And look at me! He'll never expect it."
"You're not going," Arthur said with finality.
"But—!"
"Enough. We haven't the time for this, especially if they've been warned of our coming."
"By who?"
"Perhaps your rat. Percy, go."
Merlin bristled as Percy rounded the corner. He held Arthur's glare until Arthur faced front and motioned for the group to follow after Percy. Merlin was sick of Arthur trying to keep him away from the fight, like Merlin couldn't take care of himself. Arthur would have never treated him with such disrespect if he knew who Merlin really was. But he was about to find out.
Merlin felt a hand squeeze his shoulder in a show of support, and turned to find Elyan giving him a tight, sympathetic smile. It settled Merlin, and reminded him of his guilt. But before he could fully react, Elyan turned the corner after his fellow Knights. Merlin took a deep breath and marched in flow with the rest of the group.
The den was a narrow, three-storey building made to look like a regular apartment complex, albeit slightly more ramshackle. They approached it just as the bouncer asked Percy for the password to get inside. It probably wasn't a punch to the gut, but it was the answer he received nonetheless. The bouncer cried out loudly in pain before another punch knocked him out. Percy knelt down, ripped the building's keys off the bouncer's belt, and handed them to Arthur.
Arthur and his men burst through the entrance first, guns raised. Merlin made sure to rush in after them before anyone else could. Annis' men were right on his heels.
The second man Leon had warned them about should have been at the doorman's desk. He'd left his station, probably to investigate the bouncer's shout. When the Knights broke in, he sprinted back to the desk and reached over the ledge for the cowbell on top of it. It was their alarm system, a warning for if a scout ever caught wind that unfriendly police were on their way.
The bell gonged loudly a few times, but Gwaine quickly caught up the Bandit and ripped it from his hand. Mordred held the man's hands behind his back. "Bad idea," he said tersely, and Gwaine slammed the man's forehead onto the desk. The Bandit fell unconsciously to the floor, but it was too late. The others upstairs had heard the warning. Merlin could imagine them regrouping and preparing for a shootout just above his head. He prayed there were enough men to hold the Knights back.
"Clear?" Arthur asked. His men had spread out to peak into doors and around corners. They wouldn't find anything. There was nothing on the ground floor. There never was.
They each nodded in turn, giving the all right.
"Okay," Arthur said, pulling out his gun and releasing the hammer. He looked over his shoulder and offered Annis' men and the others a grin. "Let's go make a scene."
They filed up the stairs to the next floor. The hallway at the top was wide enough, but barely lit. Some of the brick on the walls had fallen away, revealing the cracked boards or gaping holes behind them. There were three would-have-been studio apartments on that level, all with the doors opened. Inside each of them would be bare mattresses or nests of blankets where stoned, emaciated men and women would lie as they rode out their high.
Arthur held his hand up, signaling the group to stop. He listened out, but the only sounds anyone heard were the moans and groans of the customers. Apparently satisfied, Arthur motioned them forward and picked the first apartment to go into.
Almost immediately, a gunshot rang out. It hit the wall next to the threshold they'd stepped through.
A group of half a dozen Kings stood on the other end of the room, each of them holding their guns up. At the forefront was a dark haired, bearded man named Oswald, who had fired the shot. Merlin had never seen him without his better half, Ethan, who, sure enough, was standing just behind Oswald. Customers were littered all along the walls. Some of them reacted to the gunshot by groaning and rolling over. Some were too comatose.
"That's far enough," Oswald threatened. Arthur stopped walking, but in a way that showed he clearly wasn't threatened at all. The Knights and Annis' men left the others in the hall to flank Arthur on either side.
Merlin stood right outside the door, hiding his face from Oswald and Ethan, but keeping an eye on Arthur. Mordred was right next to him, standing on his toes to get a better view.
"You have three seconds to convince me not to shoot you," Oswald said further, stretching out his gun in front of him.
Another shot pierced the air. Oswald flinched as his weapon was shot right out of his hand and clamored to the floor. Merlin surveyed the men in front of him to assess who had been responsible. He saw Lancelot set the hammer of his revolver.
Mordred bounced on his toes. "What's happening?" he hissed. Merlin shot him another annoyed look out of the corner of his eyes, which Mordred did not see.
"I am Arthur Pendragon of the Knights of the Round Table," said Arthur, authoritative and glorious.
"Is that meant to mean anything to me?" Oswald asked. Merlin could only imagine the way Arthur's jaw would lock, as the rest of his expression remained seemingly neutral.
Coolly, Arthur continued, "This den belongs to the Caerleon Bunch. You and your men may leave now, and there won't be any bloodshed."
"You're new here, aren't you?" Oswald said, sounding almost as diplomatic as Arthur. "So, I feel I must educate you. This den doesn't belong to the Caerleons. The Kings have run it for years."
"You have no claim to Hell's Kitchen." Arthur's patience was wearing thin. Merlin could hear it in his voice. He ought to know: He'd tried Arthur's patience on more than one occasion.
With a smile in his tone, Oswald retorted, "We don't need claim. We just take. We're Bandits. Do they not teach you what that word means in London?"
Arthur took a few steps forward. All the Knights tensed. All the Kings trained their guns on him in unison.
"I need you to pass along a message to Kanen. I don't care if you do it alive or dead, but I'm certain you have a preference. Tell him, the West is ours."
Oswald paused, seeming to consider. He shook his head. "I'm afraid he's never going to get that message."
As though reading Oswald's thoughts, Ethan waved his gun away from Arthur and shot one of Annis' men in the head. There was a spray of blood against the wall right next to Merlin. He jumped out of the way to avoid it, and Mordred finally stopped bouncing.
It began all at once.
Shots flew in every direction, rattling the walls they hit. Mordred flew into the room. Some others followed, while others still ran into the other two apartments. Merlin pressed his back against the wall in the hallway, listening to the deafening crack of bullets. He gripped his revolver in both hands, trying to focus on the metal. He hoped it would give him strength.
It didn't.
He rushed through the threshold anyway, into the cloud of gun smoke. Men on both sides were already down, their bodies as still as that of the customers along the walls.
Merlin didn't see Arthur anywhere, but he heard him. "Get them out!"
He thought Arthur was talking about the Kings, rallying his men to force the enemy from the establishment. That was until he saw the room fully. Some on Arthur's side had begun collecting the customers. Those who still had motor functions where rushed out, while there was an attempt to carry others.
"Merlin!"
He spun around to find Lance, who had a dirty, pale woman's arm slung around his shoulders. Her head lolled and her feet dragged as they moved. "Help me with her!" Lance beckoned.
Merlin hesitated for a moment, wondering why the Knights were bothering with the customers. Civilian casualties were never thought of in gang fights, especially when those civilians were drug addicts.
Still, he supported the woman on her other side. She was heavier than she looked, as dead weight always is. As they moved, Merlin had to focus on getting them to the hall. Lance was too busy with his eyes on the fight. He loosed a few bullets with his free hand as they walked.
Some of the fight had bled out into the hall and into the other apartments. Merlin scanned for Arthur as they made for the stairwell. He had to find Arthur before the shootout was over.
Halfway to the stairs, out of the line of fire, Lance readjusted all the woman's weight into him and said, "I'll take her the rest of the way downstairs. Go get someone else."
Merlin shook his head before Lance could go much further. "Why?" he shouted over the racket behind him. Arthur's men outnumbered the Bandits. If more of them actually fought instead of getting the customers out of the crosshairs, they would have won by now. However, even as Merlin spoke, more people pushed by him with dazed junkies in their arms.
"Shouldn't you get back to the fight?"
"These people have no part in this, Merlin. They're innocent. Our priority is ensuring their safety," Lance said over his shoulder, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Merlin blinked after Lance as he went. If it was the Knights' priority, that meant it was Arthur's orders. He imagined Arthur in London, making his men escort tavern patrons outside before a drunken fight broke out. Merlin had never met a crime boss with so much urgency to do the right thing.
He couldn't think on it. The Knights had their orders, and so did Merlin. He had to fulfill them, for Will and Balinor's memory. He couldn't let them down again.
He about-faced and sprinted towards the first apartment. Just before he reached it, a bullet flew just inches from his nose and embedded itself into the wall. He reflexively dodged and ducked. "I'm one of you!" he shouted at the King down the hall who'd fired the bullet. Apparently, the man didn't hear him. He was getting ready to shoot again, but one of the Caerleons got to him first with a punch to the jaw.
"Oh, forget it," Merlin muttered under his breath. He slipped into the apartment.
The room was smokier than before, mixed with kicked up dust and raining plaster from the ceilings and walls where stray bullets hits. The sudden impact made Merlin cough. He couldn't see much of anything, let alone a golden head of hair. He crouched down and snuck along the walls, canvassing the room for Arthur while simultaneously appearing to look like he was helping the Knights' cause.
He came upon a woman lying still on a mattress. (That is, he nearly tripped over her without looking.) He knelt down besides her, trying to shake her awake. She moved like a ragdoll.
"Come on," he hissed. He didn't have time for this.
Finally, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, bloodshot and wild. She screamed like she was feral, and launched herself onto him. He lost his footing and fell backwards. She clawed at his chest and face with quick motions, and he shielded himself with his hands and tried to swat at her as he struggled. She kept screeching all the while.
Suddenly, she was ripped off of Merlin. Gwaine had grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her into the arms of two other men. "Get her out of here!" he ordered. Merlin stayed paralyzed on his back, wide eyed as the woman struggled against the people trying to save her.
Then, Gwaine flipped his hair out of his face with a toss of his head and extended his hand down to pick Merlin up.
"Do you always attract the crazy ones, Merlin?" he teased, getting Merlin to his feet.
Merlin checked his palms. They were scratched up with white and red lines, but thankfully not bleeding. "Thanks," he told Gwaine. He looked over his shoulder to where the woman had disappeared, happy she wasn't coming back.
"No need," Gwaine was saying. "'Keep Merlin alive.' Boss' orders."
It took a second for the words to process, but when they had Merlin was sure he'd heard wrong. His stomach dropped, and he whipped his head around to look at Gwaine. "Wait, what?"
Apparently, Gwaine had seen something Merlin hadn't in the fray, and overlooked the question. "Duty calls. Let's get drinks after this, eh?" And he was off.
Merlin's mind was reeling. He didn't know what to think, except for Arthur's name, over and over. Was the heat in his chest fire or warmth?
He looked up, and caught sight of Arthur through the throng. The smoke was thinning out. The fight was nearly over. It was now or never.
Arthur's back was turned. He was fighting with Ethan, hand to hand. He looked just like he had in the boxing ring, with every move calculated and artisanal. His gun was in his hand, but he didn't use it. Perhaps he was too close for a clear shot.
Merlin took out his own weapon again. He marched forward, keeping his eyes on Arthur so he wouldn't lose him again. He didn't even dare blink.
He supposed only a coward killed a man with his back turned. Perhaps he was just that.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .
Merlin was so close to a clear shot now, only a few paces away. In his imagination, his movements were swift and precise. Arthur was down without a moment's hesitation, and Merlin was gone before anyone realized he'd left. No one would ever know.
Reality did not play out in the same way.
He raised his arm to be level with the back of Arthur's head, but he couldn't steady the barrel of his gun. His finger twitched over the trigger. He knew he had to act now, before anyone saw him. He drank in deep bouts of air, but the thickness filling the room only clouded his mind further.
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .
Could he really do this?
Could he kill a man who put innocent people's lives over victory? Who chose to prove his worth to his superiors through honor and skill, instead of dirty money? Who wore his mother's ring to feel the presence of a woman he never knew? Who smashed his cigarette butts into the freshly polished bar top just to get a rise out of Merlin? Who invited Merlin to a boxing ring just to impress him? Who bit back fond smiles whenever Merlin shot him an insolent remark? Who got jealous when Morgana stole his dancing partner? Who tapped his toes to the radio when he couldn't concentrate on work? Who wanted to keep Merlin safe? Who trusted Merlin? Who wanted to dance with Merlin without any music playing?
Arthur, Arthur, Arthur . . .
Merlin had to kill Arthur, but the permanence of that concept suddenly sunk in.
Killing him meant he would die.
Logically, Merlin always knew that. But he'd done such a good job at separating the two, a cause without an effect. Now, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it.
Killing him meant Arthur would be gone. Like Will was gone. Like Balinor and Hunith and Gaius were gone. It was bigger than revenge or anger. It was forever.
Could he live every day knowing he'd never see Arthur again? But could he live knowing he'd abandoned Will and Balinor for good?
Merlin closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to take the shot before Arthur moved away.
Someone in a nearby brawl was pushed into Merlin's back. Merlin stumbled forward under the man's weight and lost hold of his gun. It went off when it dropped, sending a bullet into the wall. Merlin scrambled for it, but it was kicked away in the chaos.
"No!" Merlin panicked, dropping down to his knees to follow it. Someone stepped on his fingers, causing a searing pain. His yelp was lost to the firefight above him.
He tried to shake away the hurt and refocus on retrieving his gun. It was in sight, just out of arm's reach. He made to dive for it, but before he got the chance, a large boot stepped on the revolver, locking it underneath. It was deliberate.
Merlin followed the man's leg upward to his torso, until he reached Myror's piercing eyes. They bore into Merlin like he was dinner.
Merlin's mind spun at a hundred miles per minute. Why was Myror in a regular gang fight? How did he know which den to come to? Why was Merlin staring into the eye of his pistol?
Merlin jumped to his feet and backpedalled. Myror followed him with his weapon raised, honing in on the space between Merlin's eyes.
"I'm a Bandit! Don't you recognize me? I'm Balinor's son!" Merlin tried to shout. The words got stuck in his throat.
Myror pulled back the hammer.
"Merlin!"
Merlin barely registered Arthur's voice before being shoved hard out of the way. Myror's gun burst. Arthur cried out, and something wet rained across Merlin's cheeks. He fell back into Merlin, and Merlin instinctually caught him under the arms. Arthur brought up his gun in one swift motion and fired off a shot. Myror collapsed to the floor.
As Arthur's arm fell again and hung limply at his side, he leaned all his weight into Merlin. It was too much, and Merlin was worn too thin from the stress of the night. His legs wobbling, he guided them both to the floor and propped Arthur's head up with his knees.
Arthur's left shoulder was bleeding from where he'd been shot. It was a bullet meant for Merlin.
"No, no no no," Merlin chanted. He held his palm to the wound, trying to stop the blood. Arthur was dazed, his eyes unfocused. "Arthur!" Merlin called, drawing Arthur back to him.
Arthur blinked a few times into Merlin's gaze, until his eyes dropped downward. "Your shirt," he rasped out.
Merlin knitted his brows and shook his head. He didn't understand until he looked down his chest at the dark stain seeping into the material. "It's okay," he assured, trying to pull his lips into a smile. "You can pay for the dry cleaning."
Arthur rumbled with weak laughter, which was cut short by a grimace.
"We're going to get you to hospital," Merlin promised. He looked up, searching for one of the Knights to aid him. At some point, the gunfight had ceased. The Kings were either dead or had fled. Those on the Knights' side left standing were collecting themselves or checking the bodies to ensure it was no one they knew.
It occurred to Merlin that he could let Arthur bleed out. It would be easy.
"Merlin," Arthur gasped, and Merlin immediately gave his full attention.
Arthur's face was contorting with pain. He reached his hand up and rested it on Merlin's over the wound. At first, Merlin thought Arthur was trying to add more pressure to it. But his touch was too gentle. His fingers curled around Merlin's wrist.
Letting Arthur bleed out would be the hardest thing in the world.
"You're all right," Merlin said, trying to convince the both of them. He cupped his other hand against Arthur's hair to support his head.
He looked up again, helplessly searching for someone to help. He spotted Gwaine, his back turned, not too far away and cried his name. Gwaine spun around instantly. His eyes flashed with panic for a moment before he controlled himself. He backhandedly slapped Percy, who was standing next to him, on the arm to get his attention. They both ran over.
Arthur was rushed back to the Camelot with his good arm slung over Percy's shoulder. Gwaine flanked him on the other side, carefully trying not to touch the wound but guide Arthur along all the same. Arthur applied pressure to his shoulder with his hand, which was now stained by the trails of red blood oozing through the cracks in his fingers.
Merlin was rushing close behind them, bobbing from side to side in order to get a better look at Arthur. "He needs to go to hospital!" he panicked for what must have been the dozenth time. He didn't know why he was yelling, maybe to drown out the listless groans escaping Arthur as he was dragged across the boxing ring. Every pained sound Arthur made struck a chord in Merlin's chest.
"I'll get the first aid kit," Leon said from somewhere behind Merlin before disappearing up the stairs.
"Hurry!" Lance called after him. Then, to Gwaine and Percy, added, "Get him downstairs. And get the lights on!"
"The lights?" Merlin shouted, gobsmacked. Arthur didn't need good lighting and plasters from a medical kit. He needed a doctor! Merlin didn't know whether to follow him down to the club or to phone an ambulance.
However, his worries went ignored as Lance, who had apparently taken charge, turned to Elyan and said, "Go to Morgana. Tell her what's happened." It was late, but Morgana would never forgive any of them if they kept this from her until morning. Elyan nodded breathlessly and, after casting one last anxious look at Arthur, hustled back out of the Camelot.
Lance spun around on his heels to follow Arthur downstairs. At the same time, Leon's footfalls pounded back into the ring as he brandished the first aid kit. He immediately bee-lined to the descending staircase across the room.
"This is a bad idea! He needs proper medical help," Merlin reasoned, stalking Lance to the narrow stairwell. "Lancelot!"
"Trust me, Merlin, he's had worse," Lance hurried to say, but his cool demeanor was betrayed by how frantic he sounded.
"Worse? He's been shot!"
Merlin nearly lost his footing in the darkness and tumbled down the stairs, and slammed his palms against either wall to catch himself. It put enough distance between he and Lance for Lance stride through the threshold to the club and attempt to close the door behind him.
"What are you doing?" Merlin shouted, practically jumping down the remaining steps.
"Stay out here, Merlin," Lance advised, trying to close the door again.
"Wh-what?"
"Please, Merlin!"
The heavy iron door slammed shut just inches from Merlin's nose. Suddenly, everything was quiet. It was a stillness that could only exist in pitch black. Slowly, as Merlin's eyes adjusted to the low light coming from the thin crack beneath the door, sounds filtered back in.
The walls creaking in the wind. The mice scurrying in the pipes. And then the internal noises: his racing heart, his ragged breaths, his hard swallows.
Arthur had lost a lot of blood. The bullet might have shattered something in his shoulder, a bone or a nerve or a blood vessel. He could have died—he could still die! And it was Merlin's fault.
He would get Arthur killed, just like he got Will killed. Both of them were just trying to protect him.
Arthur couldn't die. He was brave and selfless and noble, and Merlin had never seen his like before. Kanen would have never taken a bullet for anyone. He was no leader. Neither was Merlin, he realized: he was too much of a fool. As much as Kanen didn't deserve Balinor's office, neither did Merlin, not if it meant Arthur's death.
Arthur could not die. Not for Merlin.
Merlin didn't deserve it.
There were more sounds piercing through the darkness. Arthur was shouting with agony. It made Merlin squeeze his eyes shut. Just beneath the screams were the indistinguishable mumblings of the Knights.
Merlin had never felt so exhausted in all his life. It was in his bones.
He sat down on the last step and waited.
"Morgana, would you please!"
She had been fiddling with the gauze taped to his shoulder, and doing more harm than good. The pain seared whenever her palm hit the wound directly and the skin around it was tender and inflamed. He tried to maneuver it away from her, but the makeshift sling around his arm limited mobility. Still, Arthur was happy she was there, even though neither of them would ever admit it.
The last thing he remembered before passing out from the torture of having a bullet removed from his flesh without a sedative was Gwaine making him funnel half a bottle of bootleg gin, and then Leon shoving a wooden spoon in his mouth to bite down on. He was still a little loopy from the alcohol, and his teeth ached. Mostly, he was tired.
But it was a nice, comfortable thing to have Morgana's face be the first thing he saw when he woke up on the bar top. He was sitting in a stool now. Morgana was technically on the stool next to him, but she was leaning so closely into him that she was practically on his lap.
"I'm just making sure Lance did it right," she snipped, sounding so much like Uther. She showed frustration over worry, annoyance over caring. In the Pendragon family, harsh tones were tender, and callous remarks meant, "I love you."
"It's not like he hasn't done it before," Arthur fussed, shaking her off. He took a drag of his cigarette, letting the nicotine sooth him. For a brief moment as the smoke filled him up, the pain was gone. When he moved infinitesimally again, he winced.
"Well, you won't be so happy when you scar. The ointment in the medical kit won't last long. We should make friends with an apothecary," she said, standing up. He rolled his eyes, even though she was right. Uther had quite a few doctors and pharmacists on the payroll, for whenever someone was shot or wounded or in need of medication (and sometimes when they weren't strictly in need of it). Arthur supposed it had slipped his mind to make such connections in New York.
"Now, let's get you home. You're cutting into my sleep schedule," she ordered.
"Fine," Arthur sighed while putting out his cigarette in the ashtray on the bar. Favoring his left side, he was just about to get up when he caught movement in the doorway. Morgana had seen it, too.
Merlin was standing in the threshold, half-inside the club and half-in the stairwell, clinging to the darkness like it was his protector. He was hesitant to enter any further, like the club was a morgue and Merlin had been asked to identify the body of a loved one. He stared at Arthur as though he were already dead, even though Merlin was the one pale as ghost.
He was probably blaming himself for what happened. Arthur couldn't stand that guilty, lost expression.
"Give us a minute," he told Morgana. She nodded and had to push past Merlin through the doorway. He barely moved. He didn't give any indication that he'd even seen her. His gaze was transfixed on Arthur.
Arthur tried to sit up straighter, despite the ache it caused him, and brighten his expression. "Well, then, Merlin, it looks like I'm alive. So, you can stop acting like such a girl."
Morgana had told him that Merlin was waiting on the stairs, wringing his hands, when she got there. They waited together until Lance was finished, and Merlin stayed behind while Morgana waited for Arthur to wake up. He wished Merlin had been there, too.
The words seemed to wake Merlin up from his trance. He blinked slowly and let out a rattling breath from his parted lips. "Arthur . . ."
"No need to thank me." Arthur's head was swimming, he didn't know if it was more from fatigue or the gin.
Merlin finally entered the club fully. As he came closer, Arthur noticed the blood freckled on his face and neck, and the dried crimson on his hands. It was Arthur's blood. The sight of it made Arthur a little woozy.
"You've got a little something—," Arthur joked, fluttering his fingers on his good side around his own face.
Merlin didn't seem to understand. "What?" he whispered, barely moving his lips. He'd gone even paler, sheet white in fact, as he starred at the bandage on Arthur's chest. He'd stopped a few feet away, like he was nervous he'd cause more damage if he got close.
"Come on, then, doctor. See if they've patched me up right," Arthur told him, hinting that it was all right to come closer. Arthur wished he would. "We're making a bit of a habit out of this."
Tentatively, Merlin filled the gap between them and ghosted his long fingers over the wound. Arthur watched them dance. They were colder than Morgana's had been, but caused less pain.
"You shouldn't have done that," Merlin said, suddenly coming back to life as he shook his head.
Arthur rolled his eyes again. "If I hadn't, they'd been cleaning your brains off the den's walls."
"No, they wouldn't have."
"No, maybe you're right. There aren't any brains to clean up, are there?"
Arthur tried cheering him up with a bright smile, but Merlin's expression remained lined with remorse. It made Arthur's face fall. He didn't understand why Merlin was behaving this way.
"I would have done it for any of my men," he said truthfully, although the reasoning would probably have been different. "It's just my shoulder, Merlin!"
"The shoulder's not that far from the heart. You could have died," Merlin argued, his long lashes sweeping up at down rapidly as his eyes welled. If Arthur didn't know better, he'd say they were angry tears.
Arthur scoffed a laugh and looked at his lap. How fitting it would be, to be shot through the heart for Merlin.
"I thought you said you didn't care?" Arthur reminded him. "Thought you cared about your favorite shirt more—which is, by the way—," he eyed the dark patch of blood, blackened by the fabric but still visible, on Merlin's front, "ruined. I'd apologize, but I did just get myself shot for you."
At last, Merlin smiled. He looked away and tried to bite it back, but Arthur saw the corners of his lips tugging. His eyes didn't look so vacant anymore, but twinkled.
Encouraged by it, Arthur continued lightly, "And since we managed to keep you alive tonight, Merlin, you'll be able to report for work extra early tomorrow to prepare for the shipment Annis' men are going to deliver."
Merlin's brow creased like he was about to complain about how unjust Arthur was being. He craned his neck towards the windows across the room, where the cool blue of dawn was lighting up the streets. Streetlamps were still lit, casting a yellow glow.
Then, Merlin sighed in acceptance. "Is there any point in going home first?" he asked.
"Probably not."
Pouting his lips to the side in mock-thought, Merlin shook his head with more charisma than before and teased, "I should have let you bleed out."
Maybe it was the gin, after all, but Arthur could only grin in return as they locked eyes.
He was eventually brought back down to earth when he heard a garbage truck rumble down the road outside. It was about time he got home and into bed. Leon could run the club that day.
When he heaved himself off the stool, he grunted, and Merlin's hands shot out around him in case he lost balance. Arthur was steady on his feet, but he wrapped his palm around Merlin's collarbone and gave it a firm squeeze and shake.
"Goodnight, Merlin," he said, catching his gaze one more time.
The faint lines of a smile were still on Merlin's face when he nodded in return.
"Why isn't he dead?" Kanen yelled through grinding teeth. Standing at the wall behind his desk, Sigan stood up a little straighter. He looked pleased with Merlin's failure when Kanen wasn't looking.
It had been a long day. Merlin had deep, bruised circles under his eyes and he smelt of sweat and lingering gun smoke. His hair was frizzed and tangled, and he hadn't been able to fully wash all the blood off his hands in the bar's sink. The now brownish gore traced the lines in his skin, threatening to tattoo him forever if he didn't get a bath soon.
Every time he looked down at his hands, more guilt than before overtook him.
He needed to be unconscious, at least for an hour. At least until he had to report back to the club for the re-opening.
"He's no use to us dead," Merlin reasoned, like it was a stroke of genius he'd come up with earlier. It had been, but it was lie. A genius lie.
Kanen loomed over his desk, leaning into his fists like he wanted to jump to the other side and punch Merlin until the only blood on him was his own.
"I don't need him to be a use to me," Kanen sneered. "All he's good for is death."
"No!" It had been said with too much emotion. Merlin had to bite it back before he continued. "He's working with the Caerleons now. That's a good thing, isn't it?"
"What are you, stupid?" Sigan asked.
Kanen twisted around quickly and shouted, "You, be quiet!" He whipped back to Merlin. "Are you, though?"
Merlin huffed. "Kanen. It means we have a way to spy on Annis, too. We can bring both the Knights and the Caerleons down, and then the West will be ours for good."
Kanen scoffed. "You think Pendragon is just gonna tell you everything they're up to?"
"He trusts me." Merlin forced down his guilt. He couldn't give any of it away. He needed Kanen to trust him now.
"You said he didn't even tell you the real den they were after."
"Because he promised Annis he wouldn't! He's a man of his word. But he trusts me, I know." Merlin tried not to smile. "He saved me."
Kanen narrowed his eyes. "Saved you?"
"Yes." It was the reason Merlin needed Kanen to trust him beyond all doubt. It's why Merlin chose to lie to him again. Because the trust didn't go both ways. Merlin met his eyes with a blank expression. "Myror was there."
Kanen did not flinch.
"You knew," Merlin inferred.
"I sent him," Kanen said tonelessly, "to kill Arthur."
"In case I failed?" Merlin asked. He'd be offended if he believed Kanen. "But he didn't try to kill Arthur. He tried to kill me."
Kanen's head jerked back in surprise. "He did what?"
Merlin ground his teeth, not sure whether it was an act or if Kanen really didn't know. "Why would he do that?"
"Well, I don't know, do I?" Kanen's voice was frustrated. He stood up to his full height, but Merlin no longer felt the weight of his shadow. He looked like a hunted animal. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll have some boys keep on eye on you until I talk to Myror."
He turned around to Sigan, like he was about to order him to do something.
"Arthur killed him," Merlin droned. It was hard to feel sorry about it.
Kanen turned around slowly, flabbergasted. "Myror?"
Merlin nodded. "I told you, he saved me."
Kanen leaned into his desk again, this time with open palms, and stared down at it for quite some time. Merlin waited, trying to read his mind. He got nothing, and it only furthered his distrust.
Finally, Kanen said, "Fine. I'll think about what you've said regarding the Caerleons. You're dismissed."
Merlin kept his eyes on Kanen as he stood up. He only unlatched them to look briefly at Sigan, but his emotionless expression didn't give any new information. Merlin took his time walking out of the office, and left the door open as he left.
Arthur was in his sling for the next two and half weeks, and at the end of a month, the wound finally healed over completely.
Chapter Text
When Merlin had fallen asleep, it had been in his room in Alphabet City. He wasn't there anymore. He was in his childhood bedroom in Cardiff. He didn't notice, like he had always been there. Someone was knocking, rousing Merlin. He picked himself up from the bed and opened the door.
Arthur was standing in the threshold. The hallway he stood in was that of Merlin's tenement building in New York. The light from the corridor spilled into the bedroom.
"Arthur?"
A part of Merlin had expected him to come.
He took a step back as Arthur came into the room and closed the door softly behind him. Merlin could just make out Arthur's eyes in the shadows.
"Did anyone see you?" Merlin worried. He didn't know why he'd said it, but he'd done so in his natural accent. He didn't have to pretend anymore.
"No," Arthur assured him, shaking his head and seeming to know what Merlin was talking about. He reached around and cupped Merlin's head in his palm. He brushed his fingers through Merlin's hair.
Merlin was suddenly hyperaware of his heart. It pounded along every inch of him. He parted his lips as he stared down at Arthur's. Merlin's name fell off of them.
"I need you, Merlin."
They kissed as though they had done so before, like they'd done so every day of their lives—much longer than the three months they'd known each other. It made Merlin's skin prickle and his muscles go weak. Arthur's touch gave him a familiar ache.
He didn't know when they'd gotten into bed. Beneath the covers, Arthur's bare body slid against his. Merlin's fingers danced swiftly up and down the arch of Arthur's back. Arthur kissed every bit of ivory skin. He knew everything Merlin liked, and tried nothing he didn't. Merlin breathed Arthur's name and felt his body pulse. He thought he might dissolve as Arthur kissed him raw.
When Arthur pulled Merlin into his lap, they rocked together back to chest. He reached around to Merlin's front and worked him while whispering Merlin's name into his hair. Merlin gasped and dipped his head back to rest on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur buried his face into the crook of Merlin's neck.
Merlin gripped the arms that were encompassing him, his palms sleek on the sweat-matted hairs. Arthur's breaths were rough and sticky now. Pressure was building in Merlin's lap, begging for release. Arthur's hands were so warm.
"Merlin," Arthur grunted, his breath short. "Merlin—"
A car's horn blared from outside. Merlin jolted awake.
He was lying on his stomach in his apartment in Alphabet City, and the sun was painting his walls. He was still breathing heavily and his muscles ached and tensed from sleep. His pulse raced, making heat burn his cheeks. His bed sheets were twisted around his legs, and the thin film of sweat lining his body had little to do with the humid, already blistering August morning snapping at his window.
The car honked again, and the muffled shouts of an argument from the street began. Through the thin walls, there was a baby wailing.
Merlin knew he was hard, but he didn't do anything about it. Images of the dream were ebbing away. He concentrated on recapturing them, like he could trick himself into finishing the dream.
Until he realized that was the very last thing he should have been doing. For the last few weeks, he tried very hard to avoid alone time with Arthur. He made lame excuses to not stay in the club after hours, causing his head to pound with guilt at the wounded expression Arthur's face dropped into each time. During the day, he made sure someone else was always around whenever he and Arthur were in the same room, to act as a buffer without knowing it.
Forgiving Arthur for what had happened was one thing. Knowing Arthur would never forgive him was another thing entirely.
Besides, the more he kept away from Arthur, the less of the Knights' plans he'd know. Merlin had to give Kanen information about the Knights, or else Kanen would suspect his distrust. But Merlin would have nothing important to report if Arthur never got the chance to tell him anything. Kanen didn't need to know Merlin's ignorance was an active process.
Steering clear of Arthur was a smart move all around, both logically and emotionally. Which, logically, meant Merlin had to fight his emotions, especially when they manifested in sweaty dreams.
He dropped his face back into his damp pillow.
"Fuck," he scolded himself into it.
Arthur was in his office with the ledger opened in front of him. The handwritten lines were no longer pristine, as they had been on the first day. Page after page, the ledger was sloppily, hastily written. He wasn't really looking at it. He knew everything it had to say, anyway. They owed Annis money for the liquor. As the Camelot became more popular, they needed more bottles than Arthur had anticipated.
And Annis wasn't cheap. They needed to find a new bootlegger before she sucked them dry and they were right back where they started. It didn't help that half of Arthur's time was spent supporting the Caerleons in claiming more dens. They liberated two in the past month, not counting the first. They had attempted two others, but somehow the Kings had been ready for the attacks. Kanen must have been increasing security in all the dens and employing more scouts on the defense. The Knights and the Caerleons would just have to be more careful in the future.
And then there was the additional rent cost for their new storehouse. They'd taken out a room in a tenement building in Harlem after negotiating with the crime boss who occupied that territory, a man by the name of Aglain. For years, the Bandits had managed to cut off Aglain's firearm and narcotics trade on the East River. Arthur allowed his cargo ships access to Hudson in Chelsea, in return for a place to store the Camelot's supply. Harlem would be a safe place to house their excess supply, providing gentrification wouldn't be an issue. The monthly cost of the room was minimal, and it wouldn't be a problem if not for Annis' rates.
Arthur knew he had to stop focusing on Annis' needs, just for a day. He needed to figure out his own business matters.
Only, he couldn't focus on much of anything at the moment. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. His jacket had been thrown to the floor like it was on fire (which Arthur felt like it actually was when he was wearing it) and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He wished he could take the shirt off entirely.
"What about this one?" Morgana asked. She was sitting across the desk, her sequined dress riding up her crossed thighs as she bounced her legs idly. She was sifting through another ledger Annis had given them, of suppliers and bootleggers. Morgana looked miraculously as though the sauna that was Arthur's office had no effect on her whatsoever.
Arthur kicked his feet off his desk and sat up straighter.
"It's outside the city," she went on as she scanned the scribbled information. "It looks like Annis has been buying from them on and off for a few months now."
"Where upstate?"
Morgana licked the tip of her index finger and flipped through some pages. "Rockland County," she said when she found what she was looking for. "Bear Mountain Park. That's a little over an hour's drive."
Arthur considered it. That was far for a bootlegger, but it would be worth it if their product was any good. They would probably welcome business from the city, which made it likely for them to supply the Knights, whether they've heard about the police raid or not.
If anything, the mountains would be less sweltering than the smog-ridden city. It would smell like fresh trees, not burning rubber and garbage from the barges trudging at the speed of molasses down the Hudson. The stench seemed to get caught between the office's walls.
"Good, get their information. Phone and tell them I can come up today for a meeting," he decided. As Morgana slammed the book closed and put it on the desk in preparation to leave, Arthur added, "Merlin can come with me."
Morgana's smirk slithered like a snake as she settled back in. "Merlin? Surprise, surprise. I assume you'll be spending a night in a hotel up there, then?"
Arthur raised his brow to show he wasn't amused. "What are you talking about?"
"Like you don't know!" Morgana laughed. When Arthur's face remained neutral, she exclaimed, "You're goofy!"
"Over Merlin?" Arthur droned like it was the stupidest idea in the world. Still, he couldn't meet her eyes. He busied himself by lighting a cigarette. The stench lingered like a cloud in the heat. "Please."
Morgana crossed her arms and burned her eyes into him. She knew too much; she always had. She was able to read Arthur as easily as she had the ledger, but he denied it.
"Morgana," he reprimanded, "Merlin knows liquor. He knows what's good and what people will pay top dollar for. That's all."
This was business. It had nothing to do with spending alone time with Merlin, which was something that had become somewhat of a rarity as of late. Nothing at all . . .
She snorted. "Sure. And what hotel will you be staying at?"
"Morgana!"
He sighed heavily. His eyes flickered away from hers again as he settled. There was no way around it. It was already early afternoon and by the time the meeting was over, it would be too late to drive back to Manhattan.
"Get me a list of inns in the area."
She stood up and shot him a look of victory before turning towards the exit.
"We'll be getting two rooms!" he called after her, eager to have to last word.
"Why waste the money?" she called back and then she was gone.
He should have known. He never got the last word with her.
Merlin had been in the club all morning and he somehow managed to avoid Arthur all that time. But as he stocked the shelves, washed the glasses, and performed other mindless tasks, he caught himself lingering on his dream.
He could still feel the ghost of Arthur's body against his, like it had been real. The memory made him flush or bite his lip. Once, he caught himself letting out an overwrought grunt. He was just happy no one else had been in the room to hear it.
He cursed himself every time he found his mind drifting back to Arthur. If one thing was for certain, it was that he had to stay completely away from Arthur, more than usual, for the rest of the day. Maybe even the rest of the week.
If Merlin kept away from Arthur, the dream would eventually be forgotten.
Merlin forced himself to pay attention to his chores in the meantime. He thought about every movement as he dusted off each liquor bottle with a rag.
The door of the club opened, making Merlin jump. He looked up to find Arthur striding into the room, and Merlin's chest constricted. He was suddenly very distracted from the bottle he was polishing.
He frantically looked around the room, praying that someone else would somehow materialize into existence so they wouldn't be alone.
"Ah, good. Merlin, just the man I was looking for," Arthur said. He came up to the bar and leaned into it.
Merlin swallowed hard. "Me? For what?"
"I have a meeting with some bootleggers upstate this afternoon. I'd like you to take the trip with me," Arthur told him like it was the most casual thing in the world. "We'd get back here tomorrow morning."
Merlin gripped the neck of the bottle and started wringing it with the rag.
"What? But—the bar," he stammered, trying not to panic. He was doing a shit job at it. Arthur was giving him a strange look. "There'll be no one to bartend."
Arthur waved it away. "Already taken care of. I've spoken to Gwaine, and he's agreed to take your shift. This meeting it more important. As much as I hate to admit it, I need you, Merlin."
I need you, Merlin.
Merlin gulped.
"We leave in a few hours. Go home and pack a bag," Arthur said with finality. He smacked the top of the bar and looked like he was about to leave. Then, his eyes flickered down to the bottle in Merlin's hands and he furrowed his brow. "I think you've made it happy, Merlin."
"What?"
Merlin realized he was pumping the neck of the bottle up and down with the rag in his fist. He gave a sharp gasp of embarrassment and released the bottle with a start.
Arthur shot him a humored look before moving away.
Flushing to the tips of his ears, Merlin tried not to watch Arthur saunter off. He kicked himself because of the light flutter he felt considering the next twenty-four hours. Was it possible to feel giddiness and dread at the same time?
He put the bottles back on the self, deciding they were polished enough for the day.
Arthur did most of the talking on the way to Bear Mountain, which might have been easier if he hadn't quickly run out of things to say. As green and vivacious as the scenery in Rockland County was, it didn't actually provide much for conversation for the drive. Arthur could only go on about farmland, factories, and rock quarries for so long.
Once, they passed a posted sign pointing them in the direction of a street fair and art expo. Arthur briefly considered stopping to look around. The Camelot could use some paintings. But, when he asked Merlin's opinion, Merlin smiled halfheartedly and said, "We shouldn't keep the bootleggers waiting," like he thought the less alone time with Arthur, the better. Arthur resolved to return to area another time with Morgana, who had a better eye for art than he had, anyway.
As they zipped along the palisades, Arthur would frequently glance at Merlin out of the corners of his eyes. He wondered why Merlin never looked back, and why his fingers on his lap were laced together tightly enough to cause white knuckles.
"Is something wrong, Merlin?" he finally asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Why would you say that?" Merlin responded without so much as turning his neck an inch to face Arthur.
"I thought you'd be prattling on about cows or chickens. Should I be worried?" He narrowed his eyes at Merlin's profile.
Merlin's head was craned to the side, looking out the window. The tendons in his neck stretched with tension. "I didn't see any chickens," he deadpanned. All hope of conversation fizzled out.
Taking his mind off the silence, Arthur focused on the warm wind blowing onto his face from the car's open windows. It smelled like proper air, natural and earthy, instead of filled to the brim with suffocating pollution. The air mixed with the aggressive odors of overheated vinyl and gasoline. Arthur loved those smells, though he'd never told anyone that. There was something in them that promised freedom and a world of opportunity. The strength of them was a shock to the senses, and at the moment reminded him of the day he'd first met Merlin.
Opportunity, Arthur told himself. Merlin would warm up to it eventually. He'd shake whatever mood he was in once they got to the mountains.
The drive was exhilarating. Finally, Arthur wasn't cramped in by the city. He could stretch his legs. He felt refreshed already.
Eventually, the road took them along the Hudson, and the scent of the world turned even sweeter. Tall, yellow reeds stuck out of the water, shivering as the fish bellow swam through them or when bathing birds on the surface caused shallow ripples.
The river widened, separating the county line between Rockland and Westchester like the cut of a knife. Mountain ranges, stretching up to the bright blue of the sky, were on either side of the water. A glinting, steel suspension bridge connected the counties. It should have been an eyesore against the stunning colors of nature, but it wasn't. The thick cables and tall towers jutted out of the water like a mountain range in its own right. It looked like the bridge had always been there, and always would be, with the promise to forever stave off anything else manmade from overrunning the Park.
Arthur couldn't peel his eyes from the immaculate view until, next to him, Merlin sat up straighter and let out an awestricken gasp. Arthur wondered how much it would cost to buy a plot of land and build a house in the area. He wondered if Merlin would speak to him then, if only to tell him it was a stupid idea.
They turned down a dirt road, full of uneven rocks and gravel that crunched under the wheels and made the car jounce erratically. The road took them through the woods, which was so thick with trees that Arthur could hardly see the sun peeking through the canopy. After a few minutes, just when Arthur thought he'd made a wrong turn somewhere, the tree line made way for a small pasture. The dirt path ended in a roundabout in front of a modest, tan-colored farmhouse. Behind the house were more fields, planted with tall wheat and corn stocks that swayed in the breeze. A large barn stood at the opposite edge of the property, just before the world was again lost to the dense wood.
As the car rocked up to the front of the house, Arthur saw a blonde woman stand up from her chair on the porch. She paced to the stairs to get a better look at the newcomers, with her hands wrapped tightly around the wooden railing and her light eyes squinted in scrutiny. There was dirt on the knees of her trousers and dried mud on her boots. The messy braid in her long, flaxen hair flipped over her shoulder when she quickly turned away to call into the house.
She bounced down the steps of the porch when Arthur killed the engine. Before getting out of the car, he attempted to make eye contact with Merlin, hoping to gauge his first impression of the location. He sought silent assurance, especially because his gut was turning. The farm was certainly off the beaten path, but he couldn't help but to immediately notice its lack of precaution. There wasn't even a fence around the property.
Perhaps Merlin had noticed it, too. However, Merlin didn't return the gaze, even though Arthur was positive he'd seen it. Merlin simply brushed him off by getting out of the car as quickly as possible.
Arthur huffed, but he was determined not to let Merlin's mood sour his own. He needed to keep a clear head for business. So, he put on his friendliest grin, and stepped out of the car just as the house's screen door rattled open.
The man now springing down the steps was older than the woman by at least a decade. His stern expression was lined and his skin was blotched with an uneven tan. His hair, as yellow as the wheat on the fields, wasn't as full as his companion's. Arthur wondered if he was the woman's brother, a thought that made him have to consciously resist looking at her cleavage. It was difficult, because her tight, laced shirt acted more like a bodice than anything else.
"Arthur Pendragon?" the man asked, and Arthur was surprised to find he was English. He sounded wary. Thankfully. At least they were somewhat cautious, which was an important trait for a bootlegger to have.
"Yes," Arthur said, extending his hand as he moved closer to the two. "You must be Tristan."
Tristan's hands were thick and calloused with labor when their palms touched. He nodded curtly before letting go. "That's right. This is my wife, Isolde."
Wife? Arthur thought, surprised. He had enough tact to keep it internal.
However, Merlin did not. Just as Arthur reached for her hand and said, "Pleasure to meet you," Merlin exclaimed the very word Arthur had managed to keep inside. He didn't even seem to register that he'd said it until it was too late. When all eyes fell on him, his ears flushed.
"No, I didn't mean—!" he stammered, trying to backtrack. Arthur gave him a hopeless, burning glare and began to reconsider why he even took Merlin along in the first place.
Isolde's features remained neutral, if not a little entertained watching Merlin struggle, but Tristan didn't seem to share in her amusement. Arthur clapped his hand on Merlin's shoulder and gave it a tight squeeze to silently tell Merlin to shut up while he diffused the situation. They couldn't afford to get off on the wrong foot.
"Don't mind him," Arthur said quickly. "He just means you're a lucky man." Tristan settled slightly, and he looked at Isolde as if he agreed with the comment. Isolde appeared as though she, too, agreed. "Merlin is my bartender. Thankfully, he's better with alcohol than he is with words. I've brought him here to sample your product."
"Then, maybe we should be the ones looking to impress him," said Isolde, her voice soft and kind. It was the opposite of her husband's rough tones.
She hooked her arm around Tristan's waist, and he folded his over her shoulders. His fingers curved around her skin like they had been molded by the Creator to do just that. The top of her head rested just under his chin as he held her in close, like puzzle pieces. They looked happy, here in the middle of nowhere, so far from their native home.
Perhaps a fresh start isn't so hard when it's in the middle of such beautiful scenery, and with the one you love.
Merlin shook out of Arthur's grip and stepped out of reach. After the shock of it, Arthur let his arm fall to the side. He hadn't even noticed he'd still been touching Merlin.
"Good luck," Arthur returned, sure that only Merlin could hear the bite in his tone. "I've never seen him impressed by anything."
"I like a challenge," Isolde smirked.
"And we won't win him over by standing around in the drive," Tristan said. He brushed Isolde's arm once more before they broke from each other. "We'll give you a tour of the farm while dinner's being prepared."
Arthur nodded. He gestured forward. "Lead the way," he offered. He, Tristan, and Isolde fell into stride together as they walked around the house. Merlin walked a few steps behind them. As much as Arthur tried not to look over his shoulder, he frequently failed.
At first, it distracted him from what Tristan was saying, but Arthur gave his full attention upon realizing he was being addressed.
"We grow our own barley and corn to make the moonshine. Whiskey and beer are our biggest sellers, and they've become a bit of a specialty," Tristan was saying as they sauntered on the edge of the cornfield. The stocks stood taller than all of them, and some still had adult ears weighing them down. Many of them, however, had been picked. "But we also have a potato patch for vodka, and juniper shrubs for the gin."
Arthur stepped over a loose rock in his path. Seconds later, Merlin stumbled over it. He glared down at the offending rock. Arthur wondered who taught him to walk, and why they'd been unsuccessful. He raised a brow at Merlin over his shoulder, as if to say, Keep up, Merlin, and watch where you're going.
Merlin returned it with an exasperated pout of his lips, knowing it was futile to claim his own clumsiness wasn't his fault.
It gave Arthur hope that whatever had gotten into Merlin was passing. The fresh air might have been doing him some good. Perhaps bringing him on the trip wasn't such a bad idea, after all. But then Merlin's eyes flickered back to the dirt.
"We've been clearing space to plant grape vines. Until then, we have our wine smuggled in," Tristan went on, pulling Arthur back into the conversation. "I oversee production. Isolde deals with the imports."
"We receive monthly shipments from Canada, South America, and Europe," she added, leaning slightly forward around Tristan to catch Arthur's eye. "We didn't settle so close to the Hudson just for the views."
"But the view helps," Tristan joked, more so to her than to Arthur.
Arthur was wistful as he recalled how the mountains reflected on the water on the drive up. "I don't doubt it," he said, suddenly despising his box of an apartment in Manhattan, no matter how close to Central Park it was.
He cleared his throat, getting back to business. "What's your cover? It isn't livestock, I can see that. No cows." He squinted around the farm, trying to fathom out how much of their crops went to markets. How much could possibly be left to make the alcohol? With their other customers, Tristan and Isolde wouldn't be able to meet the Camelot's demands.
"Or chickens," Merlin added. Arthur smirked.
Tristan and Isolde shared an amused look between them.
"We haven't got a cover," she said.
Arthur jerked his head back. He stopped short, and everyone else stopped walking, too. He couldn't have heard that correctly. "I'm sorry, you what?"
"Everything you see on this farm goes towards production," Tristan supplied. There was the shadow of a grin on his face, like he loved seeing the confusion on Arthur's. "We're bootleggers, nothing else."
Arthur shook his head, trying to process it. He looked at Merlin, who seemed equally as discomforted by the news.
"What—what if the police come knocking?" Arthur stuttered, unable to wrap his head around it.
"They won't." Tristan sounded so sure.
"You do know what you're doing is illegal?"
They chuckled. The thought of going to jail for the rest of their lives was apparently a joke to them.
"The police leave us alone," Isolde assured.
"We make sure of that," Tristan finished. "You have your ways of doing that, too, haven't you? And we have ours."
Arthur blinked at the weight of the words and the thinly veiled intensity now in Tristan's eyes. Bootlegging was a crime, just as fixing races and running a speakeasy was a crime. It was better to operate such businesses with a certain level of secrecy and cunning. Not all information was necessary to disclose to business partners. The less they new of each other's secrets, the better. That way, if the law took down one partner, the other would remain standing.
Information was on a need to know basis, and Arthur simply didn't need to know about the way they ran business. So, he nodded in understanding, despite his uneasiness.
"The barn is where we make and store the product," Tristan said as though there's been no interruption in his exposé. "It's right this way."
Tristan and Isolde rolled back the massive barn doors, allowing the weak pink light of the setting sun inside. It was much darker in the barn, as the only light source was the circular window above the lofts. It faced the east, as the morning sun was more conducive to the workmen's needs than it was in the evening.
In the center of the floor were three large copper stills, each standing just a few inches taller than Arthur, for fermentation and distillation. They were off, but the heat they caused still lingered, trapped inside the stuffy barn. It was like hitting a wall, putrid and stinking, when Arthur stepped inside, hay crunching beneath his polished shoes. The odor smelt a bit like tequila—pure alcohol and sugar, enough to give anyone an instant headache. The fumes mixed with the stench of the soil beneath the stills, and fire from the furnaces.
Arthur did his best not to let the smell, or the humidity, get to him. Behind him, however, Merlin coughed into his elbow.
Tristan picked up two gas lamps from their hooks on the wall and lit them. He handed one to Merlin and the other to Arthur. "Have a look around," he offered.
Arthur held up his lamp and paced further inside. With his eyes now adjusted to the low light, he saw the barrels stacked and lined up against the back and sidewalls. They must have gone four rows deep. He peered up at the lofts, where crates, presumably filled with bottles, were stored.
It was a lot of alcohol, to say the very least. It was a speakeasy owner's paradise, and a Protestant wife's nightmare.
"How long have you been here?" Merlin asked from somewhere on the other end of the barn. Arthur found him inspecting one of the rows of barrels. There was apprehension in his tone, and a slight hint of mistrust. It was enough to catch Arthur's full attention.
"Since September of last year," Isolde supplied, she and her husband still standing in the entrance. Their shadows stretched out before them, thin and warped.
"You grew enough for this much alcohol this spring?"
When Merlin put it that way, it did seem like an impossible feat. Perhaps they were able to grow some crops during the autumn, but they wouldn't have yet had the labor force to sow very much. And then there was the distillation process. Grinding the crops for fermentation alone would have been too great a job for two people, especially on this scale.
Merlin chuckled to himself. "What did you do, sacrifice a virgin for a plentiful harvest?"
"Two virgins, actually," Isolde teased.
"This is hardly our first plant," Tristan clarified, speaking to Arthur rather than Merlin. "For every barrel we make, we save enough for the winter months, when we can't produce. Some of these barrels came with us from our last location."
"Which was where, exactly?" Arthur asked. It wasn't his real question. He wondered why they left.
Tristan must have understood. A faint, feline smile stretched his lips. "We weren't run out of town, if that's what you're thinking. In '18, we started our business in Ottawa during Canadian Prohibition. Once their government wizened up and the Americans got stupid, we moved on. First, to Wisconsin, then to North Carolina. Now here. We don't like to stay in one place for too long."
Arthur wasn't sure which was worse, if they were running from the law or they were simply vagabonds. He shared a look with Merlin from across the barn to gauge his preference. Merlin looked equally wary of both, and like he didn't know whether or not to believe the story.
Assuming Tristan was telling the truth, Arthur answered politically, "I'm not looking for a temporary supplier. What happens once you decide you're tired of the view here?"
"We're not looking for temporary customers," Tristan retuned coolly. "We still supply ninety-five percent of our client base from our previous locations."
"No doubt, for a higher transportation cost," Arthur interpreted.
"We have smuggling down to a science, but that doesn't make it easy. Or cheap." Tristan shared a look with his wife, which said nothing to Arthur but must have been an entire conversation conveyed solely through amused glances. "But I think you'll find there are benefits to our partnership," Tristan went on.
"If I decide to use you," Arthur reminded him.
"Of course." Tristan seemed as though he knew how limited Arthur's options actually were.
Arthur shook the perturbed feeling from his mind, and tried to ignore the dubious knots pulling in his gut. He trusted Tristan and Isolde almost as far as he could throw them, but their business was perfect for what the Camelot needed. They were far away from city, away from prying eyes or competition; they had enough resources to keep the Knights' storehouse stocked for years; and they were smart enough to move their product without delay or hiccup. All that, and of course, their prices were fair, all things considered.
He turned back to the stills, just to have something else to focus on. He walked closer to the first until he could see his reflection, pebbled and bent by the copper, and the shine of the gas lamp in his hands.
He stopped short when Merlin barked his name, making it sound like a warning from deep within his throat. Merlin shook his head once when Arthur caught his eye, but Arthur had no idea what he was doing wrong.
"The fumes inside those stills are volatile," said Tristan. "Don't stand too close with a flame."
Arthur gave an "ah" sound, feeling a little shamefaced but mostly thankful he still had a face, and backed up slowly. "I was curious as to what's distilling inside," he excused.
"Whiskey," said Tristan blandly.
"It's for a small, underground saloon in Rye. We have customers up and down the Hudson Valley, and in Manhattan," Isolde boasted.
Arthur had seen enough of the barn. The humidity was starting to make him a little dizzy. He felt beads of sweat forming on his hairline and turning his back into a swamp. If he wanted to stew in sticky clothes, he would have stayed in Chelsea.
"Hopefully not to Black Kings," he joked, rejoining the couple by the door.
"No," said Tristan, not even blinking.
"They wouldn't tell us if they did," Merlin felt the need to say. Arthur sighed and tensed his shoulders. Was Merlin deliberately trying to sabotage their chances of a partnership, or was he really that incapable of controlling his tongue? Arthur had his money on the latter.
Tristan looked past Arthur at Merlin, stone-faced. "If we did business with the Kings, we would have told you not to bother taking the trip up. We have no interest being in the middle of a feud." His gaze fell back to Arthur with that, with no airs or niceties. It was a clear warning: We know you have no option other than us. Show some respect, or our price goes up.
Arthur thinned his lips and tightened his muscles, fighting the instinct to call the deal off just on principle. But he nodded curtly to show he'd understood the message. He had to put business before pride. He was not Uther. He could not afford to pretend to be.
The sun had disappeared over the horizon by the time they sat down for dinner. A picnic table had been set up at the back of the house, and they were to dine by torchlight. The only sign of day left was the gradient of color painting the sky, from Spanish blue to deep navy on the zenith. Some stars were already freckling the dome, allowed to shine through—away from the light pollution of the city.
The night was warm, but the breeze turned chilly. Gnats twirled around in the wind, drawn to the torches only to blaze up. Arthur had to slap at a few that were making a fest out of his arm, ending their lives quickly with a squashed trail of black guts. Swooping bats caught the rest of the bugs. In the woods, a symphony of tree frogs chirped out a crescendo.
Merlin finally got to see a chicken; only, it was roasted and presented next to mashed potatoes and various green, spiced vegetables.
"It looks delicious," Arthur complimented. Isolde was sitting directly across from him. She was close to her husband, their shoulders touching. Once, when they'd first sat down, Arthur's knee accidentally brushed against Merlin's under the table. Merlin had scooted away like Arthur was diseased.
"There are plenty of perks of living in the country," Isolde said conversationally. As she spoke, she filled up four plates with generous portions and passed them around the table. "Fresh food is chief on my list."
Arthur almost swooned at the idea. He was envious, in truth. If he grew his own crops, he certainly wouldn't use all of them for making moonshine. He'd want to taste the fruits of his labors in their purest form. "The freshest we get are whatever the vendors and bodegas are selling. They must be at least a day or two old," he said. He took a bite of the sweet, moist meat, and was suddenly convinced the food sold in the city was plastic.
Isolde laughed. "I'm sure that chicken was clucking this morning."
"Oh," Merlin whined softly with sympathy. He hadn't slapped or flicked at any of the gnats biting at him, Arthur realized. It was true: Merlin couldn't even harm a fly. Arthur watched him with barely concealed fondness.
He'd never seen Merlin in the glow of candlelight, framed against the fireflies in the background drunkenly dipping and rising above the dark grass. The flickers of orange and gold made his skin shimmer and reflected in his pupils like they were on fire. It warmed Arthur's chest, making him forget how cold Merlin had been acting all day.
"You don't like to think about what you're eating? You must be a city boy, born and bred," Tristan dismissed. He might have sounded humored. Arthur wasn't sure, but before he could ponder it too much, Tristan's brows furrowed in scrutiny at Merlin. "Where exactly are you from?"
"Galway," Merlin mumbled with a mouth full of green beans.
"Galway," Tristan repeated like he was skeptical. "Funny, I've spent some time in Ireland. I thought I heard a touch of the South in your accent."
Merlin must have put too much in his mouth. He swallowed down the food hard, straining his Adam's apple.
"You're from Galway originally?"
Merlin nodded and gave an affirmative noise.
"And your parents, too?" Tristan pressed.
"It's where they met," Merlin answered. He smiled brightly as Isolde. "Where did you two meet?"
Both their expressions softened, like they were recalling a funny memory. "In Italy. I was stationed there during the latter half of the War. She was in love with some Neapolitan aristocrat," Tristan recounted.
Perhaps Arthur had judged him too quickly. He thought Tristan would have found a way out of serving in the War, but maybe he was an honorable man after all, despite his secretive ways of present.
Isolde giggled and shook her head. "Well, he thought I was in love with him, anyway. I was really in love with his money."
"The only reason I know she loves me is because, when he met, I hadn't a penny to my name." Tristan looked at her like he was now the richest man in the world.
She smiled back as though his words had been a compliment. Maybe they had been.
"After she was . . . finished with her lover, we used his jewels to get on the first ship to North America," Tristan concluded.
Arthur trained his expression, trying so hard to keep it neutral. He hadn't been quick enough to judge them, after all. Not only were they untrustworthy, but Tristan was a deserter and Isolde was a thief. They had not an atom of honor between the pair of them.
But they sure did seem fun.
Luckily, Merlin didn't say anything, either. Maybe he was too stunned to form words. Arthur was grateful.
"And what about you?" Isolde asked before sipping her drink.
Arthur's mind blanked. His heart sped up. She didn't think he and Merlin were a couple, did she?
"Yes, how have an Englishman and an Irishman come to break bread together in times like these?" Tristan asked, clarifying his wife's meaning whether he'd meant to or not.
Arthur remembered to breathe. "We aren't in Britain anymore. There's no reason to harbor the animosity of the old country. Besides—," he offered Merlin a playful smirk, "he's good with alcohol. I'm good at selling it."
Merlin snorted. "He's good at drinking it."
Arthur blanched as Tristan and Isolde chortled.
"And dancing," Merlin went on, almost as though it'd slipped out again in a reverie. It made Arthur's breath catch in his throat. Merlin blinked down at the table when he realized he'd said it. "Only after drinking," he amended, trying to turn it into a joke.
Arthur saw through it. "At least I'm not rubbish drunk or sober," he goaded.
Merlin tried to fight it, but the corner of his lips twitched upwards. Arthur brushed his knee against Merlin's thigh again, and that time Merlin did not jolt away.
After dinner, Arthur told Tristan and Isolde he'd be back in the morning to give them his final decision. They gave him a bottle of whiskey to sample. It was all completely unnecessary. Everyone present knew exactly what Arthur would decide.
Everyone, apparently, except Merlin.
When they got back into the shine runner, Arthur handed Merlin the bottle to hold during the drive. Merlin stared down at it like it was poison. "You're not seriouslyconsidering using them?" he asked cagily.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Arthur droned, and the engine turned over. He didn't start driving.
Merlin stammered, deciding how to frame his argument. "You can't trust them! You had to read between the lines of everything they said! They're liars!"
"What would you know about lying, Merlin." Arthur rolled his eyes.
"Nothing." Merlin was staring at Arthur fiercely. "Except, they're doing it."
Arthur sighed heavily and leaned back in his seat. They couldn't sit idling in the drive all night, or else Tristan and Isolde would get suspicious. He had to placate Merlin's worries quickly. "In this business, secrecy is a good thing. And it's certainly good for us."
"But they aren't like us, Arthur!"
Us. Arthur was happy it had been dark, or else Merlin would have seen him restraining a grin.
Or maybe Merlin wouldn't have noticed, either way. He was in too much of a frenzy. "They might as well be pirates!"
"A privateer is better than a Bandit," Arthur told him.
Merlin looked like he wanted to say something, but he bit down on it, clamping his jaw around it and holding it tight between his canines. It almost made Arthur laugh.
"What has gotten into you today?" he demanded. Merlin looked at his lap swiftly. "It's like you were trying to make Tristan angry. And me!"
"Then, maybe you shouldn't take me back here tomorrow," Merlin quipped. "I'll just stay in my room in the inn until you're ready to head back to New York. You shouldn't even tell me if you decide to use them—or anyone else, for that matter. I won't be able to hold my tongue around them. See, I can't even do it now!"
Arthur let out another heavy breath and shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. You just have to learn to ask fewer questions."
"And you need to learn how to ask the right ones," Merlin murmured to his lap.
A light glowed in the upstairs window of the farmhouse. It was time to go.
"As always, Merlin, your enthusiasm is astounding," Arthur said dryly, and he put the car into drive.
The gas lamps on the wall were weak, their glow barely combating the darkness in the room. Night had brought with it the background, scarcely heard fritinancy of a million crickets. A distantly hooting owl or the wind rustling through the trees outside occasionally disrupted the silence.
They'd gone to a wood cabin lodge not far from Tristan and Isolde's farm, and Merlin was sitting on the floor of his rustic room with his spine against the bottom of the bed. The bottle of the moonshine sat before his crossed legs next to a rocks glass.
"What do you make of it?" Arthur asked. He was lying on his back, with his hands folded under his head, on the floor not too far away. His cigarette danced in his mouth when he spoke.
Merlin shrugged and poured himself another glass. "Not bad," he admitted. "Not amazing. I think you could drive the price down."
Arthur rolled over onto his stomach to peer at Merlin. "It's high because of the transport cost."
"Then, why not find somewhere closer?"
Merlin had tried so hard all day to distance himself from the business dealings. He'd even actively tried to disrupt them as much as he could without arousing suspicion. When he'd first begun to spy on the Knights, he was nervous getting information would be difficult. It turned out it was easy. Not learning Arthur's secrets was the tricky bit.
It wasn't for a lack of trying. The less Merlin knew about the Knights' affairs, the better it was for everyone.
Arthur inhaled a drag, and smoke filtered out of his mouth as he answered, "You know why." Merlin hated Arthur's ability to incite guilt without even knowing it. "Besides, that's just the point: It's far away, in a remote location. No one will ever find them, and no one would ever guess they're supplying us."
Until I have to tell Kanen, Merlin thought with a twinge in his gut. The feeling would have lasted longer if he weren't so distracted by the gray puffs around Arthur's lips. He wondered what it might taste like to kiss the smoke out of Arthur's lungs.
He pushed the thought away quickly, cursing himself for it.
"I suppose," he allowed.
"Yes," Arthur agreed. He heaved himself up to a sitting position and smashed the burnt end of his cigarette into the floorboards. "But enough about business."
"I thought we were here for business," Merlin corrected, raising a brow. He wasn't exactly keen on bonding time. It would only make him feel guiltier.
"During the day we were. It's night, and I thought we could have some fun." Arthur let out an unsure noise and mocked, "You do know how to have fun, don't you, Merlin?"
Merlin's heart jumped thinking about what sort of fun Arthur had planned. And then Arthur reached into his pocket and produced a small plastic vial of white powder. It hadn't been what Merlin was expecting, and he found himself chuckling.
"Where did you get that?"
Arthur pouted his lips in a shrug like it was no big deal. "I hired someone to buy it off one of the Kings' dealers. We've been kicking them out of their dens, it was only right to try the product for myself. Plus, I wanted to check out the competition."
Merlin shook his head, laughing at the very prospect. "What competition? You're not in the dope business."
"Well, that all depends on how good this is. Maybe I'll get into it, try to one-up the Kings." Arthur flashed a dizzyingly bright smile.
"It's good," Merlin said, forgetting himself. He blushed and looked away. "I hear!"
Arthur's smile was different now. It was humored and whimsical, and slightly shocked. "Well, what do you know?" he teased, making Merlin blush harder. "Go on, then,Merlin. What do you say you and I get hopped up and show the countryside what a party looks like?" He stretched out his arm and brandished the vial for Merlin to take.
Merlin bit his lower lip, trying not to smile. He was failing rather miserably.
He snatched the vial out of Arthur's hand and broke it open.
"Attaboy!" Arthur praised.
Merlin knew how strong the Kings' coke was. He'd be able to handle it a lot better than Arthur would.
He poured some onto the pad of his outstretched finger and brought it to his nostril. It always burned on the way down, making Merlin shake his head to collect himself. He blinked rapidly, already feeling a little fuzzy. The memory of Will crippled him momentarily.
He took one more hit before passing it to Arthur, who wore an expression of genuine amusement.
Arthur's hits were larger than Merlin's, and he laid back on the floor to let the high wash over him. Merlin leaned his head back on the mattress and watched the ceiling vibrate.
In retrospect, a hike through the mountains at midnight wasn't exactly the best idea. Merlin didn't know how Arthur had talked him into it. One word in those frustratingly haughty, smooth tones and Merlin was done for.
They'd been climbing the mountain for a long time now, trying to get to a point called Anthony's Nose. The moonlight was the only thing that aided them along; everything else was foreign and threatening. The trees were towering shadows whose branches swooped down to slap Merlin in the face. There were steep inclines and rocks jumping out to trip them, and Merlin was convinced there were snakes slithering under the crunchy dead leaves. Every now and again, a bird squawked or a nearby deer snapped a tree branch. They were harmless, but Merlin gasped with every noise.
Arthur only laughed at him. He would.
Sometimes, he would race ahead, leaving Merlin alone in the forest for seconds that felt like hours.
Close by, something rustled. Merlin froze. He tried to name any animal that could have made the noise—a rabbit or a fox. The hairs stood on the back of his head. He was sure it was something more deadly: a wolf or a bear.
"Keep up, Merlin!" Arthur's disembodied voice called. Merlin looked around skittishly, trying to pinpoint from which direction the voice had come. It sounded like it had come from everywhere.
"Arthur?" Merlin hissed, not wanting to attract whatever animal had made the sound. "Arthur, where are you? I think there's a bear!"
Arthur didn't answer. Merlin swallowed hard. He tried not to panic. He tried to remember which direction led back to the lodge. He wanted to get out of the forest as quickly as he could.
Something snuck up behind him and grabbed his waist. It yelled, "Boo!"
Merlin jolted away and reached to his side for his revolver. It wasn't there. Thankfully. By that time, he realized the assailant had been Arthur, who was laughing uproariously.
"Oh, hilarious!" Merlin shouted with venom.
Collecting himself well enough, Arthur walked past Merlin and clapped him on the shoulder in the process. "Don't be such a girl. It's right up here."
Merlin's scalding eyes followed him. "Prat," he said before remembering the rustling leaves and starting after Arthur.
The trees broke into a grassy clearing. "Over here!" Arthur voice echoed. It came from the cliff of giant boulders on the side of the mountain.
Arthur was standing on the largest rock, his arms crossed and his face angled towards the moon. It bathed him in a pale light that made the tips of his hair glisten and his skin shine. The sight arrested Merlin.
Before Arthur could notice, Merlin forcibly shook himself out of it. He made for Arthur, having to watch his every step on the uneven terrain. The summit overlooked the sparkling Hudson far below. There were no headlights zipping across the nearby suspension bridge. Beyond that were only trees, their green tinted black by the night, which met the scattered stars on the horizon line.
"Swell, isn't it?" Arthur said in a grand understatement. The view was astonishing, but it was nothing compared to Arthur. Merlin found himself looking the outline of his features instead of the river. Arthur looked right back. "You don't get that in the city."
"No," Merlin agreed in a whisper. He was suddenly sober.
Arthur wasn't. He peered back at the grandeur and took a swig of the moonshine right from the bottle clasped in his fist. He passed it to Merlin, who took it but didn't drink.
"Do you really think there are bears around here?" Arthur asked, breaking the peaceful moment.
Merlin hoped not but, "I'm sure there's a reason they call it Bear Mountain."
"Good," Arthur stated simply.
Merlin scoffed. "Why? Would you like to fight one?"
"I bet I could win!"
"Baloney!"
"I could so," Arthur claimed, and Merlin wondered if he was only half-joking. He flexed his arm and said, "See?"
Merlin reached for his bicep and gave it a squeeze. Perhaps Arthur would give that bear a run for its money, unless the bear was a champion prizefighter. It would be a close fight, anyway, and one Merlin would like to see.
Merlin laughed, and so did Arthur, making his arm shake. At once, Merlin realized what he was doing. With his expression dropped, he withdrew his hand and turned away. He tried to put a little space between himself and Arthur.
"Oh, don't be like that," Arthur groaned, the smile still in his voice. "Don't think I haven't noticed you've been avoiding me." He took out two cigarettes from his pack and put them between his lips. He lit them both and offered one to Merlin.
Merlin hesitated before snatching the cigarette and teased, "That's why you invited me, isn't it?"
Arthur shrugged. "Had to get you to talk to me somehow."
Silence fell between them, the only noises being the warm night breeze, their polluted exhales, and the whiskey sloshing every time Merlin brought it to his lips. Arthur sat down, looking at the view, but Merlin wandered around idly, trying to balance on the rocks. He eventually found a tree to lean against and watch Arthur.
"So," Arthur broke the silence. He flicked his wasted cigarette butt onto a rock. The embers exploded on impact before fizzling out. "Are you going to tell me why you've been avoiding me?"
Merlin looked anywhere but at Arthur. He threw his cigarette down, too, and smashed it with his toes, just to have something to do. "I'm not," he muttered weakly.
"Right," Arthur bit out, masked by a façade of good humor. "You're hiding something, Merlin. Tell me."
There was no way Arthur was going to stop prying until he got an answer. Maybe it was the fresh air or the view from the top of a mountain, but Merlin didn't have it in him to resist. He was tired of carrying his compunction. Arthur wouldn't know the full extent of it until he found out who Merlin really was, but at least there were some things Merlin could confess.
"I almost got you killed," he stated, making the obvious sound like a secret as heavy as the world.
Arthur was more lighthearted, or so it appeared. He would have fooled anyone but Merlin. Against the night, his bright voice was pushed as he said, "Which is exactly why I haven't taken you along to any more dens. And, if you hadn't noticed, I'm still alive."
"Hard not to notice," Merlin tried to joke back. It only left a heavy feeling in his chest.
Mocking offense, Arthur returned, "Well, did you also notice I've been in your presence for the better part of the day, and nothing so much as a squirrel has made an attempt on my life? If you think you're to blame for what happened, you're a bigger idiot than I thought."
Merlin huffed. Arthur couldn't have possibly understood.
"Merlin," Arthur said, dropping the playful act. "It was a shootout. People had been trying to kill me the entire time. The only difference is, the last one almost got lucky. If that's anyone's fault, it's mine. So, you can stand closer. I promise I won't drop dead."
Maybe not yet, Merlin thought. It was only a matter of time until Kanen had enough of Arthur and the Knights. Although he had no proof, it seemed as though Kanen hadalready gotten tired of Merlin.
Arthur looked back out at the scenery, allowing Merlin the privacy to make up his own mind. Merlin decided to take the risk and sit beside him. He passed Arthur the bottle of whiskey, but Arthur only stared down at it.
"I shouldn't have gotten you into this life," Arthur sighed into the hush.
"You didn't."
He snorted. "Merlin, I've seen you give the bum's rush to men twice your size when they've had too much to drink, but I can't imagine you could ever kill anyone."
Merlin looked away, hoping Arthur wouldn't see right through him.
"I have," Arthur said like it was a confession. "I'm not talking about shootouts. I've killed people."
Merlin's attention snapped back to him. Arthur took a long swig of the whiskey. He now looked cold in the moonlight. Although he was pretty sure there wasn't enough room for both their guilt on the summit, Merlin couldn't help but want to know more. He wanted to drink in every piece of Arthur, even the bad parts.
"How many?" Merlin whispered, watching Arthur's profile.
Arthur's ring clinked as he tapped against the side of the bottle. "Six," he answered remorsefully.
"Six?" Merlin repeated.
"Some of them were necessary."
Like Will was necessary?
Merlin wanted to say it. He wanted to say it so badly. Only for a moment, and then he let it go.
"That doesn't make me feel any better though," Arthur said into a bitter smile. "And the rest were—I don't know. I was reckless. Like with the last one before I left London. It was a fight with a rival. I was in a pub on their territory. I should have just left. I shouldn't have been there in the first place. But I was trying to prove I was tough. So was he. And look where that got us. I nearly started a war, so my father sent me here to get me out of the way. But, at the very least, I'm still alive. That's more than he could say."
Merlin didn't know how to respond. A month ago, he would have let Arthur stew in his guilt. Now, he couldn't stand the downcast of Arthur's tone or the lines around his frown. If he could take on Arthur's pain, he would. He felt sorrier for Arthur than he did for the man he'd killed.
And maybe he felt a little grateful, too, in a sick way. He would have never met Arthur if not for that man's death. In the long run, they would have both been better off if Arthur stayed in London. But then, Merlin would have never felt the buzzing warmth of Arthur's skin in the proximity between them. He would have never known what it was like to have Arthur next to him, just sitting there.
It was worth it. Whatever had happened in the past, it was worth it.
"He would have killed you if you hadn't gotten to him first," Merlin reasoned, unable to pack all his thoughts into words. He had to settle for logic instead.
"Yes, he would have." Something told Merlin it only made Arthur feel worse. Heavily, he mused, "The truth is, Merlin, none of us should be in this life."
It made Merlin wonder. He couldn't imagine Arthur being anything else. With his Knights, he was so in his element. "You don't want to be in a gang?"
"Well, I didn't say that," Arthur considered. "But, sometimes . . ."
"What else would you want?"
Arthur gave something close to a laugh, but not quite. A rueful smile briefly flashed onto his face. He looked back out at the view. "Some place like this," he said like he was dreaming. "And someone like—"
He stopped himself short. His eyes, large and round, found Merlin. Merlin stared back, spellbound, all too aware of Arthur's eyes flickering to his lips.
The thrumming space between them stilled into silence and disappeared. Behind soft lips, Arthur tasted like nicotine and moonshine. The kiss was delicate and quick, just long enough for Merlin to forget his worries.
Images of Arthur from a daydream world played out behind his eyelids. He pictured Arthur living in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, hunting and farming and swimming in the river during the sultry summer. He imagined roaring fires and bearskin blankets in dead of winter. Arthur had dirt on his face and under his fingernails, and the sun was in love with him. He smiled dashingly all the time.
Merlin knew it could never be, but he pictured himself there, too.
They lingered close when the kiss was over. Merlin's still clung to the fantasy world.
He thought of waking up to Arthur every morning, and going to bed with him every night.
They could have been together. In another life, maybe they could have been together.
"I've wanted to do that for months," Arthur professed. His breath was hot on Merlin's cheeks.
"Why didn't you?" Merlin wondered how much time it would have saved them, and how much heartache.
A grin slithered across Arthur's face. "You wouldn't shut up long enough."
Merlin chuckled and leaned away. It was so like Arthur to break a moment. They both turned to the view, burning it into their memories.
Arthur took a pull of whiskey and offered it to Merlin, who held his palms up in refusal. "No, keep drinking. You're a happy drunk, but—," he curled his nose, "a reallydepressing high."
"Better than being paranoid," Arthur shot back. It might have stung coming from anyone else.
Merlin nudged Arthur with his shoulder. Arthur nudged back harder.
"It's late," Arthur said, clearing it throat. "We should get back." He jumped to his feet.
Merlin hoisted himself up, too, and slapped the loose dirt off his sides. Without a word passing between them, he followed Arthur back into the dark clearing, hoping they'd both survive the steep descent of the summit.
Chapter Text
Merlin was pretty sure no one had ever been as fucked as he was. Not ever in the history of time.
Except for maybe Joan of Arc.
But, as far as fucked went, Merlin was pretty fucked.
He hated lying to Arthur, but he had to. He wanted to lie to Kanen, but he couldn't. If he did the opposite of either of those things, he'd most likely end up dead.
He had to come up with a good way of telling Arthur the truth.
"Hey, Arthur, I was sent here by Kanen to spy on you, but don't worry because I'm not going to hurt you. Except there was that one time I tried to kill you. But I didn't, so everything is okay now."
No, that wasn't right.
"Oh, Arthur, by the way, I've been lying to you all this time. I've never even been to Galway! It's a funny story . . ."
Definitely not.
Merlin couldn't come up with the right strand of words to ensure Arthur would always look at him the way he did on the drive back to Manhattan, like the outside scenery was suddenly dank and unimpressive. Like the buzz from the coke and the moonshine hadn't quite worn off yet. Like they were still on that damn mountain.
Kanen tapped his temple, the pad of his pinky finger tracing the curves of his scar tissue. They were in the back room of the Essetir. Kanen was sitting down in front of a bottle of scotch. He'd poured a glass for Merlin, who refused with a probably-could-have-been-more-polite, "It's nine in the morning!"
In truth, he should have drunk it down. It might have settled his shaking nerves. But he probably wouldn't have been able to swallow it without spilling it all down his front. He was too restless to sit. He squeezed his hat at his side, focusing all his energy into his white knuckles.
He'd gone way past guilt, if the spinning thoughts keeping him up for all of the previous night were anything to go by. What he now felt was hatred. At Kanen, for making him do this. At Sigan, whose eyes were insistently and intently watching Merlin in rightful suspicion.
At himself, for doing this to Arthur.
At himself, for being a coward.
"When's the first delivery?" Kanen finally asked.
"Two days." Merlin had told Kanen everything about Tristan and Isolde's farm, and about the deal Arthur had struck with them.
"What route are they taking?"
Merlin shook his head honestly. "They didn't say. They were . . . secretive." He held back any other misgivings he had about the couple. Arthur trusted their business, and that had to be good enough for Merlin. Kanen wouldn't care, anyway.
A smile stretched onto Kanen's face, causing crinkles around his eyes. "I'm sure you can appreciate secrecy."
Merlin really didn't.
He doubled his grip on his hat.
"Sir, I can send ten good men upstate tonight to burn this farm to the ground," Sigan urged, swiftly appearing at Kanen's side. Kanen held up his palm to silence him. His eyes stayed on Merlin.
"I have a better idea, I think. I'll need to pay Ragnor a visit first," he said, appearing to be in good humor. It made Merlin's stomach churn. "Go on, Merlin, get back to work. I'll find you when I need you."
Merlin wondered if Kanen would tell him the plan if he demanded to know. He could find a way to tip off the Knights, or come up with a way to prevent it himself. However, his demand came out in a smaller voice than he'd intended. "What are you—we going to do?"
"I'll find you when I need you," Kanen repeated, obviously not wanting to give away the big surprise. Merlin knew he was dismissed. He pulled his hat over his head and brisked out of the door. Once he was on its other side, he slumped.
He couldn't be in the Essetir any longer, not without suffocating. Perhaps it would be worse at the Camelot, but at least there he could pretend everything was fine. Better than fine, in fact, because Arthur was there.
Freya was behind the bar as he made for the exit. She immediately piped out his name when she saw him.
"I'm sorry, Freya, now's not a good time. I've got to get to work," Merlin mumbled quickly to the floor without slowing down.
"Oh. Okay," he just barely heard her quaver as he let the main door slam behind him.
Arthur had some time to kill before his next appointment. Annis and a handful of her men were coming to the Camelot to discuss which den they'd target that week. They were meant to be there a half hour ago, but that was no shock. Annis was always intentionally late. She liked to keep people waiting.
However, instead of sitting on the edge of his seat in anticipation, Arthur quickly learned to tell Annis to arrive an hour before he was actually ready for her. That way, she would arrive on time, and Arthur wouldn't have to readjust his schedule.
The extra time would come in handy for this particular meeting, as Arthur would have to bring up the new terms of their arrangement now that the Knights had a proper bootlegger. The alliance with the Knights and the Caerleons would still hold, and Arthur had no intention of pulling back his efforts to recapture the dens. It was in both their interests to get the Bandits out of the West. That didn't change.
Figuring he had a few more minutes before the Caerleons' arrival, Arthur headed into the club, expecting to find Merlin behind the bar. He wasn't, oddly enough. They'd driven straight to the Camelot from Bear Mountain, and that had been hours ago. Merlin really should have been working.
"Merlin?" he called. Nothing.
Just as he was about to check the cellar, the kitchen door opened. Merlin came through, wearing his hat and jacket, and looking at Arthur as though it were down the barrel of a gun.
Arthur raised a brow. "Why, Merlin, you didn't happen to sneak away from your duties without permission, did you?" he teased, but kept his expression blank.
Merlin quickly pulled off his hat and hid it behind his back. He ruffled his hair into place. "No," he said innocently.
"Is that so?" Arthur paced casually to the bar, scanning Merlin up and down. "You didn't just come through the back entrance so no one would catch you?"
"Nope."
"And if I asked the kitchen staff? They'd tell me the same?"
Merlin sighed. Finally, the truth came out. "Fine. I had to go home to—," he shook his head and looked away, "feed my cat!"
Arthur cocked his head to the side in surprise. "You have a cat?"
"Erm. No . . ."
And now Arthur was confused. Merlin ducked out of the way and slid his hat onto the bar. He peeled out of his jacket and threw it onto one of the stools. Immediately, he pulled out a knife and began preparing garnishes, probably just for show.
"You went home to feed an imaginary cat?" Arthur asked as he watched.
Merlin didn't look up from what he was doing. "It's a stray. I leave him food in the alley."
If Merlin ever did look up, he'd find himself on the receiving end of the fondest gaze in the tri-state area.
"You know, if you keep that up, more cats will come round expecting dinner, too," Arthur advised, stepping behind the bar to fill the space Merlin had put between them. He eyed the small, tight pout of Merlin's lips. It was frustrating as hell. "He'll tell all his cat friends, and soon—"
"I'll have more pussy than I can handle," Merlin interjected in a light tone.
"Well, I know that isn't your master plan."
"Why, are you jealous?"
"Why, should I be?"
Merlin stopped chopping for a fraction of a second. The hesitation, along with the tensing of his shoulders, was slight, easy to miss. Arthur didn't know how he'd caught it. Maybe it was years in the boxing ring, conditioning him to be aware of his opponent's every flinch, or maybe he'd been watching Merlin too intently since the moment he'd first laid eyes on him.
"You shouldn't be," Merlin said. His tone was frostier than it had been, and he was chopping so fast Arthur thought he might cut off his own finger by mistake.
Arthur decided not to broach the topic any further, no matter how fun it was getting under Merlin's skin. "Then, I won't be. And you can focus your energies on stocking the shelves with the rest of Annis' liquor. We'll need the space in the cellar for the new delivery."
Merlin nodded, not a word of protest. He usually complained, as he had to keep up appearances.
"Sweep out the cellar, too. The dust on the floor is almost up to my knees," Arthur continued. "Make sure there aren't any vermin or spiders down there. I don't want any of that getting into the barrels and drowning."
Again, Merlin nodded, keeping his concentration on his task.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "In fact, just rearrange the entire cellar. Build new shelves if you have to. I want a whole new system of storing things."
"How's Dewey Decimal Classification?" Merlin brushed off. He turned away to put the garnishes in their containers.
Arthur sighed and rolled his eyes. "Is something the matter, Merlin?" he mocked.
"No." Merlin was busying himself at the furthest end of the bar, like he was trying to put as much space between them as he could. Arthur wondered if Merlin would physically leap over the bar if he stepped closer.
He tried it. Merlin didn't attempt a dramatic escape, but Arthur grabbed his elbow for good measure.
"I thought you'd gotten past this?" Arthur said, finally catching Merlin's eyes. "I told you, I'm still not dead."
Merlin didn't say anything. He stared through his eyelashes for a few beats, his expression unreadable. His gaze moved between Arthur's face and the hand clasped around his arm.
Arthur considered that Merlin might have been the moodiest person in, quite possibly, the entire world. But the thought was soon incinerated, as Arthur's mind threw out everything else but the hard press of Merlin's lips on his.
Arthur's breath trapped itself in his throat, until Merlin breathed it in. His hands found his way to Merlin's hips, fingers curling on the bones as Merlin wrapped his palms around Arthur's wrists to keep them in place. Arthur wouldn't dare remove them. He sank the pads of his fingers into Merlin's skin, making Merlin huff into his mouth.
Merlin ran his tongue across Arthur's lips, feathery and tickling. He licked wet brushstrokes on the inside of Arthur's mouth. It was nothing like how Arthur kissed him on the mountain, something that Arthur had begun to think was a cocaine-induced dream. It was drowning with want. If he'd known the night before kissing like this was on the table, perhaps they wouldn't have needed two rooms, after all.
There were footsteps pounding down the stairs. Arthur barely registered them. Merlin had, and he withdrew himself as quickly as he had rooted himself in Arthur's arms. He turned his back to Arthur again, grabbed a rag, and began scrubbing circles into the bar top.
Arthur wasn't as quick on his feet. He had enough sense to wipe the saliva off his chin and lips, but other than that, he was lost. He scratched the back of his hair awkwardly, and began peering around as though inspecting something.
Leon came through the door on the opposite end of the club. "Arthur, the Caerleons are here. I've sent them to your office," he said immediately. Apparently, he didn't suspect anything unusual. Anyone else might have, but Leon was always rather oblivious in the face of that sort of thing.
Or, at least, Arthur thought he was. Leon certainly never questioned it, or had so much as a furrowed brow. Maybe he was just really good at not letting it faze him?
Usually, Arthur wouldn't ponder on it too much. While he was never one to kiss and tell, it seemed his Knights always knew about his romantic (a word loosely used) life, as he knew about theirs. It was never a secret. But this, with Merlin, was different. He didn't want to rush it by acknowledging it or putting a name to it. He didn't want to ruin it by letting the world in.
He wanted it to be theirs alone, just for a bit longer. But now that dream might have been destroyed, had Leon been more observant than Arthur thought.
Arthur shook the paranoia from his head, realizing he should probably answer. He attempted to balance himself, to get the blood flowing throughout his whole body again, instead of rushing full speed ahead to one place in particular.
"Good," he said with a nod, and gulped when his voice came out in a higher pitch than he'd intended. "Tell them I'll be right there." He turned to Merlin, trying to act laid-back. "We'll finish this conversation later."
He could probably drop the act now. Leon was gone. But Arthur was still blushing when he was on the other side of the bar.
"You could join us?" he offered, turning back to Merlin. Everyone else would be attending the meeting. "It's just planning. I don't think anyone will try to shoot you there."
"The Caerleons don't take too kindly to the Irish," Merlin said in ways of an excuse, "so they might. Not everyone's so willing to stop—what did you say? 'Harboring the animosities of the old country'?" Merlin smirked, seeming pleased with himself. "You're not starting to actually like it here, are you?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. He didn't admit that he was, in fact, starting to like New York very much.
"Get to work. Cellar, remember?" he said instead, and started for the door.
"Dewey Decimal?" Merlin joked.
"Alphabetical!"
Perhaps Kanen had forgotten about Tristan and Isolde's delivery. Perhaps Merlin had been on pins and needles, looking over his shoulder in sheer dread that one of Kanen's messengers could come collect him at any moment, for the last two days for nothing.
The Knights and the Caerleons had taken another den. The Bandits only had two left, and one of them wasn't even in Hell's Kitchen, but in Hudson Yards. Kanen could have been preoccupied with making sure he kept his control over them.
Merlin knew he was just fooling himself. He could hardly breathe as he attempted to guess whatever Kanen had planned. Even earlier that day, when the crates and barrels had been delivered and stocked on the shelves or stored in the cellar, seemingly safe and intact, Merlin couldn't relax.
The Camelot was in full swing now. Trumpets were bursting on stage, and Gwen was belting out a song that sent a rhythm over the club like a shockwave. The cigarette smoke in the air was almost tangible, and the sweet, crisp fragrance of mixed drinks filled Merlin up. People seemed to like Tristan and Isolde's products. Merlin had to go to the cellar to refill a few bottles from the kegs at least twice already.
He made conversation with a few familiar faces, as much as he could over the booming music. He doubted any of the patrons would remember their chats, anyway, but that was nothing new. Arthur was no stranger to the party that night, either. He was probably celebrating the success of his new partnership. Even in the crowd, his eyes would find Merlin now and again throughout the night. While during the day, his expression would clearly read "you should be working," his drunken, beaming smile at night was less reserved.
Merlin smiled back at him as he counted out the pours of a shot, not noticing the woman to his right shouting for him to mix her another Brandy Alexander. For once in the last seventy-eight hours, the butterflies in his stomach were not nerves, but something softer.
That was until someone else moved into his line of vision, completely obstructing Arthur. Merlin's eyes refocused on Sigan, and all light and sound were ripped from the room like they'd been dropped into a void. It wasn't until the liquid spread across the bar top and trickled over the edge onto his shoes, did Merlin realized he was still pouring the shot.
He jumped up, ignoring the laughter or the groans of annoyance from the wet customers on the other side of the bar. Frantically apologizing to them, he ran a rag across the wood. It did little to soak up the alcohol, and left streaks on the counter. Merlin rung out the rag in the sink, not caring how sticky the bar would be later.
He tried to think, but his mind only blanked. Sigan was there, that's all he knew. He did not know why, or whether Kanen had sent him, or if they had plans for the Camelot, or if Merlin could stop them before it was too late. Sigan was there, in the Camelot, mixing Merlin's worlds. And yet, he only reacted to the immediate danger it posed to Arthur.
Merlin had to get Sigan out of there. Now.
He looked up, training his face, and made eye contact again. He nodded towards the kitchen door, silently telling Sigan to meet him around back. Sigan got the message, and disappeared towards the club's main entrance.
Then, Merlin searched around for the nearest available Knight. Lance was close by, leaning against a wall and watching Gwen on stage. Merlin tried calling to him, but his voice was lost in the dissonance.
He almost went up to Lance before realizing he needed an excuse to leave the bar. Hastily, he tied up the bag of trash in the bin under the bar. Lance looked over his shoulder with a smile when Merlin tapped.
"Could you mind the bar for a second? I've got to take this round back," Merlin shouted to be heard, holding up the black bag.
Luckily, Lance didn't offer to take the bag outside himself, probably figuring that Merlin needed a break from the bar. Merlin rushed straight through the kitchen. "Merlin, take this one, too!" one of the busboys said, tossing him another wrapped up trash bag, this one full. Merlin didn't have time to complain. He took it and burst into the humid night.
Fog rested over the Hudson, softening the orange and yellow pinpricks of lights from boats on the water or buildings on the opposite bank in New Jersey. The back door slammed shut behind Merlin, muffling the music within.
Sigan wasn't there. Merlin closed his eyes and took in a deep breath of the murky river air, which stuck to his skin like a bog. It was sweaty in the club, but there was no relief outdoors. Maybe it was Sigan's presence.
Merlin dropped the bags into the bins along the back wall, resolving to wait. He wasn't going to search for Sigan.
He was startled when, before he placed the tin lid back on the bin, a voice behind him broke the quiet. "Nice club. Bet you prefer it to the Essetir."
Merlin rallied for whatever the conversation would bring. Molding his features into an expression that meant business, he slammed the lid down with a clang and rounded on Sigan. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Sigan shot him a smug face, apparently finding Merlin's irritation amusing. Merlin didn't have to remind him that he was working a job, and he couldn't be seen speaking to a Bandit, especially right outside the Camelot. It was a miracle none of the Knights had spotted Sigan inside. Merlin wondered how he even got inside in the first place, but he had more important questions to seethe about at the moment.
"In fact, it looked like you were having a bit too much fun behind the bar, Emrys," Sigan goaded.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Merlin demanded again, slower this time.
Sigan apparently gave up trying to get a rise out of Merlin. "Message from Kanen." He dug into his pocket and carefully produced a glass bottle of clear liquid. It looked like it had come from an apothecary, but the label had been scratched off. Sigan offered it to Merlin and said, "Put about an ounce in all of the liquor that's fast selling tonight."
Merlin didn't take it. He stared down at the bottle with a sick feeling he already knew what it was. He asked anyway.
"Methane alcohol," was the answer, said as though Sigan had just offered him something as pure and innocuous as water. There was only one place Kanen could have gotten methanol—the police. Ragnor.
It was poison—the kind of alcohol used in industrial alcohol products, in paint and for car engines. It smelled just like drinking alcohol, but it was tasteless. The federal government ruled it legal for the authorities to slip it into bootleg liquor, or into the smuggled products they'd intercepted in secret. Some bootleggers were in cahoots with local authorities, whether from the start or if they were offered a deal after being busted. They'd sell the poisoned moonshine, and no one would know the difference.
In small amounts, it would cause sickness. Headaches, nausea, some pretty bad vomiting. However, if too much was ingested, it would easily slip a grown man into a coma. Or kill him. Most doctors wouldn't even be able to tell it apart from regular alcohol poisoning.
Merlin had heard of the stuff shutting down speakeasies for good in one night. No one would trust the club anymore, and they'd stop coming. The Camelot could go under. Arthur could be ruined.
Merlin blinked down at the jar. He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't steep that low, even if Kanen was willing to.
"People will get sick," he refused weakly.
"That's the point," Sigan spelled out.
"People could die!" Merlin shot back, appalled. "How could you ask me to do this?"
Sigan chortled. "I'm sorry, I thought you were a gangster, not a piker." He narrowed his eyes into slits and regarded Merlin up at down. "Unless you don't want to do it. You don't want me to tell Kanen you're thinking of double-crossing him again, do you?"
Merlin's stomach dropped. He didn't physically react, or at least he hoped not, save for averting his gaze for a moment. He played it off like he was thinking.
"Of course, I'm not," he hissed. He snatched the bottle out of Sigan's hand, trying to appear tough. He couldn't show any sign of the war raging in his head. But it was clear which side would win. He didn't have a choice.
"Tell Kanen it's done," he said, and turned around.
"Wait, Merlin," Sigan said, pausing him. Merlin took a quick look around to make sure no one was eavesdropping, slumped his shoulders, and looked back. Sigan had another glass bottle in his hands. "And empty this into one of the kegs . . . just in case people show up tomorrow night."
Merlin gulped. He watched Sigan hold the bottle by the cap and dangle it between two fingers. He ripped it from Sigan's grasp and pushed back inside before Sigan could pull another toxic substance out of his jacket, or to threaten Merlin with something vague and dramatic like, "I'm onto you."
He hid the bottles underneath his jacket and ducked through the kitchen, back into the technicolor lights and loud laughter of the club.
Lance wasn't behind the bar when Merlin reached it. It was a blessing, even though Merlin wondered why Lance had left it unattended. Merlin didn't think he could have looked Lance in eyes in that moment. On the other side of the bar, there was a dense congregation, which promptly began frantically shouting drink orders at Merlin the moment he was spotted.
Merlin tried to remember who had ordered what. His mind was too preoccupied on the bottles clinking together in his jacket pocket. It made him feel sick to his stomach, like he'd drank the entire jar of the stuff himself.
All the while, Merlin tried to rationalize the best way to distribute the methanol. If he divided it up into different bottles, more customers would drink it. They'd get ill, but only for a few hours before it passed. However, it could drive a lot of people away from the Camelot forever. His second option was to put the methanol into as few bottles as possible, so fewer customers ordered the tainted drinks, but such an amount could cause violent sickness—or worse.
He decided to choose life, rationalizing that one dead business was better than many dead humans. He prayed the Camelot had enough loyal patrons to keep it afloat.
With unsteadiness slowing the movement of normally swift hands, he sneakily mixed the poison into the bottles as he went. He'd put an ounce of it into three whiskey bottles, two gins, and a vodka before it was empty. Those would sell quickly enough for each bottle to run out before the same customer could come back looking for another round. He stayed away from the slower selling products—liqueurs, cordials, and mixers—so the customers who stuck to the less popular drinks would ingest as little toxin as possible.
Merlin set to work making the drinks on the back counter beneath the shelves, out of the way of prying eyes. However, as he continuously cast antsy glances over his shoulder, he found no one was watching him. Those in the crowd at the bar were only interested in chatting with their parties, sweaty and hot from dancing and contented now that they'd have refreshment soon. They kept those trying to push their way forward to order at bay for now. The Knights were nowhere in sight, and the employees bobbed in and out of Merlin's vision, too preoccupied with whatever they were doing to pay the bar any mind.
He probably could have made the drinks out in the open, on the bar, as he usually did. When he reached for the methanol, the customers wouldn't notice—nor would they even know the difference, and think it was just another safe ingredient added to their order. And the Knights trusted Merlin enough not to ask any questions.
He cursed inwardly, wishing someone would catch on and stop him before anyone got hurt.
As the first group of satisfied customers received their drinks and pushed out of view, more people hounded Merlin for attention. It never usually overwhelmed him.
Just as Merlin felt the urge to run out back again and heave in bouts of air (and possibly never come back), Lance appeared at his side with an apologetic, but relieved expression. "Good, your back. I was hoping you would be."
"Where were you?" Merlin snipped accidentally. He shouldn't have taken his anger out on the man who deserved it least.
Lance, however, took it in stride. "The cellar. We've run out of brandy up here. I tried looking for it, but—Did you rearrange the entire stockroom?"
Merlin shifted in his shoes. He'd hoped he didn't have to make a trip to the cellar before he could figure out what to do with the second bottle of poison.
"I'll find it," he said. "Stay at the bar this time."
He attempted to push by Lance, but Lance gripped his arm to stop him. Lance leaned in so Merlin could better hear him ask with concern, "Are you all right, Merlin?"
No! Merlin wanted to shout, followed by a ranted, complete confession of everything he'd done since the moment he first stepped foot into the Camelot all those months ago.
Instead, he blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes, playing it off like a joke. "Yeah!" he chuckled, probably sounding guilty rather than the lightheartedness he was going for.
But Lance didn't press. He didn't seem convinced, but he let Merlin go and attended to the customers. Merlin snatched the empty bottle of methanol on the counter and headed to the cellar.
The closed door behind him muffled the music only slightly, but it was much cooler in the dank darkness than it had been in the club. A single, unadorned light bulb hung from the cement ceiling. It barely casted any light, and really only served to elongate the shadows of the crates, kegs, and shelving units.
Merlin rested his back against the cold, metal door and took in a few steadying breaths. It was only a matter of time until the poison would take effect. He wondered if Sigan were still in the club, waiting to make sure Merlin had completed the task.
But it wasn't completed. Not yet. He still had a whole other jar, and any barrel in the cellar to pick from.
He spotted one in the very center of the room, just as nondescript as the rest. It was as good as any, he supposed.
He pushed himself to a stand and paced down the steps carefully, like he'd expected someone to jump out of the shadows and catch him in the act. The creaking wood of the loose steps only added to his paranoia, as did the echoes of his footfalls on the concrete floor.
He placed the empty methanol jar down on a shelf next to the keg, and pulled the other out of his pocket. The wooden stopper on the top of the barrel made a popping sound when Merlin forced it out. His fingers rested on the cap of the poison, but he hesitated breaking its seal.
There was no need for him to do this. The customers upstairs would be enough to placate Kanen for now. In the meantime, Merlin could figure out how to avoid poisoning anything else. He had time. He could think this through—somehow.
The door at the top of the steps opened, letting the music and laughter from upstairs fill the cellar and cast a stream of light into the relative darkness. Merlin hastily swooped down and hid the methanol behind the barrel. He jerked to a stand at the sudden onslaught of fast, tumbling footsteps on the wood.
Unburdened, the heavy steel door slammed closed again.
Arthur stopped about halfway down the stairs when he caught sight of Merlin. He had a glass held up in his hand, and when Merlin squinted in the lowlight he could see the golden liquid in it.
"What are you doing down here?" Merlin demanded, trying not to sound on edge. Arthur wouldn't have noticed, anyway.
"Was lookin' for—for you!" He swayed dizzyingly as he brandished his glass as though to point at Merlin. "Why's Lancelot behind the bar? What's he know 'bout liquor? Had to get Gwaine and Mordred to take over—and they're drunk!"
"They're not the only ones," Merlin muttered to himself.
Arthur scrunched his nose down at Merlin. "Shouldn' you be working?"
"I am working, prat," Merlin sighed. He started for the stairs. Arthur would trip and fall and probably kill himself if he took another step. "I'm fetching more bottles." He trudged up to Arthur and slung Arthur's arm around his shoulders while grumbling, "Come on, you're zozzled."
Arthur threw his head back into a laugh as he leaned into Merlin and allowed himself to be led downward. "Yeah."
There were muffled wolf whistles and applause from upstairs as one song ended and another started up. Pounding footfalls raged on the dance floor.
As Merlin got Arthur fully into the cellar, he grunted, "Time for a rest. Off your feet." He dumped Arthur down on a wooden crate on the floor, and the glass inside chattered upon impact.
Arthur laughed again. Before Merlin could straighten to a stand, Arthur grabbed him down by the tie and smashed their lips together with enough force to bruise. Merlin had a moment of panic. His heart stopped beating and he took in deep gasp through his nose. Arthur's eyes were shut; Merlin only knew that because his were so wide open.
And then Arthur released him. It made Merlin sway off-balance, lingering too close.
"'ve been thinking we should do that more—uh—," Arthur slurred, shaking his head up at the ceiling, "more often!"
Now that the shock had passed and his heart started up again, Merlin felt a tug at it. He smirked at Arthur's messy blonde hair, highlighted by the naked bulb hanging over their heads, and the blurry expression in his shadowed eyes.
"Yeah? Me, too," Merlin admitted happily. As he watched Arthur's face, he bit his lower lip, tasting the whiskey remnants that Arthur had left on him. "And I think I want to do it again."
Arthur hummed in agreement from somewhere deep in his throat. "Me, too."
He wrapped his palm on the back of Merlin's head and pulled him in close again. Arthur's lips were warm—all of him was. Merlin didn't know if that's just how Arthur ran or if it was from the alcohol. He could taste it on Arthur's tongue, in every breath that passed between them. He thought he might get drunk off it, too.
Merlin had to get closer, to be in a position less fleeting than leaning over Arthur. It might have been a bold move—as if making out with your boss, and rival, on the job was anything but bold already—but he straddled Arthur's lap, pushing himself in until their chests were touching.
Arthur didn't seem to mind at all. He moaned into Merlin's mouth. Only then did Merlin notice the small, desperate sounds escaping his own throat. He gave into them, following them as though they were coherent instructions. They told him to grip Arthur's hair in his fists, and to run the heels of his palms down the muscles of Arthur's back.
The whiskey glass in Arthur's hand shattered on the concrete floor. He wrapped both arms around Merlin, squeezing him in tighter. Merlin was sure Arthur could feel him getting stiff against his lower stomach. Merlin could certainly feel something pressing at his ass, just as clearly as he felt Arthur's heartbeat slamming in his chest. The horns and saxophones overhead exploded.
Arthur's breath was sticky when he pulled away, allowing Merlin to drink in bouts of dusty oxygen. Arthur was leaving sloppy kisses around Merlin's Adam's apple. His tongue rode the motion of each of Merlin's hard swallows.
Merlin stilled when he opened his eyes and caught sight of the barrel of whiskey to Arthur's back.
What was he doing? He had to get out of there. He had to stop this right away. With any luck, Arthur would be too drunk to remember it the next day.
"Arthur—," Merlin rasped out. Arthur responded by nibbling at Merlin's jaw.
"Arthur, I should really be getting back to—ooh."
He'd taken to biting at Merlin's ear, making Merlin's breath catch and his eyes roll back.
"Yeah, there," he groaned when Arthur moved down to the crook of his neck. He angled his head to give Arthur more room.
Suddenly, Arthur pulled away, leaving a chill where he'd been before. He looked up at Merlin with hazy eyes. "I think 'm drunk," he stated like it just dawned on him. "Think I should go home."
Merlin blinked down at him, not sure what to make of it, until Arthur said in a low voice, "Think you should take me."
The very idea of it made Merlin twitch with want.
But he shouldn't! He couldn't! Arthur would find out Merlin's secret eventually, which meant Merlin couldn't let their relationship get too complicated. It meant Merlin couldn't bed him, no matter how much every atom in his body screamed, Do it, you idiot! Fuck his lights out!
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Merlin said into a swallow. Hating himself for it, he extracted himself from Arthur and heaved him back on his feet. He tried shooting Arthur the brightest grins he could muster as he dragged him up the steps. Arthur responded with dreamy, intoxicated smiles and hooded eyes.
Arthur winced at the wall of sound they hit when Merlin opened the door, and they stumbled back into the club side-by-side.
Quickly, Merlin caught sight of Lance and Gwen by the bar. It was late. The band was still playing, but her set would be up, and she and Lance usually went home soon after she'd stopped singing for the night. Merlin got their attention and nodded towards Arthur, who was slumping sleepily into Merlin's chest. He was becoming increasingly heavier.
"He's half seas over," Merlin shouted to them over the racket when they were close enough.
Gwen laughed once, but the sound was drowned out, and clasped her hand over her heart like Arthur was an adorable puppy. A look of amusement flashed over Lance's face before his expression became dutiful.
"Don't worry, Merlin. We'll get him home," he said. There was an awkward shuffle as Merlin shifted Arthur's weight towards Lance, and Gwen quickly appeared on his other side. They held Arthur between them with his head drooping and his arms across their shoulders.
Merlin couldn't take his eyes off Arthur, who roused just long enough to look at Gwen in a confused way and say, "You're not Merlin."
She grinned brightly at him before eyeing Lance. They started dragging Arthur away. The music boomed through Merlin. Its vibrations coming up from the floor might have been the only things keeping his heart pumping.
And then it happened. It was close by, at one of the tables just off the dance floor. A woman was shrieking, and a few men had sprung to their feet and shouted for help. The music stopped playing abruptly. Lance and Gwen stilled. Everyone turned toward the commotion.
Merlin was the only one who sprang into action. He elbowed through the throng until he reached the source of the chaos, around which a wide circle was forming. A man was unconscious on the floor, in a puddle on his own sick. A woman was sitting on a chair nearby, nursing her head in her hands and asking where she was. Her friend knelt down next to her, comforting her but looking as though she were about to vomit herself.
"What the hell happened?" Morgana's voice rang out above all the rest. She'd gotten to the focal point of the circle, but retracted slightly with disgust when her heel stepped into the puddle. She looked very pale, her skin sheet white rather than porcelain.
Merlin looked to the woman on the chair. Her nose had begun to bleed.
Merlin's world started to spin. He wanted to run. His legs wouldn't listen.
Someone bumped into his back, knocking him forward a few clumsy steps. It was Arthur, wobbling but upright and looking as though he was trying very hard to sober up.
"Someone call an ambulance," he ordered in general, until his eyes fell on his sister across the circle. "Morgana." She obeyed, and the crowd parted for her. He continued to take charge of the situation, telling Lancelot to usher the sick women to the exit and having Leon and Elyan move the unconscious man. Merlin heard very little of it. He felt like he was underwater.
He barely registered Arthur calling his name. It echoed in his head, until Arthur's face came into focus. "Those women need water!" Arthur demanded in aggravation, as though he had to repeat himself.
Merlin swallowed hard and nodded frantically. However, before he started to the bar, he heard someone making retching sounds. Those around the victim yelped in repulsion and sprang out of the way.
"What the hell is this?" Arthur said through his teeth, visibly trying to keep calm.
Leon broke through the crowd, seeming panicked. "Arthur, Morgana's just fainted."
Merlin's stomach lurched. He clasped his hands over his mouth to stifle a cry. His eyes started stinging hotly.
He hadn't served her! He knew he hadn't! He wouldn't have given her anything contaminated if she'd asked for a drink. But Lance, Gwaine, and Mordred—how could they have known?
Arthur's posture tightened. Even with his back to Merlin, Merlin knew he'd gone on high alert.
"This can't be alcohol poisoning," he said to no one in particular. Then, he charged forward, presumably towards Morgana, and shouted to Leon over his shoulder, "Get everyone out! And find out who did this!"
Merlin closed his eyes to steady himself, allowing people to jostle him around as they scurried toward the exit as quickly as possible.
They'd been up all night, combing over the entire warehouse for evidence. The sun had risen at least three hours ago, and the staff that Arthur had sent home after the incident would be reporting back to work any minute now. He wondered if he should give them the day off, as he didn't want anyone in the club he didn't trust completely.
Thankfully, Morgana had recovered from her unconsciousness quickly. She'd experienced confusion for a few minutes after she'd woken up, but not enough, as it would seem. It didn't stop her from very clearly telling Arthur she wouldn't check herself into a hospital, because any reported alcohol-related illness would instantly get the Bureau on their backs. They didn't need that, especially after the previous night.
The rest of them were fine. Gwaine and Mordred suffered headaches and slight nausea, and Percy and Elyan were unaffected. Leon, of course, was always too dutiful to drink very much while working.
Arthur stepped into the club. It was much cooler in the basement than it had been in his office, but probably just because he had a moment to calm himself down. He'd been worked up all morning, trying to get to the bottom of what happened. He certainly had his theories, but dwelling on them only furthered his bad mood.
Merlin was behind the bar emptying the remaining bottles of liquor down the sink. Arthur had told him to get rid of everything on the shelves and in the cellar, and Merlin seemed eager to do it. They didn't know how much of it was still good. Thankfully, they had enough in the storehouse to last them until Tristan and Isolde's next delivery.
Merlin stopped what he was doing as Arthur plopped down on one of the bar stools. Arthur buried his face into his palms, giving into his exhaustion for the first time all morning. He only let it overwhelm him for a moment before running his hands through his hair and correcting his posture. There was still work to be done.
"How is she?" Merlin worried, and his big, sad eyes could have only been speaking of Morgana.
Arthur nodded. "Resting. She'll be fine."
"And the man who collapsed?"
Most customers had only gotten sick. However, the man who first fainted and the woman with the nosebleed were taken to the hospital. She was fine; he still hadn't woken up.
"Still out," Arthur told him heavily. "Gwaine's not taking it well. He blames himself—says he kept giving him shots."
"He didn't know," Merlin whispered to the bar top.
None of them knew. That was the problem. Arthur should have been on the look out for something like this.
"I've been on the phone with Tristan all morning, screaming," he recounted. He was still all pent up from the conversation, but the steam inside of him was quickly dissipating now that he was downstairs. "He swears he had nothing to do with this. He said the product was fine when it was delivered, and how dare I accuse him of working with the police."
Arthur scoffed. He didn't know why Tristan blamed him. At the farm, Tristan had been so sure of the police never shutting them down. After recent events, it was easy to imagine Tristan and Isolde working for the authorities. Yes, Arthur may have leapt to the accusation, but it wasn't exactly like leaping across the canyon. He was right to be suspicious.
"And you believe him?" Merlin wondered.
"I do." He showed Merlin why: He took out a glass bottle of clear liquid from inside his jacket and tossed it onto the counter like he'd contract a disease from it if he touched it for too long. Merlin's face stiffened and he stared down at the jar.
"It's methane alcohol. Percy found two bottles of it in the cellar," Arthur explained. "One of them . . . was empty."
Merlin knew what that implied. Arthur could read it on his face, in the way his Adam's apple quivered as he swallowed hard.
"Who did it?" he gulped.
Arthur sighed and shoved the bottle back into his inside pocket. "That's what I'd like to know." He leaned in, fishing for Merlin's gaze. "You didn't see anyone, did you? You didn't let any customers behind the bar? Notice anyone who wasn't drinking last night?"
"Besides Lance?"
For a single, fleeting moment, Arthur considered it. Then, he kicked himself for it. Lance was too loyal—not to mention, honorable—for the word betrayal to even be in his lexicon.
"Obviously."
Merlin curled his nose, shook his head, and shrugged simultaneously. "I don't know. Usually, people who aren't drinking stay away from the bar, don't they?"
"What about the cellar?" Arthur pressed. "Did you see anyone down there?"
Merlin arched a brow. "Besides you?"
Arthur huffed, trying to cover his mortification with irritation. God, why had he drunkenly thought it was a good idea to seek Merlin out last night? What had he said? What had he done? He'd made a fool of himself, asking Merlin back to his place. In truth, Merlin handled it well by passing him off to Lance and Gwen. However, now that Arthur had a moment to dwell on it, the snub stung. He'd moved too fast, ruined everything.
He shouldn't have drank at all that night! He could have prevented the poisoning, and he would have never screwed everything up with Merlin. He should have known something bad was about to happen. Maybe he could have stopped it had he been more attentive.
Less drunk.
God, maybe Uther had been right about him . . .
"Not the time, Merlin!"
Merlin looked scolded. "I know." And then, "I didn't see anyone. And of course I didn't let anyone behind the bar, except Lance."
Arthur sat up straighter in realization. "And Gwaine and Mordred," he remembered. "It all started happening after that. You don't think Mordred . . .?"
Merlin gaped and stammered some. "No! He got sick, too. Why would he do that to himself?"
"So we wouldn't suspect him?" Arthur shook his head. He folded his fists together before his lips in thought. Mordred was still with his Knights. He, Gwaine, Percy, and Elyan were on damage control, seeking out the usual patrons and promising them nothing like this would ever happen again. Why had Arthur put so much faith in someone who wasn't his own?
"He was with Gwaine all night," Merlin tried to reason.
"Well, it had to have been someone we know! How else could they have gotten past the bouncer? The Kings must have offered him something."
He resolved to put snitches on Mordred until he was satisfied of his innocence. Mordred knew all the Knights' men, but the Caerleons would help Arthur out. They'd loan him some spies.
"The Kings?" Merlin wondered, looking like he was trying very hard not to panic. Arthur knew the feeling.
"They're behind this; I know it. It has their stench all over it."
He should have known they'd strike eventually. It had been much too quiet. He'd taken for granted that Kanen was on the defense trying to maintain his crack dens. Arthur should have known the Kings would be planning an attack of their own.
"You can't know that for sure," said Merlin.
Of course, he could! "Don't be an idiot, Merlin."
Arthur stood up and kicked the stool back to let himself out. "Which means, I've got to figure out how I'm going to retaliate. Unless you've got any bright ideas?"
Merlin shook his head.
"No, didn't think so," Arthur droned. "Too bad. It would have saved me some time." He looked Merlin up and down, finally taking in the state of him: the ruffled hair, the disheveled clothes, and the dark circles under his red eyes. He looked almost as weary as Arthur felt.
"You should go home and get some sleep," Arthur offered. "I'll have someone else stock up for tonight—assuming any customers show up."
"They will." Merlin seemed sure. "You'll figure it out."
Arthur was certainly trying. There would be a fight that night, with all the champions who usually stuck to the Dragon. It would attract a few customers, and maybe some of them would even drink. Arthur attempted to keep hope alive.
He didn't say any of that, and instead felt his chest constrict at Merlin's word choice. "It's not we anymore, then?" he said lightly. Perhaps he'd ruined his chances with Merlin more so than he thought. He had to fix it somehow, to salvage whatever he could between them. "Look, Merlin, last night, I had—," he waved his hand, realizing the number of drinks he'd consumed was unknown but irrelevant, "one too many."
He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I said things I shouldn't have. Anyway, you should know your job is safe. And it won't happen again."
He couldn't meet Merlin's eyes. He looked down instead, at Merlin's hands resting on the wood, leaving smudges on the polishing.
"Oh," he heard Merlin say with a twinge of disappointment.
It kick started the cogs in Arthur's mind, all of them turning in maximum overdrive. He jerked his head back up. "Oh?" he repeated hopefully. "What—what's 'oh'?"
"It's not the time," Merlin reminded him halfheartedly. Funnily, Arthur took his tone as a good thing.
"Right," Arthur said, remembering why he shouldn't be grinning. "Get some rest. Be back for opening tonight."
He started away when Merlin said, "You should get some sleep, too."
I wish, Arthur wanted to say, but settled for, "There's too much to do."
Chapter Text
"Mmm. That one!"
Merlin turned over the tin bean can to reveal what was beneath it: Nothing—just the freshly polished bar and empty space. He had two more old cans lined up next to it, and picked up another. Beneath it was Gwen's wedding ring. He held it up between two fingers and offered it to her with a smirk.
She huffed, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. "I don't know how you move them so quickly."
"I drink lots of coffee," Merlin joked.
"I've never seen you touch the stuff!"
They'd been cooped up inside all morning because of the dark, oppressive rainstorm that hovered over Manhattan. Temperamental electricity floated through the air, threatening to crack. The rain mixed with the August heat caused the humidity outside to be suffocating, and Merlin dared not go outside on days like that. It seemed everyone else in the club was also too lethargic to brave the concrete jungle.
The staff spent their day cleaning or prepping food, as they did every day, but the weather made it seem like they were moving in slow motion. The Knights usually patrolled throughout the day, but they, along with Morgana, were currently all in Arthur's office. Arthur had called meeting. Merlin was happy he hadn't been invited, as he was still trying desperately to know as little as possible about the Knights' affairs, even more so after what had happened the last time.
Gwen chose not to go to the meeting either, and instead spent her downtime with Merlin. They'd finished their tasks for the day quickly. It wasn't a delivery day, so setting up the bar wasn't too much of a daunting task. And there was only so much rehearsal Gwen needed. (Merlin was convinced she didn't need it at all, and it was more for the band members' sake.)
On such slow days, when Gwen didn't accompany Morgana along running errands, she and Merlin usually killed their free time together, gossiping or playing games. She loved three-cup (or, in this case, three-can) monte, even though she was terrible at it. It was probably the only thing she was terrible at.
The cans, which had been found in the kitchen trash, clinked together as Merlin stacked them. He chucked them in the bin beneath the bar. As he did so, he teased, "I keep telling you, Gwen, we're wasted here! With my tricks and your voice, we could take our act on the road and make more money than we know what to do with."
"Only if Morgana comes with us," she laughed.
"Well, we'll need someone to handle our finances."
She gave a mock-exaggerated sigh. "Unfortunately, I'd miss Lance too much."
"Oh, he can come, too, I suppose," Merlin played along.
Gwen folded her slender hands together on the bar and leaned into them, trying to seem casual. She always did that when she was about to pry but wanted to make it seem innocent. "Arthur could join us, too, couldn't he?"
Merlin was sure he was flushing. He couldn't help it. He made a production of buffing out the scuffmarks the cans had made on the bar with his index finger. He shrugged in an attempt at nonchalance. "If he wanted to."
Gwen rolled her eyes. Actually, she kind of rolled her whole head. "Oh, please!"
"He'd never leave the Camelot!" Merlin reasoned, hoping it would change the subject.
It didn't. "And you'd never leave him."
Merlin opened his mouth to protest, but the club door swinging open saved him. Gwaine kept his hand on the knob, and stood half-inside the stairwell as he said, "Gwen, Merlin. Arthur's got a bad idea. Maybe you two can talk him out of it." And he was gone again, expecting them to follow him up to Arthur's office.
And they did, but not before blinking at each other in a silent conversation. The Knights rarely asked for reinforcements. Usually, Morgana was all they needed—which is to say, Morgana never needed reinforcements. If she couldn't convince Arthur of something, no one could.
It made Merlin wonder the exact nature of this bad idea, but he had a sinking feeling it had to do with the Kings. It had been almost two weeks since Arthur vowed vengeance. It seemed as though the time for it had finally come—just when Merlin had almost forgotten he didn't really belong with the Knights of the Round Table.
Almost.
On the steps leading up to Arthur's office, Merlin already heard the Pendragons arguing. Of course, they did little else. Their strong personalities wouldn't have allowed for it. But this argument sounded more heated than usual.
"Because you've completely lost your mind!" Morgana was shouting.
"Oh, don't be dramatic!" Arthur tried to interject, but his words overlapped with his sister's as she continued.
"You are totally disregarding everyone's safety—Dramatic? Coming from the king of theatrics!"
"You wouldn't understand! You don't know anything about running a—"
"And neither do you if you're going to be so childish! And what does Daddy Dearest think of this plan?"
Merlin followed Gwen into the office, both of them trying to be as silent as possible so the Pendragon rage wouldn't be directed at them. The last thing they needed was Arthur and Morgana actually teaming up when they were like this.
The Knights seemed to be thinking the same thing. They stood to one side of the office, trying to make themselves as small and invisible as possible. Their eyes ricocheted back and forth from brother to sister in turn, like they were watching a tennis match.
Morgana was standing with her hands on her hips in front of Arthur's desk. Standing behind it, Arthur had his fists resting on the surface, leaning into them. His posture was that of man about to head into battle with no soldiers.
"Father doesn't need to know everything I do," Arthur told her matter-of-factly, forcing calmness.
"Which means you didn't want to tell him because you know he'd say what a god-awful idea it is!" Morgana erupted. Merlin was surprised the force of her anger didn't cause a crack of lightening outside.
She flipped around towards Merlin and Gwen, making both of them jolt slightly. Neither of them had thought she'd noticed their presence.
"Gwen, darling, tell him it's terrible," Morgana said sweetly, but her toothy smile still had traces of a predator in it.
"Maybe if someone told us what was going on," Merlin hinted.
"We're opening another speakeasy," Arthur answered abruptly. Merlin had to admit, he didn't understand why everyone was overreacting.
"Tell them where," Morgana ordered.
Arthur's jaw tensed. He stood up straighter. "St. Mark's Place."
Merlin's mouth went dry. St. Mark's Place was a street in the Lower East Side, right outside Alphabet City. Not only did Arthur want to open a speakeasy in the Kings' territory—while simultaneously kicking the Kings out of the West Side—he wanted to open it directly next to the epicenter of their operations. It was about as subtle as driving a war tank up to Kanen's front door and blasting its canon.
"Arthur," Gwen said, managing to sound both empathetic and reproving at the same time, "don't you think you're letting your emotions cloud your judgment?"
"Of course, not," he snipped. "The Kings think they rule this city. We have to show them they don't—not anymore. We won't stand for it." He made it sound so logical. "The Bandits poisoned our drinks, don't any of you remember? They nearly killed two people in the process. We owe it to them to make sure the Kings don't ever—"
Morgana took in a sharp breath and interrupted, "Don't pretend this is about nobility!"
"It is, though!"
"You're mad," Morgana scoffed.
Gwen stepped between them before Arthur could start yelling again. "But why there? We could open another club anywhere else in the city."
"I found a building for sale on St. Mark's. It's perfect for what we need," Arthur reasoned, like there wouldn't be a thousand buildings like it everywhere else in Manhattan. "We'll have another boxing ring on the ground floor, and the speakeasy can go upstairs. It has roof access—we could put a garden there, and a crapshoot like we had in London! It will attract people. We need that after that stunt the Kings pulled on us."
"They only hurt us for a few days," Morgana pointed out. "Every night, we've been bouncing back. We don't need another club! We're still one of the biggest scenes in Manhattan."
Arthur shook his head furiously. "It's not good enough. I don't want us to be a scene! I won't stop until everyone knows us. We are the scene! The only one—in all of New York!"
"I'm sorry, Arthur, but I have to side with Morgana on this," Lance interrupted before he could go further. Arthur looked as though he'd just been stabbed in the gut. "How long do you really think we could keep a club in Kanen's backyard? He wouldn't rest until it was shut down, and he could take the Camelot along with it. Everything we've worked for would be for nothing."
Somewhere deep down, Arthur must have known that, or so Merlin prayed. He had to listen to reason before he started an all-out war. It wouldn't be contained shootouts over dens or sneaky, backhanded assaults anymore. It would be bodies on the streets, and at the bottom of the river. It would be innocent people caught in the crossfire.
It would be Arthur learning who Merlin really was.
They would lose everything.
Arthur looked around the room, clocking every face, with a steely glare. "Do you think this? All of you?" he asked like it was a dare.
Slowly, the Knights nodded and murmured yeses. Gwen gave a small "yes," too. Merlin stood stone still, too heavy with the weight of everything riding on this decision, too light with the hope of Arthur changing his mind.
Arthur's hard gaze zeroed in on him. "Merlin?"
Merlin eyed his shoes. He couldn't stand to see the look of betrayal on Arthur's face. His silence was all Arthur needed.
He heard Arthur scoff loudly, and looked up just in time to watch Arthur hang his head.
"Well, it doesn't matter what any of you say," he said finally, the edges of his voice razor sharp. "I bought the place three days ago."
"What?" Merlin shouted before he could catch himself. However, the explosion around him drowned it out. Everyone began speaking at once, struggling for dominance as they talked over one another.
Morgana's voice rose above all the rest. "Why the fuck didn't you tell us three days ago?" The rest of the voices died away.
"I was waiting for the bank to process the cheque," was the answer. "And I was waiting for this." He ripped open the top drawer of his desk, reached into it, and threw a rolled up document onto the desk. No one had to unroll it to know it was the deed to the new club.
"And you knew I'd call Father and tell him to stop the bank," Morgana inferred.
"Something like. We start renovations on the building tomorrow."
Arthur could still change his mind. Merlin had to make him. If he'd been sitting on the building for three days, the Kings already knew about it. There was no way Kanen was happy. Someone had to put an end to it before anyone did anything rash, and Morgana's attacks would only shut Arthur down further.
Merlin paced through the room, passed Morgana, and around to the other side of the desk. "Arthur, think about what could happen. You know what Lance said is true," he urged in a level tone. He ducked his head in close to keep Arthur's eyes. He hadn't meant to touch his fingers to Arthur's forearm, but it happened before either of them realized it. "You need to reconsider."
He thought maybe he was getting through to Arthur by the way Arthur's gaze flitted up and down Merlin's face. That was until a foreign voice sounded just outside the office door.
"You should probably listen to him," it said.
The man standing in the doorway had sharp, angular features that must have been sculpted out of marble. They were intensified by deep brown eyes, and framed by a five o'clock shadow that was so brunette it was almost black. His hair, of the same color, was wavy and would have reached his shoulders had it not been tied back loosely in a ponytail. He gave Lancelot major competition for the epitome of "tall, dark, and handsome," and he might have swept the human embodiment of "ruggedly handsome" out from under Gwaine's feet. Merlin knew who he was instantly.
Just a step behind him, Kanen stood glowering. Further back, on his other side, lurked Sigan. In all the commotion, no one heard them come up the stairs.
All the Knights reacted in unison by pulling out their guns and training them on the newcomers. Gwen jumped back, and Morgana's reaching arms wrapped around Gwen's shoulders in protection. Merlin did nothing. He couldn't even turn around to face them completely. He continued to stare over his shoulder, frozen. Like an idiot.
He was convinced that, if he pinched himself, he'd wake up from this horrible nightmare.
"You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man?" the man asked, holding up his hands to prove he was weaponless. The three of them stepped through the door like they owned the place, because they did. Arthur was wrong, whether he would admit it or not: the Kings did own New York.
Lowering his hands, he said, "My name is Cenred, of the—"
"I know who you are," Arthur interrupted curtly. He raised his hand, signaling for his men to relax their weapons. He looked over Cenred's shoulder and said, "Kanen, I thought you'd never show your face. Did you finally grow a pair now that you can hide behind your boss?"
Kanen bristled. His glare fell on Merlin, as though blaming him for Arthur's words. A chill ran down Merlin's spine, and the humid rain outside suddenly made his blood run cold. It woke him up a little, and he managed to turn himself to fully face the men in the doorway.
"What the hell are you doing in my neighborhood?" Arthur demanded.
"To continue to the conversation it seems you're already having," Cenred said, stepping further into the room. "I got on the first train from Chicago when I heard about your new acquisition. You see, there's nothing that happens in the Lower East Side that we don't know about."
He paced to the bookshelf, running his finger along the radio as though checking for dust. He made a production of wiping his hand on his jacket. Everyone in the room watched him like they were waiting for him to pull out a grenade. All the while, he continued, "I've heard a lot about you. The Golden Knight in New York. In truth, you impress me, Arthur. Hell, under different circumstances, I might even root for you. We love an underdog here in the States."
"You don't sound American," Arthur observed, sounding bored.
"No, no, not at all," Cenred agreed. "Anything I may have picked up was beaten back out of me during my training at the Duke of York's."
"Is there a point to this?" Arthur droned.
"Yes." Cenred walked right up to the desk. Everyone but Arthur tensed. Merlin could barely hear anything with how loud his heart was pumping in his ears. "As much as you've impressed me, I need to put a stop to this little squabble before it goes too far. Neither of us want to lose any more of our men."
Arthur raised a speculative brow. "A soldier who doesn't want to fight? How'd that work for you during the War?"
"I'm still here, aren't I? I'd rather be cautious than dead. Pride burns bright, but not for very long," Cenred countered. "You and I are both soldiers, in our own way. And we know a soldier's job is to put an end to the fighting."
"I'd like nothing more than to keep the peace," Arthur agreed. "But there are always those looking for war. You should be giving this speech to your Bandits."
Cenred smiled like he'd found something funny. "Of course! If there's one thing to be said about the wars between gangs, it's that there's no honor amongst thieves. We're all brutes, Arthur. Criminals. But you and I are in a position to be above all that. It begins with letting go of this petty disagreement before it gets out of hand. Walk away from the property in St. Mark's Place."
Merlin held his breath, praying to anything that Arthur would listen.
"And if I don't?" Arthur challenged, because he was stubborn and hardheaded and Merlin wanted to hit him.
Cenred shrugged like it was obvious. "I'll stop you."
"You haven't been able to so far."
"We have a few more tricks up our sleeves," Cenred assured him. Merlin was eternally grateful Cenred hadn't winked at him like it was an inside joke.
Arthur sighed like this was all one big ordeal that he wanted to be over with. "Yeah, well, I'm not one for Vaudeville performances. Too cheap for my liking."
Cenred's expression darkened. "Do not wear my patience thin. My duty is to my men, Arthur, but do not think I'll hesitate to send as many as are needed to put you in your place."
Merlin saw Arthur fists tighten at his sides. "My place is here."
"For now," Cenred threatened. His black gaze moved away from Arthur. It fixed itself on Merlin, regarding him closely. He knew exactly who Merlin was, too. "You, boy. What is your job here?"
"I—." Merlin stopped himself. He reminded himself of his artificial accent. "I bartend."
Cenred nodded like it was the most interesting fact in the world. "Do you enjoy working here, for the Knights?"
Merlin licked his lower lip in thought. He tried not to look at Kanen like he was seeking approval. "Yes," he decided to say.
"And do you want their leader to risk his accomplishments for a rundown building in the East?"
"I don't want anyone to get hurt," Merlin answered politically, truthfully. But it was a little late for that.
Cenred's smile was as big as a shark's. "Smart lad."
"Yeah, for a dirty Mick," Sigan goaded. It worked, depending on whether he was trying to incite Merlin or Arthur.
"What did you just say?" Arthur sneered. He moved like he was about to charge around the desk and throttle Sigan where he stood, all for an insult that didn't really apply, anyway.
Merlin stopped him by holding his palm to Arthur's chest, hovering it less than an inch from the fabric of his shirt. The empty space buzzed like static electricity. Arthur must have felt it, too, because he stopped.
"Arthur," Merlin whispered in a calming way. It's not worth it, he conveyed with his eyes. Clearly, Arthur disagreed, but it tamed him nonetheless.
When they both looked back to Cenred, he was assessing the situation neutrally, but his mind turned visibly like he'd just received a plethora of new useful information. Merlin could almost see a battle stratagem forming behind his eyes.
Arthur hadn't noticed. Instead, he was glaring daggers at Sigan. "Control your spider, Kanen, before I cut off its arms," he warned.
Cenred seemed too have lost interest in the conversation. He cut back in by saying, "Give up the deed, Arthur. You have until nightfall to give me your decision."
"I don't need until nightfall. The answer is no," Arthur shot back, resolute.
Cenred did not look shocked, nor did he look like he'd accepted the answer. "Then, I'll leave it to your men—and your bartender—to convince you otherwise."
He made to leave, but at the last moment changed his mind. He held up a finger and turned back around to say in an afterthought, "By the way, that's a nice ring you have downstairs. I'm quite the boxer myself."
"Really," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes.
Cenred's spirit wasn't dampened by the lack of interest. He continued with as much zeal as before, "I was the reigning champion at the Duke of York's, actually. Everyone in my battalion used to ask me my secret. I told them, it's simple: I'm always able to bring down my opponent by finding his weakest point." He looked at Merlin again, only briefly, only long enough for Merlin to catch it. "You'd be surprised by how often that point is in a man's chest."
By the tight muscles in his jaw, it was clear Arthur understood it as a warning. "Percival," he said tightly. His eyes didn't leave Cenred's. "Show our guests out."
Cenred bowed his head with an amused, dazzling grin. He turned around and motioned for Percy to lead the way. The room fell silent as everyone watched them go.
There was a downpour when Merlin managed to slip away from the Camelot. The rain came down in sheets, fat drops catapulting earthbound to splash on the flooded roads and sting bare skin. They were impossible to dodge, and allowed for very little visibility; and Merlin was soaked through before he'd even reached the nearest subway station.
It would let up soon, as such weather was always so short-lived. Nothing fervent could last.
Merlin had thought of waiting the storm out before sneaking away, but he couldn't delay that long. Cenred wouldn't have come to New York unless he had a plan for Arthur. Merlin had to find out exactly what it was. Every moment might have been precious.
He was dripping when he entered the garment factory, and the rain pounded and hissed on the roof. Merlin left a river in his wake as he made for Kanen's office. The door was open when he got there, an unusual occurrence that paused him momentarily. Inside, Cenred was sitting at Kanen's desk, flipping through files. Kanen hovered over his shoulder seeming, for the first time in his life, anxious. Sigan had taken to his normal spot against the wall.
On Cenred's other side, a woman was perched on the edge of the desk. Long, yellow locks of hair fell around her shoulders and down her slender back in loose currents. Merlin never thought he'd see a woman more glamorous than Morgana, but there she sat, wearing a tight, satin dress the color of blood with golden lace trimming to show off her curves. Her make-up was dark, contrasting but somehow not washing out her fair complexion. It accentuated her eyes, which were arguably the most intimidating thing about her—along with the rest of her expression.
She looked almost bored to be there, as though the great city around her was unimpressive and insignificant. But there was an intensity in the set of brow, and something unyielding in the line of her mouth. She wasn't actually smirking, but traces of one perpetually ghosted her rosy cheeks.
"Ah, Merlin! Come in!" Cenred greeted, looking up. It attracted the attention of everyone else in the room.
The woman's dead stare found him standing in the doorway, nearly paralyzing him with venom. "Give us the room," she said as Merlin did as he was told. Kanen and Sigan immediately crossed him and left, shutting the door behind them. Merlin knitted his eyebrows together after them. He'd never seen Kanen so obedient.
"Allow me to introduce my wife, Morgause. Beautiful, isn't she?" Cenred beamed. Morgause seemed mildly annoyed by the compliment, if she reacted to it at all. Merlin tried to offer her a smile, but it was cut short when her frown only deepened.
Everything Merlin had practiced saying on the train ride over (his demands to know what Cenred was planning, his questions as to why Cenred was in town in the first place) shriveled and died in his throat.
"Sit," Cenred offered, gesturing to the chair across him. Merlin did so, making the old leather squeak from the moisture. A puddle was forming on the wood under his feet. Cenred didn't even seem to notice. "It must have been a surprise for you, seeing me earlier. I would have given you fair warning but, like I said, we came from Chicago as soon as we heard the news. I went right to the Camelot from the train station. I haven't even been to our hotel yet, but Morgause tells me it has a very nice view of Central Park."
Merlin opened and closed his mouth a few times, not really knowing what to say. He hadn't come to discuss their lodging.
"Of course, I hardly knew I'd run into you at all at the Camelot," Cenred continued. "I didn't expect to see you in a private meeting with the Knights." It sounded like an accusation.
"The Golden Knight has taken to you," Morgause said simply, and Merlin briefly believed she knew the full extent of Arthur's fondness. She eyed Merlin like she could see through him.
"He's—He trusts me," Merlin answered awkwardly. He tried not to flush thinking about just how much Arthur had taken to him, and vice versa.
"So he does," Cenred grinned. "Kanen tells me you've done quite the job keeping an eye on our friends in West Side. Because of you, we know the Knights have allied themselves with Annis and Aglain, smugglers upstate, and one—," he looked down at some of the paperwork, "Mr. Kilgharrah, a boxing ring owner."
"I would only call the Caerleons allies. The others really just do business with us—the Knights!" Merlin corrected quickly.
Cenred and Morgause didn't catch the slip-up, or so it appeared.
"Anyone who does business with the Pendragons are allies," Morgause told him matter-of-factly, "and thus, our enemies."
"Yes, they are, and they will go down with the Knights," Cenred avowed, more to Morgause than to Merlin. He might as well have been kneeling at her feet, desperately trying to appease a wrathful goddess. Or, at the very least, keep her entertained.
He turned back to Merlin. "Has Arthur reached his decision about the building on St. Mark's Place yet?"
Morgana, Gwen, and all of the Knights spent hours after Cenred left trying to convince Arthur to walk away from the property. When Merlin left, they were still at it. But Arthur was stubborn, and more steadfast than ever from the moment Cenred showed his face. Thinking anyone could change his mind was as foolish as thinking a breeze could sway a skyscraper. Once Arthur's mind was set to something, it was as good as done.
"He'll never agree to it, especially since you told him to," Merlin said, shaking his head in defeat. "He doesn't see you as a threat. He sees you as a challenge—and he likes a challenge. You should see some of the men he boxes." Merlin realized he was chuckling jovially as he recalled the size and strength of those he'd seen Arthur face in the square circle. However, Cenred and Morgause did not share those memories, so they remained unamused. It made Merlin's expression drop.
Cenred leaned forward, foreboding like the black clouds outside. "You have to convince the Golden Knight to do as we want. Frankly, Arthur has become a pest. Things could turn ugly if he doesn't stay in line."
A pest. That meant Cenred saw the Knights as a threat, or else he wouldn't have come to New York. Perhaps, when Lot was still alive, he could have dealt with the issue swiftly. Cenred was new, and if he wasn't careful, he could lose influence in New York. Arthur couldn't have come at a worse time for him. It almost made Merlin swell with pride, but he knew it wasn't a good thing. Cenred was frightened, which meant he'd do anything to stay on top. Cowardice was dangerous.
"We're wasting our time!" Morgause snipped. "Pendragon is a bug. Let's squash him like one."
"In time, my love," Cenred assured her. "Are you not the one always telling me to be patient? Acting rashly will only upset the Knights' allies, and we do not want that. We must be insidious—"
"And our greatest weapon is already in Pendragon's walls," Morgause finished for him. She looked at Merlin languidly out of the corners of his eyes. Her words did not make sense to him. Greatest weapon? She made it sounds like he was a bomb. He was a spy, not a weapon—and he was trying very hard to not even be a spy anymore!
Again, he got the feeling that she knew more than he did.
"We don't want a war anymore than you do, Merlin. You will get him to change his mind," Cenred ordered.
"Or the pest will be eliminated," Morgause continued for him. Cenred did not correct her that time, which told Merlin he was fully on board.
Merlin gulped. It was suddenly very hard to control his breathing.
"I'll do everything I can. I'll convince him," he promised. He sounded more urgent than he'd wanted to. "But I can't promise he'll change his mind tonight. I need time!"
"Then, we'll give him a reason to make up his mind more quickly!" Morgause declared viciously.
It stilled Merlin. He remembered why he'd come in the first place. He needed to know their plan. "How?" he dared asked. It came out in a breath.
"You leave that to us," Cenred leered. "You focus on Arthur. You must convince him. By any means." His words were suddenly heavy and lined with meaning. He stared at Merlin intently, like he was waiting for Merlin to figure it out.
Merlin blinked. He didn't understand.
"He has taken to you," Morgause repeated herself.
"He trusts you," Cenred quoted, but in a way that suggested he didn't mean trust at all. "Ensure that his trust in you becomes infallible."
The rain had let up. It was trickling against the windows, and pitter-pattering gently on the roof just over their heads. Everything else was quite. Cenred and Morgause waited for an answer. Merlin had stopped breathing.
He couldn't use Arthur, not like that. He wouldn't.
"I'll convince him," Merlin answered at last, when he remembered how to speak. He kept it vague, but then again so had they. They accepted the answer, imposing their own meaning on it.
"Excellent," said Cenred. "Now that we all understand each other, it's time you got back to work. I'm sure we'll speak again shortly."
Merlin stood up, trying to ignore the chill on his skin from his weighted, wet clothes—or under his skin, coming from his core. Anger drained all the heat out of him. He kept it down. He could not let it show. He marched out of the office, not pausing for Kanen and Sigan outside.
He didn't feel the wind or the rain on his cheeks as he made for the subway. The humidity had broken. He had not noticed.
"Merlin!" he heard someone hopefully shout a few blocks from the factory. It was Freya. He swept right past her.
"Not now, Freya," he growled.
He wanted to put as much space between him and Alphabet City as the small island of Manhattan allowed.
All night, Merlin dwelled on Cenred's words. They filled him with a mixture of anger, apprehension, and hate. Mostly, they put him on his guard. Morgause had threatened something bad would happen that night, but Merlin didn't know what. He remained watchful, always ready to act, but nothing happened.
Arthur was nervous, too, though he'd never admit it. Cenred had given him an ultimatum if he didn't comply by sundown, which had been hours ago. He took precautions at both the Camelot and the building on St. Mark's. Even after closing, when the partygoers had all gone home, the Knights remained in the club.
Merlin sat at one of the tables in the club, running the slippery tip of his index finger up and down a leftover glass of liquor. He left trails in the condensation. There were probably better uses of his time, like cleaning up the bar, but he couldn't bring himself to do them. It was all busywork, anyway. He was too on edge, and much too wired, to focus on anything. But he wouldn't leave until he was certain Arthur was safe. He wouldn't be able to sleep if he did.
The club door whined opened. Merlin's head jerked up immediately. He'd been expecting bad news for hours, but suddenly found he wasn't prepared for it.
However, it appeared Arthur had none. He only looked tired and drained. Merlin rose to his feet when Arthur entered and the door swung shut.
"You're not about to try to convince me to give up the club, too, are you?" he asked, rubbing at his eye with one finger. When he stopped, he looked over towards the messy bar, but did not bother to ask Merlin why he wasn't cleaning. "That's the same look I've been getting from everyone else all day."
"Can you blame them?" Merlin inquired when Arthur came closer.
Arthur sighed deeply, his resolved frayed from a day of wear and tear. "No," he admitted. "But I'm keeping it." The lateness of the hour, the night spilling around them, quieted his voice. "I have to do this, Merlin."
"No, you don't. This isn't going to prove anything to anyone."
"Maybe not. But New York is my home now, and it's time I've redecorated."
Merlin scoffed and looked off. Of course, it wasn't enough to be a cog; Arthur had to be the whole machine.
"No one gets it, Merlin. I'd hoped you would," Arthur returned, a bit of fire coming back to his tone. "We're getting under the Kings' skin. We've got them scared; that's why their leader's come."
"Or, they're sick of the pest buzzing around them," Merlin argued morbidly, remembering Cenred's words.
Arthur smiled, or grimaced, and looked down. "You said you wanted somewhere to belong," he reminded Merlin, making Merlin freeze. "We—my men and I—could belong in New York. And you could belong with us."
Merlin wanted that more than anything, but that didn't change what he was. He could cling to Arthur for dear life, but the Kings would always be pulling him in the opposite direction until he was stretched too thin. He already felt that way.
"People could get hurt," Merlin tried playing on Arthur's emotions, if he wouldn't listen to reason. Arthur always put the lives of others before anything. He was brave. Merlin was not. There was one life he feared losing more than anyone else's. "You could get hurt."
Arthur's gaze swept upwards. He regarded Merlin through his eyelashes. His voice was almost joking when he said, "Are you worried?"
"Yes," was the honest answer, said with enough conviction to convey the ache in Merlin's chest.
He turned halfway upon seeing the fond expression Arthur was giving him.
"Don't look at me like that," he said with irritation. He wished Arthur would see the gravity of the situation.
"How's that?" Arthur asked like he already knew. It caused some of Merlin's anger to wither away. He had to fight the upward tug in the corners of his lips.
"Like you want to kiss me."
Arthur stepped in closer, placing his shoe between Merlin's.
"Merlin," he said, "if I wanted to kiss you, I would have done it." And he did do it. He tilted his head in and pecked Merlin's neck. "See?" he asked into Merlin's collar, his breath heating up the slick patch of skin he'd left behind. He touched his palms to Merlin's waist.
There was coarse stubble, invisible but obvious to the touch, on Arthur's chin. It scratched at Merlin as Arthur made his way up to the base of his jaw. Merlin instinctually slanted his head to the other side to give Arthur more room. His hand slid along Arthur's forearm and came to rest on his bent elbow.
"You know Cenred won't be happy. He could make his move tonight," Merlin swallowed, trying to focus.
"Sun's been down for hours, and nothing. He's all talk." Arthur barely moved his lips away to say it. Their gentle, infinitesimal movements tickled. Merlin felt them curve into a smile. "In fact, he may talk even more than you do, which I didn't think possible. I'm the only one making his move tonight." He began nibbling on Merlin's ear.
Merlin bit his lips together and closed his eyes, trying very hard to keep down a gasp. It got out anyway by rumbling in his throat. It seemed to encourage Arthur further, as he started to use more tongue. It made Merlin's knees buckle, but Arthur kept him upright by gripping Merlin's sides tighter. A self-satisfied noise escaped Arthur.
"Convince him," Cenred had ordered. It echoed in Merlin's head. Cenred wanted Arthur under his thumb, to control him, to get him to do anything. Arthur would be a pawn for the Kings and he wouldn't even know it, all because Merlin had his trust. Merlin would be able to convince Arthur to do anything.
But Cenred hadn't ordered for the hairs on Merlin's neck to stand on end, or for his skin to prickle with each sensitive touch, or for his breath to come out with overwrought labor. Merlin's heart hadn't been told to spread its pulse to every far corner of his body, to his fingertips, to his knees, to the pressure in his belly dropping down, down, down . . .
Arthur had commanded it all. Not Cenred.
"By any means."
That's not what this was about. He wouldn't do it, not for Cenred. Cenred, who could have ordered an attack on Arthur that very night. Merlin had to protect Arthur from it. He had to remain at his side. What better way of ensuring his safety than by spending the night with him?
There were probably better ways. This way would make life messy and complicated, and would probably earn Merlin two bullets to the head instead of only one when Arthur found out what he really was. But, oh, it was worth it. It was worth a hundred bullets, Merlin thought.
He gripped Arthur by his shirt, spun them quickly around, and pushed Arthur on top of the table. Arthur huffed at the unexpected movement, but was silenced by the glassware on the table that had tumbled to the floor. Arthur was beaming when Merlin climbed onto him to straddle him. He let out desperate sounds into Merlin's mouth, begging for more—bruised lips and slick, reddened skin. Merlin clasped Arthur's cheeks in both hands, keeping his face steady and rubbing circles into his hairline with the pads of his fingers.
Arthur's palms ran hard up and down Merlin's sides until they hooked around Merlin's ass. They squeezed and kneaded. Merlin shuttered, rendering him too weak to remember how to kiss. He gasped into Arthur, who tried to catch his breath.
"God have mercy," Arthur panted. Merlin kissed the god off his tongue.
He pressed down on Arthur's shoulders, gently keeping him down, as his lips trailed away from Arthur's. Merlin sucked patches onto the sculpted line of Arthur's jaw, its stubble making his lips tender. He moved down Arthur's neck until the loose knot of his tie obstructed any more flesh.
He got high on the taste of Arthur's skin, sweet and vanilla and radiant. Arthur's breath quaked, his Adam's apple strained.
His voice was a discordant laugh when he asked, "You wouldn't try to get rid of me again if I asked you back to my place?"
Merlin exhumed his face from the crook of Arthur neck. He assessed the damaged he'd caused, which was nothing compared to the havoc he wished to wreak. He rode the motions of Arthur's heaving stomach beneath him. Arthur looked back at him with vulnerable, dilated pupils.
"I'd say lead the way," Merlin answered. He saw relief wash over Arthur's face, and felt the quick pause in his breath.
Merlin pried himself off the table, and grabbed Arthur's outstretched wrist to pull him up, too. Arthur landed too close, not close enough. His tendered lips became a smug smirk as they searched Merlin's face for an unmarked patch of skin to devour.
Merlin's trousers were a little too snug. He reached down, and cupped the bulge in Arthur's pants. He chuckled a little vindictively when it caused Arthur to hiss and roll his eyes back.
Arthur crowded in closer, parting his lips like he was about to go in for another kiss. Merlin did the same, yearning and expectant, but Arthur only hovered less than an inch away.
"Keep your hands to yourself," Arthur whispered, "or I won't last the taxi ride."
"We'd give the driver a show," Merlin returned, very convincingly. "We probably wouldn't have to tip."
Arthur bit softly at Merlin's bottom lip, and sucked it until Merlin pulled back only slightly.
"You have no patience," Merlin teased, wrinkling his nose.
"I have too much patience," Arthur asserted. "You've been the one playing hard to get all this time."
Merlin attempted to make a sarcastic "mmm" sound, but it come out as a lascivious rumble in his throat. He placed two fingers in the center of Arthur's chest and pushed him away. Arthur fell back easily like it was a game.
Merlin made for the exit, with Arthur quickly on his tail.
The club door boomed open before they reached it. Leon burst through, looking alarmed even after his eyes found Arthur.
"Arthur, you'd better come quickly," he said.
Merlin's grin vanished into the pit in his stomach. The flushed heat on his skin retreated, leaving only the cold. He looked over his shoulder at Arthur, whose frenzied eyes gave new meaning to his skewed hair and loosened tie.
Arthur bound after Leon.
They could see it from blocks away. Volatile reds and oranges illuminated the black sky, causing whole buildings to become silhouettes and making the neon lights in the nearby storefronts seem dull and dim. A cloud of gray smoke obstructed the moon. Sirens wailed in the close distance, getting louder as the shine runner zipped closer.
Leon pulled the car up to the curb, and Arthur didn't wait for him to kill the engine before jumping out of the passenger seat. The heat coming off the blazing building stung his cheeks, but he barely registered it. He was numb, and had the distinct impression that he was invisible.
He was vaguely aware of Leon rushing around from the other side of the car, and of Merlin slowly getting out of the backseat.
A crowd had congregated at a safe distance, watching the flames, until they eventually got bored and moved on. A line of police surrounded them, keeping them from getting too close. Arthur stood to the back of the crowd, not daring to take another step and not wanting to mix with the masses. He needed his space. He needed breathing room, despite the suffocating carbon filling the air.
Firemen bustled around the area. Some were coming out of the shattered windows and non-existent doorway. No living or charred bodies were in their arms, which probably meant no one had been inside. At least that was one blessing.
A dozen black fire engines, with their ladders still secured on the sides, were littered about the street, which had been closed off to traffic. A deluge of water burst from hoses aimed at the licking flames. They only grew hotter and taller.
It was no use. By the time the fire burnt out, the building would be gone. The firemen were more concerned with containing it, making sure it didn't spread to the rest of Hell's Kitchen.
The Dragon was lost. To fire. Arthur almost laughed at the irony.
Instead, he ground his teeth and balled his fists tightly. He was pretty sure the heat rising in him had little to do with his proximity to the flames.
If Cenred thought burning down the Dragon would convince Arthur to walk away from St. Mark's Place, he was wrong. It only strengthened Arthur's resolve.
He felt Leon and Merlin settle at his sides. Leon's eyes shifted between Arthur's face and the Dragon. He looked ready to dive into the flames at Arthur's command. Merlin stared up at the fire with shimmering eyes and parted lips. The sight transfixed him, and his brow was lined with agony.
"I've just thought of a name for the new club," Arthur told them, the edges of his words sharp as knives.
Both men put all their attention on him. Arthur felt their eyes on him as he looked straight ahead. One of the outer walls caved and crumbled in, causing a mix of reactions amongst the crowd. Some cheered with delighted like the fire danced solely for their entertainment, others gasped in horror, and the rest jumped back out of reflex. The police tried to push the crowd further back.
"The Albion."
Chapter Text
For a month, the Albion was the only thing Arthur was interested in. Merlin was pretty sure he was obsessed, and at times it might have been a good idea to have an exorcist on hand. If Cenred thought burning down the Dragon would scare Arthur off, he was sorely misguided. If anything, it spurred on Arthur's crusade even more.
Arthur made renovations everyone's number one priority, and personally hired contractors that he deemed semi-trustworthy after rigorous interviews that should have sent them running away screaming. Many of the electricians had, actually, which is the sole reason the Albion wasn't finished yet. Nothing could move forward until the gas power was converted to electric, so Arthur made it his mission to find an electrician to keep things going. He must have met with every company in Manhattan.
In the meantime, Annis' dens were put on the backburner; so was Kilgharrah, who Arthur had promised to find a new location for the Dragon once the Albion was completed. Meanwhile, Kilgharrah and a handful of his men oversaw the Camelot's ring.
It was a situation that . . . Well, wasn't ideal.
He was more of a perfectionist than Arthur, and much more blunt, too. It drove everyone mad. Most of the time Kilgharrah didn't even have to raise his voice, or even use his voice at all, for that matter. He'd just stare with those boring golden eyes, and the person on the receiving end would immediately have the guilt-ridden urge to find the nearest church to confess all his life-long sins.
That was one reason the Knights and Morgana did all they could to aid in the building of the Albion as much as possible. The second reason was, everyone had given up on convincing Arthur it was a terrible idea.
Everyone, of course, except Merlin.
With every passing day, Cenred's patience grew thinner. It wouldn't be long until it ran out entirely, despite Merlin's persistent assurance that the Albion would never open for business. That he'd convince Arthur otherwise. For the Kings. For their territory. For their clout in New York.
But it was all for Arthur. Merlin feared for Arthur's life if the Albion ever opened, because he knew Cenred wouldn't send another message. He'd be out for blood.
Merlin tirelessly stuck to Arthur like glue, watching all the shadows in the corners of his eyes like they were monsters. When Arthur was in the Camelot, surrounded by the protection of his Knights, ensuring his safety was easier. When Arthur left to meet with builders or plumbers or run some other errand (usually to do with the Albion), it was harder. Merlin had to continuously come up with excuses to tag along, and was many times shot down. In those instances, he spent more time biting his nails than getting any work done until Arthur got back.
And then there were Arthur's bi-, sometimes tri-, weekly visits to Albion. He said he wanted to make sure the renovations were running smoothly and everything was going according to plan. Really, he just wanted to see with his own two eyes that it was still standing.
Merlin would always go with him. He wouldn't let Arthur be just a hair's breadth away from Cenred and Kanen without being there, too. Snitches could have been watching the Albion, waiting for Arthur to arrive alone so the Kings could strike. Hell, Sigan himself might have even been watching the club. Merlin took it upon himself to be equally vigilant.
But that day, it seemed he wouldn't be accompanying Arthur.
"For the last time, Merlin, I need you here," Arthur groaned as he exited the stairwell from his office and started into the ring.
Merlin was hot on his heels, nearly tripping over himself to keep Arthur's attention. "Lancelot can handle today's delivery. He knows how to stock everything. I've taught him the system."
Around them, the cleaning staff was prepping the ring for the night's fight. Kilgharrah was there, his head clouded in thick cigar smoke, as he surveyed the progress. If even one crease were left in the square circle's mat, he'd know.
"Yes, but you know what we need on hand and what we can put in the storehouse," said Arthur. They were almost to the exit now. Merlin couldn't let Arthur leave without him.
"I'll do it when we get back!"
Arthur stopped walking and dropped his shoulders. He faced Merlin with soft humor lining his features. "Merlin. Half the day will be gone by that time. I have to go out to Queens to meet with an electrician before I head to the Albion. It'll take a couple of hours."
Merlin blinked, struggling to come up with something to say. "Then, I'll meet you at the club," was what rolled out. He wondered what Arthur must have thought of him.
To his surprise, Arthur was fighting back a smirk, albeit an exasperated one. "Just . . . stay here, will you? Where you're needed. I'll see you later."
Merlin thinned his lips in defeat as Arthur walked out the door. As he debated following after Arthur in secret, he didn't notice Kilgharrah appear at his side. He smelt the smoke a fraction of a second before Kilgharrah spoke.
"It's not every day you see a Black King looking out for a Knight."
Merlin's heart jumped into his throat. All of his muscles tensed. Kilgharrah had seen the reaction, he was sure of it, which only put Merlin more on edge when he tried to play cool.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, his tone sounding pushed even to him.
Kilgharrah furrowed his caterpillar brows and favored Merlin with a stare that could make a dead man's skin crawl. "You're Merlin Emrys."
Merlin shook his head fervently, probably doing more to reveal his panic than to mask it. "You've got the wrong—"
"Oh, come! There aren't many people in this city called Merlin," Kilgharrah bellowed with laughter, like he knew exactly how many people there were named Merlin in New York and he kept tabs on them all. "Especially those who are the spitting image of their father."
The shock of it made Merlin forget himself. "You knew my—?" He caught it too late. He closed his eyes, wishing he could take his words back. If Kilgharrah said anything to anyone, Merlin was a dead man.
Why, Merlin wondered, hadn't Kilgharrah told Arthur yet? Was he waiting for confirmation? Was he waiting to know for sure?
But when Merlin built up enough courage to open his eyes, there wasn't a trace of victory on the old man's face. Nor did he look the least bit surprised. "Yes, I knew him quite well, long before either of us came to the States," he simply stated, his voice grumbling with memory. "Balinor was the one who helped me get out of England in the first place."
Merlin didn't ask what happened to him that made him leave England. He supposed it was better not to ask. Besides, he was too busy looking over his shoulder to make sure no one had heard Balinor's name. Everyone in the ring seemed to be minding their own business, but Merlin leaned in to keep his voice low for good measure. He dropped his act.
"Wouldn't that make you loyal to the Bandits?" he wondered. Maybe Kanen had sent more than one spy into Arthur's midst. If that was the case, Merlin needed to know. He couldn't trust Kilgharrah.
"I was loyal to Balinor, not his people. Certainly not that power-hungry cretin, Kanen," was the answer. Kilgharrah sounded a little aghast that Merlin would even think he'd so much as exchange pleasantries with Kanen. Merlin wondered what made Kilgharrah hate Kanen enough to spat his name in such a way. He didn't seem like a man who got involved with gang rivalries, but still he said, "In fact, I'm quite hoping Arthur comes out on top in this war. He could do great things for this city."
Kilgharrah grumbled again, but it sounded more like a lion's purr than a thoughtful hum. "Yes, yes, he could, indeed . . . If you keep doing what you're doing, he may just win, after all."
Merlin doubted he had any real part to play in Arthur's success. He was just trying to keep Arthur alive. "Doing what I'm doing?" he echoed. He was taller than Kilgharrah by at least a half of a foot, but still felt oddly like Merlin was the smaller of the two. Somehow, it seemed like he had to look up to meet the old man's gaze.
"Protecting him from the Kings," Kilgharrah said like it was obvious. Merlin was suddenly convinced that Kilgharrah had, in fact, been keeping tabs on him all this time. He wondered if he'd been working as deep in the shadows as he'd thought, and who else had figured him out. The paranoia overwhelmed him momentarily before Kilgharrah recaptured his attention by musing, "No one could blame you for turning against the Bandits, not after what Kanen did to your father."
Merlin's stomach dropped. He didn't know why. He was exhausted from fretting after Arthur day in and day out, and tossing and turning with insomnia at night. His nerves were frayed, his stomach was in knots, and now Kilgharrah was offering nothing but confusion. He seemed to know more about Merlin's life than Merlin did.
"What did he do?" Merlin demanded, not sure he wanted to know the answer. But he was more eager than he was curious. All his life, he'd been searching for a tangible reason to hate Kanen.
Kilgharrah fixed him with one of those knowing stares, and it made Merlin's soul feel unclean. "Your father's death," he answered slowly.
Merlin blinked. Perhaps Kilgharrah didn't know anything, after all. "Caerleon killed my father."
"Did he, now?" Kilgharrah chuckled, and Merlin suddenly wasn't so sure. "Kanen told you that?"
Maybe it was his bias against Kanen, but Merlin believed it. He thought of Myror, whom Kanen admitted had been there during Balinor's death. Kanen had been the only man in the middle of the shootout to get away with his life, and now Merlin thought he knew why that was.
Kanen had manipulated him, and Merlin had known it, too, ever since he saw Myror in the den. And yet, he played along.
Merlin felt like he was drowning. He needed air. He needed to get away from Kilgharrah's weighted stare. He rushed out of the club and breathed in a bout of the murky river breeze fending off the currents. He didn't stop walking, even though he didn't know where he was going. He let his feet guide him where they may as his mind reeled.
Eventually, after he didn't know how long, he came to a conclusion: He was done. Done with Kanen's games and Cenred's orders. Done with the Kings, and everything gang-related. He didn't want that life anymore. He could no longer live in the skin that had grown around him, but never thick enough, since Balinor's death. It was starting to suffocate him.
He was through with it. He wanted to be the Merlin Arthur knew, the one he trusted. He wanted to be far away from the Lower East Side—in the mountains, in the cabin by the river in Arthur's fantasy.
However, he found himself walking in the direction of Alphabet City, like a magnetic pull. It took him a little under an hour to reach his tenement building on foot. The oppressive sun was high in the sky now. He decided he would pack his bags and never look back. He didn't know where to go, but he'd sleep in a park if he had to. Anywhere was better.
Maybe he was being dramatic. It didn't matter. It was something in his life he could control, and it had to be enough for now.
Just before he reached his stoop, he heard someone calling his name. It was Freya. He ignored her and pushed inside.
A few blocks east, Arthur unlocked the front door of the Albion and stepped inside.
The ring beyond was nearly finished, as was the speakeasy on the top floor. All that was left to do was rebuild and paint the walls, after the electrician came in and tore them up to convert the gas pipelines into wires. It seemed that would all happen soon: the specialist Arthur had met with earlier was promising. He was scheduled to start work on the club the next morning.
The Albion was no longer a dream. It was all laid out in front of Arthur.
He could picture all the patrons packed inside, everyone from Lower Manhattan—from Greenwich to Tribeca to SoHo, all the hungry businessmen on Wall Street, all the upscale residence of Staten Island with their New Money lining their pockets. He'd turn the Lower East Side into something Cenred never could, something Kanen never dreamed, right under their noses.
He'd show them that the Kings' days were numbered.
Arthur coughed. He coughed again, a few times into his elbow. Something in the air was making him gag and stinging his eyes. It might have been dust from construction floating around, or the newly polished floorboards. Whatever it was, it had to be gone by opening night. It was suffocating.
He paced towards a window and opened it, hoping to air the place out. He blinked the water out of his eyes and cleared his clogged throat.
Perhaps he should open another window . . .
As soon as the door slammed shut, it opened again. Freya rushed through, looking as irate as anyone as meek as Freya could possibly look. Merlin knew she'd followed him upstairs from the street, and apparently she was well aware he'd been ignoring her.
"It's not a good time, Freya," he told her harshly from over his shoulder when she shut the door again. He instantly regretted it. It wasn't fair, and he knew it: she hadn't done anything wrong. If he could count on anyone, it was her.
"No, it never is anymore," she replied, sounding hurt instead of angry. It stung nonetheless.
"I'm sorry," he whispered timidly.
If she accepted the apology, or even heard it, she didn't acknowledge it. "You haven't spoken to me in months. I'm worried about you, Merlin."
He tried to look at her, but he was too ashamed to manage it for very long. He should have treated her better. "I'm sorry." He knew he'd said that already. The words left him plastic and hollow.
He wasn't certain she'd heard him, because she offered him no comfort. She said, "You're letting this job consume you."
It's not a job, he almost said. The Knights weren't a job. They were his friends! Arthur wasn't a job. He was . . .
He was everything.
Merlin bit his tongue.
"You wouldn't understand," he tried. It was a lame excuse, and Freya knew it, too.
"I might, if you told me what's going on." She took a few tentative steps closer, as though she was trying not to scare off a fawn. "It's Arthur, isn't it? You care about him?"
Yes, Merlin wanted to reply. He didn't. He sat down on the edge of his mattress. Freya did, too, sitting close but not daring to touch him. He wished she would, but he thought he might shatter if she did. He and Will always thought she was the fragile one, but they were wrong. Merlin felt like he was being held together by broken shards of glass.
"Kanen had my father killed," he admitted, not looking at her. "And he put a hit out on me, too. I think it's because he knew Will and I planned to double-cross him."
Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Freya start. She didn't look surprised, jut dismayed. "Are you sure?"
He had no proof, just the word of a man who seemed to know everything. "I can feel it," as clearly as he knew, "And now they're going to try to kill Arthur, too."
Try. That word was what mattered. Merlin would make sure they failed.
Freya's gaze dropped to her lap. "Oh," she said softly, "so you know already."
For the second time that day, the air was thick and unattainable. Why did people keep assuming he knew things?
"Know what?" he demanded, already flighty. "Freya!"
"It's what I came here to tell you," she began. He wished she'd cut to the chase. Whatever it was, she should have told him the moment she walked through the door. Again, he kicked himself for ignoring her, but now for a completely different reason than her feelings. "I heard Kanen talking. They're going to kill Arthur—today."
Merlin sprung to his feet. "How?"
"They caused a gas leak in the Albion," she explained, and Merlin remembered how to breathe. A gas leak wasn't an immediate threat, like a sniper or a knifeman was. Arthur would still be alive. "They did it this morning. The club will be filled with it by now."
"I need to warn him," said Merlin with determination. Maybe Arthur hadn't even gotten to the Albion yet. If he left now, he could meet Arthur there. "Let's hope he doesn't decide to start a bonfire," he joked, attempting to calm himself down.
It didn't help that Freya was giving him a very serve look. "Merlin," she said like she was about to spell out something very obvious, something only adults knew, to a child. "Doesn't Arthur smoke?"
The room was suddenly very small. It moved around dizzyingly. Merlin tore from it.
The Albion was blocks away, on the other side of Tompkins's Square Park. As Merlin raced for it, he didn't see any angry smoke pluming in the distance. He took that as a good sign, but it could change any moment. He prayed Arthur hadn't gotten to the Albion yet, after all.
Cars, their drivers convinced they had more important places to be than he did, blared their horns at him whenever he leapt in front of them to cross the street. He dodged them, but not out of self-preservation. He could only think of Arthur.
He didn't know what he'd tell Arthur once he got to the Albion, or how he'd get Arthur out of the club. There was always the truth, he supposed. He'd tell it if he had to. He'd tell Cenred, too, if a spy was lurking about and witnessed Merlin saving the very man he was meant to destroy. Cenred would kill him, if Arthur didn't first.
But he no longer feared Kanen or Cenred; he was no longer scared of losing his life. Arthur's safety eclipsed it all.
St. Mark's Place was a ghost town compared to the rest of the Lower East Side. At least, it was during that time of the day. It only came alive during the night, when its speakeasies, opium dens, and whorehouses opened for business. Why would Arthur pick such a wretched place to build his empire?
Because he was trying to change it. Because Kanen never even thought about changing it. Because Arthur wanted to prove himself.
Merlin darted past the darkened doors for the Albion. His heartbeats crashed against his ribs quicker than his feet hit the pavement.
Winded and panicked, he slammed open the entrance doors. Arthur was standing just inside, placing a new cigarette between his lips. He stood amongst the fresh wooden floors, polished so meticulously that Merlin saw his reflection mirrored in its sheen, and the giant, clean square circle in the dead center of a sea of cushioned benches. The ring was dazzling, and the club upstairs might have been magnificent enough to put the Lower East Side on the map for the young, beautiful, and affluent.
Merlin thought nothing of it, but only of the coughing fit that attacked him the moment he ran through the threshold. He tried to catch his breath, but the gas blocked his throat.
Instead of reaching for his matches, Arthur reacted by pulling out his gun and spinning it towards Merlin, but he settled when he realized who it was. "Merlin? What the hell are you—?" he began, relaxing his weapon. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and rolled it between his fingers. His voice was clear, possibly because he'd had more time to adjust to the polluted air; or possibly because he hadn't just run five blocks.
"We have to get out here," Merlin wheezed out. He stomped towards Arthur and grabbed his elbow, practically dragging him to the door.
"What? Don't be ridiculous," Arthur said, shaking himself out of Merlin's grip.
When Merlin spun back around to face him, he didn't hold back the terrified glint in his eyes. "I'll explain later! Please, just come outside!"
Merlin was begging. It was a frantic sight Arthur probably hadn't thought him capable of before; Merlin was always too stubborn. But it made Arthur pay attention, and Merlin knew he'd follow him towards the exit.
"Alright, Merlin, enough," Arthur called when they were outside, making Merlin stop in the middle of the deserted road and jump around. Arthur had stopped in the doorway. He was holding his cigarette between his lips again.
"Arthur, we have to go!"
Arthur sighed heavily and reached into his pocket. "Will I ever get a straight answer out of you?" he muttered, and pulled out his matchbook. He struck one and cupped it to his mouth in the split second it took Merlin to realize it.
"No!" Merlin bellowed, bounding forward. He hardly registered Arthur's appalled expression when he grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him away from the door. He ripped the cigarette from Arthur's mouth, and its fiery tip burnt his fingers in the process. He chucked it away somewhere—anywhere.
There was a loud bang. It was a mix of splintering wood, shattering glass, and exploding concrete. The worst part wasn't the sound. It was the blast of heat that directly followed it. Merlin was thrown off his feet and onto his back. The wind was knocked out of him, making him sputter. His temple was throbbing, and when he touched his hand to it, he drew back blood. His ears were ringing incessantly.
He propped himself up on his elbows and squinted up to the building. The windows had been blown out and the door was hanging off its hinges. Some of the brick face on the lower level was gone. Fire was blazing inside, and the buildings on either side were smoking, too.
Debris littered the street and sidewalk. Arthur was among it, facedown on the cement next to Merlin. Merlin rolled to his side and rasped Arthur's name, his heart in his throat. He grunted as he turned Arthur over heavily. Arthur was breathing, but unconscious. Apart from a bump to the head and soot blackening his skin and hair, he was fine.
Merlin pushed himself to his knees, fighting the ache of his whole body, and slapped Arthur's cheeks gently. "Arthur? Come on, Arthur," he whispered in his natural accent. His own voice sounded like it was buried beneath the rubble. "Wake up, dollophead." They had to get out of there before the Bandits showed up.
When Arthur didn't rouse, Merlin staggered to his feet and latched his arms under Arthur's. He started dragging.
Everything was hazy when Arthur first woke up. He was dizzy and sore, and he blinked to adjust his eyes to the lowlight. He was in a completely unfamiliar room, laying on a strange bed, and felt like he'd just taken a beating to the head. For a moment, he thought he was hung over, but he hadn't been drinking.
At least, he didn't remember drinking.
He peered around the room for clues. It was a small, one-room apartment, probably in a bad neighborhood. It was messy, but in an organized sort of way. There was a dresser with the drawers open and clothes pouring out. There was a small dinner table and two splintered wooden chairs near the door. Next to Arthur was a cluttered nightstand with an antique gas lamp, its flame flickering.
Arthur found Merlin standing next to the window on the other side of the room. Merlin looked ruffled with his shirt untucked and his braces hanging around his hips. He was enraptured by something as he glared out the closed curtain at the street below. He reminded Arthur somewhat of a guard dog protecting its master.
"Merlin?" he grunted, instantly causing Merlin's attention to snap to him. Arthur sat up and rubbed his head. "What's going on?"
"You're awake," Merlin breathed, relief in his tone. He let the curtain flick closed and moved to Arthur's side. "Do you remember what happened?"
Arthur let the question turn over in his mind as he winced. Suddenly, it all came back to him: a deafening boom, heat, and then darkness. "The club!" he realized aloud.
"There was a gas leak."
Arthur felt a rush of adrenaline, despite the throbbing in his muscles. "It was the Kings!"
Merlin held his palms up to keep Arthur still. His lips tightened. "I told you they wouldn't let you on their territory," he said. He wasn't bragging. He seemed contrite. "You could have died," he reprimanded in a thick voice. He looked away as though to collect himself.
Arthur blinked, stunned. "I didn't know you cared that much," he said lightly, despite the warmth he felt beneath his breastbone.
He sat back against the pillows again and rubbed at the soreness in his chest. "You know, in London, we put an odorant in our gas so things like this don't happen. It smells like rotten eggs," he said ruefully, as though he were convinced none of this would have ever happened if he had stayed in England.
He wasn't so sure he wanted that anymore.
"Welcome to New York," said Merlin flatly.
Arthur dropped his shoulders in defeat. He looked around the room again, trying to place it on a map. "Where are we?"
"My place," Merlin told him, going back to the window. "Alphabet City."
Arthur jerked his head back in surprise. "You live in the Kings' neighborhood?" he demanded. He ripped the sheets off of him and jumped out of the bed. It made him a little woozy at first, but he soldiered through.
"It's all I can afford. I stay out of their way," Merlin told him as Arthur joined him by the window. He looked out the curtain, too. It was after dark, and the streets bellow were crowded with men and woman going this way and that. The Bandits would be out; it was too risky to leave.
Merlin knew it, too. "We'll wait until daybreak to get you out of here," he offered.
"Right," Arthur agreed. "Good." He left Merlin behind and sat on the edge of the mattress. He blew his cheeks out and folded his hands on his lap, not quite knowing what to do. He wasn't used to sitting still, especially on someone else's bed.
"So," he began awkwardly. "You live here?"
"Yeah," said Merlin, still looking out the window like he expected something interesting to happen.
Arthur took another sweeping look around at how small it was. "Ah," he said, scrunching his nose. "I should give you a pay raise."
"That would be nice," Merlin muttered. Finally, he moved away from the window to stand over Arthur. "Are you hungry? I could go out and get you some dinner."
Arthur scanned his face, all puppy-dog eyes and guiltily set jaw. Merlin had no reason to be acting that way. After all, he'd saved Arthur's life. Then, Arthur noticed the gash on Merlin's temple. It hadn't been there before the explosion.
"You're hurt," Arthur said, standing up and ghosting his fingers over the wound.
Merlin titled his head away and grimaced. "It's nothing."
Arthur felt his anger spike again. "I'll kill them."
"You might want a better plan than that," Merlin advised dismissively.
"Are you hurt anywhere else?" Arthur demanded, not listening. He hated that Merlin was put in the middle of this.
"Just a bruised shoulder. Nothing major." Merlin chuckled like he'd gotten the bruise after tripping down the steps; however, it stilled Arthur's heart.
"Let me see."
"Arthur—"
"Let me see!"
Arthur started unbuttoning Merlin's shirt, and slapped Merlin's hands away every time he fussed. Eventually, Merlin huffed and gave in, and Arthur discarded the shirt once it was off. He jerked Merlin around and inspected his back. There was a rather large black and blue blooming between his shoulder blades, but there was no damage other than that. Arthur breathed in relief and poked his finger into the bruise. Merlin hissed.
"Don't be such a girl, Merlin," Arthur said. "It's nothing."
"Told you," Merlin retorted.
Arthur barely heard it. His mind was stuck on the miniscule muscle movements in Merlin's back. He was leaner than Arthur would have thought. Still, his shoulders were boney and grooved. In his haste, Arthur had overlooked the curled black hairs on Merlin's chest and the ridges of his collarbone. Arthur ran his hands along Merlin's shoulders and rested his palms on his biceps. He felt Merlin shiver.
Merlin looked over his shoulder at Arthur, catching Arthur's eyes.
Arthur said nothing. He just kept staring.
"Arthur?"
Merlin turned around but kept the close proximity. Arthur's eyes dragged down to his lips, which soon curved into a smirk.
"I'd wait around all night for you to make a move," Merlin said, just before snaking his palm around the back of Arthur's neck and pulling him forward.
The kiss was more delicate than it had been that night at the club. It wasn't quick or aggressive or desperate. It was like a whisper, soft and intimate. They stayed close when they came up for air, and Arthur caught Merlin's scent as he breathed him in. He smelt like wildflowers and a forest of autumn leaves, like the wind coming up off the water, like ash and coal. He smelt like he didn't belong in the city.
They were smiling breathlessly, their foreheads touching and their noses brushing and bumping against each other. Merlin's long fingers were still caressing Arthur's neck.
Arthur planted another kiss. And another. He could feel Merlin's grin, could hear the humming happiness rumbling in Merlin's throat.
Arthur backed away a few steps. He latched a finger into the waistline of Merlin's trousers and pulled him along. Merlin had mischief in eyes as he followed Arthur closer to the bed.
When the back of Arthur's knees hit the bed, Merlin grabbed his braces and yanked Arthur into another kiss, this one harder than the first. Arthur fell backwards and wrapped his arms around Merlin to take him down, too. He landed with a humph as Merlin's weight crashed on top of his aching chest, and he felt a puff of Merlin's breath fill him up. But Merlin's lips never left his.
Arthur turned them over, pinning Merlin down on the sheets, and pulled away to breathe. Merlin was panting heavily beneath him, his lips full and glistening and his cheeks flushed with heat. His hair stood out against the white of blankets. Arthur stared down at him salaciously and Merlin stared back as though he was daring Arthur to make the next move.
He did. He reached between them and splayed his fingers on Merlin's torso. He brought it down the front of Merlin's trousers, passed the coarse hairs.
Merlin shuddered at the contact. He was already stiff in Arthur's fingers. Arthur chuckled at the overwrought sounds escaping him. Merlin reached around Arthur's back and tugged his shirt out of his trousers to make room for his hands.
Arthur leaned in and kissed Merlin's neck, his tongue running across the rough stubble. It tasted like smoke from the fire.
He moved to the crook of Merlin's neck, remembering the way Merlin's body had reacted when Arthur had done that the last time. Merlin hissed with pleasure and dug his nails into Arthur's skin. It hurt a little, but Arthur got payback by sinking his teeth into the raw flesh he was kissing.
Merlin started moaning in a way that made a fire blaze in Arthur's abdomen. He'd taken his hands out of Arthur's trousers and tugged at his shirt, desperately wishing for it to disappear.
"Why are you still dressed?" he pouted.
"I could ask you the same thing," Arthur pointed out.
Reluctantly, he pushed himself off of Merlin and stood up. He struggled out of his braces and kicked off his shoes. On the bed, Merlin was fighting himself out of his trousers and pants. When he finally managed it, Arthur got distracted by the sight of him and stopped fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. His whole body ached and pounded.
Merlin caught him staring and chuckled. "And you call me useless."
"Oh, I've thought of some uses for you."
Merlin lifted an eyebrow in a challenge. "Yeah?" He sat up and undid Arthur's trousers before tugging them down. He wasn't as patient with the shirt. He grabbed it on both sides and tore it open.
"Hey!" Arthur scolded. "I like this shirt!"
"You'll like this better," Merlin promised. He was right. Merlin did things with his mouth that made it hard to believe he ever had a mother.
Arthur gripped the back of Merlin's head, holding him in close and tangling his fingers into his hair. He thought his legs might give out on him.
"I—I should definitely give you a pay raise."
Merlin laughed and came up for air. "I'll tell you what you can give me!"
He grabbed Arthur's wrists and pulled him down next to him. Arthur didn't fight it. He crashed down and rolled over onto his back. Merlin crawled on top of him and bent over to suck red marks onto Arthur's collar.
"Please tell me you have something," Arthur hoped.
Merlin hummed in the affirmative and sat back. He shuffled as he stretched his arm towards the nightstand and fumbled through the drawer.
It was torment. The friction it caused was absolute torment and Merlin knew it, too, by the way he was biting back a smirk.
When Merlin found what he needed, he sat straight and brandished the tube in victory. Arthur huffed and grabbed for it, but Merlin held it out of reach.
"No, you're going to have to work for it," he teased.
Arthur gaped.
Torment. Yes, that was the word for it. That was the word for his entire relationship with Merlin, he thought.
"I'll show you working for it!" he yelled. He pushed Merlin off of him and onto the bed. Merlin scrambled, laughing, and Arthur wrestled him until Merlin was on his stomach with a face-full of mattress. Merlin squirmed, and Arthur only let him go was he was certain he wouldn't move.
He planted kisses on Merlin's shoulders, on every freckle, careful to avoid the bruise. He dragged his lips along Merlin's shoulder blades and followed the curve of his spine with his tongue, lower and lower and lower until Merlin was moaning again.
The sun had risen two hours previous. Merlin had watched it paint the wall adjacent to the window in pink, which slowly faded to whites and blues. He couldn't bring himself to wake Arthur up.
Arthur was on his stomach with one arm slung limply over Merlin's torso. His blonde tuffs were sticking up in every angle, and Merlin had to force himself not to smooth them. His cheek was buried into the pillow as he snored against it.
He snored.
How could snoring be the best thing in the world?
Arthur looked so soft and delicate in the morning light.
Merlin lay on his back, refusing to move. He was content just watching Arthur. More than that, he was happy—so happy that it might have been easy to mistake it for sadness.
But, eventually, Arthur stirred. Before his eyes even opened, his breathing pattern changed and his features flickered with wakefulness. He stretched, making the muscles of his back ripple perfectly. His blue gaze swept open.
Merlin met it with a smile. Arthur's was sleepier.
"Sleep well?" Merlin asked him.
Arthur chuckled deeply into the pillow like Merlin had just told a joke. "And how!"
Chatter from the streets below filtered into the room. Car horns honked and engines turned over. Merlin had listened to the early birds make their rounds: the garbage collectors, the milk trucks, the postman. New York was waking up, coming alive again.
They couldn't stay any longer. The Bandits would be patrolling soon, and Merlin had to show up at the factory that morning. If he didn't, Cenred would suspect he'd had a hand in Arthur's survival. Merlin would have to come up with a good lie for that, but he wasn't too worried about it. It seemed all he ever did anymore was lie.
"We'd better get up and smuggle you back to Chelsea," said Merlin. He tried not to think about leaving Arthur or the bed. He decided to get it over with as quickly as he could, and started to get up. Arthur curled his arm tighter around Merlin and pulled him back down.
"Arthur," Merlin scolded. "I'm not kidding."
Arthur gave a long groan and buried his face further into the pillow. "Five more minutes," came his muffled voice.
"No can do," Merlin asserted. He attempted getting up again, and this time Arthur launched himself at Merlin. No matter how much he squirmed, Merlin was eventually pinned down the bed. On top of him, Arthur had a look of playful victory.
Snogging didn't take too much convincing, and Arthur got his extra five minutes.
"You've got bad morning breath," Merlin told him when they pulled away. But Merlin found he didn't care. God, he was in pathetically deep.
Arthur responded by puffing right into Merlin's face. Merlin wrinkled his nose in mock disgust and turned his head to the side.
He felt Arthur's body shake as it rumbled with laughter against him. Arthur was casting him one of his brightest sunshine smiles, which always made a grin suddenly erupt across Merlin's face.
Merlin's expression soon softened as he noticed things about Arthur's smile that he hadn't before at a distance. The lines that formed on his forehead. Slightly dimpled cheeks that made him look like a kid. The way his eyes seemed to brighten to a lighter shade of blue. Merlin stayed on those eyes as Arthur gazed right back.
"What's that look?" Arthur teased.
Merlin shook his head gently. "I don't have a look."
"Yes, you do!"
"It's nothing." Merlin felt suddenly coy. His gaze dropped to Arthur's lips and he bit the inside of his cheek. "I just guess I'm sort of stuck on you."
If it was possible, Arthur's face brightened. "Yeah?" he asked, lightheartedness still lingering in his tone, mixed now with an edge of wonderment. "I'm stuck on you, too."
All of a sudden, Merlin felt very warm.
Arthur got more than five minutes.
They got to the Astor Place subway station without a problem, even though Merlin felt like they were being watched on the entire walk over. His hairs were standing on end and he kept looking around for a face he recognized: a Bandit or one of their snitches. He saw no one, but that didn't mean they didn't see him.
"I'll see you at the Camelot," Merlin said when they stopped outside the station's entrance.
Arthur nodded. The Knights would have caught wind of the explosion by now, and Arthur had to get back and assure them he was alive and well. "The Camelot."
He leaned in and gave Merlin a quick peck on the lips, which only settled Merlin's nerves until it was over. Then Merlin was even more on edge than before. If anyone had seen that . . .
Arthur jostled down the steps into the subway platform. Merlin took another hasty look around at all the people who didn't care enough to look back at him. It didn't calm him one bit.
Arthur went straight to the Camelot. It was probably best to let everyone know he was still breathing before they did anything drastic. When he got there, it was completely deserted. The club should have been buzzing with the cleaning staff, and the Knights usually met at the Camelot in the morning before dispersing to patrol or take care of whatever business they needed to.
"Hello?" Arthur called out, furrowing his brow at the silence. His own voice answered him, bouncing off the high ceilings and swirling around like the dust in the sunbeams.
He had a sinking, crippling feeling that something terrible had happened, that the Kings had launched a surprise attack while Arthur was sleeping and all his men—and Morgana, Gwen, his employees—were all dead. But there were no signs of a struggle, and he knew his men wouldn't be taken down so easily. Nor would Morgana and Gwen.
Then, there was a sudden onslaught pounding down the staircase. Morgana appeared in the threshold. She looked frazzled with worry—well, as frazzled as Morgana could look, that is.
"Arthur!" She sounded relieved and out of breath, like she'd wasted all the air in her lungs on prayer. It was clear she'd heard about the explosion, which meant everyone else knew, too. Her relief didn't stay, however. It turned to annoyance now that she knew he was alive. Although, perhaps she would have been mildly perturbed if he'd ended up dead, after all. It was hard to tell with Morgana.
"Where the hell have you been? We've been searching for you all night!"
He lifted a brow and looked around. "The staff, too?"
She crossed her arms, matching his expression but somehow making it more sardonic. "I told them not to come in until you were found."
"The party doesn't stop if I die, Morgana."
"Never thought I'd hear you say that. Anyway, it seemed insensitive to throw a celebration when we were meant to be mourning. I prepared for a crisis-situation."
He threw up his palms in a shrug and walked past her, up the stairs. "Crisis averted."
She followed quickly after him, swerving from side to side on the narrow stairwell like she was trying to find a way to get in front of him. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"
"It was the Kings," he threw over his shoulder.
"Obviously!"
"It was a gas leak."
They walked into his office, and he made a beeline to the radio. When he turned it on, an upbeat tune was playing amidst cackling static. He left it on and sat down, faced with stacks of papers showing plans, budgets, bills, and correspondence with contractors about the Albion. All of it was for nothing, but there were still people who needed to be paid for their labor. It should have frustrated him; on any other day, it would have.
Morgana was balking at him from the other side of the desk, he realized. He blinked up at her in question. "What?"
"Wh—What?" she echoed. "What are we going to do about the Kings, for a start?" She sounded aggravated.
Having been reminded of the reality of his situation, he let out a thoughtful breath. He propped his elbows on his desk and leaned his eyes into the heels of his palms. "I don't know," he admitted. He should have thought about how he was going to retaliate, but he found it hard to focus on anything but Merlin. And how much he didn't like Merlin living in the Kings' backyard. It was dangerous, and might spell disaster later.
"They tried to kill you!"
"I recall." He laced his fingers together and rested his chin on them to regard her. Judging by her posture, he must have really given her a fright. But she'd never admit it, so he didn't mention it.
"But they didn't," which must have thrown a spanner into their plans. "Cenred wanted to keep us from expanding, so we continue on as normal. We find a new place to open the Albion, and we find somewhere to re-open the Dragon. Cenred needs to understand that we don't fear him."
Morgana didn't argue, which meant she agreed.
"And we take the Kings' final two dens in the West," he went on. "If Cenred doesn't want me in his territory, fine; but he's mad if he thinks he can stay in ours a moment longer. Get Annis on the phone. We need to come up with a strategy. Set up a meeting for as soon as she's available."
She nodded, and turned away more quickly than he'd ever seen her obey an instruction.
He called her back. "And Morgana, get everyone back here. Valiant's scheduled for a raid tonight, and the Kings might plan something if they catch wind of that. I don't want another slip-up."
Morgana spun back around, her thin eyebrows knitted together. She was about to pry—he knew it by the way her eyes flashed to the radio.
"That's it?" she asked, sure enough. "You're not out for blood?"
He wasn't sure what she'd expect him to do. Wrestle Cenred to the ground?
"You seem very relaxed for a man who was almost blown up."
Arthur shrugged, trying to feign like he didn't know what she was talking about. He corrected his posture into a caricature of its normal rigidness and appeared to focus on the bills in front of him.
Morgana moved closer, clearly not done needling. "How did you get away, anyway?"
"Merlin," Arthur said, wondering if his tonal pitch was actually as high as he'd imagined. He cleared his throat to play it off. "He must have known it was gas."
"Merlin?" Morgana repeated with incredulity. "What was he doing—?"
"Would you please get Annis on the phone?" he interrupted in a huff before she prodded any further. He was entitled to his privacy, even from her.
She leaned back, reading him like a book. She didn't press further, but her tone was suggestively teasing as she said, "Of course. Whatever you say."
She left, and Arthur didn't call her back again. He had to focus on the Albion. On the Kings. On that night's police raid. God, on anything!
Another song came on the radio, as airy and cheerful as the last. Arthur's foot tapped along with the tune.
Chapter Text
The club had been open for nearly two hours, but all the lights were on, and there was no music playing or drinks flowing. The room always looked so strange flooded with light at night, like it was a totally different place.
Valiant and his men were conducting a raid that had been scheduled at the beginning of the week. Those customers who hadn't fled in time were sullenly being handcuffed and led out. They'd only be in a cell for the night, until they sobered up. As before every faux-raid, most of the alcohol in the cellar had been moved back to the storehouse. There were only about a dozen crates for Valiant to take in as evidence, and Arthur suspected half of them wouldn't make it onto the books.
As the coppers shuffled through the club conducting their business, Arthur leaned against the end of the bar watching them. His Knights and Morgana were sitting at one of the tables playing poker like they couldn't be bothered; Gwen was sitting on Lance's lap watching, but she never gave away his hand. She had a better poker face than he did, any day.
The staff (only a few employees that Arthur made come in on raid days) was in the kitchen, probably playing a card game of their own. Except Merlin. He was standing next to Arthur behind the bar, his arms crossed as he leaned into the counter. He attentively watched the proceedings.
Arthur had something he wanted to ask Merlin, but something blocked his throat every time he opened his mouth to say it. It had been a full day since he'd left Merlin's bed, and already it was too long. Most of it was spent in daydreams that made Arthur's whole body pulse. He would remember something Merlin had done the night before, and he'd linger on it until he could almost feel memory of it on his skin. He'd close his eyes and saw the arch of Merlin's back, his hands, the ridges of his hipbones . . .
Arthur cast a sidelong look at Merlin out of the corner of his eyes. He watched Merlin's long lashes sweep up and down, the sharp protrusion of his nose from his profile, the cartoon heart shape of his closed lips.
Arthur shuffled uncomfortably. He cleared his throat and looked away, deciding this was best said without actually looking at Merlin. If he did, all his bravado would slip.
"So, Merlin," he began, watching the police mill about like they were the most fascinating thing in the world. "I was thinking. Tomorrow night—if you'd . . . like to accompany me to dinner?" He cleared his throat again, suddenly feeling silly. "And drinks. If you want. I can get someone to cover your shift." He was rambling.
Shutting himself up, he cast another wary glance at Merlin, who was biting back a grin down at the bar top. Arthur's heart sunk in horror that Merlin was laughing at him.
But then Merlin said bashfully, "Okay."
Relief washed over Arthur, and was soon replaced by giddiness.
"Anything to get off work," Merlin joked.
It wasn't funny, but Arthur found himself chortling.
Merlin continued, "It's a—"
"Good!" Arthur cut him off. He couldn't hear the word date. It was too cliché. It would only embarrass him. Only horny teenagers went on dates, and he certainly wasn't a teenager. That other thing, though . . .
Merlin slid in closer, until their shoulders were touching. "After the, er—dinner and drinks. Were you . . . planning anything else?"
Arthur stood up straighter in a desperate attempt to cling onto his last shred of dignity. "Well, I—No! Like what?"
Merlin didn't seem to buy it. He hummed. "Too bad. You should see me when I'm fed and drunk."
Arthur felt himself twitch. Clearly, he hadn't been the only one fantasizing all day.
"Careful, Merlin, or I'll have you right here on this bar," he warned.
"Your office is a little more private," Merlin answered immediately.
Arthur searched his face, wondering if he was serious. Merlin lifted his brows and nodded towards the staircase across the room.
Not a moment later, they were walking to it, with Merlin a few steps behind him. Walking, of course, it a loose statement, because it was suddenly very hard to do with how weak Arthur's knees were. Staying cool was another feat entirely. He was probably making too much of the casual glances that were thrown his way when he passed his Knights.
Fewer people were in the ring on the next floor, but that only tried Arthur's patience more. It took everything in him not to maul Merlin right then and there. He kept his posture rigid, keeping himself from glancing at Merlin over his shoulder.
Halfway up the stairs to the next floor, Arthur dared to turn to look at Merlin. It was a mistake, because apparently Merlin had just been holding it together, too. He hurled himself at Arthur, making Arthur's lower back slam against the banister. The wooden wall shook. Pain shot up Arthur's spine, but the cry was stifled into Merlin's mouth and soon forgotten.
Merlin crowded him against the wall, ravenous. Arthur groped roughly at the tight curve of Merlin's ass. He squeezed the skin still obstructed by Merlin's trousers until Merlin whimpered.
"Teased—me—all—day," Merlin panted against Arthur's cheek. His breath was hot and damp.
"Me?" Arthur defended. He gripped more firmly onto Merlin's ass and jerked him in closer, and he felt Merlin stiffening against his thigh. "Don't get me started."
"I'll get you finished."
Merlin parted his legs more and started riding Arthur's thigh. The friction of his hip against Arthur's groin made Arthur ache. He had to choke back a shout when he remembered there were people just out of sight.
"Upstairs," Arthur ordered, "now!"
They broke apart and all but stampeded the rest of the way up the stairs. When they reached the office, Arthur slammed the door and quickly locked it with the brass key perpetually in the keyhole. For good measure, he took it out and tossed it to the side. It bounced off the wall and landed somewhere to be later determined.
When he turned around, Merlin was half-sitting on the far side of desk. He was working on getting his shirt off. Hastily, Arthur tore off his own jacket, loosened the tie around his neck, and unbuttoned his shirt. Arthur fit himself between Merlin's knees, and Merlin perched himself fully on the desk to get better leverage. One of his hands was pulling at the back of Arthur's neck, forcing Arthur to lean into famished kisses, while the other one on the desk kept Merlin upright.
Arthur struggled out of his shirt and tossed it to the side. He hooked one arm around Merlin, fingering the grooves of Merlin's ribcage. His other palm explored the expanse of Merlin's back, feeling the muscles straining and relaxing under each of Merlin's groans. He left a sloppy trail of saliva down Merlin's neck to the hairs on his collarbone.
"Want you," Arthur grunted into Merlin's chest. His groin was heated with quick pulses. He gave an involuntary thrust that made the desk rock. Something fell to the floor and broke. Arthur didn't know what. Did it matter?
Merlin's legs wrapped tightly around Arthur's waist. He was hard now; Arthur could feel it. "You've got me," Merlin breathed. "Arthur—." He lifted his other hand off the desk and clung on to Arthur. The movement threw off Arthur's equilibrium and made him stumble forward before he regained composure.
"Harder, Arthur," Merlin gasped. He tugged at Arthur's matted hair and pushed Arthur face deeper into the crook of his neck. He writhed beneath Arthur, making Arthur's hips roll against him. Merlin's skin was already slick, and a bruise was blooming on neck. "Like—like you hate me."
Arthur laughed from somewhere deep in his throat. The notion of it was ridiculous, but Arthur's pants were wet and the pre-cum had probably soiled his trousers, too. Andsomeone needed to be held accountable for that. "If you say so."
He manhandled Merlin off the desk and smashed their lips together hard enough that Arthur thought he chipped a tooth. Merlin hung onto him desperately, his weight making Arthur falter. He tried to spin around and set Merlin down on the chair, but it tipped away under him and they collapsed onto the hardwood.
"Ow!" Merlin wailed.
It only made Arthur laugh again. "You said—"
"Violent!" Merlin scolded.
"Gangster!" Arthur reminded him.
Merlin grabbed the loosened knot of Arthur's tie and yanked him back down until Arthur was on top of him. As their teeth scratched against each other, Arthur wondered how many uses he could have for his tie next time. He wondered if Merlin would be opposed to being tied up. It was a question for a later date (perhaps tomorrow's date), and for now Arthur settled for guiding both Merlin's arms over his head and lacing their fingers together.
Eventually, he had to let go so they could each get their trousers off and kick off their shoes.
"We need—," Merlin started when they came up for air.
"Right!" Arthur agreed, catching on. "I think I have—." He sat up and shuffled through one of the drawers of his desk. In the meantime, Merlin massaged Arthur's inner thighs in a very distracting way. But Arthur managed to locate the tube of lotion.
"You just had that in your desk at work?" Merlin wondered, seeming a little thrown off. Arthur wasn't sure why he was complaining. Merlin would complain about anything.
"Well," Arthur said, shrugging innocently. "All those late nights here with you downstairs—I thought I'd be prepared."
Merlin gaped at him with an unreadable expression. Perhaps Arthur shouldn't have said that. Perhaps he shouldn't have given away that he wanted Merlin from the very moment they met.
But his doubts were suppressed when Merlin grabbed Arthur's shoulders and rolled them over with a thud so he was on top. He kissed Arthur with a renewed, primal desire.
Arthur sat them up and warmed some of the lotion in his hands. Merlin was jackrabbiting on his lap, against Arthur's stomach. He was nibbling on Arthur's earlobe so Arthur groaned.
When Arthur pushed a sleek finger inside, Merlin cried out loud enough for probably the whole building to hear. He seemed to fall apart. He bit the ridge of Arthur's shoulders and left a mark. It made Arthur moan.
"Arthur—I need—," Merlin begged. He tensed his muscles and circled his hips in experimentation around Arthur's fingers. He scraped his nails against Arthur's back and pushed his chest so hard against Arthur's it was like he was trying to get through the other side.
Arthur relished in watching him squirm. "What, Merlin?"
"Oh, you prat," Merlin breathed in frustration. He reached down and stroked at the erection curling into Arthur's stomach. Arthur moaned again.
He removed his finger and let Merlin guide him inside. Arthur wished he'd turned on the radio to drown out the strained noises they were making. He was sure the people downstairs heard them.
He didn't care. Not with Merlin bouncing on top of him, gasping for air and with pupils dilated larger than Arthur had ever seen them. And they were kissing roughly again. Arthur felt something sharp on his bottom lip and then tasted blood. He grunted into it.
"Faster, Arthur. You have to—," Merlin pleaded. "Oh, god."
Arthur flipped them over again, so Merlin was on his back. In the process, he hit his head on the opened desk drawer, and searing pain vision blur. He was already dizzy.
"Arthur—"
Arthur pumped faster, making Merlin's body quake. His knee kept hitting against a loose floorboard, causing it to whine with each impact. He was chanting Merlin's name.
Merlin reached between them to touch himself.
"Yeah, Arthur. Come on."
Merlin came first onto his stomachs. While he was still moaning, Arthur finished, too.
Arthur felt like he could pass out, like he'd just run a marathon. The pain in his head, lower lip, and back rushed back to him, making him wince. His heart was racing. He collapsed on the floor next to Merlin.
Merlin gulped before letting out a heavy, dazed exhale.
Arthur chuckled again. "I'll say." When he caught his breath, he rolled onto his side and looked down at Merlin. "Not bad for round three."
Merlin's lips curved into a grin and he shook his head. "No," he agreed breathily. He cupped Arthur's cheek and ran the pad of his thumb along Arthur's smile. "Your lip's bleeding," he noticed as Arthur parted his lips and sucked on Merlin's thumb. "Sorry."
"Don't be." He took Merlin's fingers out of his mouth. "That is always welcome."
Merlin seemed happy about that. Arthur splayed his palm on Merlin's stomach and rubbed up and down, feeling how hot and sticky it was. They would have to clean up somehow before heading back downstairs.
"'Like I hate you,' huh?" he questioned. The comment sounded even weirder out of the heat of the moment. Merlin suddenly blushed. "Never gonna happen," Arthur assured.
"Please," Merlin begged like he didn't quite believe it. Something sad sparkled in his eyes.
"You're a puzzle, Merlin." Arthur kissed him gently, wishing he had all the pieces.
Outside the window, sirens kicked into life, followed by tires on gravel as the police cars pulled onto the highway.
Arthur sat up, and Merlin shortly followed. They both knew they should get back downstairs before their absence looked suspicious.
"Now," Arthur said, peering about the room, "where are my trousers?"
When they'd straightened themselves out as best as humanly possible, they decided it was better to reemerge at different times. Arthur went downstairs first, attempting to act cool. When he got to the club, the poker game was over and Elyan was collecting his winnings.
"There you are," Morgana said, making Arthur jump with nervousness. She appeared in front of him with her hands on her hips. "Where have you been? The staff wanted to know if they could leave. I sent them home."
"Of course," Arthur said, overcompensating by nodding his head quickly. "Good. That was—good call."
She narrowed her eyes at him, and he felt naked all over again.
"Is your lip bleeding?"
Arthur's hand flew to his lip. "I—"
Before he could form a thought, Merlin entered the room. Morgana's scrutiny latched onto him, no doubt zeroing in on the hickey blooming on his neck.
"Hey," Merlin said, smiling in a pleasant way. He turned to Arthur and said, "I'm headed home for the night."
"Right!" Arthur tried not to look Morgana in the eyes. "Yes. Uh—tomorrow, then?"
"Tomorrow," Merlin agreed. "I'll meet you here and then we can . . ."
"Yes." It was no use hiding it. She already knew. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight." And he was gone again. Arthur couldn't stop himself from looking at Merlin's ass as he went.
Collecting his courage, Arthur tentatively turned back to his older sister. Her perfect brows were arched upwards and her teeth were bared in a mocking smile. She didn't actually utter the words "I knew it," but Arthur heard them nonetheless.
The following day, Arthur's office was back to fulfilling its usual purpose: business, rather than pleasure. He sat behind his desk while Morgana occupied one of the chairs on the other side and his Knights leaned against the bookshelf while they waited. Elyan checked his watch; Percy scratched an itch on his hairline; Gwaine yawned; Lance crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling in hopes of finding entertainment. Morgana tapped her nails against the folded up map resting on her knee.
Arthur slouched. He should have been thinking about the meeting he was about to have, but he'd already rehearsed what he had to say. He and his men had talked about it at length before Arthur decided to let the Caerleons in on the plan. So, his mind drifted from the meeting and back on to the thing it'd been reeling on all night and day.
Dinner.
Dinner with Merlin.
Arthur had already booked a table somewhere on the Upper East Side. The restaurant was supposed to have a top chef who'd trained in Paris or Rome or some place where food was a way of life. On top of that, the ambience was meant to cater to New York's high society. Arthur had to pull some strings to get a reservation with such short notice; but, high society or not, a bribe of a hundred dollars was worth a hundred words.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Everyone shook off their boredom and stood to attention when Leon guided Annis and three of her men through the office door, and then shut it behind them.
"Arthur Pendragon," Annis said, always one to use his full name. He wasn't sure why.
"Annis, good to see you again. Sit down," he offered, gesturing to the chair next to Morgana. When Annis sat, so did he again. Her men crowded on the wall opposite the Knights, and Leon fell into position next to Lance.
"It's been quite a while," Annis said, and Arthur knew it wasn't a pleasantry. She was never one for pleasantries. "I hear you've had some trouble with your new club."
Arthur cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter, and a little indignantly. "A hiccup in our plans. Nothing more," he assured her politely.
She hummed civilly in return. "What is it I can do for you?" she asked, getting right to it.
"It's what we can do for each other," he answered, and then looked to his sister. "Morgana?"
Morgana unfolded the map, depicting the island of Manhattan, and spread it across Arthur's desk.
"The Kings hold only two more dens on the West Side," he reminded Annis, pointing to both locations on the map. "Here . . . and here."
"Yes, and now that Cenred's in town, he's heightened the security around them," Annis told him. "There are more Bandits guarding them and patrolling my streets than ever. My men have picked up three in the past week alone."
"They're waiting for us to make our move," Arthur interpreted.
"They don't know which location we plan to attack next, so they've positioned an army in between the two."
"I'm counting on it. They're expecting us to take one den at a time. Let's not meet expectations."
Annis narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, like a bird of prey swooping in. "You have my attention."
Arthur's eyes flickered to Morgana, and her soft nod gave him the ounce of support he needed.
"We take both dens at the same time," he proposed. "Divide their numbers."
"It would divide our numbers, too," Annis pointed out, like he knew she would. She was too practical to miss the fault.
"But we'll have surprise on our side. The Bandits will have to scramble to divide themselves. It'll weaken them, and give us time to take out anyone already there. We'll have the upper hand, no question," he told her.
She leaned back again, looking thoughtful. "It's a good strategy," she allowed, "if the element of surprise really is ours. How do I know word of this won't reach Cenred?" She sounded terse—well, more terse than usual.
Arthur shook his head. He looked to Morgana again, but she seemed just as at a loss. Then, he looked to his Knights. Annis wouldn't dare suggest any of them were a traitor. "I assure you, it won't. Everyone in this room has my complete confidence," and those who didn't had Annis', he assumed.
"Is that so?" Annis challenged. "Because it seems the Kings always know your secrets. They've bested you before."
Arthur eyed Gwaine briefly, asking a silent question. Gwaine squared his shoulders and tensed his jaw. "How do we know you're not the one with a mole?" he asked, speaking out of turn. It was a very Gwaine thing to do, but Annis didn't know that.
Her eyes swept towards him like she'd found her next meal. "Because my secrets are still my own!"
"We didn't mean to offend," Arthur placated, holding up his palm. He knew how capricious Annis could be when she was insulted. "Whatever problems we may have, they're being taken care of. It isn't a concern for you."
"Oh, I think it is," she disagreed, but then she sighed. There was a moment of pause in which she made up her mind. "Very well. We will move ahead with your plan. Give me time to relay it to the rest of my men, and you assemble whatever troops you need. And make sure everyone among them is trustworthy."
At his sides, Arthur tightened his fist in attempt to keep down his anger. He gave her a tight smile, all teeth. "Of course. I'll be in touch to settle on a calendar date."
Annis stood up, and her men moved after her. Morgana gave Arthur a roll of her eyes, and he answered by blowing out his cheeks in vexation. She followed Annis out of the office, and the Knights were crowding out, too.
Arthur rushed around his desk and caught Gwaine before he could leave. "Is there any news of Mordred?" he asked, ducking his head in close and speaking quietly.
"He's being watched round the clock," Gwaine reported, and then shook his head as though to say he had nothing to report. "He's squeaky clean, Arthur. I told you he would be."
"You're certain?" Arthur pressed. He knew Gwaine had a soft spot for Mordred; all the Knights did.
"Well, there's one way to find out for sure," Gwaine said, looking like he always did when he was about to roll his die or pick up a card. "I tell him about the plan. And, night of, if the Kings are waiting for us at both dens, we know he's their man."
It unsettled Arthur. They only had one shot of this plan working. If it failed, they may never get the Kings out of the West Side. But, if anything, Gwaine was born into the right profession. He was a great gambler. More than that, Arthur respected his judgment of character, unless it came to a woman (or anyone else, for that matter) in a tight dress or a man with light eyes and long legs. In those cases, Gwaine's wit flew right out the window.
It reminded Arthur that he had a night with his own light-eyed, long-limbed downfall to prepare for. And Gwaine was waiting for an answer. Arthur weighed his options, not wanting to make this decision lightly.
"Do it," he decided, going with his gut. Gwaine nodded in understanding and started away.
The decision only caused the knot in Arthur's abdomen to tighten more. If Mordred really was a spy and the Kings learned of their plan, a lot of men's lives were caught in the balance. It was saying something that Arthur's trust in Gwaine surmounted his uncertainty. But only just.
"Gwaine," Arthur said, very nearly changing his mind. He paused. "Don't be wrong."
Gwaine shrugged flippantly as he walked backwards, masking his true emotions. He knew exactly the risk he was taking, and its implications. "It's happened before," he said, only half-joking.
Arthur tried to compartmentalize his nerves. There would be time to worry about Mordred and the dens later, he reasoned. Right now, his concern was even more terrifying.
How could it be that he was more nervous for dinner than he was about open warfare?
Arthur pulled at the sleeves of his blazer, trying to get them situated in the right place. It was a fairly new article, and he had yet to get it hemmed properly. He regretted choosing it, and wished he'd picked one of the other suit jackets he'd meticulously tried on not an hour before. He must have changed a dozen times (and seriously considered phoning Morgana to help him) before finally settling.
He cleared his throat, trying to get his mind off how ridiculous he probably looked. He glanced ahead, at the back of the head of the taxi driver. His uniform hat was a bit too large for his head, and Arthur didn't know whether to feel relieved or even more embarrassed that someone else was in the same predicament as he was.
He looked next to him at Merlin, his profile haloed against the lights of the city as he gazed out the window. His transparent reflection blinked.
The taxi dropped them off on the corner of Fifth Avenue, next to a restaurant across from Central Park. The leaves on the trees were still green and full, but they were old and weary from the long season. Soon, they'd be put to rest.
"I hope you like steak," Arthur said to Merlin after he'd paid the driver. When he'd booked the place, he figured steak was a safe bet. Now, he was second-guessing himself. He tried to think back to a time he ever saw Merlin eat meat, or anything at all, for that matter. Surely, he couldn't survive on air!
Then again, he was thin enough . . .
"Uh, you do like steak, don't you?"
"I think I'll manage," Merlin joked. It was vague, but Arthur took it as a yes.
He tried to relax. He couldn't. Merlin's suit actually fit him, even if it wasn't new. It was pressed and cared for, and clearly saved for special occasions. That only meant the pressure was on. Arthur had to make sure this night wasn't a complete train wreck. He had to make it a special occasion.
"Er, where are we going?" Merlin asked. He bit his lower lip and surveyed their surroundings like he'd entered a new dimension. Around them, men in tuxedos and women in full-length dresses cavorted with their noses in the air and the expectation that everyone else would steer out of their path.
"Just here," Arthur said, directing him to a brick face building with a large pebbled-glass storefront window and a golden iron door. He held the door open for Merlin, and then promptly rammed into him when Merlin stopped dead in the threshold.
"Merlin!" Arthur barked before remembering he needed to make a good impression.
Inside, the dining room of the restaurant was as grand as a ballroom. Round tables with cream table clothes and cushioned chairs of the same color were situated perfectly on the patterned maroon carpet. The walls were mirrored and paneled with metal plates cut into vector shapes. On the far end of the room, an imperial staircase led up to a balcony, where more tables were set up. A round light fixture encompassed nearly the entire ceiling, with a long crystal chandelier hanging in its dead center.
"Arthur, no," Merlin refused politely, though Arthur could see the excitement hidden just beneath the surface. "A meal at this place is probably worth a year's rent for me!"
"Which is why dinner's on me," Arthur assured him. Merlin was about to argue, but Arthur added, "You can pick the place next time, how about that?"
His stomach did a flip to remind him a next time wasn't guaranteed.
"If you want," he amended, rather inelegantly.
Merlin didn't seem to notice. "Then, get ready for a hot dog stand," he joked. Arthur thought he was joking, anyway. God, he hoped so.
Arthur gave his name to the hostess at the booth, and she walked them through the entire expanse of the room, up the stairs, and to their table. It was next to a bay window that overlooked the park. The hostess told them their waiter would be with them shortly, but Arthur hardly noticed. He couldn't stop looking at Merlin, who was gawking down at the people in the park like they were on a movie screen.
The waiter came by with two menus and a bottle of champagne. Merlin raised his brow in skepticism as the waiter poured them two flutes while introducing himself.
"You'd think a place like this would follow the law," Merlin mused when the waiter gave them some time to look over the menu.
"They do," Arthur said, "Unless you phone ahead first." He gave a dismissive wave. "It's a need-to-know menu item. I'm assured it's really from France, not made in a bathtub in Brooklyn. Maybe you can tell me if that's true."
He gestured to Merlin to take the first sip. After he did, Merlin pursed his lips and scrunched his nose. He looked as though he was enjoying a private joke.
Arthur's face fell. "What?"
"Well," Merlin began, "it's not made in a bathtub in Brooklyn."
Arthur wondered what expression he must have been making. Whatever it was, it made Merlin chuckle.
"You might want to make sure the steak they're serving is actually made out of cow," Merlin laughed.
"Oh, that's—!" Arthur was mortified. He had paid a lot of money for the night to go perfectly. So far, it wasn't working. "That's unacceptable." He was about to call the waiter back when Merlin started.
"No, no! Don't! It's fine!" He was turning a shade of red. He was too polite for his own good.
"It's not fine!"
"Yes, it is! No, it's—it's French. Yes, definitely! Very French!"
Arthur rolled his eyes. It was apparent Merlin didn't want him to cause a scene, so he begrudgingly let it go. "Liar," he said pointedly.
Merlin stared at the bubbles in his glass. He twirled the stem, but didn't take another sip. He probably thought Arthur was an idiot for believing it wasn't bootleg.
"You don't have to do this," Merlin said softly.
Arthur didn't quite catch his meaning. "Do what?"
Merlin dropped his shoulders in a breath and put the glass down. He sat back in his chair and said, "Try to impress me."
Arthur blinked. He hadn't even realized that's what he'd been doing. He thought he was doing what was expected of him. It's what everyone else he'd ever taken to dinner expected. It's what Uther instilled in him. It was proper.
"I already know how unimpressive you are," Merlin teased, remaining straight-faced.
It alleviated some of the tension in Arthur's shoulders. He didn't know why he thought Merlin would be like everyone else he had ever known. He'd been worrying for nothing. Since they met, Arthur had always been able to be himself around Merlin—his total, unadulterated self. He hoped Merlin felt the same way.
"You're right," Arthur played along, feeling better for it. "You know too much already."
Merlin lifted his brows and hummed. "You'll probably have to kill me some day," he deadpanned.
"Oh, without question!"
Merlin bit his lower lip again.
"But let's hope that day is far in the future," said Arthur, raising his glass.
"I'll drink to that," Merlin replied, clinking the crystal together with a chime.
When Arthur took a sip, he made a sour face at the taste. It was all in his head. He probably wouldn't have been able to taste the difference had Merlin kept his mouth shut.
Merlin laughed at him again from over the rim of his glass.
Arthur joined in. "I can't get it out of my head!"
"I shouldn't have said anything!" Merlin chuckled, not seeming too guilty about it.
After dinner, they took a stroll through Central Park, right across to the other side. Manhattan was in full swing now, with hoards of people rushing off to their parties like it was their last night on earth.
They were a few blocks from the park when Arthur asked, "What did you think of that area, anyway?"
Merlin shrugged. It was the Upper East Side, home to New York's old money. It was Madison Avenue and expensive designer shops. It was where celebrities and Presidents stayed when they were in town. Merlin didn't frequent it very often. Places like that didn't belong in his world.
"It might be a good spot for the Albion," Arthur went on, letting Merlin in on his thought process.
"Ah! So that's why you picked the restaurant, to scope out the area for business," Merlin teased. He offered Arthur a full grin, but Arthur suddenly looked embarrassed.
He apologized sheepishly. "I didn't mean to talk about work tonight."
"You just don't know how to turn it off," Merlin told him, tutting. "You need to find a way to have fun."
Arthur looked mildly affronted. "I have fun!" he defended. Merlin wasn't so sure. Arthur's idea of fun took shape in varying levels of control: with either a complete loss of it through drinking, gambling, or cocaine, or with total calculated control, like assessing the perfect punch to bring down his opponent. Arthur was a control freak. Merlin wouldn't call that fun. He'd call it ambition. He'd call it hunger.
Up ahead, a golden hot glow lit up the darkness. It drew Merlin's attention.
"I think I know how to take your mind off the club," he said.
Across the street, an energized crowd pushed its way into a hippodrome. They had playbills gripped between their hands as they excitedly chattered about the performances happening on the other side of the ticket booths. In the bright marquee lights above them, Merlin saw the men and women teetering carefully and uncomfortably in ragged dress clothes and scuffed shoes. It was their fine attire, and probably cost in full the same price as one of Arthur's cufflinks.
Arthur groaned as soon as he saw Merlin's eyes light up as bright as the neon signs. "Do not tell me you want to go in there," he droned.
Merlin pursed his lips and took his eyes off the flashing red marquee that read All-Star Vaudeville. "I thought you said you knew how to have fun?"
"Real fun! This is lowbrow, Merlin," Arthur returned with the utmost sense of his own importance. "Surely you won't spend money on it."
"Have you ever even been to one?" Merlin countered. Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but then he closed it when he had nothing to argue. Before he could come up with any excuses, Merlin grabbed his wrist and dragged him across the street to the theater.
Tattered bills and fliers were posted along the brick wall around the entrance. They depicted cartoons, photographs, and headlines in eye-catching fonts that announced the acts within.
The Sensational Helen's American Burlesque!
Aredian's Film Shorts: Cops and Robbers!
Madame Catrina's Freak Show!
The Gleeman's Variety Extravaganza!
Merlin was bouncing with anticipation when he fished into his pockets and exchanged ten cents for two entrance tickets. Arthur followed him inside with all the slumped enthusiasm of a man sentenced to the gallows.
The main floor of the hall was bustling with activity as the crowds brushed to and fro from act to act. Some of the lesser-advertised performers were in partitions against the walls: mimes in invisible boxes, jugglers, dogs balancing balls on their noses, a man with a fake mustache and a large top hat doing card tricks, and more.
As he waded through the crowd, Merlin stopped to gawk at some of the acts, especially at the man who breathed fire. Every now and again, he watched Arthur's reaction out of the corners of his eyes. Arthur remained stone-faced, but Merlin could tell he was secretly impressed by some of the attractions.
The room was bathed in dim golden light from above, and the show lights around the performers cast tall godlike shadows on the decorative wallpaper.
The big-name acts had their own theaters, separated from the lobby by giant, ornate doors that stretched in ivory from the carpeted floors to the chandeliered ceilings. Merlin dragged Arthur into the first theater he saw.
On the other side of the doors, people were placed on pedestals or inside cages. A gigantic, oiled man with veins and muscles bulging from his black leotard was lifting two smaller, but fully-grown men in barrels—one in each hand. Another man showed off his tail. A wild-boy supposedly raised by wolves snarled at onlookers from behind bars. A girl with two heads sung Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. There were others with extra limbs or unfortunate growths that danced for the paying customers but couldn't quite hide their tragic demeanors.
Merlin wished he'd picked another theater. He was happier at puppet shows, stand-up comedy acts, or watching ladies spin around with bright feathers swirling around them. Things like this just made him sad in a heart-tugging sort of way.
"My god, Merlin. This is disgusting," Arthur cried out, with more repulsion and annoyance than sympathy. "Look at these people. Who would want to stand around and look at a bunch of freaks?"
"They're not freaks," Merlin corrected him. He gave a tight, empathetic smile to a woman brandishing disfigured, lobster-like fingers. She did not take his pity. She beckoned him closer with her claw, but he did not take the bait. "They just don't belong anywhere."
He knew Arthur was watching him with a sudden mixture of shame and perplexity. He seemed like he wanted to say something, but didn't know how to say it. Merlin mustered a small grin and spoke instead. "They're unusual."
"Unusual like you're unusual?" Arthur teased. He meant well. He was just trying to cheer Merlin up.
But he was wrong. Merlin wasn't brave enough to parade his naked secrets, or to take his wounds and wear them like a badge of pride. These people were underdogs. They took an unfavorable situation and chose to control their own destinies. They did not give up. They were extraordinary. They had courage.
"Unusual like you," Merlin answered plainly. Arthur's brow creased, but his expression softened. Somehow, he must have known it was a compliment, no matter how strange.
Not wanting to put anymore of a damper on the evening, Merlin steered them out of the theater and made for another across the hall. It was a ventriloquist act. Merlin was delighted. Arthur was severely unnerved. After the dozenth time he called it "creepy," they settled for a magic act that was just beginning.
A robed, bald magician by the name of Alator the Amazing preformed a daring escape, produced live doves out of nowhere, pulled a bouquet of roses out from behind an audience member's ear, and more novelty acts that Merlin saw a hundred times at other Vaudeville theaters. But he could never quite figure them out, which made them impressive.
Merlin loved magic. The slight of hand, the quick fingers, the distractions, the awe. Balinor had loved magic, too. He took Merlin to shows as a child, and taught Merlin some tricks. Most of them had to do with coins, cups, or cards. After Balinor's death, Merlin learned another type of slight of hand, one born of necessity. He longed for the innocent simplicity of pulling a rabbit from a hat. Nostalgia tugged at him.
He was leaned forward in his seat, crossing his hands on the back of the chair in front of him as he eagerly watched the show. He glanced over his shoulder at Arthur, who must have felt Merlin's eyes. He looked back with an air of enjoyment written across his features. He wasn't actually smiling, but something about him was sparkling. It was magic.
Merlin loved magic.
"Admit it, you enjoyed yourself," Merlin chided when they were a few blocks away, after Alator's show ended and they left the theater. They walked side-by-side and a little too close down the sidewalk. Arthur's shoulders kept brushing against Merlin's as they swayed with each step. He never attempted to correct himself.
Arthur was stubborn, but his eyes betrayed him. They were still twinkling with delight. He shot Merlin what must have been intended as a stern glare. "It wasn't completelyawful," he allowed. "But I'll have to take you to a real show. Broadway, maybe. It's supposed to be swell."
"But not as swell as the West End," Merlin finished for him with a groan. Still, jitters washed over him from talk of another date.
"Obviously."
When Merlin said, "Well, I had fun," Arthur seemed pleased. More than that, he was relieved.
"Good," he said shortly. "I can die happy."
Merlin slipped his palm into Arthur's warm hand—nearly as warm as the cushioned heartbeats in Merlin's chest. "Oh, you're not getting rid of me that easily," he teased.
Arthur stopped walking, making Merlin stop, too, and faced him. He swung Merlin's arm gently at their sides. "God help me." His voice was too tender for the taunt to be believable. He tilted in closer and kissed Merlin softly. His fingers curled around Merlin's hip, pulling him in. Merlin's free hand cupped Arthur's cheek.
"Hey, you two!" an authoritative voice called. An angry-looking policeman was hastening towards them with purpose, probably meaning to take them to his precinct and toss them in a cell for the night for public indecency. Maybe it was the euphoria of the night, but Merlin found the hard set of the police's jaw comical.
Arthur's hand tightened around Merlin's. "Run!" he laughed. They shot down the street together.
The cop raced after them, shouting for them to stop. They crashed past people and thread through groups of pedestrians down the avenues. Merlin called apologies to anyone he rammed into through his laughter, but Arthur was an unrepentant bulldozer. They caught each other's eyes from time to time in silent conversation when they weren't checking over their shoulders to see how far behind their pursuer had fallen.
After a few blocks, they ducked into an alley. Merlin rested his head against the wall and panted. He tried to force his breath back into his lungs, but he must have left it a few streets down. Every time it caught up to him, it was expelled again through low chuckles.
Arthur caught his breath much more quickly, but he was still a little winded and flushed. He was standing at the edge of the alley, peering over the wall.
"Did we shake him?" Merlin asked without worry. He felt too light.
"He's gone!" Arthur confirmed with mischief. He stepped back into the alley.
"Almost got me arrested on our first date," Merlin said, shaking his head. He saw Arthur roll his eyes at the word. "What should I expect from the second?"
"I don't know. But you should have bail money ready just in case."
Merlin held his hand to his rumbling stomach, but had no hope of steadying it. Arthur breathed out a few giggles, and his smile stretched wider.
Merlin pulled him in by his waistcoat. "You've got a stupid grin," he said before kissing it. Arthur crowded in closer, placing his palms on the brick on either side of Merlin's head. Suddenly, Merlin wasn't so concerned with catching his breath, not when Arthur's was filling him up. But it hitched when Merlin reached between them and kneaded his fingers into Arthur's inner thigh.
"My place isn't too far from here," Arthur said when they came up for air.
"It's too, too far," Merlin complained gruffly, even though it was probably just a few blocks away.
It looked like it took a lot of effort, but Arthur pushed away. "Better start walking, then." He started out of the alley. Merlin straightened out and followed close behind, but he had half a mind to pull Arthur back into the darkness as soon as they cleared the wall. He didn't know if he'd make it to Arthur's apartment, even though the promise of a soft bed in the ritzy Upper West Side was enticing for more reasons than one.
"You might have to carry me," Merlin joked.
Arthur gripped his shoulder and pulled him forward. "March, would you?"
Merlin marched.
Chapter Text
The door to the club slammed opened loudly. Arthur, a little disheveled and smelling to high heavens like opium, sweat, and gun smoke, burst through. Merlin, just a step behind him, and the Knights filtered into the club, too. The Camelot looked like a warzone, with empty glasses littered about like corpses, whatever liquid left inside trickling out like blood.
Morgana was sitting at the bar, drumming her fingers on the wood. Gwen was behind it washing dishes to distract herself from her worry. They both jerked to attention at the sight of their champions.
"Oh, thank god," Gwen breathed. She always worried whenever the Knights went into battle, but she never showed it until they were all home safe.
"Victory was ours," Elyan told her happily. He held open his arms as she rushed around the bar and gave him a hug hello. Quickly, she moved on to Lance, her expression filled with relief as she pressed her cheek into his chest.
"Oh, thank god!" Morgana echoed Gwen, not so much for their victory but for the Kings' defeat. Finally, a week after Annis had heard of Arthur's plan to take the last two dens, did it happen. The plan went perfectly. The Kings never saw them coming.
"So, that's it? They're gone?" Morgana made sure as she stood up from the barstool.
Arthur's heart was still pounding in his chest. His fists were tense with energy. His skin vibrated. When he walked, his feet struck the floor like they could turn the Earth.
"Gone," he confirmed. His throat scratched and his voice was a bit hoarse from shouting. "The Black Kings have no more holdings on the West Side." He'd waited a long time to say that. The rush it gave him didn't disappoint.
He looked to his side, at his men clapping each other on the back in triumph and brotherhood. Elyan shook Merlin's shoulder, too. Merlin had been there when they won the den, and when they got news of the Caerleons doing the same across town. Arthur had been wary at first, and afraid Merlin would only distract him during such an important fight. But Merlin had been adamant about going.
"You'll exaggerate how great you were when you talk about it later," he'd said. "I'm coming with you so I can tell people the truth."
"What, that you cowered beneath a table the whole time?" Arthur had retorted.
But Merlin went, anyway. He wouldn't have missed it for anything, and Arthur was secretly pleased he'd been at his side.
And now Merlin was included in the celebration. He's become one of them. He fit.
Arthur wondered if he should tell his friends what had been going on between himself and Merlin. Over the past week, he'd spent the night with Merlin four times. It was wrong keeping their relationship a secret for so long. But something stopped Arthur from revealing it.
What would he say, anyway? He wasn't really certain what to call whatever was between he and Merlin. It felt like more than just sex. It was only the start of their relationship, but it felt a whole lot like an ending.
Arthur cleared his throat, and the chatter died down. "Why don't we all get some rest," he said, more like an order than a suggestion. "I'll see you all here tomorrow morning."
Everyone seemed to agree. They began saying their goodnights, and filtering back up the stairs in twos and threes. All of them called a goodbye to Arthur as they left. Merlin did, too.
Arthur wanted more than that. He wanted to kiss Merlin goodnight.
When everyone else had disappeared, Gwaine stood at Arthur's side.
"Seems the Bandits didn't know about our trick," he said.
The thought had occurred to Arthur. "Seems so," he answered. He started up the stairs, and Gwaine followed.
"Mordred's not their man," Gwaine continued, filling in the gaps. "Told you we could trust him."
"You did. Multiple times. It was annoying."
As they stepped into the ring, Gwaine held his hands up in an innocent shrug. "What can I say, I was rooting for the kid. So, this means I can take our snitches off of him?"
Arthur let out a heavy breath. He now knew Mordred was trustworthy, but that only left him with more questions. Somehow, the Bandits had known where Arthur had hidden their liquor supply. Somehow, they knew the exact night the Camelot had received its first shipment from Tristan and Isolde's farm. Somehow, they were able to poison it.
Mordred could be trusted. But the Kings had found out the Knights' secrets. Arthur just couldn't reconcile the two.
"Yes," he said, knowing it would be a waste of resources to spy on Mordred any longer. Maybe he even felt a little guilty for the scrutiny he'd placed on an innocent man.
Gwaine offered him a tight smile to show he was pleased, and slapped Arthur's shoulder to say goodbye. When they exited the club, Gwaine went left in hopes of meeting up with the others. Arthur went right in hopes of catching Merlin.
When Arthur reached the road, Merlin was half a block ahead, slumping with his hands in his pockets as he walked, a shadow amongst the orange streetlamps. The neon lights of the buildings along the water glowed pale and sickly, painting the sidewalks in a rainbow of color that didn't look quite right in the dark, early morning solitude.
Arthur rushed after Merlin. The slapping of his footfalls echoed against brick walls and desolate tar roads. The sound caught Merlin's attention. He looked over his shoulder and stopped walking so Arthur could catch up. Ahead, headlights sprung up in the distance along the avenue.
"You shouldn't be walking alone at this time of night. It isn't safe," Arthur joked when he reached Merlin.
"Right," said Merlin, "what with all those cut-throat gangsters around these parts."
Arthur smirked at him, watching the Hudson breeze tousle Merlin's hair.
"Let's go somewhere," he said at last. It didn't matter where they went—any place would do. It must have been well after four in the morning, but that hardly mattered, either. It was New York. Somewhere was bound to be open.
Merlin laughed and looked off, as though trying to find a reason to resist temptation. "Aren't you exhausted?"
Arthur couldn't even think about sleep. He was too wired, too pumped-full of adrenaline from the night. "Not in the slightest!"
"Killing a bunch of people riles you up?" Merlin asked dryly, raising a brow.
"Winning does," Arthur corrected, "which is exactly what happened tonight."
Merlin sighed. His breath fogged around him—the very first hint of autumn's chill revealing itself. His eyes were sparkling, and he was on the cusp of saying yes.
"Oh, come on!" Arthur pressed. "What else are you going to do? Go back to Alphabet City? You shouldn't, you know. The Bandits won't be happy about tonight. It'll be dangerous to be affiliated with me. To be my—." He stopped himself, gesturing vaguely to Merlin as he searched for the correct term.
Both Merlin's eyebrows were raised now. "Your what? Bartender?" he supplied. "Lover?"
Arthur rolled his eyes. He was happy the sun was still down, and that the shadows masked the sudden heat in his cheeks. He'd always hated that word. Lovers were people in steamy, complex affairs, riddled in deceit and passion, in Victorian novels. Arthur had never experienced something so ardent. He'd never been in love before.
He didn't even know if he was in love now. Maybe. All he knew was, when he looked at Merlin, Arthur felt like he'd been knocked over—splintered into bits and pieces by an invisible force, and he wanted Merlin to put him back together.
But he was no expert on love. He wasn't really sure what love meant. He'd never had two parents, or anyone else, to use as a model for a relationship. All he ever saw was Uther's sadness.
Is that was love is? Sadness?
"Whatever this is," Arthur answered, powering through his awkwardness. It gave him no satisfaction at all. "What is this, anyway?" He had to know—if this was love, if that particular bud would ever be allowed to flower.
Merlin shrugged and pouted. He looked down at his shoes and kicked at some invisible thing. "Do we have to call it anything?"
It probably shouldn't have frustrated Arthur. If he didn't know what was between them, how could he expect Merlin to? But he had. "Well, I should know what to refer to you as."
"Most people just call me Merlin."
"I think I prefer idiot."
"Prat."
Perhaps Merlin was right. It might have been best not to give it a name just yet. It was what it was, and they'd figure out the nature of it with time. Neither of them were going anywhere, after all. Or, at least, Arthur hoped not.
Maybe that's what love is. Hope.
Anyway, it was clear that Merlin was too tired to paint the town. His posture suggested he'd much rather be lying in bed. Arthur decided to take pity on him.
"Fine. Just—don't get murdered on the way home."
Merlin snorted. "I think the term is normally goodnight."
Arthur watched another stream of headlights as they approached. "You wouldn't have such a good night if you were killed, would you? I thought the meaning was pretty clear."
A taxi was coming down the block. Arthur whistled for it. As it headed for them, Merlin said, "Then, you try not to get murdered, either."
"I'll do my best."
The taxi pulled up the curb and Arthur opened the back. He hovered in the door momentarily before changing his mind. He turned around again and chastely kissed Merlin—because he wanted to. Merlin kissed back—because goodnight didn't feel right without it anymore.
Only then did Arthur fit into the backseat of the taxi and give the driver the cross-streets of his apartment. As the car merged back onto the avenue, Arthur cast a look over his shoulder out the back window. Merlin was still standing there, watching Arthur go. He was bathed in scarlet from the break lights. His hands were in his pockets again. He lifted one out to hold it up in a wave.
Arthur waited until Merlin had started walking again to face forward.
Early the next morning, there was a knock on Merlin's door. Lots of knocks—more like a pummeling, really. The beefy messenger on the other side told Merlin to meet Cenred at the factory immediately. Merlin allowed for a loose understanding of the word immediately.
He'd decided that he was done with the Kings. That didn't mean the Kings were done with Arthur. Merlin had no intention of telling Cenred or Kanen what the Knights were up to anymore, but he still had to be a spy—only now, for the other side. He had to know what sinister plans the Kings were concocting so he could prevent them. For Arthur's sake.
Kilgharrah had said Arthur might just become the next kingpin of Manhattan, so long as Merlin played his part. Merlin was starting to think he might have been right.
So, he came to Cenred's beck and call, but he took his time doing it. That, at least, gave him a sliver of satisfaction. Just because he had to continuing working with the Kings didn't mean he had to like it.
When he got to the factory, the office door was open, as it always had been since Cenred occupied it. Kanen had made the back room of the Essetir his temporary office—which gave Merlin more satisfaction than his tiny tardy rebellion, until he remembered that he also hated Cenred.
However, it wasn't just Cenred inside. Kanen and Sigan were there, too. So was Morgause, perched on the side of the desk again, with her eyes trained on Merlin as soon as he walked in like she'd sensed him coming from down the block. Merlin put his guards up at the sight of the four of them. This wouldn't be some chat where Cenred asked him to report on the Knights. Merlin felt like he was walking into the lion's den.
He thought he preferred dragons.
"You're late!" Kanen sneered as soon as he saw Merlin.
Merlin pulled a mock-innocent face. "Sorry?" he offered.
"Never mind. We'll just have to make this quick," Cenred said in a tone as razor-sharp as ever. He gestured to the chair in front of him. Merlin walked behind it but did not sit down. He didn't want to feel anymore ambushed than he already did.
"I have a meeting with the future Mayor of New York in a few minutes," Cenred continued.
It piqued Merlin's interest. The meeting could have been about anything. The Kings had put the new Mayor in office, after all. Cenred could be calling on him for a favor once his term officially started in January—and that favor could have been about the Knights.
Merlin remained casual, pulling a mildly confused yet dutiful face, and asked, "What for?"
"Oh, it's nothing to do with you or Arthur," Cenred assured him, waving it away. "Mr. Walker and I have other business to discuss regarding the police commissioner."
Soon-to-be former police commissioner, Merlin assumed from the thorny grin Cenred was giving him.
"Speaking of Arthur," Cenred went on, as though Arthur wasn't the reason Merlin had been called upon. "He and his Knights raided the last of our dens on the West Side yesterday. He's finally managed to push us out of his territory."
He made no mention of the Caerleons. As far as Cenred was concerned, the West was Arthur's. All Arthur's. Merlin tried not to swell with pride, just as he tried not to show his worry over how Cenred might lash out next.
"I take it you knew?" Cenred queried off Merlin's silence.
Merlin nodded. "I was there."
Cenred and Morgause's expression remained unchanged, but Kanen's flashed with anger. "And you didn't think to tell us about their plan?"
Merlin kept his tone even. "I didn't know of it until it was happening last night."
It was a lie. Merlin knew about it before Annis did.
"Arthur didn't tell you beforehand?" That had been Cenred. Now, he looked curious. The expression didn't conceal the accusation in his tone, however. "I thought you were a part of the Knights' meetings now. You had been last I stepped foot in the Camelot."
"No! I'm not." That was a lie, too. Merlin had known about the plan before Annis did because he was in the room when Arthur and the Knights were coming up with it. He hadn't been at first. He'd walked into the office with a bottle of whiskey and some glasses, and then Arthur told him to stay and provide his opinion about the strategy. Merlin hadn't known why Arthur had done it. (He still didn't know.) But he generally wanted to be as close to Arthur as he could all the time—a feeling that appeared mutual—so he'd stayed.
"I wasn't in the meeting you walked in on, either—not really," Merlin went on. That, at least, was the truth. "Gwaine—uh, one of the Red Knights—asked me to help talk Arthur out of buying the new club."
Something he said must have interested Morgause, because her dull, dark eyes turned sharp. "Arthur listens to your opinion over that of his Knights?"
Merlin opened his mouth to protest. All he did was trip over his own tongue.
It gave Sigan enough of a gap to voice, "It doesn't matter about your opinions. Your job is to find out information, not wait around until Pendragon tells you something!" He'd said it directly to Merlin, as though voicing his concerns to his superiors would be disrespectful.
Merlin had no problem being disrespectful. "Isn't his job to collect information? Shouldn't he be slinking around some sewer with the other rats?"
"Yeah, well, at least I'm no traitor," Sigan spat back. "At least I never put the Golden Knight up in my flat for the night!"
Merlin's stomach dropped. It must have been a visceral reaction, because Sigan smirked smugly in victory. Everyone else's eyes were on Merlin, too, watching him carefully. Merlin didn't know what to say. He wanted to deny it—it was on the tip of his tongue. Who's word would they believe? His or Sigan's?
Most importantly, how did Sigan know?
Merlin had gone very pale. Words escaped him.
It was Cenred who spoke, his voice calm. "The morning after the explosion, Mr. Sigan saw you accompany Arthur to the Astor Place Subway Station."
Merlin closed his eyes. He remembered the panic that had washed over him when Arthur kissed him, the dread that someone had seen them together. He should have listened to his instinct on that day. He should have paid better attention to the tingling in his mind and the prickling hairs on his arms.
"Did you harbor him that night?"
Merlin opened his eyes. He would not let this be Arthur's undoing.
"Yes," he admitted into a gulp. When he breathed, he forced it to clear his head. He willed another lie to surface. "He knows where I live. He dropped me off after work once when the subway in Chelsea broke down." He spoke slowly, trying to come up with a story on the fly but trying not to make it sound obvious. It was plausible so far: Merlin didn't have money to burn on taxi rides. And the subway broke down all the time.
"After the explosion, Arthur came to me. He was wounded. He trusted me to put him up until he could leave the East Side unseen."
"How did he survive the fire?" Cenred pondered.
Merlin bit the inside of his mouth. He tried very hard not to look at Morgause, or else he'd lose his nerve in thinking she possessed some kind of telepathy.
He had to answer quickly, but came up empty. "He didn't say." He prayed to whomever was listening that Cenred bought the story.
Cenred narrowed his eyes at Merlin again, trying to read him.
"And why didn't you come to one of us and tell us you had Pendragon with you?" Kanen asked in a low growl.
"Because he didn't just harbor him." Everyone's eyes went to Morgause, but she was looking at Merlin. Again, he got the distinct feeling that, unlike her husband, she couldread him. She raised a brow. "Is that so?" She already knew the answer.
Cenred sat back, looking pleased, taking Morgause's word as the indisputable law. Kanen and Sigan exchanged perplexed glances.
Merlin swallowed hard. He didn't want to tell the truth. It was private. It was his and Arthur's alone.
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Kanen finally asked into the quiet. Or at least, it was technically quiet. Merlin had never heard silence so loud, so full of weighted conversation. "What else would he have been doing?"
Cenred and Morgause completely ignored the questions.
"You've done as we discussed?" Cenred asked.
Merlin didn't look him in the eyes as he nodded feebly. He hadn't done it for Cenred or anyone else. He'd done it because he wanted to, no ulterior motive. But, suddenly, it felt like he was under Cenred's thumb. He was repulsed by his own actions. He hated himself for putting Arthur in the middle of it.
"Hold on," Sigan said, obviously having worked it out. He must have remembered the kiss he'd witnessed. "You're not saying—?" He looked at Merlin in utter disgust. "Are you sleeping with Pendragon?"
"What?" Kanen jumped once the information clicked. He gawked at Cenred. "You don't mean—? You told him to do that? For god's—He's a boy! He shouldn't be perverted like that!"
Merlin would have scoffed in how offended he was if he hadn't been so hotly embarrassed. He felt like his skin was trying to crawl off his bones and hide. This shouldn't have been any of their business!
"Oh, don't be so close-minded, Kanen. Merlin certainly isn't," Cenred said with humor, which only made Merlin flush more. "Now, we can go ahead with the plan."
"What plan?" Merlin and Kanen asked in unison, the rise in their tones for different reasons. Merlin forgot his embarrassment and thought only of Arthur's future.
"You," Cenred schemed, turning back to Merlin. He was smiling again in that knife-edged way that managed to simultaneously make him more handsome and more ugly. "You have Arthur's affection, but does he love you?"
Merlin actually managed a scoff that time. He scoffed again, like the idea was ridiculous. He knitted his brows together and pulled a face. He stuttered. The idea wasridiculous!
His heart soared at the possibility.
"No!" he said forcefully. "Of course—Arthur? Definitely not!"
"Then, you must make him," Morgause stated, stopping Merlin in his verbal tracks.
He blinked at her. She did not blink back. He tried to remember if he'd ever seen her blink at all.
"Why?" he asked, when a good soldier would have asked, how?
"There are more ways to destroy a man than with a weapon. Betrayal from the one he loves will pierce deeper than any blade or bullet ever could." Her voice was toneless and unsettling. She wasn't reasoning, but confident. Factual. Merlin realized the plan had been hers all along.
"Then, Arthur will be vulnerable, and we can end this once and for all," she finished.
End him, was what she meant.
Upon their first meeting, Morgause had eyed him like he was a grenade. He got the crushing feeling that she'd just pulled out the pin.
"Make him love you," Cenred ordered clearly. "Wait until he says the words. Then, tell us. We'll take care of the rest."
Merlin looked at them all in turn. Morgause and Cenred appeared to be waiting, looking for all the world like proper psychopaths. Kanen looked uncomfortable with the plan, or maybe he was just uncomfortable with the newfound discovery of Merlin's sexuality, but would not speak out against either one in Cenred's presence. Sigan glared with more contempt than usual.
"Okay," Merlin said with a shrug. His tone was quick, effortless, nonchalant. Because it didn't matter. He wasn't going along with the plan, so what was the point of seeming anything less than agreeable? If Cenred thought Merlin was following orders, he wouldn't be distrustful. Merlin could continue to spy on the Kings and continue his relationship with Arthur.
Besides, the plan was for not, anyway. Arthur would never love Merlin. Arthur was like the sun—too bright, too golden, too unattainable. Merlin was lucky to feel his warmth, but that was all. Soon, gravity would pull Merlin away just as quickly as it had made him revolve a course around Arthur. And then there would be nothing, and Merlin would just have to live with it. Or freeze.
Merlin never wanted that day to come. He'd fight tooth and nail to stave it off.
"Okay," Cenred repeated, satisfied. "Then, go on. Get to work."
Merlin nodded to Cenred and Morgause. He forced himself to flash a glare at the other two men in the room before he left.
It was night. It was quiet, all but for ragged breaths.
Arthur rolled over onto the mat of the square circle. His breath was floating somewhere above him, just out of reach. Next to him, Merlin was panting with the same flushed exhaustion. His bare chest, the black hairs on it sleek and matted, rose in erratic procession.
"So. That's boxing?" Merlin asked in a daze.
"Sort of. Not all of those moves were strictly legal," Arthur answered, watching the ceiling high above them turn.
"Should I be jealous next time you get in the ring?"
"Only for worthy opponents."
Merlin's rumbled. Arthur's laughter was more like a long exhale.
As the film of perspiration lining his body dried, his skin prickled with the chill of the night. He reached for his long jacket, which might have served as evidence that he and Merlin had meant to leave the Camelot after closing and go to Arthur's apartment, but they hadn't quite made it out the door.
He spread the jacket like a blanket over them. It only reached their knees, and midway up Arthur's chest. Merlin huddled in closer.
"Kilgharrah would probably have a heart attack if he saw us here," he said.
Arthur rolled onto his side and scrunched his nose in distaste. "Please don't mention Kilgharrah while I'm lying naked next to you."
At first, Merlin chuckled, but his expression soon twisted into horror. He cupped his hand over his eyes as though trying to blind himself. "Oh god," he choked. He dragged his palm up his forehead and into his hair. "Such a bad mental image!"
Arthur bit his lower lip to stop himself from laughing.
"Make it go away!"
Arthur obliged, even though Merlin had brought it on himself. He held Merlin's cheeks steady and kissed him so no other thoughts could survive.
"Better?" he asked afterwards.
"Better," Merlin confirmed with relief. He sounded sleepy, and his eyes were still closed. He nuzzled into Arthur's chest and grumbled happily.
Arthur wondered how pathetically fond he must have looked in that moment. He couldn't stand to break it, so he settled in. Staying for a few more minutes wouldn't kill them. Besides, the sun was still down. It would be hours until anyone reported in for work.
He rested his head on the mat and watched the steady rise and fall of Merlin's freckled back. His eyes started to droop heavily. Soon, he was dozing . . .
Behind Arthur's back, the main door of the building boomed opened. Arthur started, on high alert as he looked over his shoulder at the intruder. His newly conscious mind was convinced Cenred had sent someone to burn down the Camelot, too. His pulse raged with sudden adrenaline.
And then he noticed the morning sunlight pouring through the windows. He blinked rapidly at the silhouettes crowding in the doorway. When his eyes adjusted, he was staring at Morgana, Gwen, and all of his Knights. They were each giving him amused but bewildered stares.
It was Morgana who spoke. "Arthur? What are you—?"
Before she could finish, Arthur felt movement next to him. Merlin propped himself up on his elbows. His hair a ruffled mess, he blinked at the group over Arthur through squinted, groggy eyes. Eventually, it must have caught up to him that he was naked, save for half of Arthur's jacket still flung about him. He suddenly looked very alert.
In the doorway, Morgana's jaw had dropped, but she still managed to wear her sly, holier-than-thou smirk. Gwen's palm flew to her mouth as she squealed with delight and hit Lance's chest with the back of her hand, just in case he hadn't noticed. He had. He and the rest of the Knights were whooping and wolf whistling and clapping, hollering things like "Finally!" and "About time!" Leon opened his wallet and handed a smug Gwaine and Percy a few dollars each.
Arthur dropped his shoulders and turned away. He met Merlin's stare with an air of defeat. Merlin only pursed his lips to the side and shrugged.
Chapter Text
The days were better than they'd ever been, and what used to be late nights in the club separated by two floors turned into subway rides to Arthur's apartment right after closing. It was a miracle either of them ever got any work done at all. Throughout the day, they would often sneak away for some alone time. That either constituted an isolated area or a walk along the Hudson during lunch. As the weeks went on, these instances only become more frequent.
Merlin couldn't get enough of Arthur. Apparently, Arthur felt the same way. It wasn't unusual for Arthur to surprise Merlin with a deep, swooping kiss right in the middle of the club—sometimes even during the business hours. Like Gwen, Merlin was now invited to all the Knight's meetings, and after a while it was expected that he be kept in the loop.
Of course, he had to pretend he knew less about organized crime than he actually did; but even when he slipped up, no one seemed to notice. Arthur was completely relaxed around him. Merlin probably could have dropped his faux-accent out of the blue without anyone saying a damn thing.
He didn't. He couldn't risk it.
Merlin still wore his façade. But it wasn't the same as it had been before, when he'd first created it. Merlin liked who he was around Arthur and Knights. It felt increasingly less like he was playing a part, and more like he was finally settling into his own skin.
Sometimes, he even believed his act himself.
It was early October, not even midday yet, and Merlin and Arthur already stole away for a make out session in the cellar. They were in the back of the room, hidden from the door by the loaded shelves. Arthur was sitting on the floor with his back pressed to a crate and Merlin was straddling his lap. Arthur's hands were placed loosely on Merlin's sides to keep him still, but every now and again he rode the motion as Merlin involuntarily rolled his hips.
Making out almost always turned into impromptu quickies.
Merlin didn't know how long they'd been down there, but it must have been close to an hour. He no longer heard the staff milling around upstairs as they cleaned. It reminded him that he had a job he should have been doing, too. He thought maybe it involved stocking the bar for the night ahead.
He hummed and pulled fractionally away from Arthur. "I think we came down here for a reason," he vaguely remembered.
"Was this not the reason?" Arthur asked, playing dumb.
"Shockingly, no."
"Then, go on. Back to work." The messages Arthur was sending were mixed, to say the least. He inclined his head to lazily suck at Merlin's neck. He doubled his grip and tugged Merlin closer in a crashing motion.
Merlin shuddered on impact. A fire dropped down low within him as he was pressed against Arthur's firm torso. He groaned and worked his hips, and imagined Arthur mouth wrapped around him as he thrust. It occurred to him that he didn't have to just fantasize.
But then he heard the sharp clacking of heels on the floor above them. The cellar door muffled it, but Morgana was calling out for Arthur.
Merlin froze and Arthur immediately stopped kissing him.
"Shh!" Arthur hissed.
The cellar door whined open. "Arthur? Are you down here?"
Arthur cupped his palm over Merlin's mouth. Merlin smirked impishly behind it.
"Arthur?"
"Is he there?" Gwaine's voiced called from further away.
"No," Morgana yelled back. She sounded like she was turning away. "I think he's with Merlin."
"Oh, great! They're probably off fu—!" The cellar door slamming cut off Gwaine's words. There were more muffled mumbles, but Merlin couldn't make out what they were saying. Eventually, the clacking of Morgana's shoes faded.
Arthur removed his palm.
"Wonder what that was about," Merlin said. It wasn't like Morgana to come after them after they'd disappeared.
"Interviews," Arthur answered nonchalantly. "We've got to the pick the next fella for Valiant to lock up."
"Mordred?"
"He's got too many strikes on his record already. One more, and he'll end up in Sing Sing, and I already feel guilty enough for thinking him a spy."
Arthur shuffled as Merlin's resituated himself on his lap. Merlin bit his bottom lip. "You had your reasons," he said past the lump in his throat. He hated being reminded of the Kings.
"Not good enough reasons," Arthur sighed, being too hard on himself. "Anyway, Morgana and Leon can conduct the interviews without me. They've done it before. They'll hire some fish." A first-timer.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up with an idea. "We should do something today. Get out of here. It won't be long until it's too cold to enjoy being outside."
The days were getting chillier and shorter. They shouldn't have been wasting them in a dusty, dark old cellar, no matter how tempting.
"A date?" Merlin stressed, biting down on the word for emphasis. He knew how much it made Arthur roll his eyes, and it did.
"If you like," Arthur droned before getting back on track. "What about Liberty Island? We can take a ferry out. I've not been; have you?"
For the first time, it dawned on Merlin that, in all his years of being in New York, he'd never once even considered taking a trip to the Statue of Liberty. "No," he said reflectively. "My god, I've gone native."
Arthur chortled. "Then, let's go. Maybe some of that liberty and justice for all will rub off on us."
"You'd better let me stock the shelves, then," Merlin reminded him. "The sooner I get that done . . ."
Arthur shook his head in mock disapproval. "Always with your responsibilities. Fine. Get your chores done, starting with something that requires your immediate attention."
All at once, Arthur flung his arms around Merlin and pulled him down the floor. Merlin whooped with surprise at the dizzying motion, and it didn't take long for the sounds he was making to become more strained.
Somehow, news of their trip to Liberty Island spread like wildfire (which had nothing to do with Merlin excitingly proclaiming it to Gwen, who in turn told Lance and then Morgana, who in turn told everyone else). It somehow became a group outing.
On the ferry ride to the island, the group of them stood on the bow of the boat. The wind made the Knights' long trench coats flap and made Morgana and Gwen constantly fight their hair out of their faces. Once docked, they stood at the base of the statue and craned their necks to see the torch that towered stories above them. The faded green of the metal was a shock against the blue and white sky.
Merlin had never felt so small.
Inside, on the intimidating and long trek to the observation deck within Lady Liberty's crown, Gwaine bet Percy he could beat him to the top. He promptly lost. On the other side of the river, the tip of Lower Manhattan glinted in silver in the afternoon light. The buildings reflected in shimmering ripples off the water.
Back on the rolling green grass in the shadow of the statue, they ate the picnic Gwen and Lance had packed and grappled with pigeons—blasé and unimpressed by the threat mankind posed to them, as all New York City birds were—for the food. Afterwards, Merlin stretched out beneath a tree, chatting with Gwen and Morgana, who basked in the last of the dying season's sunlight that would soon be too weak to warm the city. Arthur and his men boxed in a playful way that quickly dissolved into boyish wrestling.
A few hours before the Camelot's opening, they took a ferry back to Manhattan. As the island sunk away amongst the rocking waves, Gwaine belted out a song that Merlin vaguely remembered from his childhood. Apparently it was a favorite, because everyone else joined in at the chorus.
It was a nursery rhyme about a Duke of York and his army climbing up a hill, only to be frightened back down by a dragon. It was sung with enough mirth for onlookers to think them drunk.
From where Merlin was sitting, Arthur was framed against the Statue of Liberty. Every inch of him was golden in the setting pink and yellow sunlight bouncing off the currents. He might have been made of bronze himself.
"No, no, no! Blue balloons will completely clash with the rest of the décor," Morgana was saying into the phone when Merlin entered the club one morning two weeks later. For some reason, she'd moved the phone out of Arthur's office and hooked it up behind the bar.
Merlin didn't even know they had a phone jack behind the bar! He'd been working at the Camelot for six months now, and he'd never noticed one. It was possible Morgana willed it into existence. He wouldn't have been surprised.
"It's red and gold or nothing!" Morgana told the poor soul on the receiving end. Merlin was sympathetic for his plight. "Well, I don't care how many shipments you have to order. Gold and red. Twenty-four of each color. Understand?"
As he approached, Merlin caught Gwen's eyes and raised his brows in question. She was standing behind the bar, too, leaning on the wood with her chin in her palm and her fingernails tapping out a tune on her cheek. She patiently waited for Morgana to get off the phone. In the meantime, she returned Merlin's expression with an exasperated smile and a pointed look at Morgana out of the corners of her eyes.
Merlin knew the look well, as he'd worn it himself many times. Both he and Gwen had an impossible Pendragon to maintain.
"Excellent!" Morgana said in a buoyant tone that clearly meant she'd gotten her way. Like there was ever any doubt. "I'll pick them up on Thursday. Have the cake ready by then, too. Red velvet." She hung up the phone.
"Cake?" Merlin inquired with suddenly more excitement than curiosity. "What's the occasion?"
"Like you don't know!" Gwen giggled like she was sharing a secret.
Merlin let out an unsure noise.
"Oh, for god's—!" Morgana moaned when she realized Merlin had no idea what was going on. She'd said it the same way Arthur always did, like the whole world was conspiring against them to be one giant pain in the ass. Merlin often wondered if it was something they'd picked up from their father. It was probably the only similarity between the siblings.
"Did Arthur not tell you? I swear, his melodrama will be the death of us all," Morgana ranted before finally revealing with the proper amount of spite, "It's his birthday on Friday." She said birthday sarcastically, like she hadn't actually meant birthday.
Merlin had no idea what else she could have meant, so he looked at Gwen to decipher the hidden language. She silently confirmed his suspicions that Morgana had indeed actually meant "the day one is born," after all.
"His birthday?" Merlin echoed, abruptly panicked. He tried to remember Arthur having mentioned it, but he couldn't. Really, Merlin should have known the date his own boyfriend's birthday. He leaned into the bar and scrubbed his face.
"Then, you haven't gotten him anything?" Gwen pointed out.
"Why didn't he tell me!" Merlin lamented, but his palms muffled it.
Even though he couldn't see her, he might as well have heard Morgana rolling her eyes upon saying, "He's weird about his birthday! I don't know why."
"Oh, you know why!" Gwen protested, sounding empathetic. At least, Merlin understood what she'd meant by that.
Apparently, Morgana chose not to. "You're right. It's Father's fault."
Gwen didn't debate the point.
Merlin stood up straight, hoping to clear his head. It was Saturday. He had less than a week to come up with a birthday gift for Arthur—one Arthur wouldn't despise, which might have been impossible because Arthur despised almost everything he didn't pick out himself.
"You could take him somewhere," Morgana supplied off Merlin's helpless look. Her eyes lit up in they way they always did when she had an idea that benefited herself. "Actually, that's perfect! Take him out all day Friday so we can set up for the surprise party here!"
It wasn't a terrible plan. But Merlin didn't know where Arthur might like to go. New York City was a big place, filled with thousands of attractions. There had to besomething! His mind came up blank.
Gwen nodded in solidarity. "You could take him to a show!"
Merlin remembered the last time he'd taken Arthur to Vaudeville and cringed. And he didn't think he could afford Broadway tickets.
"Or—oh! Coney Island!" Gwen exclaimed. "Lance and I went a few weeks ago. It's wonderful!"
Morgana scoffed dismissively. "Please. Can you actually see Arthur enjoying himself at Coney Island?" She'd said Arthur like she'd said birthday and Coney Island like she meant The Ninth Circle of Hell. Merlin had to admit she had a point.
Arthur wouldn't have been satisfied with anything! While he'd stopped complaining about New York on a daily basis, he still didn't go out of his way to seek a good time in the city. He treated Manhattan like how a king might treat his kingdom—making sure his lands were in tact and his people weren't starving (or, in this case, thirsting) and keeping the enemy outside his borders. He only ever went anywhere beyond the West Side when Merlin dragged him.
Then, an idea struck Merlin. Maybe he was thinking too narrowly. Maybe the only thing Arthur needed from New York City was a break from it. Arthur wouldn't want a surprise party or a Broadway show. He'd want to relax, to rest his head from the weight of the crown.
Merlin licked his lips and smirked to himself. "I think I've got an idea." The two women blinked at him in expectation, but he did not elaborate. Instead, he turned on his heels and started for the staircase.
"Cover for me if Arthur asks where I am!"
"And where exactly will you be?" Morgana called after him. She must have been annoyed at not receiving an answer.
It was Wednesday. But it wasn't any old Wednesday. Arthur hated this one—just as he hated every other day in this godforsaken week. He felt like he'd been holding his breath for days.
"Arthur?"
He looked up from the ledger to find Merlin in his office doorway. Merlin didn't wait for an invitation before pacing through, swaying slightly in slow strides with his hands folded behind his back. He looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't come right out with it.
Which was unusual. Merlin was never one to hold back.
"Something on your mind, Merlin?" Arthur prompted. He placed his pen in the binding of the ledger.
"It's your birthday this Friday."
It had been the last thing Arthur expected to hear. Once it processed, he let out an exasperated exhale and looked away. He never cared much for his birthday, which was an understatement.
Every year, his Knights always tried to do something for him—which usually involved taking him to a new club and getting him drunk (the melancholy and frequently violent kind of drunk, despite everyone's efforts). Morgana always bought him something expensive. Gwen always sang him happy birthday, at least three times from morning until night.
It was an exercise he'd gotten used to, and one he'd hoped they'd left behind in London.
Arthur twirled at the silver ring on his finger. Uther had always pushed a smile on Arthur's birthday, but the luster never reached his eyes and his pats to Arthur's back where weaker than usual. He never celebrated—not really. He was too busy mourning. As a child, Arthur thought maybe he should mourn, too. The disposition started a few days before Arthur's birthday, rolling in like threatening dark clouds before a storm.
After time, the grief and the guilt sunk in until they became second nature. Any joy on that day just seemed inappropriate.
Arthur learned at a young age not to make a fuss about his birthday.
"Morgana told you," he guessed. The curve of his lips might have resembled a grimace rather than a smile.
"And Gwen," Merlin said, either to let her share in the credit or to assign half the blame.
Arthur picked up his pen again and began to scribble dates and dollar amounts. "Then, they told you not to make a big deal about it."
"Where's the fun in that?" The lightheartedness in Merlin's tone was phony. He knew he was walking on thin ice with whatever ludicrous idea he was about to propose. Arthur really hoped Merlin didn't have some extravagant evening planned. Even though extravagant and Merlin weren't exactly synonymous.
Although, if Morgana had helped him, maybe Arthur had reason to worry, after all. It could have been a party.
God, please let it not be a party.
"Merlin," Arthur warned, his tone on the cusp of aggravation.
"Just . . ."
It had been said in a whisper, tiny and uncertain. When Arthur looked up again, Merlin was staring at his shoes and biting his lip. Apparently, he collected his bravado, because he met Arthur's gaze squarely.
"I found this place in Sullivan County," he said, speaking quickly as though to not be interrupted. "It's a cabin—on a lake. White Lake. In the woods. Some hermit old man owns it, I think—the cabin, not the woods. Or the lake. Anyway, the lady at the rental office said he spends most of his time in Florida or somewhere warm or—"
"Merlin!" Arthur said again, just to stop him from rambling. He wasn't exactly sure what Merlin was trying to say, except that there was a cabin somewhere upstate. Arthur raised a brow in confusion. "Did you say rental?"
"I rented it for the weekend."
Actually, he said it more like, "Irenteditfortheweekend." Like he was wincing, instinctually protecting himself from an oncoming blow.
Arthur blinked. He realized his mouth was hanging open and he was staring, but he couldn't stop doing either. He felt oddly outside of himself, like his body belonged to another. His breath had even stopped.
"You rented it?" he heard himself say tonelessly.
Merlin shrugged innocently, a child scolded. "I got it for cheap . . . I think. It's the off-season for that kind of thing. I just thought . . ." He looked up again, giving a breathlessly hopeful grin. "You might like it."
Arthur looked down at the lines and numbers and ink blotches without really seeing them. He saw trees, instead—and water. The guilt and grief passed away without him really noticing until he was lighter somehow.
It didn't feel inappropriate at all.
"Or you could stay here for the surprise party Morgana and Gwen are planning," Merlin added, probably trying to make a weekend getaway to the country sound more enticing. As if it didn't already.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're terrible at keeping secrets!"
Merlin leaned into the desk, his eyes lighting up like a fisherman with a bite.
"What do you say?" he asked, biting his lip to keep down his excitement. Clearly, he'd put a lot of effort into this trip. Arthur couldn't say no. Arthur didn't want to say no.
He saw trees and water and Merlin.
Arthur puckered his lips, fighting a grin. He nodded.
As Merlin let his own smile free, Arthur looked at him as though he'd never quite seen anything like him before. And he wondered how it could be that Merlin saw him so completely, with such clarity, like no one else had ever seen him before.
He felt too light now. So light that his body felt too heavy around him.
"You're going to love it!" Merlin promised. He was about a second from jumping up and down in enthusiasm.
"Good, now get back to work," Arthur answered, just barely containing his own eagerness.
"Yeah, I will!" Merlin said in a way that sounded very much like he wouldn't. He started out of the office, backing up quickly so he could keep Arthur's eyes. He nearly tripped over his own heels in the process. "You don't have to worry about anything! Just pack some clothes. I'll take care of everything else!"
The back of his shoulder slammed against the doorway. It didn't affect him one bit, except for an apologetic glance to the wall and a sidestep.
"I've got it all under control!"
And he was gone, save for the echoes of his shoes and he ran down the stairs.
Arthur gave a breath of laughter. He tossed his pen down on the ledger, all hope of focusing on business gone. He leaned back in his chair and gleefully watched the spot from which Merlin had disappeared.
Maybe some birthday traditions had stayed in London, after all.
Chapter Text
They argued nearly the entire drive upstate, mainly due to the various wrong turns Arthur made along the way. Arthur would get frustrated and claim Merlin was reading the map wrong; Merlin would argue that Arthur just wasn't listening to him. Things cooled down once they reached Sullivan County. Past the farmland, some gentlemen's clubs, and an off-season Borscht Belt resort, they finally found their way to White Lake.
"Arthur, look!" Merlin exclaimed when the lake came into view. The water twinkled in the weak autumn sun. Changing leaves of reds and golds encompassed it, a world on fire. A diner and some canoe or fishing shops stood between the roadway and the lake.
Across the water, Merlin spotted some small homes and cabins nestled into the hills. Their cabin would be somewhere amongst them. He squinted his eyes, trying to guess which it would be.
"I think the turn may be coming up," Arthur said after another few miles. At first, they overshot the narrow dirt road they were meant to drive down. However, they doubled back to it, and were immediately surrounded by the forest. Through the tree limbs, Merlin still caught glimpses of the lake on his right. On their left was nothing but growth and giant boulders. A squirrel scurried up a tree trunk.
"This would be a good place to hike," Arthur commented. "We should find a trail."
"As long as you don't have any coke," Merlin muttered, earning him a sideways smirk that only made him nervous.
Soon, the trees became less dense and the dirt on the road was smoother and more compact. Cabins and summer homes began cropping up with wide breadths between them. The road curved right along the lake, on which small, private wooden docks were littered and colorful rowboats rocked with the waves.
They found their cabin, identified by a wood-carved sign reading Avalon House, a little ways up the hill. The car pulled into the gravel patch that served as a driveway. Beyond the drive was a grassy garden with a locked shed and an outhouse. There was a stone pathway and some steps leading to a tiny, one storey log cabin of a deep, almost black color.
Arthur killed the engine and they both got out of the car. Merlin scanned the area around them, taking in the trees and feeling the gravel crunch beneath his shoes. In a deep breath, he took in the aroma of earth and the murky air of the lake. The fresh air almost made his head hurt. He was used to smog and smoke.
"What do you think?" he asked Arthur.
"It's nice," was the answer. There was nothing to indicate that Arthur was pleased, but Merlin could sense it. It was written in the softness in Arthur's shoulders, in the way he carried himself. All his guards were down.
"Let's go inside," Arthur added quickly, and they started down the walkway.
On the other side of the door was a short entrance hall with a bench and a coat rack. Big, old-fashioned iron keys that were probably only decorative were nailed the wall. There was also a cupboard with a sliding door. The air was musty and smelt of mothballs, making Merlin sneeze.
"We'll have to open a window," Arthur said, his nose wrinkled in distaste because of the sneeze.
At the end of the hall and to the left was the main room of the cabin. Next to a large bay window was a bed, decorated with more lacey white throw pillows than anyone would ever need, and an antique wooden chest at its base. On either side of the bed was a side table with gas lanterns on them. Bookshelves were fitted into the opposite corner, packed full with various tomes. Two comfortable, yet threadbare armchairs sat in front of a stone fireplace. A stag's head was mounted above it; below it, was a bearskin rug. The rest of the walls were adorned with carvings depicting scenery or other cabins, and another mounted trophy of antlers.
There was a rickety flight of stairs going up the wall above the entrance hall, and it led to a small, open loft filled with more wooden chests, boxes, and, Merlin assumed, spiders. The ceiling was comprised of bare rafters that came together in a steeple, and running horizontally from wall to wall were thick, round support logs. At the far edge of the room were a cutout window and a threshold that led into the kitchen. Another bay window was placed inside the kitchen, with a view down the hill towards the lake.
As Arthur neared the fireplace, Merlin went into the kitchen to get a better look. It was a narrow room with a dinner table pushed up against the window. To Merlin's left were a gas stove and a chopping block. Pots and pans hung above the stove. On his right were an icebox and another door leading outside.
"Arthur's there's a porch!" Merlin called when he looked out the window.
"Is there?"
Footsteps sounded and soon Arthur was at his back under the threshold. Merlin reached for his hand and led him out the side door onto the porch. It wrapped around to the back of the cabin, until they were met with a tarp-covered picnic table and a few lounge chairs. The structure stood on thick stilts as it protruded out form the hill's incline. There was a giant hole cut into the planked floor, just off center, to make way for a great oak tree that stood taller than the rest of the vegetation surrounding the cabin. On the far side of the porch were steps that snaked down to the lakefront.
Arthur paced towards the railing and folded his hands around the wood. He was looking towards the lake, taking it all in. Merlin was looking at him.
"Not bad," Arthur said, and Merlin could hear the smile in his voice, even though he couldn't see his face.
Merlin walked up behind him and wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist. He hooked his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "Are you happy?" he asked, trying to look out the corners of his eyes to gauge Arthur's expression. He could tell Arthur was grinning, which was all he needed. "I think you're happy."
"I'm happy," Arthur conceded, turning his head slightly to Merlin. "This was a good idea. Thank you, Merlin."
"Me, having a good idea? I never thought I'd hear you say that."
"Admittedly, it's your one good idea. I won't expect many more in the future."
The future. Merlin liked the sound of that.
Arthur spun around quickly in his arms. Merlin whooped with a sudden rush of surprise as he was thrown over Arthur's shoulder and marched back inside.
"What the hell are you doing?" Merlin laughed.
"I'm enjoying myself," was the stern answer.
The screen side door thundered as it bounced closed. When Arthur finally dropped Merlin, it was on top of the mattress.
"We haven't even unpacked yet!" Merlin pointed out. "The food needs to go in the icebox. And your clothes are gonna wrinkle if they stay in—"
Arthur's chuckle cut him off. "Clothes!"
There was probably no use debating the point.
"Have it your way," Merlin mumbled. He anchored his leg around Arthur's knees and made Arthur fall on top of him.
Oh course, Arthur didn't mean to stay inside all day, but they had wasted the rest of the morning in bed. He was eager to explore the woods surrounding the lake, so they packed lunch and took a break from their indoor activities.
It took most of the afternoon to follow the trail around the lake, which turned out to be massive. He wondered what creatures lived beneath the surface. When the inclines of the trail dipped to form banks or shallow pools, Arthur had half a mind to kick off his shoes, roll up his trousers, and wade in until his feet kicked off the mucky bottom.
Every time he thought he built up the nerve, a soft gust of wind came, shaking the dead leaves from their spidery branches and making Arthur's skin prickle with a chill. The water would be worse. He'd probably catch his death in that lake. Summer would have been a better time to holiday here, when the air was uninviting but the water was refreshing and delicious.
He stowed away the thoughts of summer and focused on the wonders of the autumn: the compact dirt crunching under his shoes, the chipmunks holing away their nuts for hibernation, and the crisp, strong scent of a golden world preparing for sleep.
Every now and again, they'd see someone else on the trail, who'd stop to say hello, delightedly ask where they were from upon hearing their accents, and part from them after a short chat and well wishes. Sometimes, they spotted people fishing on their boats or packing away their docks for the season. They were usually too far to strike up conversation, but all of them held up their hands in a wave and offered friendly smiles.
It was a welcome break from the cold passersby in Manhattan, who never looked each other in the eye except to glare and curse after being mildly slighted.
Halfway to the far edge of the lake, a hiking trail presented itself. It was covered in brush and led up the mountain, away from the water. They climbed it until they found a level area with flat boulders large enough for both of them to lie down upon.
On a nearby fallen tree trunk, Arthur set up some empty glass bottles he'd found in the cabin for target practice. Merlin watched the glass sprinkle into rainbow fragments as they hit the light before Arthur asked if he wanted to have a go. Merlin had been dubious at first, and Arthur realized he'd probably never had any real practice shooting.
Now was as good a time as any, especially if Merlin insisted on living so close to the Kings.
"Oh!" Merlin shouted into a deep gasp as a bullet he'd fired whooshed close to the neck of a bottle, making it rattle out a hollow sound and spin in place. "That one came close!" He looked triumphant.
Arthur attempt to tame his lips from curving upwards, but his eyes betrayed his pride. As far as shooting a gun went, Merlin certainly didn't have a future career as a gunslinger. He shot the weapon like the movements of his own limbs surprised him—all flailing arms and bouncing knees after each bang. Arthur tried to give him pointers on how to hold a stance, how to aim, when to breathe—but Merlin always gravitated back to his instincts.
That wasn't to say he was terrible. Arthur had certainly seen worse. Somehow, Merlin constantly managed to get close to his mark without actually hitting it.
"Better," Arthur allowed, "but you're still not lowering your elbows enough."
Merlin rolled his eyes in protest. "If that was a person, I still would have hit him!"
"Yes, but not the point you'd been aiming for. That could mean the difference between life and death. Now, give that to me before you actually do kill someone." Arthur relieved him of the pistol, even though there was no one else around to accidentally fall victim to Merlin's bad aim.
"Yeah, right. Not even you can hit your mark every time—"
His words were cut off by a series of gunshots and exploding glass. Arthur faced him the entire time, keeping eye contact. Merlin didn't have to look to know all the bottles were now gone. He kept his mouth shut, but pursed it in aggravation.
"You're just showing off," he snipped at last, and moved to sit down on a boulder.
Arthur watched him with mirth blooming inside of him. For a moment, he forgot why he even needed a gun. He hadn't thought about the Kings all day—or the Camelot, or the Albion. He couldn't remember a time he'd been so loose, not even when he thought back to his life in England.
That seemed so long ago now.
"It's been a while since I had target practice," Arthur said as he put the safety on and stowed the pistol. "A place like this is perfect for it. The city's too crowded. People hear gunshots, and you've got the police hammering down your door."
Merlin shook his head. "Isn't that a good thing?"
"Depends on which side of the gun you're on."
Arthur rolled his shoulders and stretched out his back, even though all the knots in his muscles had very recently disappeared. Meanwhile, Merlin looked around the wooded area and mused, "I don't know. Being out here kind of makes me feel like no one will be able to hear me scream."
Arthur raised his brows in humor. "Wasn't that the point?"
"That was . . ." For a moment, it looked like Merlin going to argue another excuse, but his shoulders deflated. "Kind of the point, yeah."
Arthur moved closer to him. "I can see right through you, Merlin. And I think you actually like it here."
Merlin shrugged one shoulder. He looked down at the rock beneath him and dragged his index finger hard along the grooves. "And I think you're starting to like the city," he said in a teasing, almost singsong tone.
He wasn't completely wrong.
"Admit it. It's not all bad," Merlin continued, the tip of his finger red and white against the surface of the boulder. "Manhattan is fine for me. For now, anyway. Cities are—," he curled his nose in consideration and then let out a breath through it. "Cities are for people who are trying to find themselves."
Sometimes, rarely, Merlin said things that made it sound like he knew more than he let on. Like he had the wisdom of someone who's lived a very long, tired life. Most of the time, on those occurrences, the things he said made very little sense, and Arthur couldn't seem to follow Merlin's train of thought. It made Arthur wonder if he was getting the full story.
But more than that, Merlin made Arthur think about things he'd never consider otherwise. Sometimes, Merlin's ability to cause unexpected revelations astounded him. Now was one of those times. Arthur realized he did like New York—very much. So long as there were places like this he could escape to every now and again. And so long as Merlin was with him.
"Or someone else," Arthur added, not meaning to give Merlin a pointed look.
Merlin only nodded.
Arthur sat down next to him, wondering if he could fathom out the thoughts spinning in Merlin's head this time.
"Any luck with either?" he asked hopefully.
Merlin shrugged again and pulled a mock-unimpressed expression. Arthur knew there was a yes in there somewhere. At least, he hoped there was.
It was much harder to train his lips now, so he looked down to his lap.
Once he'd collected himself, he said, "Come on. Let's see if there are any animals around here I can catch for dinner." He stood up. "Maybe I can add another trophy to the cabin's walls."
"Great," Merlin moaned, picking himself up, too. "More dead eyes following me around."
Arthur pulled a face of faux-sympathy. "Why, do they frighten you?"
"Oh, no, I love stuffed dead things. I think they really bring the room together."
"Good. Now I know what to get you for your birthday," Arthur goaded. "Now, come on."
Merlin gestured with an upturned palm. After you.
In the end, Arthur hadn't actually caught a new prize for the mantle. After finally getting a stubborn Arthur to admit defeat, they ate the rations Merlin had the forethought to bring from Manhattan on the porch's picnic table.
The night turned black around them, darker than Merlin had ever remembered seeing, now that they were miles and miles away from the city lights. A hush fell over the forest—nothing but crickets and the breeze on the water; the orange disk of the harvest moon, the breathtaking rift of the Milky Way's galactic center, and the silent autumn stars. Billions of them turned above Merlin's head in slow, steady procession. An ancient dance.
A very long time ago, people, in their arrogance, believed Earth was the center of the universe, and all the celestial bodies in the sky revolved around it. And then Copernicus came along and put the world in its place, hurtling through the void like the rest of the lowly, unimportant planets in the sky.
Merlin looked at the man beside him.
Copernicus taught us man is not the center of the universe.
But Copernicus never saw the way Merlin looked at Arthur Pendragon.
Merlin awoke the next morning to the smell of burning and a loud but distant sizzling noise. As consciousness returned to him, he remembered they'd fallen asleep with the fire still blazing in the hearth. The realization made him jolt awake and sit up in bed. However, upon first inspection, the cabin was still standing around him and there was nothing but a mound of gray ash in the fireplace.
Relaxing, he looked to his side and found Arthur wasn't next to him. He was about to call out when he heard a string of curses coming from the kitchen.
"Fuck! God damn you! You little—!"
Merlin leaned backwards in bed to look through the cutout window into the kitchen. He saw Arthur inside, his back turned.
Curious, Merlin got up and pulled his trousers on. He made for the kitchen as he buttoned them up.
"Arthur?" he asked once he was through the threshold. It was still dark outside the window, despite the hour.
Arthur was standing at the stove, upon which were two pans with charred masses in both. He immediately tore his eyes to Merlin, looking wildly disappointed.
"You're meant to be asleep!" he scolded.
"Sorry?" Merlin eyed the stove, not really sure what to make of it. "What are you doing?"
Arthur sighed like he was about to admit his deepest, darkest secret. "I'm cooking," he confessed. "I wanted to surprise you, but I keep—," he picked up one of the pans and threw it into the sink in frustration, causing a clatter, "burning everything."
Merlin couldn't help but to chuckle at the situation, or at the lost puppy-dog look Arthur wore. "You were trying to cook me breakfast?"
"It was a stupid idea."
Arthur looked wounded and turned away. He started cleaning up with tense movements. It made Merlin's heart sink.
"No, it's nice of you," Merlin cooed, stepping forward and placing his hands on Arthur's hips. He shouldn't have made fun. He knew how fragile Arthur's ego could be, no matter how he tried to hide it. "What were you making?"
"Scrambled eggs—or I was trying to." He looked up suddenly, like he'd just had an idea. "Do you know how to make them?"
"Well—"
"You made dinner last night. You seem to know how to cook."
Merlin was a little thrown. He laughed nervously. "I know how to make scrambled eggs."
"Show me how," Arthur ordered.
"You . . . want me to cook for myself?" Merlin asked, just to be clear. Arthur said nothing but looked determined. Merlin decided to step in before he hurt himself, or actually did burn down the cabin.
Arthur had been cracking the eggs right into the skillet before attempting to mash them. Merlin had to bite back a smile at how adorable that mistake had been, and he taught Arthur the proper way to beat the eggs. He let Arthur cook them, but guided him along by the wrist all the while. He taught Arthur how to make toast on the grill, too. When they were finished, they piled the eggs on top of the toast.
"Well, now that I've made my own surprise breakfast," Merlin joked.
"Yes, and the least you can do is get back in bed and act like you don't know," Arthur told him seriously. Merlin's mouth fell open and he let out a few noises, not sure how to begin his argument. Arthur silenced him by commanding, "Go. Go on."
Merlin chose to play along, no matter how ridiculous it was. He rushed back into the main room and hopped into bed, throwing the covers back over his legs. He sat up straight and clapped his palm over his eyes.
"Ready?" Arthur's voice came from the kitchen.
Merlin laughed again. He found he couldn't stop grinning. "Ready!"
He dropped his palm away from his eyes when Arthur came through the threshold with a plate in either hand and said in his best theatrical tone, "Oh, Merlin, I've made you breakfast in bed."
Merlin gasped exaggeratedly. "All by yourself, too! I didn't know you could cook!"
"I'm a man of many surprises."
Merlin was happy he'd humored Arthur. It was worth it to see how much Arthur was beaming.
The mattress dipped as Arthur sat down and handed Merlin one of the plates. Merlin scrunched his nose at the food. "I'm not all that hungry," he teased.
Arthur cocked his head and shot him a severe glare. "You'll eat it."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes."
"Yes, sir, Mr. Pendragon, sir!"
Arthur shook his head down at the plate before cutting into the toast with his fork. Merlin did the same and, around his first bite, said, "It's good."
Arthur shrugged. "Needs more salt."
Merlin pulled an offended face and pursed his lips. He elbowed Arthur playfully, eliciting another smile.
"I'm kidding," Arthur stressed.
"You'd better be."
As they ate, Arthur said, "There are some fishing rods in the cupboard in the hall. I thought we might go out on the water today. Have you ever been fishing?"
Merlin shrugged and swallowed another bite. "Once, when I was a kid. I don't think you could count it as fishing, though. It was—." Balinor had taken Merlin and Will when they were boys. It was on a farm in Scotland, with pools of hundreds of fish all packed in together. It would have been impossible have not caught anything. In retrospect, the poor fish probably wanted to get caught. At least, in the afterlife, they'd have some personal space. Merlin realized he couldn't tell Arthur that story without giving away his lie. More questions were bound to follow, and one might just trip Merlin up.
He looked down, trying not to seem despondent.
"Anyway, I don't remember how."
"It's not hard," Arthur told him. "Really, it's just sitting back and letting the fish come to you."
"It's a shame the water will be too cold to swim," Merlin mused.
Arthur took the empty plate from his hand and set it on the nightstand. He took the last bite of his breakfast and placed his plate on top of it. "Perhaps in the summer," he said, stretching out on his side and propping his head up with his hand.
Merlin wondered if they'd last until the summer.
Somewhere along the line, he made it a rule to not dwell much on the future, but thoughts of Balinor and Will branched back to the Kings. He was reminded of Cenred and Kanen, of Morgause's piercing stares, of Sigan's distrust. Of what would happen if Arthur ever found out.
He was glad there wasn't any food left, because he'd completely lost his appetite. "Are you sure you'll want to take me back here again?"
"Of course." Arthur looked perplexed, but then again he would be. He didn't know the full story.
Merlin leaned forward and, ignoring the strain in his back, kissed Arthur slowly. He cupped Arthur's jaw when he felt Arthur's warm tongue slide against his. When they came up for air, Merlin rested his forehead against Arthur's and closed his eyes, concentrating on Arthur's breaths.
"What was that about?" Arthur asked.
"I wanted to kiss you." He never wanted to stop.
"Do you still want to?"
Merlin nodded against his forehead. When his eyes fluttered opened, Arthur's lips were curved into a soft smile.
"Me, too."
It was a gray day, with some foreboding dark clouds on the horizon. The air pressed in and crackled with electricity. But Arthur had been adamant about getting on the water. Merlin only agreed to come along so he could listen out for rumbling thunder. He didn't trust Arthur to come back on his own accord if a storm hit. He'd probably make up excuses to stay in the boat, or altogether deny the weather's existence.
As they untied the tin rowboat on their dock, a thin drizzle had already begun. It was more like a misting than actual rain. It brought with it white fog that made the lake water ghastly and ominous, like Merlin might look over and see Charon rowing Hercules to the underworld.
The chill the weather brought set into Merlin's bones, making it hard to grip his oar. In front of him, Arthur was unaffected, which wasn't all that surprising. Arthur seemed to produce his own heat. He was a burning mass of hydrogen and helium, whose radiating effects only seemed to bounce off Merlin without sharing with him the tiniest bit of warmth.
Merlin watched the strong muscles of Arthur's shoulders twist as he paddled.
"Keep up, Merlin," Arthur scolded from over his shoulder. Merlin made an obscene, unseen gesture at his back.
Once in the middle of the lake, they cast their lines for a full twenty minutes until the drizzle turned into fat drops that splashed beneath the surface and caused ripples. Merlin ran his fingers through the icy water. It felt like glass.
Arthur's line seized and strained under the weight of brook trout. He cheered when he reeled it in and sent it flopping on the metal floor. "Lunch," he exclaimed proudly. Merlin watched the fish thrash until it didn't. He hadn't realized how much the air reeked of the odor until just then.
A streak of lightening cracked the sky. A perfect zigzag.
"Arthur, we'd better go in," Merlin worried.
"Oh, don't be such a scardey-cat, Merlin! I can catch one more," Arthur whined in retort. The waves rocking them became choppier.
Merlin set down his fishing rod. "I'm not getting cooked for a fish." He leaned off his bench and reached for Arthur's rod. Arthur jerked it away, unbalancing Merlin. The next thing Merlin knew was a frigid, unforgiving world. He went instantly numb.
When he broke the surface of the water, Arthur was howling with laughter. Merlin was less amused. His sopping clothes weighed him down and his shoes had never been so heavy. He fought to stay afloat, and only stopped treading water momentarily to slick his plastered down hair back.
"Hilarious!" Merlin roared. He spit out the brackish water that seeped into his mouth.
Arthur finally stopped laughing long enough to pull Merlin back into the boat. Merlin's teeth chattered desperately. He hugged himself for a warmth that eluded him.
"Would you look at that?" Arthur said, his lips curved to one side. "I think I've just caught the biggest fish on record."
Merlin shot him a hateful glare, colder than the water and air combined, before reaching back into the lake to splash him.
He was less irritated when they got back to the cabin. He couldn't possibly stay mad at Arthur, who built a fire and cocooned them in blankets on the carpet in front of the hearth. They remained there for most of the afternoon, huddled together and going through the dusty tomes on the bookshelves.
The chill encompassing Merlin soon passed.
Just below the hissing and crackling of the damp wood fueling the fire, there was a constant, furious inhale. The flames licked up high and swiftly, burning so bright that the gas lamps weren't needed to combat the night. Every inch of the room danced in orange shadows. The wooden scent masked the mothball stench. The heat emitted was warm and comfortable, but Merlin was sweltering. He lay on his back, half in and out of the blankets, and tried to catch his breath. His whole body was flushed pink with the heat coming off his skin, from his cheeks downward.
Arthur hummed in contentment and rolled into him, skin touching skin. More heat. Merlin didn't mind it.
"You're not going to fall asleep on me, are you?" he asked before nuzzling his face into Merlin's collarbone.
Merlin let out a heavy breath that was halfway to a laugh. "You couldn't possibly want to go again. I'm exhausted. Aren't you exhausted?"
"It's the fresh air," Arthur said, coming back up. "It has that effect."
"No, no, you have that effect," Merlin shot back. "You and your bloody stamina."
Arthur only chuckled, as though Merlin had been joking. When he stopped, his eyes swept towards Merlin's. There wasn't lust or passion in them, but something gentler. Merlin couldn't exactly place the expression. He'd never seen it before. But it stilled him. For a moment, there was only the roar of the fire.
"Listen to that," Arthur whispered like he didn't want to disturb whatever he'd heard.
Merlin scrunched his brow and strained his ears.
"No cars, no sirens, no shouting people." Arthur disappeared from view to lie on his back. He took with him his warmth, and Merlin suddenly felt like he was back in that lake.
Merlin propped himself up on his elbows to look at Arthur's face.
"I've never seen you like this," he said after some consideration. "You're different out here." Arthur was just so relaxed. There wasn't a better word for it. "Are you going to blame that on the fresh air, too?"
Arthur smiled and rumbled with soundless laughter.
"I could stay here," he said after he'd settled.
"We've only got the place until tomorrow—."
"No, I mean stay." He caught Merlin's eyes. "Couldn't you stay?"
Merlin remembered the images that his mind conjured up while they were in Bear Mountain. It was nice to have real memories now, not just his imagination. To see Arthur at such peace every day would be enough to make Merlin stay, but he wondered how long it would last. Arthur would probably go stir crazy after a while, without civilization and people to talk to. They'd probably argue a lot, too—more than usual.
But, still, it was a thought. To get away from the clubs and the gangs and the noise. Merlin had never known anything else.
It's been said, many times, that no one can ever really leave New York once it's settled into your bones. It's a sickness you can never get over, a scratch you can never itch. No matter how far you wander, the city always calls her lonely children back home.
"The outhouse might get old after a while," he said, trying to think practically.
Arthur's eyes flittered back up to the ceiling. He seemed like he was thinking hard about something. "I suppose."
Merlin searched him, watching the way the firelight played on his features. Arthur glowed brighter than it, always filling Merlin up with the warmth of summer. Merlin felt it in his chest, settling in between the rhythms of his pulse. The sensation was heavy at times and lightweight at others, but sometimes it was both. Now was one of those times. Merlin never knew what it meant.
But now, amongst the quiet and the trees, completely alone with Arthur, he was pretty sure he knew. He was overcome with it.
"Arthur," Merlin said under his voice before he could stop himself.
Arthur looked at him expectantly. It made Merlin lose his nerve.
This wouldn't last. It couldn't. They could not erase Manhattan off the map, no matter how many trees or lakes they put between them. They would have to return.
The feeling in Merlin's chest was again heavy and too big.
"I'm glad you had a happy birthday."
For a moment, Arthur looked like he'd be expecting something else. But then he nodded sleepily, and the corners of his lips quirked upwards.
Merlin rolled in closer and rested his temple on Arthur's shoulder. He slung an arm over Arthur's chest and wondered how tight he could hold on. Arthur wrapped his own arm beneath Merlin to idly draw circles into his back and shoulder with his fingertips.
The drive back to Manhattan the next morning was much more somber than the ride upstate had been. After waking up just after dawn, Merlin had found Arthur on the porch, sitting underneath the giant oak, watching the wind ripple the lake water. He'd been there for hours, apparently, just taking in the quiet. Merlin left him there to tidy up the cabin and pack their things. He hadn't the heart to disturb Arthur's peace—and, besides, Arthur would have only gotten underfoot as Merlin cleaned.
Manhattan was suddenly too bustling, too confined. As they drove the avenues, congested with traffic, Merlin felt claustrophobic. It had never bothered him before. He'd become a champion at dodging speeding cars and zigzagging around bumpers as he jaywalked the streets. Now, he was hesitant, and realized for the first time that every driver in the city must have been convinced their vehicles were bulldozers or war tanks.
Unimpressed pedestrians walked into incoming traffic like they expected the world to halt for them. Horns blared from every direction, people gave one another the finger, and colorful words painted the stinking air.
Merlin knew he would remember the charm of New York once the special breed of high blood pressure born solely of being in a traffic jam went down. However, even as they pulled into his block in Alphabet City, he was dejected.
He'd left a piece of himself in Manhattan when they left for the lake, and he hadn't even realized it. It was the part of him that was constantly on edge, either fretting or causing him to be suspicious or making him tiptoe around. Now, it was back, and it weighed him down.
It was back to business as usual. Back to his life—or double-life.
Arthur pulled the shine runner up to Merlin's building and put it in park. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to for Merlin to know he, too, was feeling the full effect of their return. Arthur's shoulders were tensing up again and the line of his jaw was on the verge of rigidness. Merlin longed for the Arthur he'd found beneath the oak tree.
"I'll see you tonight," Merlin told him before leaning over and kissing Arthur.
Arthur still smelt of fresh air and tasted of murky water and fallen leaves. It exhilarated Merlin as it filled up his senses. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend he could latch on to the euphoria. Arthur must have been thinking the same because he kissed back hard. He gripped Merlin's shirt in both fists to pull him in closer. His kisses became frantic.
"Let's just turn round and go back," Arthur said, beaming widely at the prospect.
Merlin tried to bite back his own grin as his chest fluttered in eagerness. "Oh, go on," he said, not even attempting to put up a fight.
Arthur dug his nose into Merlin's neck and worked at the base of his jaw. Merlin grumbled dreamily and tilted his head into it. He was a second from inviting Arthur upstairs.
"I need a break!" he chuckled, reluctantly pulling away. "I'm already having a hard time sitting down after this weekend."
"You? As least you can chew," Arthur shot back, scandalized. He pressed his palm to his jaw like he was caring for a toothache.
Merlin was overcome with smugness. "That was your own fault."
"Was not," Arthur protested. He leaned in again, cornering Merlin against the window. "It's not my fault I want you."
Merlin hummed again. He stared down his nose at Arthur's lips, not an inch from his own. "You've got me."
"All the time."
"Any time you like."
He allowed another kiss. He was happy to find it calmed Arthur again, if only fractionally.
"I'll see you tonight," Arthur echoed, making it sound hopeful rather than run-of-the-mill.
Merlin grabbed his overnight bag out of the back and got out of the car. Once he walked around to the sidewalk, he shot Arthur one last humored look. Arthur returned it by making his brows disappear into his fringe and smirking. He drove off.
Merlin watched him go. He didn't notice that he was smiling fondly until he shook himself out of an aborted daydream. He turned to his stoop.
When he did, he was suddenly given one very good reason to stop smiling. He huffed as Sigan walked up to him, wearing an expression of utter disgust.
"Haven't seen you around the last few days," Sigan said, stopping a few feet away like he thought he'd contract a disease by standing too close to Merlin. Merlin found himself hating Sigan more than ever.
"I've been working," he said shortly, allowing his hate to drip off his tongue.
"Didn't look like work to me," Sigan pointed out, nodding in the direction Arthur drove off.
Merlin was hot, but in anger rather than embarrassment. He wanted to kill Sigan for even suggesting Arthur. It felt irrationally like a threat to Arthur's well-being.
"Yeah, well, your opinion doesn't matter to Cenred," Merlin bit out, and tried to push past. He must have caught flesh, because Sigan's arm shot out and grabbed Merlin's to stop him.
"You're not fooling me," Sigan told him frankly.
Merlin held his stare, trying to remain coldhearted rather than unnerved. After a few seconds, he ripped himself violently out of Sigan's grip. Sigan's glare carved up Merlin's back until he was inside.
The Camelot wasn't in ruins when Arthur got to it, but he'd never admit that leaving Morgana in charge for the weekend wasn't as disastrous as he'd thought. Luckily, his Knights had been there if anything went awry. Then, of course, there was the undeniable truth: Gwen had been there, which meant Gwen was actually in charge and everyone knew it.
Which is why Arthur wasn't surprised to see the staff hard as work for the night's opening when he pushed through the entrance. Everything was in perfect order, so he didn't hesitated before going to his office to check what bills had come in during his absence.
He'd barely slipped off his jacket and sat down when Morgana's heels came clacking in.
"Ah, Arthur, how was your fuck fest?" she asked without missing a beat.
Arthur rolled his eyes at her. "For the last time, Morgana, there are plenty of things to do outdoors."
She didn't look like she believed him. "Such as?"
They'd had this conversation before. He wasn't about to repeat himself.
Morgana threw herself into the chair in front of his desk. "Don't think that gets you off the hook for your surprise party, by the way. I worked hard on planning that—," which meant she spent ten minutes max on the telephone, "and I'll be damned if it's not going to happen. It'll just happen when you least expect it."
"So, it's more for your ego than it is for me?" Arthur interpreted.
"Oh, absolutely!" Arthur thought he might cut himself on her smirk if he glared for too long. "It'll be my present. Your present was the fuck fest, remember?"
Arthur groaned. He had a lot of catching up to do and he really wished she would go bother someone else. But, from the way she was lounging, that seemed unlikely.
So, he answered in a droll tone, "Yes, Morgana, I had sex with the man I love. Be an adult about it, will you?"
Morgana shot up immediately, suddenly looking shocked. She was poised like a cat at the edge of the chair. Arthur had no idea why at first, until his own words processed.
"You love Merlin?" she asked once she found the air to do so. Her tone was more awestricken than teasing.
Arthur wouldn't have noticed anyway. His heart was hammering against his ribcage. He hadn't even meant to say the word. It just came out—naturally. The perfect fit.
And then he realized Morgana was still staring it him expectantly. He'd told Morgana, of all people, which meant everyone in Manhattan would know by sundown.
"You can't tell him!" he said, starting.
"No, I rather think he should hear that from you," Morgana agreed, settling his nerves—or, at least, his anxiety about it getting out before he worked up the courage to tell Merlin. Because, now that he'd said it aloud, he knew it was true. He just didn't know if Merlin felt the same, which caused a whole different spiral of fear.
Maybe it would be better if Morgana did tell everyone, and the rumor reached Merlin. It was an indirect way of saying it, but it may be effective. At least, then, he'd find out Merlin's feelings without being immediately rejected.
For god's sake, Arthur, be a man about it, Arthur scolded himself inwardly for even considering such a childish tactic.
"Good," Arthur said, trying to breathe.
"My god. You come back to the city and suddenly you love him," Morgana sighed, shaking her head at the wonder of it all. "That must have been a better fuck fest than I'd thought."
And, all at once, Arthur was annoyed again. He needed to steer the conversation away from such uncharted territory, especially because Morgana had been wrong. His feelings weren't sudden, at all. He'd only just realized them for what they were, and he couldn't allow them to drown him while on the job.
"Did you have any run-ins with the Bandits while I was away?" he asked, half in a desperate attempt to change the subject and half because he needed to know.
Morgana shook her head in the negative, which surprised Arthur.
"Nothing? You're sure?"
"Yes, Arthur, I think I'd know if the Kings attacked us," she snipped.
It didn't make any sense. It knotted Arthur's stomach with worry. "Something's not right. I can feel it," he fretted. "They've been quiet for weeks." It was much too long, and there was no way Cenred just gave up after Arthur had essentially barricaded off half the city from him. They must have been planning something.
"Perhaps they're waiting for the right time to make their move," Morgana offered. Arthur didn't know if any time would be the right time.
"Why? What are they waiting for?"
He could feel the tension in his muscles again as he considered the possibilities. So much for a relaxing holiday.
"Do you think they'll come after the Camelot?" Morgana speculated. She was right: If it was taking them this long to retaliate, they were planning something big. Arthur would kill every Bandit in New York before the Camelot met the same fate as the Dragon and the Albion.
"We won't let them," he said. It wasn't determination. It was a fact. A fire sprouted within him. "I want guards protecting the club round the clock. Tell Leon. He'll set up the watch. And I want only people we trust. We still don't know how the Kings got their information on us in the past."
Morgana nodded dutifully and stood up to leave. However, she hung back at the door and wrapped her slender palm around the threshold. "By the way, Father called over the weekend. He wished you a happy birthday," she said, looking at him over her shoulder.
Arthur looked away. There probably hadn't been any real heart behind Uther's words. However, he had deemed the message important enough to spend the money on an international call. Perhaps he had meant it, after all. Suddenly, Arthur missed his father more than he could say. The very notion of Uther's phone call meant more to Arthur than any other birthday wish he'd ever received in is life. It felt like approval for simply being born—only, twenty-four years later.
Maybe Uther wouldn't have approved if he'd known how Arthur had spent his birthday.
"Where did you tell him I was?" he asked, just in case he had to do damage control (as though Arthur could control Uther at all, and not the other way around). He wondered if Morgana told him about Merlin, and how Uther reacted. He didn't want to think about it. Something in his chest felt weighted as he pondered.
Maybe Morgana knew that, because she said lightheartedly, "I said you'd gone upstate with the man you love for a fuck fest."
Arthur snorted out a laugh, feeling a little more cheerful despite himself. He met her eyes solely to roll his own.
"I told him you were running an errand," Morgana clarified nonchalantly. "I'm not an idiot."
She'd always been better at lying than Arthur had been. In fact, she was probably the best liar Arthur knew.
Chapter Text
November came and went in a whirlwind. It seemed the month merely dropped in to deposit frosted windowpanes in the dim mornings and impossibly early sunsets. It unburdened itself on December, which blanketed New York in a cold so still with slumber that Merlin sometimes thought his and Arthur's bodies were the only two things in motion.
Arthur was rubbing gentle circles onto Merlin's bare stomach with his palm. It was the first thing Merlin felt in the peripherals of his consciousness. It pulled him slowly into wakefulness. Next, came warmth. It was all around: the soft mattress he was sinking into, the fluffy duvet pulled up to his chin, Arthur's torso against his spine and Arthur's ankles wrapped around his.
He could see the soft glow of morning through his eyelids. The sun always shone brighter on the West Side than it did in the East.
Merlin smiled sleepy and nuzzled his cheek deeper into the pillow, enveloping himself in the blankets. He kept his eyes closed, still too exhausted to join the world.
"Morning," he grumbled. He'd forgotten his fake accent. It was times like these he cursed himself for making that a part of his act. Of course, he never planned on it becoming a problem. There were a lot of things he hadn't planned on.
One of those things was when he'd tell Arthur the truth. Merlin knew he ought to plan for it, but it was starting to feel like that eventually would never come. More than that, it never needed to come.
This is who Merlin was—just this, when he was with Arthur. His old life was merely something he slipped into to protect Arthur's interests. Arthur didn't necessarily need to know about that, because Merlin didn't need to be thanked. He just needed Arthur safe.
And Arthur didn't notice the slip up. "Good morning," he greeted, slightly increasing the pressure of his hand. His voice wasn't groggy. It sounded like he'd been awake for quite a while.
Merlin grunted and stretched out his muscles against Arthur's body. It wasn't lost on him that Arthur was stiff as he pressed into Merlin, which only made Merlin's smirk grow. He wanted to stay where they were all day.
"I'm so tired," he groaned. His eyelids felt heavy as he tried to open them.
"You drank too much last night," Arthur said.
"Blame Gwaine."
"I do."
Merlin rumbled as images from the previous night came back to him. He simultaneously loved and hated the nights Gwaine was at the club instead of on patrol. He loved them because Gwaine was the life of the party. Everyone seemed to light up whenever he entered the room, and the real festivities begun. He hated them because he usually woke up the next day with a pounding headache, a case of cottonmouth, and a short-lived vow that he'd never allow Gwaine to talk him into drinking on the job (or anywhere else) ever again.
"Didn't hear you complaining. We should thank him."
Arthur pressed a kiss to Merlin's shoulder before resting his chin there. "You should stay in bed. Get some rest."
It was tempting. More than tempting.
"Someone's got to stock up for tonight."
"That's what we have other employees for," Arthur reminded him.
"You don't want to look like you're giving me special treatment."
"It's a bit late for that."
It occurred to Merlin that Arthur was being serious. He blinked his eyes open, wondering why Arthur was offering such things. "Are you giving me the day off?"
Arthur hummed. "I'm feeling generous."
Merlin didn't believe his ears. He rolled onto his back to gauge Arthur's expression.
Arthur gazed down at him in a way Merlin had only noticed recently in last few weeks. His eyes were soft and searching. His lips were curved into the slightest of smiles, more of an echo of happiness than the actual throes of the emotion.
"There you are," said Arthur, apparently content just to see Merlin's face.
Merlin tried to bite back a grin.
"You can have the night off, too," Arthur went on. "But you've got to promise to meet me at the club this evening. Around six."
"What for?"
"You'll see."
Merlin lifted his head off the pillow and shot Arthur a glare. "That's not very fair to me. Where will we be going? What will the weather be like? What should I wear?"
"You'll find out. You won't need to worry about the weather," Arthur responded in turn. "And—I don't know. Anything." Merlin had learned that anything meant something nice in Arthur's world.
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't like surprises."
"You'll like this surprise."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes."
"Then, I won't like it."
"Just be there."
"Okay."
It might be fair to say that Merlin was obsessed with the way Arthur's eyes lit up. He felt a whole new rush of warmth, and all he could do was stare. He was certain that Arthur had never held eye contact for that long before.
"What time is it, anyway?" Merlin asked after some time.
Arthur's eyes flickered towards the clock and he answered, "Almost nine."
"You should go." Merlin hated saying it, but the fact remained.
"Later." It didn't take too much convincing.
Arthur put his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. He kept his arm slung over Merlin's stomach, and Merlin moved to rest his hand over Arthur's. Arthur flipped over his palm into Merlin's and stroked the knuckles with his thumb.
Merlin didn't know how long they stayed like that. It was a while. He listened to Arthur's breaths, which progressively became shallower as he drifted back to sleep. Soon, Merlin's mind felt fuzzy. It was so cozy beneath the covers, and unconsciousness crept back in on him.
Distantly, he was aware of the clicking of key turning in a lock.
"What the—?" Arthur reacted, jolting awake and making Merlin do the same. He released Merlin and looked over his shoulder at the opening door like he was ready to fend off an attack.
But then Morgana breezed through, holding a pile of papers to her chest.
"Well, good morning, you two," she said with amusement licking her tone.
Arthur groaned in annoyance and turned onto his back. "What do you want, Morgana?"
Merlin propped himself up on his elbows and made sure the duvet was still covering him, not that Morgana would have batted an eyelash if it wasn't.
"Good morning!" came a brighter voice from the threshold. Gwen bounded into the room with a pleasant smile.
"What is this, a party?" Arthur complained as he sat up in bed.
"Not yet, but I could phone some more people, if you'd like?" Morgana said sardonically. She sat down on the edge of mattress next to her brother and dumped the pile of papers into his lap. They appeared to be bank notices and cheques.
"I have to drop these off at the bank because, apparently, some of our employees would like to be paid," she went on. "They need your signature. Since you've decided not to come to work today, I decided not to wait around for you."
"I was just about to leave," Arthur insisted.
She raised a manicured brow at Merlin. "Looks like it." Merlin tried to appear innocent.
"Just give me a pen, would you?"
As Morgana shuffled through her pocketbook and Arthur turned over the documents, Gwen bounced around the bed and plopped down at Merlin's feet.
"Morgana's taking me into town today for a new dress!" she exclaimed. "We're going to Saks Fifth Avenue! Oh—um, the department store that opened up near Rockefeller Center last year?"
Merlin chuckled, trying to keep up with her. "I know what it is."
"I've been so excited to go! It's supposed to be enormous!"
"You'll love it, dear," Morgana cooed.
"Aren't you rehearsing today?" Arthur asked as he continued to scribble his signature on one cheque after the other.
Gwen opened and closed her mouth a few times, seeming wounded.
Morgana jumped to her aid. "She doesn't need it! The band will have to rehearse without her today. What she does need is a new wardrobe. It'll get dull if people see her wearing the same thing night after night."
Arthur huffed. "If you say so."
"Oh, we should stop by Rockefeller, too, Morgana!" said Gwen. "It's supposed to be lovely around Christmas time."
"You should go at night," Merlin told them. "It's better when it's all lit up."
Gwen's excitement was infectious, but the happiness Merlin felt for her dropped along with his stomach as Arthur droned, "How on earth would you know, Merlin? You haven't even been here a year."
"I just—," Merlin stammered, trying to sound casual. "I hear."
Arthur finished signing and sorted the papers back into a neat pile. He handed them back to Morgana. "Gwen, make sure Morgana doesn't buy anything for herself. It seems like she has a new dress every day."
As the two women stood up, Morgana said, "Why should you get all the pleasure in the world, Arthur? I seems like you're getting something else every day."
Merlin's ears turned a shade of pink and he bit the inside of his mouth. Arthur was less affected. "That's right," he said matter-of-factly. "Now, get out so I can get it again."
He didn't wait for Morgana and Gwen to move before swiveling towards Merlin and crowding into him. Merlin gripped onto the baby hairs on the back of Arthur's neck as Arthur kissed him like they hadn't been interrupted at all.
"Come now, Gwen. We should leave before this gets indecent," he heard Morgana say.
"Oh, come on, Morgana! I think they're perfect together, don't you?" Gwen was saying. Her voice became more distant as they walked towards the door.
In the hallway, Morgana said, "Not as perfect as the clothes we're going to find you—"
The door slammed and their words turned into muffled sounds before ultimately fading away.
But by that time, Merlin had lost all sense of the world. His head was pressed into the pillow again. Arthur was half on top of him, cupping Merlin's cheek and kissing him lazily but possessively. Merlin groped at Arthur's biceps and brushed his fingers along the muscles. Every line and curve, everything about Arthur's body, had become familiar. Merlin knew it better than he knew his own.
There was a word for what Merlin felt for Arthur. A small word, a simple one. He denied it every day. Because one day, on a day he had not yet planned, he would have to tell Arthur the truth.
As much as Merlin hoped that, on that day, Arthur would forgive him, it was more likely that Arthur would hate him. It was more likely that Merlin would end up with a bullet between his eyes. Worse still, Arthur would have to give the order. Merlin wondered how the aftermath would play out. Would Arthur move on, fueled by anger, or would he wallow, kissing bottle after bottle of whiskey and wishing he were kissing Merlin instead? Was Merlin even worth the self-pity?
No. Merlin didn't think he was.
The inevitability of it all made Merlin break the kiss.
"What?" Arthur worried.
Merlin shook his head, trying to meet Arthur's eyes. "You should get to work," he said in ways of an excuse.
Arthur looked disappointed, but he nodded in agreement. "Alright. I'll see you tonight."
"Yeah."
Arthur pulled away and got out of bed to dress. Merlin wasn't as warm as he had been when he'd first woken up. He rolled onto his side facing away from Arthur and wrapped the duvet tighter around him.
Traffic was barely moving. It got even worse as they encroached closer to Times Square. The cabbie in the front seat laid his hand down on his horn as another taxi cut him off. It didn't matter, anyway. It would have only put them a few feet closer to their destination—wherever that was.
At this point, Merlin would never find out. West Forty-Fourth Street was starting to resemble a car park.
Merlin's glance ricocheted from Arthur's profile to the nighttime lights outside. He was trying to figure out where they were headed. What, amongst the brightly lit signs and masses of tourists gawking at them, was the big surprise? He thought Arthur's expression might give something away as they got closer.
It didn't. He merely checked his watched a few times. His leg shook—the only sign that, on the inside, Arthur was frustrated.
No. Not frustrated. Nervous.
Merlin second-guessed himself. Arthur had no reason to be nervous.
Forty-Fourth Street intersected with Broadway. Arthur told the driver to let them off there. Obviously, he had gotten sick of waiting and decided they could walk the rest of the way.
They got out in front of a massive building. It took up an entire block. Bounded on all sides by road—West Forty-Fourth and Forty-Fifth Streets, Broadway, and Astor Plaza. Merlin glanced up at the massive structure. It was constructed in Beaux Arts style, with arched windows and columns and pediment doors fashioned like they belonged in the Italian Renaissance.
Of course, Merlin knew what the building was. Everyone did. It was the Hotel Astor, built by the same family responsible for the Waldorf Astoria. The most beautiful people in the world booked rooms in that hotel.
Merlin only glanced at it for a second, too jaded to appreciate its grandeur.
"Come on," Arthur said after paying the cabbie. The air had a bite to it, instantly making Merlin's cheeks chap and redden. He turned to follow Arthur, hoping wherever they were going wasn't too far.
And it wasn't. Arthur made right for the Hotel Astor's doors. The doorman greeted him and permitted him entrance. Merlin was too flabbergasted to do anything but follow.
Only once they were on the other side, in the comfortable heat, did Merlin stammer. "Arthur, what—?"
"Surprise," Arthur said without any particular splendor.
Merlin blinked at him. He blinked at the lobby. A gigantic panting depicting, and somehow blending together, old and present New York hung over the reception desk. The room was bathed in golden light, and for a second Merlin thought the air itself might have been made of gold.
"You can't be serious."
Arthur took it as a good thing, and it was. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Come on, let's check in."
"We're staying overnight!" It was a little scary how quickly Merlin turned from cynical New Yorker to tourist in his own city. But this wasn't New York. It was a different world! The building was certainly massive enough to be a different world, anyway.
Merlin barely heard a word anyone was saying when Arthur checked them in. He was too busy gaping at the ornate ceiling. The concierge asked for their bags so a bellboy could bring them up. They didn't have any bags, so Arthur declined.
Next, the concierge confirmed the dinner reservations in the Banquet Hall for eight o'clock. He then pointed them in the direction of the bellboy stand so someone could show them to their room, despite their baglessness. They met a young, pleasant man named Tyr at the stand. Arthur asked Tyr if they could get a tour of the hotel before going to their room.
They were taken to all the best amenities the hotel had to offer. Every room in the building had its own unique aesthetic, all of which somehow tied together seamlessly.
There was a grillroom decorated with real Native American artifacts; a grand ballroom in rococo fashion with ivory caryatids holding up the ceiling, and a smaller ballroom in neoclassical style. There was an indoor garden with the ceiling painted to resemble the Italian sky, under which flowering vines snaked around blue-lit chandeliers, swaying fern baskets, and pergolas. There was a Flemish smoking room, a billiards room, and a room that Merlin didn't exactly know the purpose of, but he was pretty sure it was what Germany must have looked like during the Renaissance.
There was also a bar, which had been closed since Volstead reared its ugly head. The bar had a reputation as a meeting place for wealthy, famous men . . . seeking other wealthy, famous men. Tyr smiled at them a little too-politely when they peaked their heads into the room, but he didn't say anything.
Finally, they took the lift all the way up to the rooftop garden. It was closed for the season, with all the salvageable annual shrubbery protected from the winds by black tarp. It was the only thing that reminded Merlin they were still in New York, and hadn't somehow stepped onto another planet. A planet where it rained diamonds for kids to splash in the sparkling puddles; a planet where all articles of clothing were made of mink and Egyptian silk; a planet where gold oozed from body like blood.
Tyr showed them to their room on one of the middle floors. It had a four-poster bed with a canopy draped over it, furniture that a king had probably bequeathed, and a carpet that most likely wasn't supposed to be walked on so much as visually adored.
Arthur tipped Tyr generously. Once the door closed, Merlin let out a breath he'd been holding in for the entire tour. He allowed himself to become undone, to look at the hotel in reverence and be in awe that his life had brought him to it.
If Zeus ever had to book a hotel, this is where he'd stay. And then he'd think Mount Olympus a slum in comparison.
Aware of Arthur's eyes on his back, Merlin paced towards the French glass doors, their lace curtains tied back by red velvet, which led out to a balcony. He did not open the doors, but peered out the windows at the mass of ant-sized people bustling along the vibrant streets on Times Square. The billboards even looked small from that vantage point. The hotel was an oasis in the middle of it all.
"What do you think?" Arthur asked like he already knew the answer.
Merlin shrugged dispassionately. "It'll do," he said dryly. He turned around just in time to see Arthur, standing by the velvet and gold metal couch, roll his eyes in good humor. "The rooftop garden was nice, if it wasn't so cold. You want to do something like it for the Albion?"
"Something like it," Arthur agreed.
"Is that what all this is about? You're looking for inspiration for the club?" Merlin didn't think so. Arthur usually let Morgana take care of the ambience, so it was more likely he'd take her than Merlin. And it also didn't explain why they were staying overnight. But Merlin couldn't come up with another reason for the stay, besides Arthur wanting to model the Albion after New York's posh hotels.
"The Albion is the furthest thing from my mind," Arthur assured him. Usually, Merlin would doubt that, but he believed him this time.
Merlin crossed his arms over his chest and fixed Arthur with a surveying, puzzled stare. Did Arthur want him to guess the occasion?
Arthur sighed heavily and flapped his hand loftily at Merlin. "Does there need to be a reason?"
"Yes!" Merlin balked. "No one gets a room like this for no reason!"
"You really are never happy."
"Guess not."
Arthur stared back witheringly. "There's no reason. The reason is—," he gestured to Merlin again and let out another heavy exhale, like he knew how absurd he sounded when he continued in a small voice, "you."
Merlin stilled. His expression softened. "Me?" He must have heard wrong.
"I thought we could dine in the ballroom, maybe dance a little," Arthur said sheepishly. He suddenly looked bashful and uncertain. Again, he was nervous. It was adorable, even though Arthur would kill Merlin for saying so.
"Oh, yeah? Is that vertical or horizontal dancing?" Merlin joked. It seemed to lift Arthur's spirits because he grinned.
"Depends on how creative we get."
Merlin chortled, and he supposed he should be grateful if all of this really was with him in mind. He thanked Arthur by striding towards him and kissing him. He didn't break the kiss as he guided Arthur down to sit on the couch. Merlin leaned over him and cupped his face. They probably had some time before dinner . . .
Inevitably, Merlin pulled away for some air. He tilted his head to touch his forehead to Arthur's.
"I love you," Arthur whispered as their lips separated, like it was a breath that Merlin had pulled from his lungs.
Merlin froze. His smile dropped. He tried to convince himself that it had been his imagination, but he knew it wasn't. He pushed back to look Arthur in the eyes. It hadn't been his imagination at all. Arthur gazed back at him vulnerably. Merlin swallowed hard. He must have looked terrified.
Because, in that moment, he was certain Cenred had somehow wired the room. He'd heard the proclamation, somehow. He'd come for Arthur. He'd reveal Merlin's lies. He'd ruin everything.
It was a preposterous notion. Logically, Merlin knew it was impossible. His insides still snaked around, unsettled and on high alert.
"I—I was going to wait until after dinner to say that," Arthur went on, more nervously than before. Merlin suddenly realized what the occasion was. Arthur had planned this. He cleared his throat. "But, there you are."
He met Merlin's eyes again, looking at him expectantly. Merlin stayed silent. He couldn't speak. If he could, he wouldn't know what to say.
Or, no. He knew exactly what he'd say.
I love you I love you I love you I love you!
"This is usually the part when you say it back," Arthur supplied in strong tones. They only sounded strong. Merlin knew Arthur was panicking on the inside.
The only thing that escaped Merlin was a breath. He sat down heavily next to Arthur and tried to collect himself.
"Oh," Arthur said after a pause. It was the smallest word Merlin had ever heard.
"No! Not 'oh!'" Merlin jumped.
"No, Merlin, it's okay. I . . . understand," Arthur told the floor. He was trying so hard to mold his voice into the same business-like demeanor he used in meetings with Annis or contractors. Or when he was giving a speech to his men. Arthur was trying to rally himself. It wasn't working one bit.
Merlin couldn't stand it. He was frantic. "No, you don't! You really don't!"
He sighed. It was less like a sigh and more like a refusal to have any air in his body. He wanted to tell Arthur everything. What came out instead was, "I love you, too." He confessed it to himself; it just so happened, Arthur was seated conveniently next to him meanwhile.
And Arthur was overjoyed. His face lit up like it was already Christmas day. He kissed Merlin, and Merlin felt the relief in Arthur's lungs as clearly as his did his smile. Merlin wrapped his arms around Arthur and kissed back. He wanted to stay like that always.
His cheek was damp. It should have been because he was happy, but it wasn't. A great sadness drowned him, twisting his stomach and setting into his bones. He'd never been so aware of his lie; and it felt as though, before, he hadn't fully realized he'd been lying.
This wasn't who Merlin was. But, oh, he wanted it to be.
He was supposed to be done with the Kings for good. He wasn't supposed to play into Cenred's will, but he had. The plan had unfolded perfectly, and if Cenred ever found out, Arthur would be the one who paid the price.
Arthur didn't deserve that. He was in danger just being with Merlin. Merlin had put him in danger!
Arthur must have felt Merlin's breath hitch, because he broke the kiss. "Merlin?"
I can't do that to you, Merlin thought. Maybe he'd said it, because Arthur's face pinched into confusion and concern.
Merlin couldn't stand to look at it. He extracted himself and started for the door.
"Where are you going?" Arthur tried to laugh, but his tone was weighted. He already knew something was wrong.
When it was apparent that Merlin wasn't stopping, Arthur jumped up and raced him to the door. He got there first.
"Merlin, stop. Where are you going?" he demanded.
"I have to go home," Merlin heard himself say without ever consciously forming the words. He reached for the doorknob, but Arthur guarded it with his body.
"No, you don't. We have the room for the rest of the night." He sounded like he didn't understand.
He doesn't, Merlin realized.
Arthur was properly panicking now. He didn't even try to mask it. "Look, it's okay if you don't feel the same way. You didn't have to say it back."
Merlin wanted to shout. Arthur thought he was lying, when that was the only thing he wasn't lying about.
"Just—just stay here. Please," Arthur begged, making it sound so simple. "Forget I said anything."
Merlin blinked directly at him, his lips parted. He should have been happy—they both knew that.
You really are never happy.
"How?"
Arthur didn't have an answer. His expression dropped in a millisecond. He seemed helpless.
Merlin used the moment of shock to reach past Arthur and escape out the door. He heard it shut behind him as he marched down the carpeted corridor. He couldn't take the lift, with the attendant cheerfully asking him which floor he'd like to go to. He needed to be alone.
He pushed into the stairwell and rushed down a few flights. He didn't know which floor he was on when he stopped on a landing. He flattened his palm on the wall for support and leaned over like he was going to be sick.
He allowed himself a momentary loss of self-control. His palm on the wall formed into a fist. He beat the plaster with it once. It left a mark. He shouted, and it echoed back to him a dozen times. He felt like he'd been holding that in for years, since the day Balinor died.
This skin on the side of his fist was stinging and red, but not as much as his eyes.
He imagined Arthur upstairs. One would think Arthur would be the one to rage. If Merlin had stayed, or if anyone else had been there, Arthur would have transformed his sorrow into seething anger. Alone, he would remain calm—an eerie, pressing calm. He wouldn't make a sound, and the space around him would seem like a vacuum, like the whole world would never make another noise again. He'd still be staring at the door, but he wouldn't expect Merlin to come back. He'd just be standing there. Merlin wondered if he'd ever move.
Merlin was curled up in his bed, holding his knees to his chest, in attempt to block out the world. Through his thin walls, he heard the couple a few doors down having a row. Beneath their nearly indistinguishable shouts, the sound of a woman singing softly came from next door. Outside, car horns were honking, chatter and laughter filled the air, and coins rattled in a beggar's tin cup. The world was positively screaming at Merlin; it refused to be ignored. It raged at him, inflicting the punishment he deserved.
Suddenly, there was a pounding at his door, and all other noises fell to the background. Merlin's breath caught, thinking that maybe, somehow, Cendred knew what Arthur had said. He remembered Sigan appearing seemingly out of nowhere outside Merlin's tenement building when he'd gotten back from the lake. Sigan could have been spying on Merlin this whole time. He could have heard Arthur's confession. Cenred knew and sent his henchmen to fetch Merlin for not telling him immediately.
Merlin sat up and watched the door in dread, hoping whoever was on the other side would go away if he remained very quiet. That dream shattered when the fist hammered on the wood three more times, shaking the frame.
"Merlin, I know you're in there! Open the door!"
It was Arthur. He sounded furious.
Merlin's chest constricted again. The knots in his stomach squeezed tighter, causing a pressure in his throat that made him want to gag. He wasn't sure if he could face Arthur, but he knew Arthur wouldn't leave until Merlin let him in. He'd stand in the hallway all night if he had to. He'd be spotted by one of the Bandits or their snitches for certain.
More hard knocks. "Merlin!"
Making up his mind, Merlin jumped up and tore the door open. On the other side, Arthur had his fist raised, like he was ready to knock again. His eyes flashed with surprise, and then his features, shadowed in the low light flickering in the hall, molded into anger.
"What are you doing here? Did anyone see you?" Merlin fretted, looking both ways into the empty hallway.
Arthur pushed into the room, his tone hard as he said, "I don't care. I have to talk to you."
Content that no one was lurking after Arthur, Merlin closed the door softly and locked it for safe measure. His fingers lingered on the lock chain for a moment, and he noticed he was shaking gently. He collected himself as best he could before turning towards Arthur.
He regretted it immediately. Guilt hit him like a wave, nearly causing him to drown.
Now tinted in nighttime blues and blacks, Arthur's jaw was set in hot anger and his posture was stiff and sharp as a knife. Merlin had learned to look past all that. He knew they were parts of Arthur's defenses. Arthur's eyes always gave him away. They weren't red or welling, but they were wounded. The way they sparkled made Arthur look like a small, lost boy.
"Why did you leave?" Arthur demanded harshly.
Merlin scoffed under his breath and shook his head at the floor. "As opposed to what? Staying?"
"Yes!" Arthur shouted through gritted teeth, punctuating the word by gesturing at Merlin with both upturned palms and tensely splayed fingers.
Merlin rolled his eyes, forcing back the stinging sensation. "Right. Like you wouldn't have been moping about the rest of the night."
"Oh, for god's—," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm a grown man, Merlin! I can handle it if you don't feel the same way."
The words hit Merlin like a punch in the gut. Apparently, they did Arthur, too, because he let out the smallest of gasps. He didn't really mean what he'd just said, and both of them knew it.
"It's not like that," Merlin defended, trying to quell Arthur in some way.
However, it seemed to only incense Arthur further. "Then, what's it like? I swear to god, if you say it's complicated—."
"It is, though!"
"How?"
Merlin could only guess how confusing this must have been for him. He wished he could tell Arthur, but Arthur was already filled to the brim with emotion. The confession would probably kill him.
"It's simple, Merlin! Either you love me or you don't. And, obviously, you don't, so—"
Merlin couldn't stand for Arthur to think that. It broke both their hearts. "Would you stop saying that?" he erupted. "Of course, I love you!"
Suddenly, everything was very calm. The couple had stopped shouting, the woman stopped singing, and the world out the window apparently ceased to exist. And Merlin was relieved. He had stopped denying it. Saying it for the second time made it real somehow.
For months, he thought he could keep Arthur without really having him—clinging to something he wasn't allowed, but wanted. Even if he didn't deserve it.
Arthur blinked a few times in his silence. He was as still as a statue, searching Merlin up and down like this was some trick. When he finally spoke, he said guardedly, "You don't have to say it to make me feel better, Merlin."
"I'm not." Because it made Merlin feel worse. He sat back down the edge of his mattress and stared at his lap. He was aware that Arthur's eyes had followed him.
"I don't understand you," Arthur said, gesturing between them. "We're happy. Aren't we?"
It was a loaded question, but the grimace on Merlin's lips turned into a small smile. "Yes," he admitted, feeling less numb for it. All things considered, he was happier than he'd ever been in his life. Finally, he belonged somewhere. And how lucky was he that he belonged to Arthur?
Arthur seemed more confused than he had been all night. "Then why are you behaving like this?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion. When Merlin answered only by hanging his head, Arthur knelt down before him and fitted himself between Merlin's knees.
"Don't tell me your afraid of getting hurt?" he said, half-joking. And then, suddenly serious, "Because I would never—"
"No, I know!" With the way Arthur was looking at Merlin now, Merlin was certain that Arthur could never harm anyone. This man who'd fought giants and slain soldiers. He was a curious thing: a warrior without the thirst for blood, a fighter searching for peace.
"It's not you I'm worried about. What if I can't promise the same?"
Arthur furrowed his brow and shook his head like the notion was preposterous. "I'll take my chances," he said lightly.
Merlin was more serious. "Arthur—"
"Merlin," he laughed. "Shut up."
Merlin decided it was best to listen. He mustered a low wattage smile of his own and brought Arthur's hand to his lips. He kissed every knuckle, even though it fell short of expressing how thankful he was.
"You're not leaving," Merlin told him.
"No," Arthur said. Never, he silently promised.
He stood up to slip out of his shoes and shirt. Meanwhile, Merlin scooted to the other side of the bed and tucked himself beneath the covers. He held them up until they fell around Arthur, too.
Arthur fitted in close, pushing his chest against the line of Merlin's side and cupping his palm around the curve of Merlin's ribs. As Merlin danced the pads of his fingers on the back of Arthur's hand, he knew that love was a whole lot more than little touches. But their fingertips had been saying it long before their lips built up the nerve to form the words.
"I got us a room in the Hotel Fucking Astor, and somehow we've ended up here," Arthur droned, but there was no venom in the words.
Merlin watched his fingers lace with Arthur's on his torso over the blanket.
"I don't care where we sleep," he whispered.
As long as it's with you, he did not say.
Arthur hummed thoughtfully, like he'd read Merlin's mind.
Arthur had never woken up in someone else's bed before—at least, not while he was still wearing trousers. Usually, the morning light hitting the walls of another's bedroom illuminated the aftermath of the previous night's activities. He'd never just slept with anyone before, in the most literal sense of the word.
But now, as his eyes fluttered weightedly on the cusp of wakefulness, he began to recognize the situation for what it was. This new territory was strangely intimate. He wondered if all lovers felt the same on its first occurrence, only to allow it to become commonplace and taken for granted.
Merlin breathed gently. None of his troubles from the night before echoed in his exhales.
Arthur promised himself he'd never get used to it.
There was a gentle knocking on the door. At first, Arthur thought he'd dreamt it, but it sounded again and pulled him fully into consciousness. Next to him, Merlin grunted and buried himself further into his pillow. He wasn't getting up any time soon, and Arthur hadn't the heart to wake him.
Instead, he carefully lifted himself out of bed and shivered in the shock of cold air. He padded to the door. Merlin didn't have a peephole, but Arthur doubted anyone malicious would be standing at Merlin's door (especially when they were knocking so gently). It was probably a neighbor looking for flour, or whatever neighbors looked for, or the tenement's owner after rent money.
When Arthur unlatched the door, he was met with a small, humble-looking woman on its other side. She gasped a bit in shock at the sight of him. Her eyes were wide as they flickered down to his bare torso, which made him a little self-conscious. He winced at her, his eyes still sleepily adjusting to the light. He wondered how lined his face was and in how many directions his hair stood.
"Oh!" she said, still sounding surprised. "I was looking for—," she glanced behind him, at the lump of blankets on the bed. Her face fell and her shoulders slumped. "Oh."
Arthur wasn't quite sure what to say. He blinked a few times, trying to get his brain to work. However, before it caught up to speed, the woman said in a frazzled tone, "I should go!" She turned away as she muttered it, and started quickly for the stairs down the hallway.
Finally, the cogs in Arthur's mind started spinning. It clicked that he had no idea who this woman was, or why she was knocking on Merlin's door so early in the morning. He was curious, and he wondered if he should be jealous.
"Wait!" he called after her. He rushed into the hall and closed the door behind him. "Who are you?"
The woman, halfway to the stairs, stopped walking. She kept her back to him for a long while before answering, "A friend of Merlin's."
"Have you got a name?"
She hesitated again before slowly looking over her shoulder. She was quite pretty, Arthur realized, if only she'd stop her hair from falling in front of her face.
"Freya," she told him, as though apologizing.
Freya, Arthur thought. He'd never heard of her. In fact, Merlin never mentioned any of his friends. For all Arthur knew, his only friends were the Knights, Morgana, and Gwen.
"You're Arthur," she said, recapturing his attention.
He nodded.
Suddenly, she was in a panic again. "I should go!" she exclaimed once more, and flew towards the stairwell.
"Wait! Should I give him a message when he wakes up?" he called, taking a few steps after her before realizing following her would only spook her more.
"No, no! I'll see him later!" She didn't even stop as she said it. The next thing Arthur knew, she had disappeared into the stairwell.
He furrowed his brow into the empty space, wondering why Merlin had befriended such a peculiar woman and why Arthur had never heard her name before. Rattling his head, he turned back towards Merlin's door.
When his hand rested on the knob, he heard, "He cares for you a great deal, you know?"
Freya had returned. She was standing a few steps down from the top landing, and her brown eyes were large again. However, they no longer looked shocked. She was almost pleading with him silently. Arthur didn't know why it made his stomach churn with nerves.
Merlin had never mentioned Freya, but apparently he spoke of Arthur quite a lot. Arthur wondered how much, exactly, Freya knew. He thought of the night before, and wondered if Freya knew more than he did.
"I know," he said matter-of-factly.
"No, he really does though," Freya stressed, suddenly forceful. Arthur was taken aback by it. However, her demeanor faded quickly and she looked down to the floor. Without another word, she spun around and descended out of sight.
Arthur watched her go, perplexed. Then, he pushed back into Merlin's apartment.
Merlin grumbled tiredly and stretched like a cat at the sight of him. The traitorous corners of Arthur's lips tugged upwards.
"Where'd you get off to?" Merlin asked groggily as he sat up under covers.
"You had a visitor," Arthur informed him, pacing towards the mattress.
Merlin jolted ever so slightly. Now fully alert, he asked, "Who?"
Arthur sat down next to him. His brows disappeared into his fringe. "Freya." Somehow, he made the name sound like an accusation.
Merlin sat back against the wall and breathed out heavily through his nose. "What'd she want?"
"She wouldn't say. She was a bit—," Arthur gestured, trying to find a delicate word.
Apparently, Merlin understood what he was trying to say. "That's just Freya."
Arthur leaned back on the bed and propped himself up on his elbows. He tried to sound casual as he asked, "Who is she? You've never talked about her."
"Haven't I? Must have," Merlin said quickly, pulling a face of consideration.
Arthur looked up thoughtfully, trying to recall a time Freya had even been mentioned in passing. However, Merlin didn't linger on the subject. He sat forward again and said in a dejected sort of tone, "Look, Arthur. About what happened—."
All thought of Freya fell away. This was more important. They couldn't have any regret between them.
"No need to apologize," Arthur dismissed. Then, upon further speculation, he joked, "Actually, that room we didn't even use cost me quite a bit of money. Maybe youshould apologize."
Merlin scoffed and averted his gaze. "You're the one who chose me."
"I did not!" Arthur argued, scandalized. "If I had any choice in the matter, I'd pick someone who wasn't such an idiot."
"Prat," Merlin muttered back, but he was smirking.
Arthur beamed at him. "It doesn't matter," he continued honestly. "All that matters is, I love you, and—"
"I love you!" Merlin interrupted quickly, like he was trying to make up for all the times he wanted to say it but didn't. Arthur really wished they hadn't wasted so much time.
"You what?" Arthur feigned.
"I said, I love you."
Arthur twiddled his fingers around his ear. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that."
"I said, you're a lousy lay."
Arthur gasped dramatically. He grabbed a pillow and smacked Merlin in the face with it. When the pillow fell to his lap, Merlin scrunched his nose like the blow had hurt. He shot Arthur a faux-mutinous glare.
"I am not," Arthur defended.
Merlin tossed the pillow back into Arthur's face. It bounced off and landed between them.
"Prove it!"
Arthur accepted the challenge.
Freya was in the stock room in the cellar of the Essetir when Merlin found her later that morning. She immediately offered him her biggest doe eyes. They made her look like a bird with a broken wing. It caused a twinge of sympathy in Merlin's gut, but he didn't know what for. He usually didn't mind taking on other people's sadness, but this time it was spoiling his good mood.
He felt a lot better than he had the night before—light and airy and warm in his jacket. What a difference the daylight could make!
"What is it?" he asked unsurely through the smile he fought to keep on his cheeks in Freya's presence.
"I hadn't expected to see you today," she told the floor before returning back to the shelves. She ran her fingers across the bottles but never picked one up.
He perched himself on top of one of the crates. "Why not?"
"I stopped by your apartment earlier." It didn't answer his question.
"I know."
"I hadn't expected—."
It had been a full stop. She bit down on the name, and rightly so. Merlin cast a glance to the open door at the stop of the steps. They didn't know who was listening.
Underneath his wariness, Merlin was buzzing with excitement. He'd only told Freya about Arthur in secondhand stories that probably never did Arthur any justice. She'd never been able to meet him herself. But now, she had, and he had a million questions. Mostly, he wanted to know what she thought of him. But the look on her face when she turned to face him made the blooming words wither in his throat.
Instead, she told Merlin what he thought of Arthur.
"You love him." It had the makings of a question, but it wasn't quite so.
Merlin wasn't sure how to respond, so he nodded.
She couldn't look at him when she whispered, "Don't you remember what happened to Will?"
The question took him off his guard. Her tone had been melancholy, but Merlin thought it an accusation. "Of course, I do. I was there," he defended, while gently reminding her that she hadn't been there. And Merlin had a lot of time to clear his head since then, now that he knew Arthur. "And it wasn't like that. He gave Arthur no choice. Will shouldn't have been there."
"What, so it's his fault he's dead?" she returned, making it sound so logical.
"Of course, not!" Merlin was horrified. He thought she, of all people, would be happy for him. She wasn't being fair. "Why are you saying this?"
"I don't want you to end up like him." Freya's eyes remained dry, but her chin dimpled and her cheeks turned rosy. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Merlin sometimes forgot that he was the only one she had in the world, now that Will was gone. She'd been that for him, too. Once.
He picked himself up from the crate to huddle in close to her. He caressed her hair with both hands and fished for her eyes. She didn't protest. "I won't," he promised with a smile, hoping she'd mirror it. "You don't know Arthur like I do."
"But I know Kanen," she told him. He blinked attentively. She must have overheard something. It was probably why she went looking for him that morning. His silence begged her to continue.
"Sigan doesn't trust you." That much, Merlin knew. "I heard them talking last night. They said—"
Her eyes flew to the opened door. She broke away from him and shut it. Merlin felt his pulse racing urgently. All his senses heightened.
"Kanen said, if you fail, Cenred has a back-up plan." She spoke like she had no idea what she was saying—like the words were vague and meaningless to her but she knew Merlin could make something of them.
"What plan?" he asked without delay. He hadn't meant to come on so strong.
"I don't know," she admitted apologetically. "Something about getting to him through her. They didn't use a name."
Merlin assumed the him was Arthur, but drew a blank wondering who the woman could be.
"They said nothing else?" he inquired, wishing he'd been there to overhear the conversation himself. Freya had to have been leaving something out—something important to the woman's identity. "You're sure?"
"That's all Kanen said."
Merlin bit his thumbnail and shook his head into it in desperate thought. He had nothing to go on, except that he was looking for a woman. Hundreds of women were in the Camelot every night. It could have been anyone!
But he'd figure it out. He had to.
"Thank you," he told her heavily.
She didn't seem interested in it. She took a large step towards him and begged gravely, "Please be careful, Merlin."
He nodded, more understanding than promising. Her concerns were noted; that was the best he could do. But he had other things to deal with than his own safety at present. He left her in the stock room and made for the Camelot, a man on a mission.
Chapter Text
In a few weeks' time, Valiant would need someone else in his jail, and he liked to have the names in advance. Interviews were being conducted that morning. Arthur had promised he'd be present for them, as he missed the last few. If the subway didn't hurry up, he'd miss this round, too.
Not that it hadn't been worth it. Merlin was usually worth it.
It was half passed nine when he finally got to the club, the upstairs of which contained a queue of shabby looking men outside the office. Arthur nodded a curt hello, which clearly stated he had no time to chat, to some of the familiar faces.
"Ah, dear brother," Morgana said when Arthur entered his office. She was sitting in his chair. Leon was next to her, on one of the chairs he'd pulled from the other side of the desk.
In front of them, a small, young brunette boy stood. He jumped upon hearing Arthur walk in, and looked over his shoulder with light doe eyes. The boy was clearly spooked. His expression caused a pang of pity and guilt to pull at Arthur's heartstrings.
"Good of you to finally join us," Morgana was saying. "Leon and I have started without you."
Arthur didn't acknowledge the disapproval in her tone. She was only trying to get a rise out of him, anyway. As he passed to the other side of his desk, he eyed the boy skeptically. He was so thin, Arthur could probably push him over with his pinky finger. There was no way he'd survive a few nights in jail.
"Who's this?" he asked Morgana and Leon. He kept his eyes on the boy.
"He was just about to tell us," Morgana answered, also never wavering from him.
"I've never seen you around before," Arthur told him.
"No, sir," he answered meekly.
"What's your name?"
"Daegal."
Arthur echoed the name, getting a feel for it. He narrowed his eyes, taking another sweeping look up and down the boy. Daegal really was quite young. "How old are you?"
"Eighteen," was the answer. "Old enough to go to jail."
"Barely," Arthur scoffed. He waved Daegal away. There was no way he'd put someone hardly out of boyhood in jail. "You're no good to us. Try finding a steadier job at the docks."
"Please, sir!" Daegal begged, taking a frantic step forward. "There is nothing else. I need the money."
Arthur lit a nodded to the door, to the men standing beyond it. "So do they. Why should I favor you?" He hated to sound so cold, but he had to show the boy his own limits. If Daegal couldn't handle a frigid tone, he couldn't handle time behind bars—and he especially couldn't handle his potential cellmates.
But Daegal took the tone in stride.
"Because it's not for me." His eyes flashed to Morgana, and then settled on his shoes. "It's for my sister."
Arthur shared a look with his own sister. He hardly remembered Leon was there, too. There had been something about Daegal's voice when he'd said it. It had been protective but heartbreaking; it was lonely, but at the same time hinted at companionship. It spoke of kisses on scraped knees, hide-and-seek, a million fairy tale games, arguments and slammed doors, and a secret language of whispers and laughter that ceased as soon as an adult walked in. Or maybe Arthur was just projecting.
"And why does she need it?" he asked, giving his attention back to Daegal, who shuffled a little. He looked too small in his own clothes.
"She's sick. It's bad," he said like he was already in grieving. "Since our parents passed, it's just us and—we don't have the money for medical treatment."
Arthur tensed his jaw. He no longer felt pity, but sympathy. He looked out of the corners of his eyes at Morgana. If he'd been in Daegal's shoes, he'd do the same, even if he'd never admit it. He'd do anything.
Daegal's own words must have given him the courage he needed to look up again. "Please, give me a chance. I'm afraid she'll die if I don't find money soon."
Arthur sighed. He still had his doubts, but he respected Daegal's determination. Maybe that's all the boy would need to get through a few nights behind bars.
"Very well," Arthur decided.
Immediately, Morgana protested. "Arthur!"
He ignored her. He told Daegal, "We'll call on you when we need you. Leave your information with Leon."
"Thank you, sir!" Daegal breathed in happy relief. Leon stood up to escort the boy out, but Arthur held them back.
"Wait," he said. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out an envelope thick with cash. He lifted a few bills from it and counted out twenty-five dollars. He offered it to Daegal. "You'll get the rest once the job is done."
He so rarely gave money in advance. But the boy was so small. Arthur didn't want to imagine what his ailing sister must have looked like.
Daegal hesitated at first, like he was unsure of what to do.
He really is new to all this, Arthur mused.
Then, Daegal took the money, smiled gratefully (and a little sadly) and followed Leon out.
"You always did have a soft spot for lost little orphans," Morgana taunted, standing up. Arthur promptly reclaimed his chair.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he denied.
She rolled her eyes. "Are you sure this is wise? He doesn't exactly look like he can handle himself should someone pick a fight. He'll be an easy target."
"He's brave. That goes a long way," Arthur avowed as he straightened the money back into the envelope and handed it to her. It was the previous night's earnings, and it needed to go to the bank.
When he saw she wasn't satisfied, he sighed, "Morgana. Imagine being in his position, not being able to provide for his family's well-being."
"But that isn't our reality," she pointed out quite needlessly.
"But it's his."
A smirk slithered its way onto her lips as she regarded him. "You really are soft! I should thank Merlin. But he's the one who made you late this morning, wasn't he?"
Arthur groaned. She'd gotten a rise out of him, after all. She always got her way.
"Are you done?"
"Abusing you?" She winked and turned away. "Never."
He changed his mind. If he were Daegal, he'd let her rot.
Thump thump thump.
Arthur had bought himself an early Christmas gift—although, it wasn't so early now. Christmas was in a little less than two weeks, and the club reflected it. Wreaths and poinsettias were everywhere in sight, thanks to Morgana. The air smelt of waxy pine. Merlin and Gwen had gone shopping together for presents over the previous weekend. Merlin had bought Arthur a solid gold cigarette lighter with his initials engraved into the side.
Thump thump thump.
The gift Arthur bought for himself, which he justified by saying was for the Camelot's boxing ring, was a brand new punching bag. It was red and white and hung from a rafter that couldn't possibly hold its weight for very long. Arthur said the boxers could now practice in the ring before opening. However, he'd been the only one who'd used it so far.
It was after closing. Merlin yawned for the tenth time, hoping Arthur would get the message. Arthur didn't notice; he kept punching. The tensing of his back, the firmness of his shoulders, the quick arcs of his jabs, and the beads of sweat glistening on his chest might have stirred Merlin at first, admittedly. Now, he was just annoyed. And tired.
He wanted to concentrate on what he was doing so he could finally sleep.
Thump thump thump.
Arthur's fists pounded at the exact moment Merlin's head did.
A map of Manhattan was folded open on top of the square circle's mat. Arthur had enlisted Merlin's opinion in finding a new location for the Albion, which was a problem that apparently had to be solved that night. Merlin was sitting upright, one leg hanging off the side of the square circle, beneath the ropes, and the other crossed beneath him. He studied the map carefully, wondering if there was a single place on it that wouldn't enrage Cenred. He doubted it.
"What about Soho?" Arthur suggested. His voice was strained and breathy from exercise.
"Too close to the Lower East Side," Merlin answered, shaking his head. "Do you want a repeat of last time?"
Arthur hit the punching bag like it had just insulted his mother. "I want a new club. And I don't see you coming up with any ideas," Arthur snipped. It was true. All Merlin had offered was a lot of nos.
He scanned the map, his eyes falling back along the pale blue that represented the Hudson. It was better to stay on the West Side. Away from the grid-structure of the streets were nothing but dockyards and empty space.
"You could always build a new club," he said when inspiration struck. It seemed to get Arthur's attention. He stopped punching.
"I'm listening."
"Well, that way, you wouldn't have to renovate anything. You could make it right the first time," Merlin continued, looking up at him. "And you wouldn't have to waste time trying to find a building with the kind of space you need for a ring and a bar. There are plenty of empty lots for sale; you just have to find a location you want." When he saw Arthur's eyes glazing over in consideration, he amended, "Somewhere far away from the Lower East Side."
Arthur snapped back into the present and snorted. "That's rich coming from the man who lives in Alphabet City."
Merlin knew what was coming next. Ever since Arthur had learned where Merlin lived, he'd make snide remarks about how awful it was. It got worse as time went on.
Sure enough, Arthur followed up with, "You should move, you know. It's dangerous over there." As he spoke, he readjusted the protective tape over his knuckles but didn't return to assaulting the bag. He paced closer until he was standing next to Merlin, and he leaned his hands into the ropes.
Merlin looked down at his lap. He couldn't leave Alphabet City, not without looking suspicious. "On my salary?" he said instead, sounding lighthearted.
"There are plenty of places in Hell's Kitchen for a man with your bank account," Arthur reminded him. His logic wasn't very sound, which Merlin felt the need to point out.
"Right! So, let's get this straight: You want me to leave a crime-ridden neighborhood where I could potentially be murdered to move to another one?"
"Fine," Arthur conceded. "Then, move to the Upper West Side."
Now, that was just laughable! And Merlin did laugh. "I can't afford a place like yours!"
Arthur shifted slightly. He didn't look Merlin in the eyes when he shrugged. "You could if we split the cost."
"I don't want charity," Merlin scoffed. He wondered if he should have been insulted, even though Arthur had his best intentions at heart.
"I'm not offering it." Suddenly, Arthur looked very stern—and very vulnerable. It was puzzling. "And I'm not offering a place like mine. I'm offering my place."
Merlin's mind blanked.
"Move in with me."
Merlin opened and closed his mouth a few times. He meant to say something, but all that came out were guttural noises. They must have given Arthur the wrong idea, because he was suddenly shamefaced.
"Unless you think you'll get sick of me," he joked, trying to cover it up. He let go of the ropes and took a step backwards.
"No!" How could he even think that? Of course, Merlin wanted to move in with him! But it was a bad idea. If Arthur ever found out the truth, Merlin would have nowhere else to go. And if he did move in, Arthur would inevitably fathom out Merlin's lie sooner. There was no way Merlin could put on his act every waking moment. It was too risky. It was better to avoid the situation entirely, despite the pull in his chest.
"It's not that! It's—," he shook his head and licked his lips in thought. Arthur's eyes were narrowed at him in scrutiny. "You'd regret it," Merlin told his lap.
There was a beat on silence, and then Arthur broke it with an incredulous snort. "What does that even mean?" he demanded, but it was rhetorical. "I swear, Merlin, sometimes you say these—these things that . . ." He exhaled heavily, staring blankly. When he'd collected his thoughts, he finished, "They make me wonder if you've actually got thoughts rolling around in that empty head of yours."
He reached up and knocked at Merlin's temple lightly, making Merlin angle his head away.
"Can't be," Merlin answered dryly.
"Oh, I'm sure of it," Arthur answered, sounding droll, "but sometimes you give me cause to doubt myself."
Merlin swallowed past the lump in his throat. He looked at the point on the map that represented Chelsea, and then at Alphabet City. The map made them look further away than they actually were, even though Merlin sometimes wondered if the two places belonged to the same world.
"Look, you don't have to answer me now," Arthur told him, and Merlin knew he was talking about moving in together, not about his doubts. "But promise you'll think about it?"
He was giving Merlin big eyes again. Merlin couldn't say no to him, so he nodded once. What was one more lie?
Arthur seemed satisfied. He went back to the punching bag. "Good. Now, stop talking about yourself so much and help me with the Albion," he ordered. He stood in front of the bag in a defensive position.
Before he could get a punch in, Merlin groaned loudly. "Can't we pick this up in the morning? I'm knackered," he complained. "Does this really have to get done tonight?"
Arthur glared at him. They both knew finding a location for the Albion was only a pressing issue because Arthur made it one. It worried him for the same reason he was worried for the Camelot: the Kings. If they did manage to take down the Camelot, the Knights wouldn't have a source of revenue. Arthur, a betting man, didn't want to risk it.
But Merlin knew the Kings wouldn't try anything until Merlin gave them reason to—or until they fell back on Plan B. The woman. Merlin still didn't know who she was, or how she'd get to Arthur.
"Fine," Arthur said again, withering. "Sleep on it, if you must."
"I'll dream of nothing else!" Merlin retorted sarcastically. He folded up the map and ducked out of the square circle. Arthur was again beating the punching bag to a bloody pulp.
"You should sleep, too," Merlin told up, not wanting to get too close unless Arthur decided to take a swing at him, too.
"Lancelot will relieve me in a couple of hours," Arthur told the punching bag. Merlin pinched his eyebrows together. Arthur wasn't supposed to be guarding the Camelot that night.
"Where's Elyan?" Merlin wondered.
"I sent him home."
"Why?"
Arthur stopped punching. He heaved an almighty sigh and caught the punching bag before it swung into him. "Because, Merlin, I decided to take watch tonight." It wasn't that Arthur didn't trust Elyan, or any of his men—or that he trusted himself more. He was just a control freak. Merlin didn't have it in him to argue that point.
"Okay. Please go home when Lancelot comes."
"That's the plan." Merlin sincerely hoped that was really the plan.
He kissed Arthur goodnight and left. He inwardly prayed for Arthur to take out his aggressive mood on the punching bag so he wouldn't be so sour in the morning.
Lancelot came, cradling a coffee, a little before sunrise. Arthur retreated into his office and did not leave.
"Did you sleep here all night?"
Arthur jolted awake immediately. His first instinct was to pretend he'd been awake the whole time. On many occasions, Uther would find him sleeping when he was supposed to be working, and Arthur would always get scolded for it.
The right side of his face stung dully from being pressed against the hard wood of his desk, and his back ached from the curve he'd been positioned in. He blinked around the office, trying to adjust to the light and catch his bearings.
Merlin was walking into the room, looking amused by the antics. And well rested.
"No," Arthur lied, but it was probably no use. He sighed. "Yes."
Merlin raised a brow. "Why?"
"I was catching up on work," Arthur lied. Merlin clearly didn't believe it.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, hearing his spine pop from even the smallest movement. He rolled the kinks out of his neck. "I was being paranoid," he admitted.
Merlin shook his head at the floor and smiled as though he were certain everything would be fine. "You worry too much," he said. Arthur regretted being short with him the night before.
"They already burned down the Dragon—not to mention what they did the Albion. I don't want the Camelot to be next," Arthur reasoned. As he did so, Merlin walked around the desk and positioned himself behind Arthur's chair. His fingers were still a little cold from the outside when he curled them under Arthur's shirt collar and began rubbing. Arthur winced as Merlin worked out the knots.
"Oh, so your plan is to fall asleep and get burned alive along with it?"
Arthur tried glaring over his shoulder. "I'm serious, Merlin."
Merlin stopped massaging and clapped Arthur's shoulders once. He bent down and hooked his chin to the crook of Arthur's neck. "Me, too. You don't even know if they'll try anything. They might have given up."
Arthur snorted at his nativity. "I doubt that."
"Lance would have been just fine on watch without you. You're not sleeping here again," Merlin ordered. He stood up and positioned himself at the side of Arthur's chair. "Look at you, you're exhausted. You'll worry yourself sick, and I'm not taking care of you if you do. You'd be unbearable with the flu."
Arthur took Merlin's hand in his own and played with his fingers. His eyes trailed up Merlin's arm until they reached his face, but he didn't argue.
"Go home and take a nap—a real one. Work can wait," Merlin advised. "I'll come round at lunch time to check on you."
Arthur hummed at the prospect. "I'll wait up."
"No, you won't. You'd better be fast asleep by the time I get there."
"Is that an order?"
"Yes."
Arthur jerked Merlin onto his lap. Merlin fell into him without protest and hooked his arms around Arthur's neck for leverage.
"I thought I was the boss," Arthur said.
"Here, you are," Merlin agreed, "everywhere else, I'm the boss."
"That so?"
Merlin nodded and hummed in the affirmative into Arthur's mouth. As they kissed, his fingers moved upwards to brush through Arthur's hair. Arthur circled his arms tighter around Merlin and pulled him closer on his lap.
When the kiss broke Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin's and breathed him in.
"Merlin—," he whispered.
"I know," said Merlin, cupping Arthur's jaw in his palm. "You're madly in love with me and you can't stand to be away from me for a second."
"I was going to say, 'take your trousers off,' but that works, too," Arthur joked.
Merlin chuckled and brushed his nose against Arthur's. "I 'take your trousers off' you, too." He pressed another fleeting kiss to Arthur's lips before standing up. "Later," he teased. "When you haven't got such bad morning breath."
As Merlin walked out of the office to start his day, Arthur crinkled his nose at the comment. He cupped his hand over his mouth and breathed into it. He shook his head at how stale his breath smelt.
He didn't know how Merlin managed to put up with him.
Arthur's paranoia wasn't reserved only to sleeping in his office, it would seem. He made every excuse under the sun to keep Merlin from Alphabet City each night after closing. When that stopped working, he flat-out told Merlin not to go back there, despite the fact that all Merlin's personal belongings were still in his apartment. Instead, he was made to sleep at Arthur's every night, even when Arthur was too obsessed with defending the Camelot to join him. (Which was often. Merlin wouldn't be surprised if Arthur dug a moat around the club.)
At first, Merlin decided to placate Arthur. Arthur's worry over him being in the hub of the Kings' operations wasn't completely misplaced from Arthur's point of view. Maybe it was even a little sweet. Merlin couldn't say no once Arthur cut him his very own key to the Upper West Side apartment.
However, after three and a half weeks, Merlin was tired of living off the spare clothes he kept at Arthur's apartment. Not that he didn't like Arthur's apartment. It was a lot nicer than his—but it wasn't his. If he was to sleep alone, he wanted it to be in his own bed for once. More than that, he couldn't have Cenred becoming suspicious about all the nights Merlin spent at Arthur's.
Omitting the last reason, that night when Arthur told Merlin to sleep at his apartment again, Merlin moaned about it for hours.
"What's the point of going to your place if you're not even going to be there with me?" Merlin had complained for the dozenth time.
"Shouldn't you be bartending?" Arthur sighed.
"It's my own home! I should at least make sure no one's robbed the place. I don't trust that little old lady next door. You know that! She's shifty, that one, and more spry than she looks."
"Worried your alley cat needs feeding?"
Finally, after incessant whining, Arthur caved. But only with the condition that he drive Merlin to his front stoop (because taking the subway and walking the streets of the neighborhood in which he'd lived nearly his entire life was far too dangerous, obviously) and pick him up the next morning. Merlin grumbled in annoyed agreement.
When the shine runner pulled to the curb outside Merlin's tenement building, Merlin got out with a sleepy spring in his step at the prospect of the familiar comforts of home. Rodents squeaking in the ceilings, babies wailing through the walls, the strange slight odor of wet dog that always seemed to linger even though none of the residents owned a dog . . . Ah, home sweet home.
Arthur kept the car idling when Merlin crossed through the beams of the headlights. When Merlin folded his arms across Arthur's opened window and leaned in to say goodnight, he saw Arthur's knuckles had gone bone-white on the steering wheel. Arthur's eyes were skirting around the entire block, reminiscent of a house pet with its hackles up.
"You're welcome to stay with me if it's really going to bother you," Merlin reminded him, even though he knew what the answer would be. Arthur was adamant about staying at the Camelot that night.
"You know I don't like this. You should stay at mine," Arthur snipped, not taking his eyes off the practically deserted street. He was watching an elderly man hobble down the sidewalk as though expecting him to take out a concealed weapon.
Merlin rolled his eyes. "It's my apartment, Arthur."
"Not if you move in with me," Arthur returned, finally meeting Merlin's eyes in a desperate way. It made Merlin sigh and look down, which didn't seem to deter Arthur one bit. "You spend most of your time there, anyway!"
"Because you won't let me leave!" Merlin half-laughed.
Arthur got very serious. "Cenred's seen you, Merlin. I have no doubt he knows who you are or where you live. We don't know who he has watching your apartment. He's probably keeping tabs on everyone who works for me, and you're making it easy for him. I won't have you get killed because of me."
"I won't," Merlin tried, but Arthur wasn't hearing it.
"You won't be saying that after you get killed!" He took in a breath, collecting himself. He took his hands off the wheel and angled himself towards Merlin. "I love you, Merlin."
Merlin's stomach dropped with an alarmed rush. He tensed and looked about the area quickly, checking for anyone who may have overheard. The old man was at the end of the block now, and out of earshot. There was no one else.
Arthur went on, "Do you have any idea what Cenred can do with that information?"
Merlin's eyes snapped to him quickly by their own accord. He tried to hide the spike of fear brought upon by Arthur's words. He knew the danger of Cenred finding out better than Arthur did. "I know," he said heavily. He pushed a smile. "I love you, too, but I can take care of myself."
Arthur scoffed.
Merlin spoke over it, "So, you have one of two options. You can come upstairs and make wild, obnoxious love to me in my own bed—," he'd only said it to see Arthur flush with awkwardness from hearing the term make love, "or you can go protect the Camelot from a threat that hasn't come yet."
"Yet," Arthur stressed, like that's the only thing he'd heard.
Merlin planted a firm kiss on Arthur's lips. "Goodnight," he said shortly. He stood up from the car and took a few backwards steps towards the stoop. Arthur kept his eyes, seemingly considering. Then, he huffed and put the car back into drive. Merlin waved him off.
When the car's brake lights were distant flecks at the end of the block, Merlin turned around and jostled up his stoop. He got midway before hearing a voice say, "He loves you, does he, Emrys?"
Merlin froze. He wondered if the heartbeats he heard in his ears were his own or if they were Sigan's, who had stepped out of the alley next to building.
No. Sigan's heart wouldn't have been crashing so quickly.
"How long has he been saying that?" Sigan continued in a slow, easy voice whose undertones suggested earthquakes and tsunamis.
When Merlin remembered how to draw breath, he cautiously turned to face Sigan. He convinced himself that his mind was playing a trick on him, and the voice was only his fears manifest. But Sigan was standing there sneering with triumph.
"No, you don't—," Merlin began hoarsely, willing a lie to form. Nothing came. His throat was dry, and no sly words slid from his tongue.
"I do understand," Sigan assured him. "Not sure Kanen and the King will when I explain it to them, though. You should have gone with Goldie while you had the chance." He disappeared back into the shadows of the alley.
Merlin watched him step away. His eyes were fixed blankly on the block of cement upon which Sigan had stood. Gravity was the only thing that kept him in place. He felt Arthur's lips on his for the last time. He saw Arthur's pain of betrayal that Merlin wouldn't live to see in reality. He probably wouldn't even live to see the morning.
And then he suddenly became hyper-aware of everything at once: the tensing of his fists at his sides, the chill of the night, his breath in his chest, Sigan's footsteps. Merlin was so present in his body, so perceptive of his senses, that he could feel the erratic electricity firing from every atom hidden beneath his skin.
He wouldn't lose Arthur. He'd kill Sigan first.
"No!" he growled. He caught up with Sigan before he fully realized he'd begun walking. He grabbed Sigan and slammed him against the grimy brick of the alley. Sigan gave a startled puff, like the air had been ripped from him.
"You're not telling them anything," Merlin said with surprising calm. All his strength was pouring into his fists around Sigan's collar. It lent no energy to his voice, but there was force enough in his words.
"I knew Kanen shouldn't have trusted you," Sigan leered.
"Congratulations, you were right," Merlin bit out.
"Funny. You won't be so funny when we send your body to Arthur piece by piece."
Merlin knocked the grin off Sigan face by bashing him hard against the wall again. "Don't make me kill you," Merlin warned.
His victory was short-lived. Something sharp and cold pressed into the soft bits under his jaw. Sigan's pocketknife drew a prick of blood. "Next time, don't hesitate," Sigan told him. The glint in his eyes was duller than the moonlight reflecting off the knife. Merlin knew he meant business. He unhanded Sigan and held his palms up. Sigan backed him up to the opposite wall.
There was a way to turn this back to Merlin's favor. He just had to find it, and fast.
"Wait, never mind. You won't get a next time," Sigan mocked. His fist tightened around the blade, meaning to splice the tender flesh of Merlin's neck into two with a quick flick of his wrist.
He was ripped away first, and the knife only cut a hair-fine slice, hardly worse than a knick from shaving. But it stung, and the sensation bloomed across Merlin's skin. It was nothing compared to the relief he felt, and then the confusion, and then the crippling realization that Arthur was there.
Sigan was on the ground, the handle of the pocketknife standing upright in his jugular. He was sputtering out a sticky, wet noise. His eyes glistened, so did the crimson pool forming around him. The noises stopped. He stilled.
"Are you all right?" Arthur fretted. He was grasping Merlin's shoulders, shaking Merlin's frame and searching him frantically for damage.
Merlin couldn't look away from Sigan's body. He'd been so ready to kill Sigan, but now that Arthur had done it, Merlin recognized how bad of an idea that was. Sigan was Kanen's right-hand man, his second-in-command, his pet. He wasn't some low-level snoop.
This was unforgiveable.
Cenred wouldn't wait for Merlin to finish his job now. The woman—Merlin still hadn't figured out who the woman was. And now he was out of time.
"Merlin?"
Merlin blinked himself back into the world, back to Arthur. Arthur looked terrified. Not as terrified as Merlin was, despite his blank expression.
"That does it. You're moving in with me," Arthur made up his mind. He straightened up and gripped Merlin's wrist firmly. He moved them away from the body, out of the alley. He was muttering something about Cenred paying for this. His words were insincere. Arthur really blamed himself.
He should have been blaming Merlin.
The shine runner was parked along the curb again. Instead of making for it, Arthur dragged Merlin up the stoop. He didn't stop until they were in Merlin's apartment.
"Pack your things now," Arthur demanded. "We're leaving."
Merlin did not protest.
Chapter Text
1926 was ushered in by a crescendo of trumpets, shouts, whistles, and horns. The ball drop in Times Square was for tourists. That year, the Camelot was where the locals went to celebrate the New Year. Many times in the past, the bouncers had to reject entry when the club was at full capacity, but never in the numbers brought by a city thirsting for one last drink of the old year.
The rest of January was quiet in comparison. The blanket of snow on the city subdued the sounds of honking horns and shrilling pedestrians. Or maybe that's how the Upper West Side always was. Its constant silence was difficult to sleep through at first, as Merlin was used to white noise at all times; but he got used to the peace before he'd noticed.
Peace. Perhaps that's the world Merlin would have used for this late night in dwindling January. Fluffy snow was falling outside. Clumps of it stuck to the glass and created mini-mountains on the windowpane of Arthur's apartment—their apartment. It muted the world outside. Merlin doubted he'd look out the window and see a single soul, bundled and crouched in on themselves, trudging through the soft white banks on the sidewalks below.
It was too late. And it was too cold.
Merlin felt none of that. He was wide-awake, despite the hour and the long work shift. He was toasty, even though he was only wearing an undershirt and shorts. The carpet beneath his crossed legs scratched pleasantly at his skin. Arthur, topless but still in his trousers, sat across from him. His back was leaned against the armchair. His necktie was tied around his eyes like a blindfold.
Merlin looked down at the four bottles of liquor before them. One was clear, the other three contained liquids of varying browns. Some he'd brought from the Camelot, some he'd bought himself. He always ensured Arthur hadn't peeked at his selection.
He picked up a bottle. Brandy. He poured a shot and made Arthur drink it.
Arthur gave a groan of disgust and stuck out his tongue like he was trying to air out the taste. "I said no brandy!" he reprimanded. "You know I hate brandy."
"What's the variety?" Merlin pressed, uninterested in Arthur's complaints.
Arthur sighed pensively. "Cognac." The question had been easy.
"Where's it from?"
"France!"
"Funny."
Another sigh, this one frustrated. "How should I know? I told you, I rarely drink it." Arthur gave up too easily when he didn't want to think, which was annoying because he'd been the one who'd demanded Merlin teach him the differences in bootleg alcohol.
Merlin rolled his eyes. He'd gotten the bottle from the Camelot's cellar.
"It's Tristan and Isolde's. You should know what the product you're selling tastes like," Merlin reproved.
Arthur sat up straighter and rolled his broad shoulders. He shook out his muscles like he was preparing to get in the boxing ring. Merlin let himself get distracted by it. He eyed Arthur's chest, pink and golden, and followed the trail of fragile hairs down Arthur's torso. He could never fathom out how Arthur managed to be so in shape and yet still have a small pouch of tummy fat resting right above his waistline.
Merlin loved it, that soft bit of padding at odds with Arthur's otherwise firm body.
Arthur hated it for vanity reasons. And he hated when Merlin teased him about it, which only made Merlin tease more.
Arthur snapped his fingers in front of what he thought was Merlin's face. It was in reality slightly to the left of Merlin, but it got Merlin's attention nonetheless.
"I said, give me the next one!"
He handed Merlin the shot glass. Merlin took it, his fingers brushing against Arthur's as he did, but he didn't fill it. He eyed Arthur's stomach again, grabbed a bottle at random, and took a swig. He kept the liquid trapped in his mouth before kissing it into Arthur's.
When Merlin pulled away, Arthur's lips were glistening. He watched Arthur swallow and hum in faux-concentration.
"Irish whiskey," Arthur said.
Merlin chortled. "Not even close," but it didn't matter.
"This is useless, Merlin," Arthur complained. "And I still don't know why I have to wear this!" He reached up to take his tie away from his eyes. Merlin's fingers stopped him.
"No, no, leave it! It helps," Merlin told him. "It's how I learned. Not being able to see lets you focus on your other senses, like taste. And touch," he added, because he couldn't stop himself. He ran his fingertip along Arthur's collarbone to prove his point. Arthur shivered, much to Merlin's satisfaction.
"Well," Arthur began, his voice suddenly hoarse, "we'll have to test that theory some time."
Merlin slid the fabric up from Arthur's eyes and into his fringe, revealing the thin strip of blue around dilated pupils. "Some time," he agreed. This time would only lead to carpet burn.
That was the main difference between living with Arthur and before. Sex was much more easily attainable. It happened most mornings, unless they'd overslept or on the increasing instances Arthur decided he was a one-man-army who must protect the Camelot at all costs by sleeping there instead.
But, in a way, it became a part of their morning routine to wake up and roll into each other's arms. It was better than coffee, without the jitters and the later crash of caffeine, and certainly not as monotonous. It was unhurried and languid or passionate and rowdy, depending on the dreams they'd woken up from and how much time they had. Merlin didn't know which he preferred more.
He capped the bottles between them and placed them on the table near the door so he wouldn't forget to return the ones from the Camelot. Arthur disappeared into the bathroom to wash his teeth and splash water on his face.
Outside, Merlin heard scraping as a municipal worker began shoveling the snow from the sidewalk so people could get to work in the morning. It was thankless work for such an unreasonable hour. No one liked going to work in the cold and probably hoped for an excuse to stay home, and the snow was still drifting idly downward.
But if the sidewalks were being plowed, it was later (or earlier) than Merlin thought. Almost on cue, he yawned. He seemed to run out of steam. Before turning in, and while Arthur wasn't looking, Merlin studied the streets outside their window. He didn't know what he was looking for, but it was a ritual he performed every night.
Perhaps he was looking for a woman standing there, studying the apartment in silence.
There was no one. Just the city worker and his unfortunate lot in life.
Merlin turned down the duvet on the bed as Arthur reemerged from the bathroom.
"Oh, I didn't tell you," Arthur said. Merlin glanced up at him as he fluffed his pillow. He'd brought it from his old apartment, even though Arthur said it smelt old—whateverthat meant. There were a few possessions Merlin couldn't part with, and the lumpy, yellowed pillow was one of them. It cradled the memories of too many dreams. And it was soft.
The things he could part with were sold along with the room. (Or, not so much sold as abandoned as the tenement owner's problem, as was stated in the letter accompanying the last month's rent that was slipped beneath the owner's door.)
They were relics of an old, unwanted life. Merlin did not need the reminder.
That's why he hadn't returned to Alphabet City since Sigan died, except once to find out if Freya had overheard anything else about the plan Cenred and Kanen didn't want Merlin to know about. She had no new information.
"I found an empty lot for sale near Battery Park—on the West Side, don't worry," Arthur continued. "It's on the water. Morgana and I have an appointment to see it next week."
Merlin weighed the pros and cons. The property was so close to the Kings, and so far from Chelsea, that it would be tricky to hold it. But it would bring in people from Downtown, not to mention the ferry traffic from Staten Island and New Jersey.
"It might work," Merlin allowed, trying to look on the bright side. Nothing was set in stone yet.
"It will work," Arthur said, more in determination that in optimism. He got under the covers, and Merlin settled in next to him. "And it will be best club in Manhattan. Crowds will race to get in."
He lay down on his back and stared up at the ceiling as though it swirled a magnificent infinity before him.
"I'm going to make you a king in this town," he promised.
An old life. An unwanted life. A reminder.
"I don't want to be a king," Merlin told him.
Arthur pursed his lips in thought, oblivious to the weight hidden in the shadows of Merlin's tone. "A court jester, then. You're probably better suited for the role."
Merlin rolled his eyes. He reached into the glass lamp on the nightstand and turned it off. The room was suddenly pitch black, and all the noise around them was amplified. The water sloshing in the heating pipes. The scraping of the shovel outside, though further away now. The rustling of blankets as Merlin got into a comfortable position.
Soon, Merlin's eyes adjusted to the dim light of the streetlamps sparkling through the windows. The shadows they created on the walls were blotchy, obstructed by snow.
"Arthur?" he said now that nighttime silence wasn't so deafening.
"Hmm?"
"In the morning? Really slow. Like we've got all the time in the world."
Arthur was smirking. Merlin could tell just by his voice.
"Don't we?"
"Slow enough for you?" Arthur had asked before they left that morning.
It was a Wednesday, frigid and bleary. The snow still fluttered from the sky, but early morning commuters blackened the mounds on the side of the road.
It was a Wednesday. It felt like it should have, at the very least, been a Thursday.
Merlin had woken up to Arthur drawing patterns on the back of his neck. Arthur's fingertips tickled as they traced down Merlin's arm. Merlin had been dreaming of whiskey—or maybe it was brandy. He couldn't remember after he'd turned over to face Arthur.
To kiss and to kiss and to kiss and to only vaguely be aware of the radiator clicking and hissing and banging for a long time.
The Camelot must have been opened by now. The employees wouldn't be standing out in the cold. Morgana had the keys. She'd be on time. If she wasn't, Percy had been there on watch. He'd let everyone in.
Merlin took his time. He kissed Arthur's shoulders, every patch of skin, every muscle. Arthur had lost some of his tan since the summer, and yet he still glowed. Merlin ran his tongue down Arthur's chest—pink and gold and glorious—along his pecks, around his nipples.
Arthur hated the soft bit of his stomach except when Merlin's face was nuzzled against it. His breath hitched in a moan. His fingers laced into Merlin's hair to keep his head in place, until Merlin moved down further to bury his nose between Arthur's thighs.
No soft bits below the waist. Not anymore. Merlin made sure of that.
Arthur sat up and Merlin met his lips again. Arthur's eyes were distant. Merlin's chin was sleek.
Merlin, Arthur said in a voice softer than the snow. The pad of his thumb traced Merlin's bottom lip dry. Merlin fit it between his teeth to twirl his tongue around it. Arthur's hand explored the curve of Merlin's spine, until he laid Merlin down again to explore it with his mouth.
Every patch of skin. Every muscle. Every freckle. And then some.
Merlin clutched the duvet in his fists. The radiator pounded.
Arthur crawled back up to work Merlin's shoulders red. His hands reached down to grab at the insides of Merlin legs. His touch was rough and delicate all at once. And then he reached away for something else. His fingers came back chilled and slick. Merlin's shoulder blades writhed and arched tensely. Something strangled escaped his throat and got trapped in his pillow.
"Slow enough for you?" Arthur had asked before they left that morning.
Arthur kept kissing the back of Merlin's neck. His fingers were warm now, but he kept pumping them without any sense of urgency. Merlin thrust into the mattress, trying to release the heat that had dropped into his abdomen.
Arthur Arthur Arthur Arthur, the radiator chanted.
Slowly, Arthur reminded him, and withdrew his fingers. On his knees, he straddled Merlin's legs. His hand snaked between Merlin's stomach and the bed and scooped Merlin to his knees, too. He sucked on Merlin's ear.
There wasn't a pillow to muffle the cry Merlin breathed out that time.
Merlin gripped at the arms that encompassed him, sweaty and matted. Arthur's body knocked into him at varying paces. Merlin chuckled and knocked back when it was too fast.
Slowly, Merlin reminded him.
Arthur rested his forehead on Merlin's shoulder.
I love you I love you I fucking love you, the radiator whispered.
Merlin guided one of Arthur's hands downward. Touch me.
Slowly.
The pressure within him almost hurt. Volcanoes erupt, storm clouds pour, flowers bloom—it's just the way it is. There's no use fighting eventualities.
Hold on, Arthur had told him. He was a betting man. He thought he could predict eventualities, to bend them to his will. Maybe he could.
Merlin dipped his head back to rest on Arthur's shoulder.
Into Merlin's exposed Adam's apple, Arthur sticky breaths bet that Merlin would come first. It was to get a rise out of him, to make him try not to. Merlin knew he was a sucker for falling for it.
I can keep this up all day.
Just a little bit longer.
Just a little bit longer.
Merlin reached his hand backwards to Arthur's back. His palm found Arthur's ass and he tried frantically to latch onto the skin.
Arthur made a sound like he was crumbling. His body slammed into Merlin's, and his grip around him tightened. His arm across Merlin's torso held him closer, back to chest. Merlin made a fist around an iron rod in the headboard to keep himself upright.
He let Arthur move him, desperate and erratic. He blinked stars.
There was no use fighting eventualities. Arthur's eventuality came first.
The stars in Merlin's eyes burst into tiny supernovas of static.
The radiator was quiet in comparison. And then it was louder than their breathing.
The snow had stopped falling.
Arthur fell backwards in fatigue. He brought Merlin down with him, back to chest.
You're fucking perfect.
Flattery will get you everywhere.
I don't want to go anywhere.
Then, stay.
For however long you'll have me.
Just a little bit longer.
Prat.
Idiot.
"Slow enough for you?" Arthur had asked.
"Not slow enough," Merlin had answered.
Then, stay.
For however long you'll have me.
How does the rest of our lives work for you?
Really, it should have been a Saturday. Merlin deserved a Saturday.
That night was nothing special (although Arthur would like to believe every night at the Camelot was special). Drinks flowed, music vibrated off the floor and into the soles of shoes like a living heartbeat, and the regular patrons were all in attendance. Newcomers and casual customers were things for the weekend.
Except, maybe not all the time.
Merlin was in the process of mixing a drink when he spotted them across the club, standing near one of the beams holding up the ceiling. Arthur had his palm, placed just above his head, resting on the beam and leaning his weight into it. He was talking to a woman, petite and brunette. They were smiling at each other—laughing at some joke. She crowded in to talk into his ear over the music. He spoke back.
Merlin couldn't hear what they were saying. Even if the saxophones hadn't been blasting around Gwen's melody, they were still out of earshot.
He remembered fruity drinks at the edge of the bar. He remembered tongue-tied cherry stems and a night on the dance floor. He remembered a late night, after hours introduction—fumbling and awkward in the newness of a relationship that could be so much more than it was, and turned out to be.
Mithian. The sight of her made Merlin's breath catch, even though Arthur's body language had been different than the first time. It was friendly and casual instead of flirty. Merlin wasn't worried about that.
He was worried about Mithian, who was still flirty and still beautiful. She hadn't been back to the Camelot since that night.
Why now? Merlin fretted, but he was certain he already knew.
Sigan's death came at a price. The Kings must have sent Mithian—for what? To flirt? To win Arthur over? To get him in bed and kill him when he least expected it?
Merlin tried to breathe like everything was normal. The music was too loud and his thoughts were spinning. The air was thick with smoke and sweat. His fingers gripped the necks of liquor bottles tight enough to strangle them.
Arthur wouldn't do that, he assured himself. Arthur was too honorable. Arthur loves me.
Then, what was the plan? And how did Mithian fit into it?
The song ended, and a much softer, slower one started up. The instruments didn't buzz so loudly in Merlin's ears, and Arthur and Mithian didn't have to lean in so closely to speak. Lovers went out on the dance floor. The toe of Mithian's pointed heel inched in the same direction. She looked hopefully over her shoulder at the swaying couples, as though waiting for Arthur to ask her for a dance.
Merlin glanced around the bar. Everyone seemed satisfied for now. Even if they hadn't been, he wouldn't have cared. Make your own damn drinks, he might have told them. He ripped the damp bar rag from his shoulder and tossed it down purposefully. No one seemed to notice the drama.
When he approached, Mithian saw him first. She wore a pleasant smile, but her eyes flashed in a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. Merlin felt like an animal guarding its territory from a threat.
"Ah, Merlin," he heard Arthur say, his voice diffused by, Your eyes so blue / your kisses too / I never knew what they could do / I can't believe you're in love with me . . .
Arthur turned around slightly to angle his body towards Merlin like a pull of gravity. He clasped his hand to Merlin's shoulder. "Shouldn't you be bartending?"
"I'm taking a breather," he told Arthur, forcing cheerfulness into his voice and onto his lips. He kept the corners of his eyes on Mithian. He placed his hand on top of Arthur's and entwined their fingers. A smile stretched across Arthur's face, and he hooked his thumb around Merlin's index and squeezed softly before letting him go.
It was a small gesture, hardly visible unless you were paying attention. Mithian was suddenly fascinated by everything in the club except for the area in front of her where Merlin and Arthur stood.
"Merlin, you remember Mithian?" Arthur said, gesturing towards her.
"Yes, hi!" Merlin said like he'd only just seen her. She offered her hand, and he shook it.
"How do you do?" she answered, and he knew she recognized him, too.
"You haven't been to the club in a while." He hadn't meant to make it sound like an accusation, but his suspicion got the better of him.
Arthur construed the comment as rude. "Merlin!"
Mithian opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
"No, I just meant—we haven't seen you around," Merlin corrected. He scanned Mithian without blinking, certain she had something up her sleeve. "It's good to see you again." If words had hooks, his would have latched into her flesh and torn her to shreds.
Mithian seemed sheepish and unsure as she said, "Yes, well, I've only just gotten back into town."
Merlin didn't let a second pass. "Really? What brings you?"
Her gaze flickered to Arthur like an SOS. He didn't notice, and returned the look with rapt (or so it would seem, as it was always difficult to tell with Arthur) interest.
She stammered like she didn't want to reveal her business in New York, or maybe she was searching for a lie. Sloppy, Merlin thought with a sense of superiority, you should always have a lie ready.
"My father lives here. He has for a number of years, working on Wall Street," she said at last with a subtle air of defeat. It would appear that she had settled on telling them the truth, but Merlin wasn't so sure. "And he's—Well, he's been sick. Worse than usual, recently, so I've come to take care of him."
Arthur stepped in before Merlin could say anything, probably because he hadn't been busy searching for the lie written on Mithian's features. There wasn't one, or maybe she was just a very good actress.
"I'm very sorry," Arthur said profoundly.
Merlin cocked his head to the side. Mithian would have noticed him narrowing his eyes at her if she hadn't been looking at the floor. "What does he have?"
Her eyes snapped up, shocked that he'd even ask such a question. He trained his face into a comforting smile.
"Merlin!"
"No, it's fine, really," she assured sadly. "It started out as lung cancer. It's spread—um, what's the word?"
"Metastasized," Merlin offered. She should have known that if her father really did have cancer. "Me mum was a nurse." His uncle was a doctor. He left that bit out. It wasn't relevant.
"Right," she whispered, maybe. The word got lost in the music.
"I'm sorry," Arthur said again, more supportive than before. "If there's anything I can do—"
"There isn't," she said. Her eyes rested more easily on his than they had Merlin's. Merlin scrutinized her profile. "But thank you. You've very kind."
"A drink, then?" Arthur offered. "Merlin will make you one—on the house. In fact, no charge for the rest of the night." She tried to decline, but Arthur insisted.
"What'll it be?" Merlin asked. He kept an eye on her for the rest of the night.
And it really was the rest of the night. She must have not been paying any mind to the unwelcoming, glacial glares Merlin kept shooting her through his eyelashes from the bar.
Mithian sat at the same table all night, chatting and throwing her chin back in mirth, with a few women who looked more like friends than acquaintances. Every once in a while, a waiter would take their table's drink orders. Mithian ordered the same thing every time.
She and her friends stayed after the band packed up and went home for the night. They remained through last call, and made no sign of leaving despite the club emptying out.
Arthur leaned over the bar as Merlin tidied up for the night. "I'm going to stay after. Get some work done," he explained. Merlin interpreted it as, I'm sleeping at the club tonight.
He was about to argue. Merlin didn't want Arthur anywhere but safe in bed as long as Mithian and god knows who else was still lurking around. However, when Merlin glanced over Arthur's shoulder, Mithian and her entourage were collecting their coats and knocking back the last dregs of their mixed drinks.
Merlin got the immediate urge to follow her. He might not get the chance again, and he needed to know the truth.
"Okay," he told Arthur.
"You're welcome to stay with me." The arch of Arthur's brows was hopeful—too hopeful to suggest a night of paperwork.
Mithian was almost out the door now. Merlin's chest pounded.
"Actually, I'm—," Merlin forced a yawn, loud and large and behind his palm to hide its phoniness, "really tired! I think I'll turn in."
Arthur looked mildly disappointed, but he stood up straight and patted the bar top. "Then, don't wait up."
Merlin was already collecting his things. "Mhm," he hummed, not really listening. He fought into his coat (his new coat—warm, tailored, and expensive, because Arthur didn't want him to catch pneumonia) as he walked around the bar. "See you in the morning."
He kissed Arthur's cheek hurriedly as he walked by. He heard Arthur give off an unsure sound, but Merlin didn't stick around. He was gone in a whirlwind.
Mithian and her friends were on the sidewalk when Merlin emerged into the damp, biting air. They were headed in the direction of the subway station. Merlin kept his distance as he followed them down Fourteenth Street, making sure to not make any noise. For good measure, he kept his face ducked every time he walked into a pool of overhead light from the street lamps.
It was harder to hide in the shadows of the subways station, because there weren't any—or the whole thing was a shadow. Merlin wouldn't exactly call it light. It was too pale and sickly. He allowed himself to get lost in the late-night crowd of the stragglers of Manhattan to put some distance between himself and the women. On the platform, he stayed near the metal cages of the entranceway as the women chatted near the edge of the platform.
They didn't notice his presence, seeming to lack the human intuition that brought about the special brand of paranoia of being watched.
A boxy metal train pulled into the station. It screeched and grated something earsplitting, and orange sparks came off the wheels below the platform as they came to a stop. The doors opened. A few passengers got out, but there was hardly anyone on the train at that hour on a Wednesday.
Thursday now, Merlin corrected. It felt like a Monday.
Mithian and her friends got on. The train was eastbound. Merlin got into the carriage after the one Mithian had entered. Inside, naked yellow light bulbs illuminated advertisements, Broadway posters, metal poles and hanging looped straps, and rows of dirty plastic-covered seating. The lights flickered as the doors shut and the wheels starting turning.
Merlin sat at the front of the carriage, hidden from sight by the barrier between the connectors. Every time the train stopped, he peered over the barrier to see make sure Mithian was still there. She made no sign of getting off any time soon.
The train rattled and roared through the tunnels as they climbed the streets of Manhattan higher and higher. Finally, just before the Lenox Hill station—an upscale neighborhood in the Upper East Side, nestled along the base of Central Park—Mithian and her friends collected their things and stood up. They got off when the door slid open.
Merlin completely lost his nerve. She'd have no business with the Kings in this neighborhood. He tried to rationalize why she had gotten off there. Cenred had said his hotel overlooked the park, hadn't he? Perhaps he was close, and Mithian was going to report to him.
The explanation soured Merlin's stomach. It was a reach, and he knew it. But he didn't know for sure.
He followed her.
The group walked for a couple blocks before bidding each other goodnight with hugs and kisses on both cheeks. They parted ways. Mithian went alone. She entered a block of apartment buildings made out of brownstone. The streetlamps here were more elaborately designed, with swirling patterns, than in most places in New York. If there hadn't been snow banks on the ground, a small, fenced-in flowerbed would have probably stood in front of each building like a welcome mat.
She unlocked a door midway down the block and disappeared inside. Seconds later, a light in a first storey window came on. For once, Merlin was happy for the piles of snow. He was able to stand on one to look into the window.
He stayed low, barely visible, and winked one eye shut to peer through the crack of the lacey white curtains. Inside, Mithian placed her purse on a coffee table and ripped off her heels like they'd been torturing her for secret government information.
The sitting room of the apartment had grand artwork hanging on the walls and rich mahogany furniture that matched too perfectly to be situated by anyone but a highly paid decorating professional. A colonial English sofa was aligned to the edge of the antique carpet. It had blankets and bed pillow spread out on top of it. Two opened suitcases, their contents scavenged and shoved haphazardly back inside, were piled at one end of the sofa.
Mithian bypassed all of it. She walked towards the next room. Merlin scurried to that window.
The curtains were more heavily drawn, but he could just see through the lace when the door opened and light from the other room spilled through. It appeared to be a bedroom. A man, middle-aged but looking much older and frailer, was asleep in bed. He was bundled in thick, wool blankets. An antique washbasin and pitcher were on the nightstand, along with a mess of sopping rags and balled up tissues.
The man didn't necessarily jolt awake. He probably couldn't in his condition. But he looked quickly to the silhouette in the door.
"I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean to wake you," Mithian apologized. Her voice was soft through the glass, but Merlin could hear the agony behind it. The fear. The love. It was genuine.
"No, no, my love, it's—," the man began. He tried to sit up, but he was interrupted by a coughing fit. It sounded wet and sticky and thick. Something was trapped inside that man's body, trying to escape. Perhaps it was his spirit.
Mithian rushed to the side of the bed to aid him.
Merlin turned away, suddenly overcome with the realization that he was intruding. He felt sick to his stomach. He left the house behind. He was walking down the street, in the direction of the park—in the direction of Arthur's West Side apartment.
Their apartment.
He wouldn't hail a taxi. He needed to clear his head.
Mithian wasn't the woman he was after. She, whoever she was, was still at large and completely unknown.
Oh, how Merlin wished it had been Mithian! Things would have been so much easier. He could have gotten rid of her; he could have learned Cenred's plan.
Merlin scrubbed at his face, exhausted. He passed a bum sleeping on a park bench.
He was foolish to have followed Mithian. He should have stayed with Arthur.
Sleep had been an elusive creature that night, always scratching at the window by never getting inside. Merlin gave up on it an hour after dawn, when it was too bright outside to be blocked by the curtains.
He'd been thinking of Mithian all night—or, he supposed, not Mithian. He wished he could put a face to the Kings' mysterious woman. He tried to make it Mithian's face just for convenience's sake, but it didn't quite blend in his mind. He was left with a blurry mass where eyes and a mouth should have been.
He got to the Camelot before anyone else was there. Well, Leon had been there, probably because he had watch that night. He told Merlin that Arthur was still sleeping in his office. Merlin decided not to bother Arthur and instead went right downstairs. The bar would still be an unorganized mess from the night before. Maybe tidying it would get his mind off the Kings.
It would give him something productive to do, at the very least. It was better than feeling useless.
About a half hour later, the club door opened and Arthur strode in looking disheveled. His hair was unkempt and his shirt untucked. He was in the same clothes he had been in the night before.
Arthur paused when he caught sight of Merlin. "You're here early," he observed.
"Couldn't sleep," Merlin said with a shrug as Arthur walked the length of the room and joined him behind the bar. "Looks like you could."
Arthur huffed in the affirmative. Merlin shook his head and continued polishing the wood.
"You should have gone home," he said, a bit too late for scolding. He should have argued last night. "No one's coming to take the club." Yet, he thought unsurely. The unspoken word sat heavily in his stomach.
"And, with me here, they certainly wouldn't," Arthur countered smartly. He got a bottle from under the bar and poured himself a drink.
"And what's that, then? Breakfast?" Merlin criticized, turning to face him.
Arthur hummed out a laugh and smirked. He tossed back his whiskey before moving in close to Merlin and cornering him against the bar. "No, I thought I'd have you for that."
Merlin raised his brows and let out a sound of approval as Arthur leaned in and nosed at him. He opened his mouth for Arthur in a lazy kiss. Arthur pressed in closer and wrapped his fingers around the back of Merlin's neck. Merlin encompassed Arthur in his arms.
The door opened again but neither of them paid it any mind.
"Arthur?" came Leon's voice.
Arthur's tongue was warm as it slid against Merlin's. His breath tasted like alcohol and nicotine.
Maybe if they ignored Leon, he'd go away.
"Arthur, this is important."
Arthur dropped his shoulders in defeat and reluctantly broke the kiss, but he stayed in Merlin's arms. He shot Leon impatient eyes, which made Merlin have to bite back a laugh. He looked over his shoulder at Leon, too.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, irritated.
Leon took a tentative step forward. "Daegal, the kid who was in lock up for us," he began. "He was killed last night."
Merlin was shocked. His skin went cold and numb. He quickly turned to Arthur, who also wore a stunned expression.
Arthur left Merlin's arms.
Arthur didn't care if it was an hour until everyone usually reported to the Camelot. The Knights were called in immediately for an urgent meeting. In the meantime, Leon paid a visit to Valiant's precinct to get more information and to view Daegal's body. With any luck, he'd come back with answers.
Arthur wanted to know who was responsible for the murder. They'd wake up tomorrow at the bottom of the Hudson when he got their hands on them.
The Knights, Gwen, and Merlin gathered into Arthur's office. Leon and Morgana arrived at the same time, and Arthur stood up when they entered the room.
"Don't you dare say I told you so," he warned his sister. All eyes flashed to her.
"I wouldn't. I met Leon at the police station. I saw the body," she told him. Arthur briefly wondered how that was possible. Morgana had still been asleep when he called her and told her the news. Now, she walked in with full make-up and an outfit that should have taken three handmaidens and many hours to get into. Her ability to get dressed so extravagantly in such little time always surprised—and begrudgingly impressed—him. That morning, he was grateful for it.
"Arthur, this wasn't some prison brawl. It was a hit," she said.
Arthur looked at Merlin at his side. Merlin held his eyes. He seemed more sympathetic than surprised. Arthur had told him about Daegal a few days before he was put into jail. At the eleventh hour, Arthur had still been hesitant about putting someone so young in lock-up. Merlin assured him he'd been doing the right thing, and that it was Daegal's choice.
Arthur wished now he'd chosen differently. He should have sent Daegal to work at the docks. He should have given him a job as busboy in the club. Anything but this.
"What are you talking about?" Arthur demanded, glaring at Leon and Morgana as though trying to read their minds for the information.
The two shared a look. "The Kings had a man on the inside," Leon voiced.
Arthur closed his eyes. He should have known.
"They bought one of Valiant's men?" Elyan asked.
"Valiant says no." That had been Morgana. Arthur opened his eyes. "It was someone in the cell with Daegal. He'd been thrown in that morning for theft. He's dead now, too."
"How?" Gwen sounded just as shocked about this as she had been about Daegal, but her tone wasn't as tragic. Arthur always liked Gwen for that: she knew justice when she saw it.
"The cell guards heard the scuffle, but they'd been too late," Leon reported, looking at Arthur instead of Gwen—instead of anyone. Everyone always looked at Arthur like he'd know exactly what to do. They always did.
Arthur hated it sometimes.
"They beat him for it. He didn't survive."
"Who was he?" Arthur asked. It wasn't really what he wanted to ask. What was one dead thug to him?
"He was identified as Julius Borden," Morgana explained.
Out of the corner of Arthur's eye, Merlin shuffled. It only distracted Arthur momentarily because Merlin had been so still beforehand.
"Ah, I've heard of him from Annis' boys," Gwaine cut in, looking to Percy for back up. Percy nodded to show he was familiar with the name, too. "Borden was a Bandit."
Arthur was very tired. Exhausted, even. There was a kink in his neck from sleeping at his desk, although now he wasn't sure he'd done any sleeping at all. How could he sleep as he got a boy killed?
He rubbed his eyes until he saw stars and sat heavily into his chair. He asked the question he'd wanted to ask before. "How did Cenred know?"
"It wouldn't be the first time the Kings knew our plans," Morgana reminded him, as though Arthur needed a reminder. "I think it's time we've stopped dancing around the issue. Someone in the Camelot is on the Kings' payroll."
In any other circumstance, Arthur would have agreed. This time, it was impossible. They never told the staff who they put in lock up, and they kept no records on it, either. The payments went into the Camelot's ledgers under miscellaneous. It was all completely anonymous. He ground his teeth in frustration. "But how did they know?"
There was a pause. They were all thinking it, but it was Lancelot who voiced it: "It's someone in the know."
There was another pause. They all blinked at each other. Arthur looked at Merlin again to silently ask his opinion. Merlin did not look back.
The only people who knew the Knights' secrets were present in that room. Arthur would not accept it was any of them. These were his friends. They'd grown up together. He expected loyalty from them, and he received it.
"You're not suggesting—?"
"Maybe not," Lance cut him off. "But there's only one explanation."
Gwen spoke up, ever the optimist, "What about Mordred?"
Arthur wanted to believe it so badly.
"No, no way!" Gwaine immediately leapt to defense. "He's clean. We know he is!" His eyes were large and pleading when they found Arthur. "Arthur, kid's got nothing to do with it, remember? Looking into him again would be a waste of resources while the real fella gets away. And he didn't even know about Daegal. No one told him—"
Arthur raised his palm to silence Gwaine. He agreed, even though he didn't want to. "Mordred has my confidence," he told the room, but it didn't settle his nerves any.
He wished the mole were Mordred. It would have made things easier. He could kill the bastard and send his body, wrapped in bows, to the Kings.
"Who else could it be?" Morgana scoffed. It almost sounded like a laugh—bitter and spent, like how Arthur felt. "One of us? We've all know each other for too long. It can't possibly be—."
She stopped. Something over Arthur's shoulder caught her eye. It puzzled Arthur, and he turned around to follow her line of vision, expecting to see the culprit standing there. He saw nothing, just the blank wall and Merlin. She must have been staring blankly.
"Well," Morgana said, her voice more lighthearted than before. "Obviously, this will take us some time to figure out. I could certainly use a drink after all this excitement. Merlin, darling, could you fix me something?" Her smile was loving and pleasant, too soft for the situation.
Merlin stammered a little at the change of pace. "Okay," he said. "What do you—?"
"Oh, I don't know," Morgana sighed in consideration. "Something strong. How about a Long Island Iced Tea? That's complicated enough to make? I mean, it has enough liquor in it, doesn't it?"
Merlin stammered again. Arthur knitted his brows together at Morgana, trying to figure out what she was playing at. Everyone else seemed just as much at a loss.
"Yes?" Merlin answered, or asked.
"Brilliant! Make me one of those, then!" Morgana cheered. She fished for Merlin's hand and guided him out the door. "In fact, I think we could all use a drink. Make a Long Island Iced Tea for everyone!"
"Okay, I—," Merlin started quickly, but Morgana shoved him out the door and slammed it in his face. She stayed close to the wood and waited until his footsteps disappeared down the stairs.
Arthur was tired of the antic. "Morgana, what the fuck are you doing? It's eight-thirty in the morning, and I don't even like Long Island Iced Tea."
She waved it away with a grunt. "Lord, neither do I. I just needed to get Merlin out of the room."
"Why?"
"So we could talk about him, of course."
Arthur sat up straight, guards suddenly up. He had a feeling he wouldn't like what was coming next. "Why?"
She glanced around the room, clocking every face in way that suggested she was looking for support. Apparently, everyone had caught on to her train of thought. They no longer looked confused, just apprehensive. Arthur was the only one who didn't understand, and that caused a strange pit in his stomach. He couldn't figure out why.
"Morgana. If you have something to say—," he prompted.
She started immediately, with her posture straight and her chin leveled. "I needed Merlin out of the room because I think he's our mole."
Arthur laughed, even though it wasn't the time for jokes. Morgana had to have been joking. But he was the only one who'd cracked a smile. Everyone else was deadpanned as they looked at him carefully.
It dawned on him that she hadn't been joking.
"Merlin?" he asked, just to make sure he heard right. He raised an amused brow. "You think Merlin is working for the Kings?"
"Who else could it be?" she pressed. "It can't be one of us. And how long have we known Merlin, really? Not even a year!" It felt so much longer than that. It felt like Arthur had known Merlin his whole life—or like life hadn't actually started yet until Merlin came into it. Arthur couldn't quite ponder over his memories of England without picturing Merlin there, too.
He shook his head and lit a cigarette with his lighter, the one Merlin had given him for Christmas. (He loved that lighter.) It had only been their first Christmas together. There'd be many more.
"This is a waste of time," Arthur said, hinting that they should focus their efforts elsewhere.
Morgana's eyes were piercing and relentless. "I know you don't want to hear it."
She was right about that: Arthur didn't want to hear it. She was wrong, and he wasn't going to devote any more time to the subject. The very notion of it was preposterous. He scoffed out a condescending chuckle and placed his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.
"You're talking bull," he said shortly. Something dangerous lurked in his tone, but he tried to remain patient.
He looked around the room for solidarity. Everyone seemed just as unwilling to accept it, but they were all clearly paying attention. Regardless, they remained silent. They knew better than to get between two dueling dragons.
Morgana began, "Arthur—"
It infuriated him, suddenly and hotly. He fervently wouldn't believe Merlin could be a spy.
"Enough!" His voice was close to a shout, but not quite there. "This is Merlin we're talking about. He's proved his loyalty time and time again."
He wouldn't do that, Arthur thought fiercely. Merlin loves me.
He wanted to say it. It seemed like good enough evidence on its own. But he was too worked up. Instead, he said, "He saved my life! Or have you forgotten? In the Albion, when the Kings started the gas leak. If Merlin hadn't known—"
Arthur stopped short, realizing what he'd just said. He hadn't really thought about it until just then.
All eyes were on him, but he couldn't feel them prickling his skin. His mind blanked.
Smoke rose from his ashtray.
Arthur slammed the club door open. Across the room, Merlin jumped up from behind the bar with a gasp of fright. He settled when he realized who it was. "Don't do that!" he scolded. He bent down again and reappeared with a bottle of rum in his fists. He started pouring out measurements of it into eight already half-full Collins glasses. Arthur wondered if they were poisoned.
He stormed further into the club, keeping his eyes fixed on Merlin, even though the very sight of him made Arthur want to vomit.
"How did you know?" he demanded.
Merlin glanced over his shoulder as he reached for another bottle. His brows were knitted together. "Know what?"
"About the gas leak in the Albion. How did you know it was going to happen?"
Arthur stopped walking before he reached the bar. He wanted to keep enough space between himself and Merlin, like the emptiness could cushion him from a kind of blow. He didn't know how he'd been expecting Merlin to react, but it wasn't in the way he had.
Merlin froze. That's all he did for what seemed like an eternity. He stood completely still with his back to Arthur.
Arthur grimaced and looked away. The silence was all he needed.
"You're working for them," he whispered. It was the hardest thing he ever had to say, and it was strange how calmly the words came out.
Behind the bar, Merlin jumped back into life. "No! No, it's not like that," he tried, rushing around the bar until he was directly in front of Arthur.
"Then, what's it like?" Arthur roared, bearing his teeth. He grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and shook his frame, eliciting a gasp. Arthur didn't care. He kept on yelling, "How long have you been working for them? What have you told them?"
Merlin's jaw was set. He looked pained as Arthur waited for a response.
When he finally got it, it was simply, "Arthur." Merlin had said it in a whisper, but there was something different about his voice. Merlin had said that name so many times, like it had taken up residence on his lips. But now it seemed foreign. Arthur couldn't place why.
"I'm not working for them," Merlin said heavily, like it was a confession. And it was. His voice had changed. It no longer contained the Irish litany Arthur had grown so fond of. He sounded Welsh. He was Welsh.
Arthur hadn't even heard what Merlin had said, not really. He just heard the accent, and his stomach dropped into a deep, dark abyss. Arthur had let go of Merlin and turned away. He might have let out a sound, something like a sigh or a sob or somewhere in between.
"You're one of them," he realized, scrubbing his hands down his face, his back to Merlin. "You're a Bandit."
Merlin said nothing.
Arthur's eyes were burning. He couldn't let Merlin see how red they were. He didn't want to face Merlin, anyway. He went to the bar and reached over it to grab and bottle of—something. He pulled up a Cognac, but he didn't care. It would get the job done.
His legs were wobbling and his arms felt heavy. There was a dull, pulsing numb sensation in his chest. He might as well give himself a good excuse for it. He poured himself a drink.
"You've told them everything?" he asked, trying to collect his emotions. Uther would be stoic. He would say and do what he had to. Arthur must be like his father.
It was so hard when he felt Merlin's eyes on his shoulder blades, when he could hear all of Merlin's breaths. Merlin was crying, he realized.
"Who our bootleggers are, where we kept our supply," Arthur listed, just to name a few. He drained his glass and filled it again. The buzz went right to his head, giving him enough fire in his belly to turn around. "You told them about Daegal. You got him killed."
"No!" Merlin denied with a jump. "I didn't tell them about him, I promise."
God, it was so sickening listening to him speak in that voice.
"I haven't told them anything in weeks!" Merlin said, like that would help his case. It only dug him deeper into his hole.
"Weeks," Arthur scoffed, rolling his eyes in attempt to stop the moisture building up. Merlin wasn't having the same luck. His eyes were glistening and his face was blotched red.
"I stopped telling them anything, Arthur. I couldn't do that you. I tried—I tried to help you!"
"Help me," Arthur whispered, not believing a word. His tone was biting, but it probably stung his own flesh more than it did Merlin's. "How could you possibly help me?"
"I'm not one of them anymore!" Merlin tried, his voice thick. "Because—because . . . Arthur." He cast his eyes downward, seeming lost. He stammered a few times before saying, like he was giving up, "I love—"
"Don't!"
Arthur wouldn't let him. Merlin wasn't allowed to say it. He wasn't allowed to feel it.
"Don't you fucking dare, Merlin!" Arthur raged. He swallowed his drink. It burned his throat. He picked up the bottle again without looking away from Merlin, but he didn't pour himself another glass.
He thought of the lake and Christmas and Liberty Island, of Anthony's Nose and Vaudeville, of all those nights together in the club and all those mornings in bed. He thought of Freya, the girl he'd never heard of before; and Merlin's apartment in Alphabet City; and how much Merlin seemed to know about New York, even though he claimed he hadn't been there for a year; and all those funny, odd things Merlin said when Arthur couldn't quite fathom his meaning.
God, how had he been so blind?
"All this time—"
No. He would not pity himself. He would not allow himself misery. He had to transform the wretched emptiness growing in his chest into something else. Anger. What else was there?
He threw the bottle across the room. It flew past Merlin's head, but Merlin didn't flinch, not even when the glass exploded on a table behind him.
Arthur was furious that Merlin hadn't flinched. It was intended to be a warning, to scare Merlin off. It hadn't worked, and Arthur felt as though he finally knew what kind of man Merlin was.
Arthur reached into his holster and took out his pistol. He pulled back the hammer with a click and marched towards Merlin. The muzzle was level with his forehead.
Finally, Merlin tensed, but he did nothing else. His stare didn't break from Arthur's determined eyes.
"I should fucking kill you," Arthur told him point-blank. He almost convinced himself that he'd pull the trigger.
He didn't. His face contorted to keep down his tears.
Sadness. That's all there really is to love.
He released the hammer and quickly let his arm fall. As he let out a sobbing breath, he heard Merlin do the same but in relief. Merlin's body slackened and Arthur turned away again. He went back to bar and placed his gun down on the surface. He leaned into the wood to steady himself.
"Get out," Arthur told him, making up his mind. "I'm never to see you again. Understood?"
In the space between them, Merlin's breaths sounded wetter and more rattled.
"Arthur," he said under his voice. One last attempt.
Merlin would argue.
Arthur set his expression into stone and turned around again. Merlin wasn't as good at training his features in that moment. He looked broken. There was no other word for it.
"Get out," Arthur said again, this time through his teeth. "Go back to the Kings. Tell them you failed. Tell them why. See if they take as much mercy on you as I have."
And that was final. Arthur had nothing more to say. He turned around again and reached for another bottle of liquor at random. It was gin.
Maybe part of him wanted Merlin to stay, to convince him this was all one big misunderstanding. He felt no relief when he heard Merlin leave the room and close the door in his wake. All sensation left him. He felt dead.
No, he felt like Merlin had died.
He poured himself a drink.
Chapter Text
There's a thrill to lying. It's a very self-satisfied thrill, the feeling of knowing something others don't. The feeling of having a secret you can't share. The fear of being found out—and the tantalizing desperation, the masochistic want, to be caught, for someone to know.
So, it follows, there must be a thrill to being caught in a lie. To be found out, for someone to know. It's a feeling close to relief. It's the assumption that you can no longer be called a liar, as though it's something one does instead of something one is. When the lie is gone, all that's left are pieces of a puzzle coming together. It's thrilling for the one who was deceived to figure out the truth, and for the one who lied to see them work it out.
Most people think thrill is, every time, synonymous to excitement or fun or happiness. But those who have lied, and the people who have been lied to, know the darker side of the word. It's as though the world, blurred and skewed slightly off its axis no matter how you try to blink it straight, suddenly became too heavy for Atlas to hold. It's lonely and sad and, in the end, it breaks your heart.
Merlin had broken his own heart. He had done so consciously. He'd been so aware of every step he'd taken, and aware that there was an expiration date to his relationship with Arthur. And yet, it still came as a shock. He had no one to blame but himself.
He shouldn't have left it to Arthur to find out. He should have told him on his own terms. Maybe then, he could have found the right way to phrase it. He could have explained himself. And maybe Arthur would have still hated him for it, but at least he'd know Merlin was loyal in the end. At least, he'd know Merlin loved him.
But Merlin kept pushing it back, and convincing himself he had time. Because there's also a thrill to getting lost in your own lie—to almost believing it. To wishing circumstances were different, to shaping reality into a new fantastical form, and thinking if you hoped hard enough, it would become the truth. And, when it remained a lie, the arrogance that the future could be staved off.
Denial is a very powerful thing.
"So," Cenred said, "your job is finished."
The words hit Merlin like a freight train, but he did not show it. There he was again, lying. He was lying for survival—but, then again, that was his favorite excuse.
Merlin sat in the office in the garment factory. Cenred was behind the desk, Morgause was perched on top of it, Kanen was leaning against the wall, and Sigan was in his grave. Merlin told them what had happened, that Arthur figured it out. He left out the part about him betraying the Kings. Because, whether he liked it or not, he had to be one of them. He had nothing else in the whole world.
Cenred blew out a breath. "I'll tell you, I didn't think the plan would work that fast. The boy only died last night." He looked to Morgause. "My love, I think we underestimated Arthur's intelligence."
Merlin's heart hammered. He knew the meaning of every word Cenred had uttered, but for some reason they weren't making any sense strung together.
"Plan?" he echoed the word he latched onto. It seemed like the most important word of the bunch, after all.
"Daegal," Cenred said like it would explain everything. It didn't, so he continued, "We knew his death would affect Arthur, and that Arthur wouldn't rest until the traitor in his midst was exposed. I must say, I didn't expect it to happen so soon."
Merlin blinked. If he thought Cenred was coldhearted before, they'd have to come up with a new term for this. "That's why you killed him?"
"That's why we hired him."
Downstairs, the machines whirled and reeled. Merlin's thoughts did not. His mind was frozen still.
"He was some urchin boy begging for pennies on the street," Morgause said. She wasn't coldhearted. Her heart had been ripped out long ago and was probably offered to the devil in return for eternal life.
"Found him myself," Kanen added like he was proud.
Merlin thought he might vomit. Luckily, only words came out when he realized, "He didn't know he was going to die."
"No, no. I don't think he would have taken the job if he had," said Cenred.
He was a boy. And he hadn't even been alone. He'd left someone behind who needed him. "He had a sister. He needed the money because she's sick."
"No," Cenred said again. The word stirred Merlin, making his snap his eyes up to demand an explanation. "We told him to give Arthur that sob story. There is no sister."
"Arthur has a sister," Morgause pointed out in a way that suggestion she'd divined the information. "We had to appeal to his weakness."
The woman, Merlin realized. It hadn't been an outside threat. It hadn't been a hired killer. It had been Morgana. Because, despite his best efforts, Arthur loved her.
Merlin didn't know how to be angry in that moment. All he felt was bitter and overwhelming grief for a summer cabin in the woods that didn't exist, for a future that might have been if he hadn't been so stupid.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he realized he'd said slowly. He didn't feel like he was in his body.
Cenred smiled something that could bruise. "Now, Merlin," he tsked, "don't act like you hadn't kept things from us."
Merlin looked at Cenred, and then to Morgause.
You love him and he loves you, her piercing eyes informed him, and now you're both alone.
So, they knew, then.
Arthur's pain was a casualty of war; Merlin's pain was punishment for his deception.
"So, your job is finished," Cenred repeated. "Good thing, too. Freya could use an extra pair of hands at the Essetir."
Merlin knew he was dismissed. As he moved out of the office, down the stairs, and across the production floor, he felt like he was floating above the floor. Gravity didn't want to waste its efforts on him. Monsters didn't deserve the privileges awarded by the sun.
The wind thrashed at his skin like needles. He'd left his coat at the Camelot. Arthur had given him that coat.
He reached the stoop of his old apartment before he remembered it was no longer his. So, he walked down a few blocks to the heart of Alphabet City. He knocked on a tenement door over a luncheonette. The whole building smelt horribly of burnt grease.
Freya answered the door. He was relieved she'd been home.
"Merlin?" she asked. It contained a million other questions. Her voice was heartbreaking in a way that suggested she already knew all their answers.
He tried to form a grin, but he wasn't sure it quite worked. He suddenly had a headache from exhaustion, and his eyes felt hot around grime-streaked skin.
He was a thousand shards of glass waiting to fall apart.
"I don't have anywhere to go," he told her.
"You have here."
She took his hand delicately. He shattered.
Arthur just didn't see the point of New York. Two weeks had gone by, and the Kings didn't waste a moment of it. They started with Tristan and Isolde's farm. The barn burned down, taking all the barrels and kegs they'd rationed for the winter with it. They made it look like the copper still had exploded.
The Camelot only had the bottles that were left in their storehouse, until Tristan and Isolde got back on their feet. Morgana found another bootlegger in the interim, as enough time had gone by that everyone forgot about the Kings' police raid. She'd promised Tristan and Isolde compensation and retribution. And Arthur didn't see the point of it.
And then, he found out Daegal hadn't a sister. Arthur wanted to pay for her medical bills and ensure she had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of her life. It was the least he could do for getting her brother killed. Lancelot took it personally upon himself to locate her. It only took a few birth certificates and records to find out she didn't exist. Arthur couldn't find it in himself to care. What was one more lie he'd fallen for?
Finally, the Kings started on Annis' dens. They'd taken over two already. The Caerleons tried to hold them back, but the Bandits took extra precautions to defend their newly acquired territory. Annis asked Arthur for help. He didn't have it in him to come up with battle strategies. It seemed like a waste of time.
Why fight for a city he hated?
He wanted to go home, but he wasn't even sure where that was anymore. The only home he'd ever been close to making turned out to be a lie.
For days, he'd been humiliated by his own stupidity and enraged by Merlin's deceit. All that passed now. The only things left were the lumpy pillow that still smelt of Merlin, Merlin's clothes shoved into the dresser drawers, small black hairs stuck to the bathroom's sink, a pair of old boots in the corner of the room, the hidden revolver that made Arthur wonder if Merlin was actually a terrible shot after all . . .
God, how can it be that emptiness is filled with so much stuff? And yet it wasn't enough to fill the Merlin-shaped hole following Arthur around.
Arthur used to be so certain emotions were in the brain. They were chemicals and neurons that could be schooled and tamed by reason and practice. The cartoon heart was only symbolic. But he felt it in his chest—heavy, cold, unrelenting. Something had died inside of there, and was now nothing but deadweight. It made every other part of his body feel fragile and unimportant. The twitches of his fingers and toes, the itches on his hairline, the air on his skin, the stinging of his eyes—their sensations were nothing compared the hollowness of his concave chest.
Arthur was constantly torn between hatred and wanting to find Merlin and beg him to come back. If he ever did see Merlin again, he wasn't sure if he'd kiss him or kill him.
Right now, Arthur wanted to do the former. He lay in bed, his thoughts fuzzy with scotch, and watched the side of the bed Merlin should have been laying on. Arthur had left it undisturbed and unmade. It was exactly the way Merlin had left it. Once, Arthur had the urge to rip off the linens and burn that damn pillow, but even in his anger, he couldn't.
He kept hoping Merlin would come by to collect his things. Surely, he owed Arthur an explanation—even though, most of the time, Arthur wasn't sure he wanted one. But Merlin never showed.
And Arthur didn't see the point of New York.
Merlin didn't know how Kilgharrah found him. He didn't exactly advertise that he'd been staying with Freya, so he was confused when a tall, shady man knocked on Freya's door just moments after she'd left for work. He'd been even more confused when the man wordlessly handed Merlin a folded piece of paper and promptly left.
It was a note from Kilgharrah, telling Merlin to meet him in Tompkins Square Park in half an hour. Merlin did as he was asked, not out of curiosity or duty, but because he had nothing else to lose.
He found Kilgharrah on a bench under a massive, bare elm tree, across the park from the tree Merlin and Will used to call their own. Nearby, children played in the muddy snow on the lawn and dogs yapped at the monuments. Everything about Kilgharrah was brown, as usual: his trousers and shoes, his leather trench coat, his fedora, his thick gloves. He was even holding a brown paper bag, out from which he pulled stale bread chunks to scatter in front of the pigeons at his feet.
Merlin caught Kilgharrah's eyes from the distance. The gold of them was even more prominent in the outside daylight. The old man didn't beckon Merlin over, or do anything else to acknowledge his presence. Merlin regretted coming. He braced himself and slid onto the bench.
"You wanted to talk to me?"
Kilgharrah kept his attention on the birds. They hooted and bobbed their heads as they moved from crumb to crumb. It seemed to please Kilgharrah immensely. "I have not seen you at the club lately," he stated.
Merlin curled his nose. He assumed everyone on the West Side would have heard the news by now. "Didn't anyone tell you? Arthur found out I'm with the Kings." He hadn't meant to be snippy. He didn't like to be reminded. Then again, it wasn't like he ever thought about anything else.
"And?" the old man prompted. Merlin didn't think the conjunction was necessary, as whatever appeared on the other side of it was rather obvious.
He spelled it out, anyway. "And Arthur never wants to see me again!"
The notion still seemed impossible to him, like he was talking about someone other than himself. Arthur hated another man who lived another life, completely apart from Merlin. At the end of the day, Merlin could go home again.
Kilgharrah chortled like Merlin had just told a joke. "I hardly see what any of this has to do with you, Merlin! You still have a part to play in Arthur's rise to power. If recent events are anything to go by, I'd say he's certainly still in need of your assistance. You'll need each other."
A pigeon bobbed its head in agreement. Of course, Merlin knew which events Kilgharrah was referring to. Cenred and Kanen didn't tell him anything anymore, but he still heard drunken rumors at the Essetir. And there was always Freya's eavesdropping to keep him in the loop. Either way, they all said the same thing—Arthur wasn't fighting anymore.
Merlin opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to form an argument. He intensely regretted coming now. "I don't see how I can assist him if he won't accept anyone's help, let alone mine!" he finally bit out. "It doesn't matter, anyway. Arthur's given up on this city."
Finally, Kilgharrah looked at him, his eyes boring into Merlin's core. Merlin was too frustrated to do anything but hold the stare like it was a challenge. At first, Kilgharrah seemed reproving, and then impressed. "Do not be so sure," he advised vaguely. "Arthur will become kingpin of this city, and you'll be at his side. You'll need each other."
Merlin threw his head back in bitter laughter. His neck craned over the top of the bench, watching the spidery gray branches of the elm pattern the cloudy sky. Merlin's breath fogged before his lips when he huffed. He realized he couldn't feel the tip of his frozen nose. The rest of his body was flushed with annoyance.
"Why do you want Arthur to become kingpin?" he demanded. Kilgharrah was playing at something. Merlin could feel it. He didn't know if it was sinister or benign, but he was tired of being a pawn in someone else's game. "I thought you didn't care about the affairs of gangs. So, why him? What's in it for you?"
Kilgharrah was aghast. He'd forgotten about the birds, who were now waddling off to find food elsewhere. "Why do you believe I have an ulterior motive?"
"Because!" Merlin stammered. "No one cares that much unless it benefits them."
Something rumbled deep in Kilgharrah's throat. It might have been an offended scoff or a humored laugh. "Please, Merlin! It is not what I have to gain, but what Uther has to lose."
Merlin blinked a few times. He sat as upright as he could, like good posture would help him think better. "You know Uther?"
"I did. Many years ago." He raised a thick, smoky brow. "Do you think the Red Knights were the only Dragons in London?"
Something clicked in Merlin's head. "You had a gang of your own?"
Again, the old man seemed impressed. "You are too young to remember, but we were once the most powerful in all of Britain. It was simpler times back then—none of these petty wars between gangs. There were squabbles, of course, but back then we knew how to put our differences aside and work together. We made each other rich."
Merlin wasn't interested in nostalgia about the days of yore or strolling down memory lane, but he had a feeling the story would ultimately have to do with Arthur, so he listened.
"We specialized in gambling, but our alliances ensured we had a hand in everything. Our networks were vast. We did business both at home and abroad. We moved opium from India to Europe, guns from South America to the British colonies—and ammunition to go with it. Everyone profited off these business dealings, you see."
Kilgharrah's voice darkened as he continued, "But then Uther rose into power, and his greed along with him. He wanted everything for himself, and for that, he needed to remove my influence. By that time, the world was on the brink of war, and Uther used it to his advantage. He blackmailed the politicians who'd worked with us into exposing us as traitors. They came forth with documents proving that we were selling arms to Germany."
"Were you?" Merlin cut in skeptically.
Kilgharrah seemed perturbed. "Of course! Weren't you listening, Merlin? We traded with everyone! We had agreements with gangs in Germany. Who they sold the merchandise to afterwards was out of my hands."
"Even if it was the military?"
Kilgharrah snorted. "That's what got the public in an uproar, too. In a few years time, all my men were either killed by Uther's Knights or imprisoned by the government. Those who fled, myself included, looked for aid with our allies, but all the other gangs of Britain feared Uther. They wouldn't help us."
"Except my father," Merlin interpreted. He didn't know whether to feel shamed or proud.
A smile—a memory—slid across the old man's wrinkles. "Yes. Your father and I worked together many times. He'd already been in New York by this time, leading the Bandits. He went against Lot's orders to get my men and I out of England and help us disappear. It was all that we could do, as we watched from afar as the Knights fell into the role we once occupied. Every other alliance fell to ruin because of Uther Pendragon."
Merlin thought, by the end of the story, he'd understand why Kilgharrah was backing Arthur. But he was even more at a loss.
"So, you want revenge, is that it?" he guessed. "Because helping Uther's son isn't a very good way of going about it. Most people would try to kill Arthur instead—or Uther!"
"Kill him," Kilgharrah laughed. His eyes pierced Merlin again. "You are very young."
Merlin could only blink again. He didn't feel young. He felt tired and alone.
"What good is revenge against one man who has proven himself to be untouchable?" Kilgharrah mused. "There is one thing Uther cares for, and that's power. He has much of it. Even if I could kill him, his reputation would live on—unless someone else's power surpasses his."
Merlin understood. "Arthur. You want him to have more power than Uther. Uther will be a footnote in Arthur's story. He'll be forgotten, just like you were." Merlin shook his head, mulling over the information. It sat heavily in his stomach. "You're helping him for the wrong reasons."
"Yes," Kilgharrah admitted without shame. "But you're not. This city could be united under Arthur's rule, like London used to be. It will thrive, and all other gangs will bow to Arthur. He's a born leader."
"I know that!" Merlin stressed. Anger spiked in him, because Kilgharrah's crusade was all well and good, but it had a flaw: "But, in case you didn't notice, the Kings still have the most influence in New York."
"Yes, it's influence Arthur could use," Kilgharrah agreed in a grumble. "He will never get it as long as the Knights and the Kings are at war. They must be allies."
Merlin scoffed sardonically. It was a major flaw. "Yeah, good luck with that."
"Luck is inconsequential, Merlin. I've seen these events play out many times. This story is hardly anything new. It just needs a small push in the right direction."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
Kilgharrah glared at him knowingly. Or maybe he was glaring straight through him. "Arthur will require your help again very soon," he said. "When that opportunity arises, I recommend you seize it."
Kilgharrah stood up. Merlin didn't, but held eye contact. "Are you a fortune teller now? Let me know if I'm coming into money any time soon, can you? I could really use some."
Kilgharrah didn't dignify it with a response. He simply crinkled up the paper bag in his hand and gave it Merlin. "Find a bin for this instead of throwing it on the ground. We're not trying to pollute this city any more than it already is. No, just the opposite. Just the opposite." His last words were lost in more grumbles, and he started away.
He left Merlin on the bench, staring after him with a piece of rubbish in his hands and confusion written on his face. Merlin had no idea what Kilgharrah wanted him to do. "Wait! What opportunity?"
"In time, Merlin!" Kilgharrah called over his shoulder, sounding amused. "Be sure to keep your eyes open!"
"Open for what? What am I looking for?"
Kilgharrah exited the park. His laughter did not.
The next morning, Arthur burst through the Camelot's doors with a spring in his step. It had snowed overnight, and the world was covered in a blanket of powdered white. It wasn't the usual stuff expected of the opening weeks of dreary February. It was exhilarating, like it had been the first snow of the season. Kids made snow angels and waged snowball wars on the banks next to the Hudson, and the sun glinting off the mounds made the city sparkle.
As he made his way upstairs, Arthur smiled and said hello to every member of staff he encountered. The ring was being prepared for a fight, and he couldn't wait for the spectators to pile in. It was going to be a good round of matches. Owaine was headlining, and he was always a crowd pleaser—even when he threw the fights, which he agreed to do that night.
When Arthur got to his office, Morgana and Gwen were inside. Morgana was behind the desk. She'd been taking care of affairs in his absence, a job he was eager to relieve her of, even though he was ready for a brawl to the death now that she got a taste of power. Gwen was leaning over her, probably playing secretary—or just there as company.
They both looked up at him with a mixture of shock and worry. It stopped Arthur in his tracks for a fraction of a moment, when he remembered how frigid the air outside was and how inconvenient blackened curbside snow really was for the already homicidal commuters of the city. He pressed a grin to his cheeks.
"Hello," he greeted them. "Morgana, I believe you're in my seat."
Morgana didn't move. She only blinked. "Arthur," she said like she didn't believe her eyes.
He rolled his. "Yes, I am, last time I checked. And that's my seat."
"No, it's just . . . What are you doing here?"
The question was a little ridiculous. He scoffed it off. "What are you talking about? This is my club."
Before Morgana could get the words out of her open, ready to protest mouth, Gwen cut in, "I think what Morgana means is, you haven't been to work in weeks." She said the last bit a little hesitantly, like she was revealing a secret. It made him chuckle.
"Yes, my apologies. I was under the weather. Must have been the flu, but I'm feeling much better." He moved the radio and tuned the dial. A lovely melody was playing, full of lots of horns and drums. It was excellent toe-tapping music.
Arthur could feel their eyes on his shoulders, so he turned around to meet their stares. They looked awfully gloomy.
"Who died?" he joked. He took out a cigarette and a new matchbook. Smoke burned down his throat like heaven.
Morgana and Gwen shared a look. Then, finally, Morgana stood up. She began to pace towards him, her heels clacking slowly, but he took the opportunity to breeze past her and reclaim his desk before she changed her mind. She spun around quickly as he folded his ankles on the top of the desk and leaned back to enjoy his cigarette.
"Are you sure you're all right?" It was nice of her to worry about him. Really, he didn't expect it so forthrightly from her.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he countered, brushing it off.
The women shared another look.
Arthur used the silence to say, "There's a fight tonight, isn't there? I think I'll get in the ring. Guinevere, tell Lance to put me on the roster for tonight. Any opponent will do. Meanwhile, Morgana, you can catch me up on everything I've missed."
Morgana was gaping again. He wasn't sure if she was now offended instead of concerned.
"You want to box?" she asked. "Tonight?"
"Yes, I told you, I no longer feel sick."
"Are you sure you don't just want someone to punch you in the face? Because I'd be more than happy to volunteer," she snipped.
Arthur sighed heavily and kicked his legs off the desk. He was starting to tire of their behavior. Really, he was fine. He felt better than he had in ages.
"See if you can set up a meeting with Annis for later this week," Arthur told her. He smashed his smoldering cigarette butt into his ashtray.
Finally, Morgana seemed relieved. He must have said a magic word. "You've thought of a way to get her dens back?"
He shook his head. "Those dens are in Hell's Kitchen. They aren't our problem. I won't risk any of my men on property she can't seem to keep." He'd said it casually, like discussing the weather.
And now Morgana was livid, passed words. Gwen spoke for her, sounding more calm and pleasant than Morgana would have, "Arthur, do you really think—?"
He held up his palm to silence her. "I've thought long and hard about this. My mind's made up."
"You've lost your mind!" Morgana argued, scalding and fierce. "What the fuck is this, Arthur, a temper tantrum? You've said it yourself a thousand times, the West Side has to stand united!"
"My mind's made up," he simply said again, patiently. He knew she wouldn't like it, so he'd come in prepared to hold his ground.
She scoffed, and scoffed again just in case she hadn't gotten her point across the first time. "I can't even look at you right now! For the love of—You're exactly like Father!"
She made to stomp out of the room. He assured her, "I take that as a compliment."
At the door, she whipped around. "Don't. Or you'll end up just as bitter as he is." Whether she meant to or not, some of the anger fell from her tone. Her eyes were round with compassion, betraying how much she truly cared. "For god's sake, Arthur, it'll eat you alive." She finished storming out. It was all very theatrical.
He looked to Gwen to see if she had anything to add. Gwen just stared at him like he was a lost puppy with a broken leg.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he asked. He wouldn't have Morgana sour his good mood.
"Arthur," she said apprehensively. "Are you really all right? It's not good to repress emotions when—"
"I'm all right. In fact, I'm great!" he assured her, and widened his smile to prove it.
She did not return the expression. She did, however, open her mouth to say something, but then changed her mind. She played with her fingers and flatted her dress over her stomach. "Well, then," she decided on, "I'm glad you're feeling better."
Her smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Thank you, Guinevere."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
He reminded her to have Lance assign him to a fight, and she left.
There had been a larger turn out than expected at the ring that night, and more than a third of the gamblers had put their money down on Owaine. The Knights were about to come into a lot of money, and that enough was reason to celebrate.
And then there was the energy in the room—sticky and smoky with sweat and cigarettes. Arthur fed off of it. It made his head swim, but maybe that had just been the whiskey. Either way, he was giddy by the time it was his turn in the ring. He hadn't even heard the name of his opponent over the roar of applause after he'd been announced.
"Club owner, Arthur Pendragon!" His people adored him. He loved them in return.
The match went as expected in the first round. Arthur and his opponent got a feel for one another. They dodged blows and stumbled around each other in a drunken dance. Neither of them landed a hit until the second round.
It had been Arthur who'd swung. His gloves cushioned the force of the punch, but it made his opponent fall back against the ropes.
It felt good. Really good.
His opponent swung. Arthur ducked and jabbed. His opponent grunted and gasped in air. Arthur barely let the man's lungs fill up before taking another punch. And another. And another.
Faintly, he realized the spectators were whooping something fierce. But the only thing that sloshed in his mind was liquor. It took him out of the club, made him focus on other things.
He thought of the revolver in the drawer he'd found beneath Merlin's clothes. He thought of teaching Merlin to shoot. There was a room at the Hotel Astor. There was a body in an alleyway. There was a cliff in Bear Mountain. There was poisoned liquor and a raided storehouse. There was a magic act at a Vaudeville theater. There were quick fingers through blonde hair, a bruised love mark on a hipbone, kisses on fair skin, smiling blue eyes. There was a golden cigarette lighter and that damn pillow that should have cradled Merlin's head.
There was a bar beneath Arthur's feet with a temporary bartender.
Something spiked through Arthur's arm. He realized he was on top of his opponent, pinning him to the mat. The man was unconscious and bloodied. His eyes were swollen, his lips were busted open, his nose was probably broken. There was slippery red all over Arthur's gloves. There was blood inside them, too. The padding was no good anymore. The skin of Arthur's knuckles had split open. They must have. His hands were stinging and slick.
The crowd was howling with ravenous delight.
Arthur was being tugged to his feet. He looked to either side of him. Lance and Leon. And then he saw Morgana. She was on her knees next to the opponent, checking wildly for a pulse.
Arthur was sure the man was dead, and his stomach lurched. He blinked rapidly, trying to right himself. He felt dizzy and his eyes stung almost as much as his hands. Something in his chest had ruptured, and it was making breathing very hard. Slowly, the sounds around him became less muffled. They were deafening.
Morgana's eyes swooped up to meet his. There were too many emotions etched into her features. He couldn't pinpoint just one. There was astonishment and fear and torment and guilt and that good ol' Pendragon rage.
Lance stripped the gloves off Arthur's hands. The knuckles were shimmering and black in the lowlight.
Arthur ripped himself away. He tore out of the square circle. He needed to breathe. The room was stifling and suffocating and overpowering. He couldn't think!
When Arthur reached his office, he closed the door behind him. It wasn't enough. He still felt too close to the boxing ring and the crowd downstairs. He could still hear their shouts, words diluted by the sheer volume coming through the floor so they sounded like a riot.
He rushed to the shelves and turned on the radio. Some upbeat song that made his gut wrench was playing, but it would have to do. It was a distraction, anyway. He sat on the floor on the other side of his desk and focused on breathing.
The air was dusty. Arthur could never convince the building it wasn't an abandoned warehouse anymore, no matter how many parties he threw or how many paintings Morgana added to the décor.
He ran his hand through his hair, but the contact only made the open cuts on his knuckles sting. He hissed, withdrawing them. His fringe did not fall back in place. It was too matted and, now, probably tinted red with blood. His own blood. His opponent's was still staining the mat.
Arthur tensed his jaw and his shoulders to keep from shaking. He brought his knees up and propped his elbows on them in attempt to calm himself.
Behind him, the door creaked open slowly. He expected Morgana to barge in and start screaming. However, it was not her voice that called his name in such a soft, sweet way.
Gwen found him behind the desk. He looked up at her, and for once he did not force his emotions down. He let his expression remain tender. She regarded him similarly, but she was infinitely less vulnerable. Her eyes were more empathetic than hurt or scolding.
Between her fingers, she held a wet rag. "I brought this for your hands," she told him, and she sat, with her legs folded to the side beneath her, on the wooden planks next to him. She reached out upturned palms, elegant and gentle but tough with years of labor. They were sturdy hands. Arthur trusted them. He took them in his own.
When she wrapped the cloth around his knuckles, he grunted in pain.
"They'll take time to heal," she told him.
"You should have seen the other fella," he joked. It was in poor taste. He looked down in shame.
She dropped her hands into her lap. "Arthur," she cooed. He did not answer. One hand flew to his knee to catch his attention. "Arthur," she said again.
Somehow, it convinced him to speak. "I thought if I pretended everything was fine, it would be," he admitted. It probably wasn't much of a confession, as she'd most likely already figured it out. He picked at a loose thread in the cloth on his hands, and it threatened to unravel. He could relate. "Did Morgana send you?"
"No," she answered honestly. "She wanted to come in here herself. She said she was going to kill you. She probably wouldn't have, but I didn't want to risk it." She let out a breath of laughter. It was kind sounding, and it warmed Arthur's chest just a little. "She's making sure that man gets to hospital."
And the warmth was gone. It must have been a visceral reaction, because Gwen stammered a little and said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
He shook his head to stop her. "You're not the one who needs to apologize." That was his job. Not only for that man in the ring, but everyone else, too. His Knights, Annis, Kilgharrah, Morgana, Tristan and Isolde, his employees, and Gwen. His behavior was abhorrent, and his stupidity before that had been ruinous.
There was a pause between them, nothing but the static of the radio and the beastly sounds from below.
"You mustn't blame yourself," she said at last. He knew she wasn't talking about the fight.
Arthur snorted. It was a knee-jerk reaction. "I don't. I blame him."
He wasn't able to say the name. That's probably what gave him away. Gwen tilted her head to the side and shot him reproving eyes as though she could see right through him. He withered under that stare.
"You know, he said he was trying to help us," he breathed out, sounding bitter.
She shook her head like she didn't comprehend his meaning. Her curls bounced along with the motion, just a second out of sync. "What do you mean?"
Arthur flexed his hands. His knuckles were already starting to stiffen. "He said he wasn't a Bandit anymore." Arthur hadn't known what Merlin meant by it. He thought it over a few times, but the words only made him either furious or depressed.
"And you didn't believe him?" She seemed to be pondering it.
"How could I, after everything?" It had to be another lie. He couldn't allow himself to think Merlin actually cared. Because that caused an ache worse than anger or sadness. It was longing. It exhausted him. The notion of it alone hollowed out his chest again. It felt like someone had come along and scooped out all the precious organs in his ribcage. His battered and bruised skin was the only thing left.
He felt raw.
"I should have seen it." His eyes were stinging now. His tone was a mix of guilt and apprehension. Merlin had been the one who lied, but Arthur hated himself more than he ever could Merlin. He looked at Gwen beseechingly. "Why didn't I see it?"
He hoped she had the answer. Something about her said she did, that she knew what it was to go blind for another. However, she shook her head in a gesture of support. "None of us did."
"But none of you loved him."
The words came out of Arthur before he realized he'd even thought it. At first, he didn't recognize it as his own voice. He thought the radio had said it. But the radio crooned, slow and steady and heavy on the heart.
For nobody else gave me the thrill / For all your faults, I love you still / It had to be you / Wonderful you / It had to be you . . .
Arthur couldn't deny it: Still love him, he did not add aloud.
"But we love you," she told him in earnest. Her hand was on his cheek now. Her warm touch gave him the calm he'd been searching for. "And we all hate to see you throw away everything you've achieved. Your enemies want you weak, Arthur. You can't let them win."
It seemed a bit late for that. "It feels like they already have."
"You can't believe that!" She was right. There was still hope in him, tingling the back of his mind, whispering in his ear too low for him to understand the words. There was still fight in him, he just didn't know where. It was easier to believe it was all gone.
However, it seemed Gwen knew exactly how to extract it from the depths of him, because, when she spoke, there was a fierceness in her voice full of passion. Reassurance. Love. "I have seen you grow so much in this city. You've accomplished so much, and I believe you can do more. Do not let that go. You can be the man Iknow you are, Arthur."
She made sure to look him in the eyes while she spoke, and he looked back, too captivated not to. The words stirred something in him. It felt like fire.
"And know that you are not alone," she finished. She made it sound so rational, so easy, like it was under Arthur's nose the whole time.
He nodded to show he'd understood. Thank you, Guinevere. The words got trapped in his throat, but he didn't need to say them aloud for her to know his gratitude.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close. Like her hands, the rest of her was sturdy and true. He closed his eyes and stayed in her arms for a long time. Lance was a lucky man.
They were all lucky men, so long as Gwen was around to keep them in line.
Merlin wasn't sure he would ever move on. He'd just have to learn to live with the pit in his stomach and a world thrown off-center to his eyes. After awhile, it could get maddening, but what choice did he have? He couldn't move on from Arthur. He didn't even know how to begin.
However, he thought finding his own apartment, instead of curling up on a blanket on Freya's floor every night, was a good place to start. So, he pored over the newspaper unfolded on the Essetir's bar. He was supposed to be working. Freya certainly was.
She was on the dance floor, standing next to the large chandelier that usually hung high above her head. It was iron and looked vaguely like an oversized wheel to a horse drawn carriage. It was leveraged on the ceiling by a strap that was secured to the wall. The chandelier was a remnant of the Essetir's early years without electricity, when the chandelier would have to be lowered to light each gas flame individually. Now, however, it was lowered because a bulb had gone out and needed to be changed.
Freya took it upon herself to get the task done, as it was unlikely that anyone else would, and she and Merlin would then be blamed for it.
Merlin was supposed to be sweeping the floor near the tables and booths. He'd get around to it eventually, even though he wished it were the Camelot's floor he'd be sweeping.
He never thought he'd feel a sick loss over chores.
"You know, that can wait," Freya told him suddenly. She didn't sound aggravated that he hadn't been pulling his weight. She sounded more—Merlin wasn't sure what word to use for it. Melancholy?
That couldn't be! He was imposing on her space. It wouldn't be right to put her out for any longer than he needed to. Still, he would miss her company, and the quirks of her nighttime routine. She would turn out every lamp in the same order every night, even though she probably didn't realize it. She would brush her hair through to one hundred counted strokes, like her mother used to do for her when she was a girl. She would pray every night, though Merlin wasn't certain he knew to whom she was praying.
The darkness didn't feel so pressing with her there. It was like she could sense his severe sadness, because at the very moment of the night it felt too much to bear, she would strike up a conversation that lasted for hours and ended in sleepy laughter. Merlin would stare up at her shadowed ceiling and listen to her breathing softly from above, and he'd feel just a little better. He'd miss that. And he feared the night would devour him in her absence.
He looked over to her. She'd stopped sweeping, and was giving him large eyes. He shot her a don't-be-ridiculous look. "You've already done so much, Freya," he told her honestly. More than enough, really. He looked back down at the newspaper before his folded arms. He shifted his weight to one leg and, with the other, started kicking the floor with his toes.
One advert was a listing for a townhouse in the Upper West Side, not far from where Arthur lived. Merlin focused on the blocked letters until they swam before his eyes. It was only a dream, to be that close again.
Across the room, Freya made a noise like she'd worked up the nerve to say something else. However, before she got it out, the entrance opened and sunlight flooded inside. Footsteps approached and Freya said, "I'm sorry, sir, we're not open until later."
Merlin glanced up at the newcomer, but his glance quickly turned into a gaping stare.
"Oh, no, I'm not a customer. I was hoping to speak with him," Lancelot, polite as ever, told Freya. Then, his gaze, dark and intense but strangely warm, fell on Merlin. He didn't smile, but he wasn't frowning, either. He said pleasantly, "Hello, Merlin."
"Lancelot," Merlin greeted when he found the air to do so.
"You're one of them," he heard Freya say. Now, she sounded defensive. She held the new bulb like she would use it to either replace the broken one or fend off an attack, depending on what the situation called for. Merlin would like to see a fight between Freya and Lance, but only because he knew Lance would let her win. He's never been that malicious. He preferred helping to hurting.
Merlin wondered which he was there to do now.
Lance must have picked up on the tension in the room, because he held up his palms to show he wasn't planning on using the gun Merlin knew was in his holster. "I've come alone. There's no need to worry."
Although Lancelot was more probably deadly on his own than was an entire army, Merlin silently told Freya to relax. He begged her for some privacy, and she got the message.
"Alright," she said. "I'll go . . . check inventory, then." On her way out of the room, she passed Merlin at the bar. She paused just long enough to whisper urgently, "I'm here should you need me," and then she was gone down the corridor and into the cellar.
And Merlin needed her instantly. The silence between he and Lance was suddenly stifling, and the dust in the air threatened to choke him. He looked away and busied himself with the dishes.
"Can I get you anything? Water?" he asked.
Lancelot was pacing closer to the bar. When he got there, he sat on a stool. "No, thank you. I won't be staying that long." But he took off his hat and placed it on the bar.
"Oh." Merlin tried to act cordial. "Then, why are you here?"
Lancelot was not cordial. He was familiar—friendly, even, like nothing had happened. That was worse somehow. "I've come to get your side of the story."
The sheer shock of it made Merlin's eyes snap up to his. "What?"
Lance shrugged. "I think it's only fair."
Merlin rattled his head. He wondered if this was a dream, and Lance was just a figment of his imagination. He wondered if his grief had already made him go mad, which would be a little disappointing. He hoped he'd the sanity to last just a little longer than two weeks—a month, at the very least!
And then, passed the denial, there was a thought rising in him like a flood. He tried to keep it down, because he could not allow it. The hope of it. The dream of it. It screamed in his mind, wanting to pool out of lips.
Did Arthur send you? Does he forgive me? Does he want to talk to me? Does he still love me?
"No one knows I'm here," Lance said, looking pained and sympathetic, like he'd read Merlin's mind.
Crushed is not the right word for what Merlin felt in that moment. Broken is closer, but that's implying there was something left to break.
Merlin turned away, making it look like he was grabbing a rag to dry the wet dishes. Really, it was to collect himself. His eyes were suddenly hot and his temples were pounding.
"Besides Gwen?" he inferred.
When he turned around again, Lance nodded. "Arthur told her what you said," which meant she'd told Lance—and Morgana, which meant everyone else knew, too. "He hasn't said a word about it to anyone else. You know how he is. But, he told Gwen you said you were trying to—," he dropped his voice and looked around, wary that someone might overhear. There was no one else in the Essetir. "That you were trying to help us."
Lance's expression wasn't judgmental or critical. He was completely unbiased. He was probably the outlier of the rest of the Knights.
"And no one believes that," Merlin translated again.
"No one really knows what to believe," was the answer. "But Gwen and I spoke about it. We're giving you the benefit of the doubt."
Of course, Merlin should have seen it coming. Why else would Lance have come? It was more than Merlin deserved, but he suddenly felt grounded and solid—well, at least in comparison to the floating specter his body had been recently.
"Why?" He had to know.
"Because," Lance said, offering him a look full of camaraderie and fondness, "the Merlin I know was brave and kindhearted. He always put his needs after the needs of his friends. I have to believe you're still that person."
He narrowed his eyes at Merlin, as though trying to see through to the heart of him.
Merlin's vision was blurry and stinging, and this time he couldn't fight it back. He blinked the dampness away rapidly and clamped his jaw tight. "I never meant for any of this happen," he confessed thickly to the ceiling.
He knew Lance had probably already worked out Merlin's side of events for himself. He'd know what Merlin's original mission was, and he'd know how completely Merlin veered away from it. He'd know why. Even if he didn't know all the details.
"All of it's my fault, and Arthur's paying for it," he went on. "I never meant—!" His words got lost in a hiccup. It must have been Arthur's name that did him in. He swatted at his eyes, trying to stop the tears from falling.
Lance waited until Merlin trained his features to say, "I believe you."
Merlin had never been so relieved. It felt like forgiveness, even if it wasn't, and even it wasn't from the right person. Through Lance, Merlin could linger in Arthur's light just for a brief moment. He snatched it greedily, and then felt even guiltier for using Lance in such a way.
Lancelot always struck Merlin as too gentle to be part of such an ugly life. He was meant for fairer things than crime and tragedy. But, then again, so was Arthur, in his own way. That was a tragedy in and of itself. People like them should not be in the dirt and filth with people like Merlin.
Lance stood up, picking up his hat. Merlin was frantic. He didn't want Lancelot to leave. He wanted Lance to convince Arthur that Merlin had his best interests in mind, but Merlin didn't know how to ask. He had no time to figure it out or work up his nerve.
"I can help!" he called after Lance, who stopped, hesitated, and at least gave Merlin the courtesy of facing him. His expression begged Merlin to reconsider what he was about to say.
Merlin didn't listen. "I'm still a Bandit. I can still get you information. Use me."
Lance let out a breath and looked to the floor. Merlin could see he was uneasy.
"Arthur doesn't need to know," he added. Arthur wouldn't accept Merlin's help on principle, but Lance was a different brand of honorable.
He was the kind of honorable that looked after his friends—that would rather help than hurt. The kind of honorable that would not let his friends hurt themselves. Merlin should have realized that. Hope dwindled and flickered to nothing. Lance's gaze extinguished it completely.
Maybe there had been something left in Merlin to break, after all.
"I think it's best for both of you if you stay away," Lancelot told him kindly. Merlin knew he was right—but, god, Merlin would live his whole life in pain if it ensured Arthur wouldn't have to.
Lance nodded something between goodbye and see you later but not quite either.
To Merlin, all partings felt like a handful of upturned soil dropped into a grave.
It took a lot of planning to set things into motion. It took even more negotiation. Arthur hardly got a full night's sleep all week. He was too busy revising documents or compromising on demands or pinching the bridge of his nose as he tried not to scream at the person on the opposite end of the telephone.
He didn't mention to any of his Knights what he was up to, just in case he wasn't able to actually pull it off. But now it was time for all his labor to pay off. It was time for truces, and time for war.
It was early in the morning at the Camelot. Only a few early bird members of the staff were in. Kilgharrah and his men were in the ring, counting up the earnings from the previous nights' fight. Slowly, the Knights filtered in to divide up duties and patrol for the day. Morgana and Gwen had arrived, too. Arthur could hear them all, their familiar footsteps and the pitches of their voices.
He'd spent the night in the Camelot, as he did most nights now. It was no longer to protect the club, though he supposed that was still part of the reason. He just couldn't stand to be in his apartment anymore, or sleep in his bed. There was too much memory in it—and too much absence, enough that it no longer felt like home. He was considering moving, but he'd deal with that matter once the dust settled—if it ever did.
As he made his way down the steps from his office, his stomach flopped queasily. A voice in the back of his head told him he was moving too quickly ahead. If he told his Knights his plan, it would become real and irreversible. It wasn't ready for that. There were too many problems, too many moving parts, too many variables he hadn't thought through. It was too uncertain.
He pushed the voice away. It sounded too much like Merlin.
When he entered the ring, he got a few glances in his direction and nods hello. His men didn't know how to put up with a heartbroken Arthur, and there was an unspoken agreement to give him his space for as long as he needed. He respected that, he appreciated it, and he wished to god he had a kinder disposition, one that invited an outpouring of support.
Misery would probably be easier to handle if Arthur wasn't suffering in silence.
Wordlessly, Arthur ducked under the rope and stood in the center of the square circle. He needed to see every face, every reaction to what he was about to say. Kilgharrah was the only person already looking at him with mild curiosity, so Arthur cleared his throat.
"I have an announcement," he stated as a preamble when all other eyes on the room swept towards him. Everyone was silent—waiting. There could be no stalling. Arthur decided to get right into it.
"As some of you may know—," Morgana. She was the only one who knew about Arthur's meetings, though he never told them who they were with or what they were for. She probably had her suspicions. "Over the last week, I've been in talks with Annis."
Morgana stepped forward, instantly jumping to a conclusion she felt the need to argue about. "Arthur, think about this."
"Morgana, please, let me finish," he said, remaining patient. She had the right to think his announcement would be bad news. Maybe she thought Arthur had cut ties with the Caerleons. Maybe she thought they'd all be on the next Ocean Liner back to London. She was wrong.
"Annis isn't the only one I've met with," he began. "I've also been in talks with the Caerleons' allies from Dumbo, lead by a man called Bayard. And I've spoken with Alined, Bayard's rival from Williamsburg."
And there had been Aglain in Harlem, Ruadan from Long Island City, Iseldir from Tribeca, and Sarrum from the Bronx. Naming them all was a waste of time.
"In short, I sat down with the boss of very nearly every gang in the New York," he said, moving forward. "Yesterday, we all met together, and we've decided to put our differences aside long enough to unite against a greater threat than one another."
Certain they all knew what threat he was speaking of, he went on, and "We aren't the only ones the Black Kings have cast their shadow over. They've overrun every territory in the city. They own the politicians, they have the authorities on their payroll, and their spies are everywhere. Their affairs have weakened us all. Enough is enough."
His men seemed to agree. Kilgharrah remained only interested from behind his cigar.
"They've taken too much from all of us."
My heart, right out of my chest.
"Now, we're going to take everything from them. Instead of guarding our territories and waiting for attack, we are bringing the war the Kings are itching for. And we're not doing it alone. All of New York stands with us."
Now, everyone was interested. More than that, their expressions were eager—hungry. Arthur held his head a little higher. The concerned voice in his head faded, now that he knew he had the support of his friends. As he spoke, his voice grew like a fire stoked.
"We begin tomorrow night in the heart of the Bandit's operation in Alphabet City," he said, and the speech now sounded like a rallying cry. "A group led by Bayard will take their production factory. We—along with the Caerleons—will claim the Essetir, their speakeasy in the area. There will be enough Bandits in the club to ensure our task won't be easy, so we'll need every soldier we can get."
To this, he looked at Gwaine and Percy. "Assembly everyone you can," he ordered. They nodded.
Then, to Morgana, "Get Tristan and Isolde on the phone. The Kings took something from them. They'll want to be a part of this. Ask them to bring every man they can spare."
Finally, Arthur peered beyond his Knights, through a thick cloud of cigar smoke, and to Kilgharrah's golden irises. The old man leaned into the table he was sitting at, forgetting the trivial money before him. He looked at Arthur fixedly, as though Arthur were more precious than gold.
"Mr. Kilgharrah, I know you don't like to get involved in our dealings—," Arthur began. He didn't finish. He'd ended the sentence with the high-pitched inflection of a query.
Kilgharrah took another thoughtful puff. Then, he said, "Who am I to stand against the united gangs of New York? You may have as many of my men as you require."
Arthur was relieved. He didn't let it show, except for a heavy inhale that was beyond his control. His gaze was thankful, but he didn't say the words. He merely nodded sternly and refocused on his Knights.
"Now, I'll tell you the same thing I told everyone else," he said sharply, wanting to make his point as crystal clear as possible. "This is not a revenge mission. This is a revolution. The Kings won't like that, but not everyone in the club tomorrow will be a King. They have patrons and employees just like us. I needn't remind you, you are Knights of the Round Table, and you will conduct yourselves as such."
He really didn't have to remind them. His men were the best of the best. They followed a code of gallantry and nobility. Arthur knew not all Knights were like that. Some of Uther's followers were animals. But the ones who stood before Arthur were Red Knights, and they were a breed of their own.
"If anyone wants to leave the Essetir tomorrow night, let them go. But anyone who stays, anyone who stands in our way—"
Whoever it may me. Whatever that means. Don't think on that now, Arthur. Control yourself. Stay in command.
And he did. His tone was infallible.
"Shoot to kill."
Chapter Text
The street outside the Essetir was quiet and desolate. From inside, a blare of trumpets sounded, along with chatter and glasses clattering. A man, who was clearly the bouncer, sat outside the club. He was flipping through the newspaper in the glow of the streetlamps. He was unwary—bored, even. He flicked his cigarette into the alley next to the entrance.
He had no reason to worry about anything. His job was his job. He'd open the door for people or turn them away. Then, he'd go home and try to get some shuteye as the wife burnt bacon in the kitchen and the kids squealed and bickered before finally heading to school.
The Essetir didn't even need a bouncer! If a policeman strolled by, he wouldn't even look up. But, then again, the policemen knew not to stroll by. They were paid well not to.
The bouncer was paid well, too, so he didn't complain about the tedium of his job.
A boy crossed the deserted street and walked up to the bouncer. His mess of brown curls was dusted from the light snowfall. His hands were shoved into the large pockets of his dark trench coat. He smiled toothlessly, innocently, in a way that made his rosy cheeks bulge out. It took years off his appearance—or maybe he was just that young. Too young to drink, anyway.
The bouncer didn't care. Alcohol was outlawed, so technically there was no drinking age.
"Password?" he grunted, hardly looking up at the boy.
Then, something cold and steel pressed into his temple. The bouncer understood what it was immediately. He went stock-still.
Arthur had stepped out from the alley and leveled his pistol to the man's head. He clicked back the safety to show he meant business.
"I believe the password is, open the door or I'll put a bullet in your skull," he said.
Mordred had pulled his own gun out from his pocket. He was still smiling, but it was less innocent and more so to encourage the bouncer to do what Arthur said.
Arthur whistled. His Knights, armed and ready, filtered out of the alley and moved into the bouncer's line of vision. Two men, perhaps, the bouncer could take, had one of those men not been Arthur Pendragon. Seven men was a different story. He did, after all, wish to have burnt bacon and listen to his kids squeal again.
He slowly reached into his pocket and took out his key ring to open the door.
Arthur stepped back to let the bouncer turn the lock, but he kept his pistol raised. Something in his gut squirmed. Nerves. He shouldn't have been nervous. This would be a shootout and he was very good at shootouts.
But is this one necessary? the voice in his head asked. What good will it do to claim all these men's lives?
It wasn't for revenge, Arthur told everyone—told himself. The Bandits needed to be stopped. Cenred needed to know he hadn't weakened Arthur. Kanen needed to accept there was a new power growing in the West, with the strength of the whole of New York at his beck and call.
The Kings needed to know they were finished in New York. This was Arthur's city now.
It wasn't about revenge.
Okay, it was a little bit about revenge, but Arthur didn't admit that to anyone. His stomach sloshed with shame. This was a bad idea. Arthur had not thought it through.
Cenred commanded forces outside of New York. They could overrun the city. It could be all out war. He could be sentencing his men, and everyone else, to death.
Bad idea or not, the door was open. There was no turning back now.
Arthur silenced the voice in his head. He ignored his gut. He grabbed the bouncer by the shoulder and jerked him towards Percy, who steadied the man and threatened him with his gun.
Arthur took a deep breath, which made his throat feel raw with the dry cold, and started through the door. His men followed him.
The effect was almost immediate. The pinging of dishware tapered off, and the chatter died. Those on the dance floor stopped jiving, and the song the band was playing stumbled to a clattering halt. All eyes were trained on the group standing in the entrance.
Arthur scanned the club. He caught movement out of the corner of his eyes, only because everything else was so still. He looked towards it—towards the bar. He recognized the woman standing behind it. Freya. She was the only one not looking at Arthur and the Knights. She was looking down and to the side in a silent conversation.
Obviously, someone was beneath the bar. Arthur did not want to dwell on who that someone might have been. In fact, he'd very much hoped that someone wouldn't be there; because, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, Arthur didn't think he'd ever be able to kill someone if the situation called for it. And, if Arthur couldn't pull the trigger, things would go downhill for him very quickly.
"You know who I am," he said to every face staring back at him. His voice sounded frigid, even to him. It reminded him to be strong; it reminded him of what he was there to do. And his uncertainty died and buried itself in the yard.
He felt like he did whenever he was about to step into the boxing ring: confident and clear-headed, razor sharp and ever-present in the moment. His gun became an extension of his arm. Its metal flowed through him.
"I've been in the market for some new real estate," he went on, "and it just so happens, this building fits all my requirements. It'd be in your best interest to hand it over quietly."
By that time, a few people had stood up and pulled out their own guns.
"I don't think the boss would like that," someone towards the front of the crowd said. He was very brave, Arthur had to admit. He'd be the first to die.
"And where is the boss?" Arthur asked, not knowing whether he was referring to Cenred or Kanen at the moment.
"Not here," said the same man. "You'll have to deal with us."
Arthur had rather been hoping he'd say that.
He looked past the brave-dead man to the people on the dance floor and to the patrons sitting at the tables or crowding around the billiards table. Some of them looked ready for a fight. They were loyal to their Kings. Others, however, looked like they wanted to get away as quickly as possible. They were more loyal to their lives.
"Anyone who wants to leave, do it now," Arthur offered. He was only going to offer it once.
Behind him, he heard the bouncer shake himself out of Percy's grip and streamline for the exit. Groups of patrons left, too. They were young men in light colored slacks and skimmer hats and woman in silvery short dresses and feathers. They all gave the Knights a wide breadth as they headed out.
There were anxious murmurs as some people tried to convince their foolish friends or stupid lovers to walk away with them. Some even tried to forcibly remove those who wouldn't listen. Someone was convinced either way, and those who wanted to leave did.
Everything else was tense. Arthur felt it on his skin. Hungry eyes were tearing into him, carving him up. They'd find nothing inside.
It's not too late to turn back, the ghost of the voice in his head urged desperately. But ghosts are not substantial. They're only echoes of what once was, and therefore easy to ignore.
His eyes flickered again to the bar. It was empty. Perhaps Freya and someone had gotten out while they had the chance.
"Looks like your plan didn't work, Goldie," a different man, the second one to die, said. "You're still outnumbered." There were still a fair amount of Bandits and those loyal to them inside the club, but the statement hadn't been true.
The entrance door opened again. Arthur had those loyal to him, too: his own patrons, his employees, and his prizefighters. They entered the club. The Caerleons followed. Tristan and Isolde and their men came next. Finally, Kilgharrah's henchmen piled in.
The doorway was becoming very crowded.
A few of the Bandits took a step back to distance themselves. Some of their eyes flashed with regret as they realized what a mistake staying had been. But they all stood their ground.
Arthur had rather been hoping they would.
Merlin dove beneath the bar the moment he realized Arthur had walked through the door. It was probably a cowardly thing to do, but the Knights obviously weren't there for a social call, and Merlin's presence would only exacerbate things.
And Merlin didn't want that to happen. Arthur would regret his actions, but he'd never be able to reverse them.
It wasn't until Merlin heard Arthur speak did he realize his presence in the club didn't actually make much of a difference. Arthur's voice was dead. So dead that it couldn't have possibly come out of a living person's mouth. It was foreign and ugly, and completely divorced from the image of Arthur in Merlin's head. It was the Arthur before Merlin knew him, the Arthur that had killed Will, the Arthur that was the enemy.
It sent a chill down Merlin's back.
It was a voice that belonged to the wrong Pendragon man. Merlin had never met Uther, but he was certain that's what he sounded like.
And then Arthur let people go. It was a chivalrous gesture, one that gave Merlin hope that the Arthur he knew was still somewhere inside that hollow casing of flesh and blood.
It's not too late to turn back, Merlin thought balefully, like somehow Arthur would be able to hear it.
Arthur did not turn back.
Merlin had pulled Freya down beneath the bar, too, shortly before the gunshots started wringing. He'd anticipated a shootout, and he knew he and Freya should have left while they could. He should have gotten her out of there, to somewhere safe. But Merlin was thinking too selfishly for that. His thoughts weren't about Freya, but Arthur—only Arthur.
It was Merlin's fault Arthur was there. He'd pushed Arthur to the brink. How could Merlin abandon him at a time like this, when Arthur needed him most? If Merlin stayed, maybe he could remind Arthur who he really was? Not a killer, but a good man. Someone who earned his place through strength and respect, not fear and bullying.
How could Merlin get through to Arthur now? It would be impossible. The air in the club was tight with strangled shouts and crashing gunshots. Wood was splintering and glass was shattering. Bones were breaking. Voices were roaring. Thick gun smoke collected around the lights. Stray bullets pounded into the front of the bar and put holes in the walls. They made a few liquor bottles on the shelves explode, and the floor was now sticky and slippery because of it.
"Maybe they're still letting people go," Freya reasoned after what felt like an eternity.
Merlin barely heard her. He was listening out for any of the familiar sounds that signified Arthur.
God, let him still be alive.
"Merlin!" Freya shook him. He realized he hadn't moved in what must have been ages. His muscles felt stiff when he gave her his attention. "We have to go!"
Go? No, Merlin couldn't go. Not without Arthur.
Something crashed and thudded in the space between Merlin and the end of the bar. A man had been thrown there. In his descent, he made a few glasses and garnishes topple and rain down around him. He was bloodied and his eyes were vacant. Merlin recognized him as a patron he'd served gin and tonic to just minutes ago.
The suddenness of his appearance made Merlin and Freya nearly jump out of their skin. As they leapt, Merlin instinctually lifted his arms to guard Freya, and she did the same for him, like they were bracing for another impact. However, nothing else came. The fight raged on.
And Merlin was awake.
Being there was too dangerous, and it was all Merlin's fault. And he would not let Freya die because of his stupidity.
He looked around her, to the short, narrow corridor across from the bar. Kanen's office sat at the end. Kanen had been in there all night, and the door was still closed. Merlin had not seen him leave, which meant he was still in there. Merlin wondered if Kanen ever planned on coming out.
Just before Kanen's office was another door that led down to the cellar. They could escape through it to the street. The corridor was at least six feet from the edge of the bar, but the distance to the main door was a lot further. It was their only chance.
"That way," Merlin breathed, indicating the corridor.
"We might need this," she answered, and reached deep into the bar. She produced a revolver from inside and handed it to Merlin.
He stared down at it like it was an alien piece of technology. "Was this in there the whole time?" he asked, shocked. He shouldn't have been, really. Keeping a gun hidden under the bar was not uncommon, just in case the bartender needed to intimidate anyone. But Merlin couldn't picture Freya intimidating anyone.
She merely shrugged. Then, she got back to business. "I'll go first. You cover me."
They inched to the edge of the bar. Merlin readied the revolver.
Keeping on her hands and knees, Freya scurried across the gap between the bar and the corridor. A shot rang out. It sounded a lot more prominent than the others. It hit the edge of the wall Freya had cleared just a moment before.
It made Merlin's heart stop until he realized she wasn't hit.
"Are you okay?" he hissed.
She nodded quickly and beckoned him over. "Come on!"
Merlin's insides churned. It wasn't fear of crossing the gap; it was fear of what would happen when he got to the other side. It meant he would be leaving. It meant leaving Arthur alone.
Merlin peered around the edge of the bar, hoping for a glimpse of Arthur. If Arthur were still alive, Merlin would stay. If Arthur were dead, Merlin would . . . Well, he would stay. But he preferred the former option.
But Merlin didn't immediately spot Arthur amongst the rubble of broken chandeliers, toppled chairs and tables, and the overturned billiards table with its multicolored balls scattered in all directions. The cue ball was speckled in blood, and one of the sticks was broken in half and sticking out of a dead man's gut.
Almost as soon as Merlin poked his head out, he made eye contact with what must have been the man who had tried to shoot Freya. It was one of Annis' men. His gun was pointed at Merlin now. Merlin ducked back to safety just before a bullet splintered the edge of the bar where his head should have been.
His heart hammered through every inch of him, reminding him he was still alive.
Freya was still alive, too. And he'd like to keep it that way. She was still in the corridor, and adamantly wouldn't leave without him, so Merlin didn't even ask. But he had to distract the man shooting at them before he could join her.
Merlin whipped around the edge of the bar again and fired a shot. He'd meant it as a warning shot, but it instead hit the man in the shoulder. Merlin shouted an apologeticoh sound as the Caerleon backpedalled and blood sprayed.
"I didn't mean—!" Merlin began, though his words were lost. And the Caerleon was good and distracted, so much so that another bullet—not from Merlin—hit him squarely in the chest. He went down. Merlin let out another oh noise.
Freya shouted his name urgently. He crawled for her. Once he was behind the wall, Freya helped him to his feet, and they rushed for the cellar door together.
The basement was dark and concrete. In comparison to the club, the air was damp and freezing. Their breath fogged around them as they walked through the supply shelves filled with extra crates and barrels. Across the room, a short flight of gray stairs led up to a metal grate. They made for it.
Merlin stayed at the bottom of the stairs. Freya jounced up them and pulled back the latch in the grate. She lifted the cellar doors to reveal the alleyway next to the Essetir. Yellow light from the street flooded into the cellar. Freya stood on her toes to survey their surroundings.
Instantly, she let out a relieved breath. "It's empty," she reported. "Let's go."
Merlin did not move. He couldn't. He shot her sorry eyes. No words were needed between them.
She said his name again, just as urgently as she had upstairs, like she couldn't talk him out of it. "If he sees you, he'll kill you."
"He needs my help," Merlin said in ways of an excuse.
"It looks like he's got it under control!" Freya argued without raising her voice. Somehow, her frustration always sounded more like despair. Her round eyes twinkled.
Merlin couldn't allow her to make him feel guilty. He already felt that enough.
"No, you don't know him. He isn't thinking clearly."
If Arthur died, Merlin would never be able to live with himself. Arthur must live. If everyone else in New York died, Arthur had to be the one to survive. If Merlin had to fight for that to his dying breath, so be it.
Freya dropped her shoulders in defeat, as though Merlin's silence had conveyed his thoughts. "Why are you the one who has to protect him?" she asked.
Merlin thought of Kilgharrah. He thought of Arthur leading the city—Arthur with power and influence and notoriety. Arthur as the man he was supposed to be.
But that wasn't Merlin's reason. Not really.
He shrugged. It was the simplest thing in the world. "Because I love him."
He'd never admitted it aloud to Freya, though she knew. He knew what the words meant to her.
She closed her eyes softly, but she did not look away when she opened them again. She marched down the steps again and planted a fleeting kiss to his cheek. She was soft and warm and stronger than he could ever be.
"Don't let him see you," she pleaded, knowing she wouldn't change his mind. "I'll wait up until you get home."
He nodded gratefully with a look in his eyes that hinted, You may have to wait up forever. They left it unspoken.
He waited for her to disappear into the alley before turning back. She left the cellar door open, just in case he reconsidered. He didn't.
Merlin raced through the cellar and tore through the door into the corridor. On the other side, he quite literally bumped into Kanen. Merlin blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself, and he noticed Kanen wore a grin that pulled his cheeks and wrinkled the pink scar around his eye.
"Just got off the phone with Cenred to send reinforcements," Kanen told him, like he was answering a question that Merlin hadn't asked. "He said it's the second call he got tonight. There's some trouble at the factory, too." He didn't seem very bothered by it. In fact, he seemed overjoyed.
"Looks like you made Pendragon angry."
He patted Merlin on the shoulder in triumph. Merlin merely swayed upon impact. His arms fell limply, weighed down by the gun in his hand. Kanen took out his own pistol and clicked back the hammer.
"Let's end this, boy," he schemed. He walked to the end of the corridor and filled in the space between it and the bar. Merlin followed, but he remained hidden behind the edge of the wall.
Kanen pointed his gun to the ceiling and loosed two bullets. Plaster sprinkled down like dust.
"What's all this?" he boomed over the dissonance, making it sound like the shootout was no more than a petty bar fight.
Everything came to a halt. It was suddenly so quiet that it felt like the world stopped turning. Merlin didn't dare look around the corner to gauge the situation. The air was still suffocating as the smoke cleared.
Merlin eyed Kanen, whose posture tensed defensively ever so slightly.
"Have you come to settle the score?" Kanen asked. He might have posed the question to the room in general, but his eyes were narrowed like he was addressing someone specific. Merlin's breath was trapped in his lungs.
"I'm not answering to you. Where's Cenred?"
Merlin let out his tripping breath with such relief that it exhausted him. The voice had been Arthur's. Arthur was still alive! But for how much longer? The relief didn't last.
"Not here," said Kanen. "He's probably off wining and dining the missus. I would, too, for legs like hers." His profile twisted into a wider grin. "You can appreciate that, can't you? You like a set of legs, don't you? Long ones."
Merlin's jaw clenched. He was suddenly devoid of any thoughts apart from, No, please no.
"That's what this is all about? Revenge for all the—," Kanen's nose curled in repulsion, "sick things he did to you?" Merlin didn't want to see Arthur's face. He suddenly felt stripped bare and ashamed—and he was in private. Arthur had a whole room full of eyes on him.
"Well, if you want to make sure he's good and fucked . . . Come on, boy, don't be shy." The last bit had been directed at Merlin. Kanen reached for him, his calloused and rough hands pulling Merlin forward by the shirt.
Merlin tried to break free, but he'd realized what was happening too late. He was already out in the open. Kanen was still gripping him so they were face to face, their noses mere inches from each other, and Merlin's back was facing the rest of the club. He passed Merlin from his right side to his left, so he could keep his gun-hand free.
Merlin glared daggers at him. Kanen looked right back in amusement.
"Take your shot, Pendragon."
And then Merlin felt the eyes on his back—one set in particular. They made the anger drain from him. He looked over his shoulder. All he saw was Arthur and devastation, and the devastation written on Arthur's face.
Arthur stood closer than anyone else in the room. His gun was leveled steadily, but he didn't look like he was about to use it. Merlin hadn't gotten a good look at him before. He hadn't seen Arthur since that day in the Camelot.
He looked the same as he always had, still polished even when he wore evidence of a brawl. His tousled golden hair shimmered in the broken lights, and the color seemed to radiate in an aura around him. His white skin was caked in grit and dried crimson in a way that made his eyes brighter and his cheekbones more prominent. His suit was rumpled and the knot of his tie hung well below his collar. His shoulders were squared and his angular jaw was so tight a muscle leapt within in.
And Merlin had learned to look past all of that. Arthur's eyes always revealed the truth. And the truth was, the war he was fighting with guns and knives was nothing compared to the struggle he was facing now. He was angry and hurt and stretched too thin. But there was a hint of something else. It reminded Merlin of the way Arthur looked at him that morning before the first I love you.
God, if Merlin could return to that night, he would have never run away. He would have stayed and kissed Arthur until his lungs pestered him for oxygen and his skin was red and raw. And perhaps they still would have ended up in their current situation, but at least Merlin would have had just a little more time with Arthur. At least Merlin would have had another good memory.
Arthur's arm fell to his side.
Merlin wondered if Arthur was experiencing the same bone-deep ache he was, the same longing.
"No?" Kanen's voice intruded into his thoughts, reminding Merlin that there were, in fact, other people in the room. He shoved Merlin to the side, and Merlin stumbled back like a ragdoll until his spine hit the edge of the bar.
"Then, I'll take mine."
Kanen was lifting his gun. As Merlin watched the process, time slowed. He felt no panic, no confusion. He knew exactly what he had to do.
A lethal calm, akin to what he felt before Sigan's death, overwhelmed him. It felt like he was in the eye of a storm. The air was dense with pressure and crackling with electricity. The wind whipped this way and that, pulling in him all directions. Dark skies illuminated the world in soft gray light and reminded him of the storm still raging around him.
The sensation climbed up and up and up inside of him. There was no time to warn Kanen of the thunder and rain.
In the time it took Kanen to raise his arm, Merlin straightened out, leveled the revolver in his hand to Kanen's temple—point blank so he wouldn't miss—and squeezed the trigger. Merlin blinked as the saw the red droplets flinging towards him, and he felt them splatter, warm and wet, across his face. Kanen's body crumpled.
Merlin watched it fall. Part of him was sorry it had come to this. The other parts of him—the part of him that had to sneak around all his life, the part of him that knew Arthur was still breathing—wasn't sorry at all.
It hadn't been like the night in the den when Merlin tried to kill Arthur. Then, Merlin couldn't quite reconcile killing and death as a cause and effect. Now, he knew when he'd decided to pull the trigger that when Kanen fell, he was never getting back up.
Kanen died because Kanen could die. He was not like Arthur. He had never been a person, Merlin realized. He had only ever been an obstacle. And now he was dead. Merlin had killed him. The only thing left to do was move forward.
And time did move forward, quickening its pace to catch up with its normal rate of passage. Merlin heard gunshots firing again, and all other sounds resumed as though Kanen had never entered the room. Only, some of those bullets had been intended for Merlin. Some Bandits had fired them, and luckily missed. It all happened too quickly for Merlin to react.
He heard his name being shouted in alarm. When Merlin finally caught up to the moment, he was on his back on the floor behind the bar. Arthur was on top of him, his weight sturdy and familiar. Their noses were inches apart.
"Stay down," Arthur ordered, his breath hot on Merlin's cheeks as they warmed up the drops of blood. Arthur ripped himself away. He stood on his knees to look over the bar top, and he rested his elbows on the wood as his gun went off intermittently.
Merlin sat up and watched him with his heart in his throat. Arthur continued to ignore him, but he clearly never forgot Merlin's presence. The rigidness of his posture said,I'll deal with you later.
"Elyan, to your left!" Arthur bellowed just before ducking away from a bullet. It flew into the shelf in the wall, unhinging it and causing the bottles to collapse. Merlin jumped away from the erupting glass. His back hit the body that had landed there earlier.
"Arthur!" Merlin called to make sure Arthur was all right. Arthur didn't hear him, or he didn't answer. His attention was back on the club.
The shots were becoming more intermittent, and began to sounds like they were hitting wood and metal instead of flesh. That must have meant the Bandits were down to their last few men, who had taken cover in a desperate attempt to regroup.
Merlin remembered the call to Cenred that Kanen had made. Back up was on its way. Every King in New York had probably been summoned to Alphabet City. Arthur had to pull back before this turned into a battle he would lose.
Merlin propped himself on his knees, too. Over the bar, he saw the warzone that was once a speakeasy. There were two foxholes: one housing the Bandits on the dance floor; the other was Arthur's men and their allies. Between the two were debris and the dead or dying.
Sporadically, someone waved their gun around the side or the top of the piece of furniture they were shielded behind. The bullets never caught flesh.
Merlin bit his lower lip, trying to think. It was much harder to do now that Arthur wasn't in immediate peril. The Bandits were down to their last five men, but they didn't seem like they were going to surrender any time soon. Merlin had to make them retreat.
He looked up, to the chandelier over the dance floor. His eyes followed the strap to where it was fastened on the wall. It was strained against the weight of the light fixture, always looking like it was a moment from snapping.
Three Bandits were stationed directly beneath the chandelier.
Merlin raised his revolver and winked one eye shut for accuracy. It barely helped. The strap was such a narrow target, and it was so far away. He loosed a bullet. It didn't even get close to the strap.
The sound must have startled Arthur, because he reacted as though he'd been shot. It caused a spike of pain in Merlin's chest, but he couldn't focus on that now.
"Merlin, you idiot! I thought I told you to stay down!" Arthur scolded him.
Merlin didn't listen. He pulled the trigger again. He was closer that time—maybe.
"What the hell are you doing?" Arthur demanded.
Merlin remembered Kanen's words. "Ending this," he repeated.
There were only two bullets left in the chamber. Merlin tried to remember what Arthur taught him about shooting. What did he have to do with his elbows? Wasn't there a breathing trick? What did he have to do to aim?
He tried to hold the gun steadily. It was useless. No matter how many times he'd fired, the force of the kickback always surprised him. The deafening crack always made his heart jump. He flailed in a loss of control against it. A gunshot was bigger than him. It was bigger than God.
Two tries left. Merlin breathed to prepare himself. He fired.
It was luck. An unbelievable stroke of luck. The bullet hit the strap. The chandelier crashed down on the table the Bandits were hiding behind. The heavy iron snapped the wood like the table was a toothpick. It crushed the men beneath it. Merlin didn't know if it rendered them unconscious or dead, but he didn't care to find out.
Apparently, the two Bandits left didn't care for an answer either. They sprang out from their hiding places and fled towards the exit. One of them was shot down by Isolde's gun. The other made it out the door. Arthur's men rushed after him.
Arthur was gone, too, very suddenly, to give chase.
Merlin moved to follow him, but the sight of Kanen's body halted him. He stared down the lump, and the blood pooling around the head and soaking the clothes.
It was no more than what he deserved.
Merlin left the body and followed Arthur to the street.
When he reached it, Arthur had already joined the group congregated on the deserted asphalt. There were still quite a number of them left, and everyone Merlin cared about was accounted for.
Apparently, the last Bandit had gotten away, because he wasn't anywhere in sight. Everyone seemed to decide he wasn't worth the chase. They'd won. One man didn't make a difference.
But one man was the only thing needed to report Merlin's treachery to Cenred.
"Where is he? I want him found!" Arthur was roaring. He began pointing at people at random and ordering them to find the man and silence him. Silence, not kill. It meant the same thing, but the word choice struck Merlin.
Hope flickered in him like a flame.
And then Arthur rounded on him. His expression was lined and his eyes flashed. "What the fuck was that?" he shouted. His voice echoed off the concrete buildings. "Whose side are you on?"
"I'm on your side!"
"I don't believe you!" But he did, or he wanted to, or he was struggling between the two.
"Arthur." That had been Lance's voice. "We're exposed out here." Though he'd been talking to Arthur, his eyes were on Merlin. Merlin understood that Lancelot was coming to his rescue without incriminating himself. And he was grateful for it.
Arthur continued to stare at Merlin hard. Finally, he answered, "Right." Is tone was still harsh when he turned to the rest of the group. "We go back to the West Side. Leon, I want a report of everything that happened at the factory first thing tomorrow. Move out."
As the group started moving, Arthur grabbed Merlin's shirt. "You're coming with me," he commanded. He dragged Merlin a few steps, and Merlin's legs followed limply to stumble after him. He never consciously told his legs to do that. His body knew what he wanted before his mind did.
Really, he should have been terrified that Arthur was going to try to get information from him and then kill him. Or that Arthur was going to skip the first bit and go straight to the killing. Before him stretched a vast unknown. But every bit of Merlin, to the tips of his fingers and toes, vibrated with exhilaration.
He was with Arthur. Arthur was taking him away from Alphabet City, to the West Side. Arthur was taking him home.
The damp cloth must have been coarse. With each swipe across his cheek, it left Merlin's skin raw and pink in the low light. Merlin didn't seem to care. He looked straight ahead, eyes blank and distant and unblinking.
It reminded Arthur of the look that had been on Merlin's face when he killed Kanen. It was like Merlin hadn't been inside his body. Some other force had controlled him. He was a ventriloquist dummy in Vaudeville, its strings pulled in precise movements and its plastic expression a mockery of humanity.
It was the coldest thing Arthur had ever seen.
Merlin sat on the edge of Arthur's mattress, and Arthur knelt between his knees with a bowl of warm water on the floor next to him. The cloth only smeared the crimson flecks on Merlin's face and neck, but Arthur tried his best to work them away.
Every so often, Arthur would silently glance at Merlin face as a whole, instead of just a patch of porcelain he was trying to clean. His eye flickered away every time he caught himself doing so.
He didn't want to bring Merlin to the apartment, but he didn't have much of a choice. Arthur needed a place to hide him. Merlin did, after all, just save his life in the ultimate betrayal against the Kings. Arthur wondered why he would do such a thing. Merlin was either a man with no scruples at all or too many.
Arthur found himself wanting to know what was going on in Merlin' head. Merlin, ever the puzzle.
"I take it you've never killed a man before," Arthur said, breaking the silence. His voice sounded strange in the dark, even to himself. It wasn't an ordinary night. Arthur saw it in the way the lamp pierced the shadows, seeming to create them instead of fight them away.
Merlin blinked back into his body. Their eyes met, and Arthur's hand dragging the rag against Merlin's Adam's apple stopped mid-motion.
Merlin only shook his head, hardly moving it at all.
Arthur cleared his throat and looked away. He rang the rag out in the bowl, and the trickling drops splattered the water pink. He draped the rag over the side. "I wish I could say it gets easier each time," he said as he did so, "but it doesn't."
Every time you take a life is the first time, because no two lives are the same. There is no getting used to it.
Arthur hands were wet and glistening. He rubbed them as dry as he could on his trousers.
"It was easy," Merlin said quite suddenly. It recaptured Arthur's attention. Merlin's voice was, somehow, both thick with emotion and thin with apathy. Arthur wasn't sure what to make of it. He realized that, after everything, he still couldn't fully believe that Merlin was coldhearted. Maybe Arthur had misjudged him again.
"I didn't think about it. He was going to kill you. I couldn't let that happen."
Arthur let it hang in the air. He didn't even know how to begin responding to something like that. Part of him was grateful, and relieved that Merlin chose him over the gang he'd grown up in. The other part of him was suspicious. It couldn't have been another trick. Kanen was dead; Merlin had killed him. Arthur still didn't know why, so he asked.
To this, Merlin looked at him. Something in his eyes was weighted and meaningful. "Do you need to ask?" Merlin wondered, his lips barely moving.
Arthur scoffed. He stood up and walked to the far edge of the room, having decided that Merlin's face was clear enough of blood. He cupped his palm over his eyes and squeezed the headache blooming in his temples. It made his vision momentarily blur.
"Yes, Merlin, I do. Evidently, I don't know you as well as I thought," he bit out through bared teeth.
"I was trying to help you," was the excuse. Arthur was tired of it, because Merlin's help only caused him more problems than he had to start with.
"So you keep saying, but look at where all your help has brought us!" Merlin didn't even flinch. "And I know you didn't start out with my best interests at heart. So, what was it, Merlin? What made you take this job? Were you following orders or were you just bored?"
Merlin roared, "You killed my friend!" His eyes flared in fury, so great that it couldn't last. It was a flash, and then it was gone. Merlin settled back into himself and looked away. Arthur hadn't expected the outburst. It was so unlike Merlin.
"The Bandit Elyan found rummaging around your office," Merlin explained, voice low enough to belong in the pews of a funeral mass. "His name was Will. He was looking out for me."
Arthur remembered him now. He had forgotten about that night until that moment. He instantly felt guilty about it.
"Well," he stated harshly, not letting his true emotions show, "he shouldn't have been snooping."
Merlin looked miserable. Arthur regretted his words. They were meant to cut Merlin, not him, too.
"If you wanted revenge so much, why help us?"
"Kanen tried to kill me," he said, "like he killed my father."
Arthur wondered what Merlin's father did to double cross Kanen. Knowing Kanen, he probably just looked at him the wrong way. It made Arthur's gut turn. He had no respect for bosses who put hits out on their own men, no matter the reasoning. It was too close to fratricide in Arthur's eyes. It was unforgivable. He was happy now that Kanen was dead.
"And what happened to the assassin?" he inquired. If there had been a hit on him, Merlin should have been dead.
Merlin cocked his head to the side and shrugged in a blasé way. "You shot him."
Arthur knitted his brows together. He would have probably remembered doing that.
"He shot you, too."
The still-healing scar tissue on Arthur's shoulder flared up. It was probably just his imagination.
Arthur stared at Merlin for a long time, deciding whether or not to believe a word he was saying. He realized that Merlin hadn't answered his question. Kanen trying to kill him was a good reason to turn away from the Kings, but it didn't tell Arthur why Merlin dedicated himself to aiding the Knights. Was it for payback? For spite?
For you, Arthur heard the shadows whisper. He thought of Merlin's vacant expression when he killed Kanen. Arthur had turned him into that.
For you.
He didn't deserve that kind of devotion, but he knew that would be Merlin's answer. So, he didn't ask again.
He turned away and paced towards the window. Outside, the street was dead. Behind him, Merlin shuffled, and it reminded Arthur that he was actually there. His chest felt strained, like someone was clawing into his breastbone with bare hands.
He didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to feel. He mourned for the living, breathing man currently in the room with him. Because he was not the man Arthur had come to know. He missed that Merlin to his core. The Merlin that died, the Merlin that never truly existed. In his place was this new man with the same face, and Arthur wondered how much of it was really a lie.
Surely, not all of it? It couldn't be.
Arthur found himself wanting to know this new Merlin, to find out what sort of life he lived that made him always have to hide behind a mask. He wanted to compare and contrast, to merge the two men together until he found a common ground between them. He wanted to know this Merlin. He wanted to love him.
It felt wrong. It felt so wrong. He should have still been mourning the dead.
"Who are you, Merlin?" he asked the sharp lines and clenched jaw of his own reflection. "Is your name even Merlin or was that a lie, too?"
Across the room, Merlin let out a heavy breath. It was a tired sound—so tired of being transparent, so tired of not being seen. "It's Merlin," he answered. He paused. "Merlin Emrys."
The name struck a chord in the back of Arthur's mind. He'd heard it before, somewhere, but he couldn't place it. "Emrys, I know that name."
"Balinor Emrys led the Bandits before Kanen took charge," Merlin provided. The information clicked. Arthur must have heard someone else mention it. Annis, maybe? Someone who had been in New York longer than him.
But if Balinor and Merlin shared a last name, that must have meant . . .
"I'm his son."
Arthur wheeled around. Suddenly, he was wary of Merlin's story. He was wary of Merlin even being in the room with him. He should kick him out on the street. But something in him kept the conversation going. "His son? Great! So, you're not just a Bandit, you're a bloody legacy!"
Merlin snorted bitterly. "I'm not. Kanen made sure of that."
Just like he killed my father, Merlin had said. It all made sense now. That alone would have been enough to make anyone want to put a bullet through Kanen's skull. But that's not why Merlin had done it.
For you, Arthur recalled. It made him inexplicably angry, probably because it really made him sad.
"What did you think was going to happen?" he snarled. "Were you ever going to tell me the truth?"
It was a fair question. Merlin knew it, too. "I don't know," he admitted. "I wanted to. You'd hate me."
"How could you possibly know that?"
Merlin gestured to him. Exhibit A.
Arthur rolled his eyes in a way that would put Morgana to shame. "Please, Merlin! Me finding out is different than you telling me! Had I know what was happening, we could have worked together instead of landing in this mess!"
In the yellow light, Merlin's eyes were glistening. He had always been prone to tears. It was comforting to know that was a real trait of his. "You think I don't see that now?"
"A bit too late." Arthur turned away again until he could think up new ammo to chastise Merlin with. But then, upon seeing the dark circles under his eyes and the lines on his mirrored face, he deflated. The image reminded him of Uther. Arthur instantly knew it wasn't a look he wanted to wear. It didn't suit him one bit.
Merlin appeared at his side in the reflection. He stood at a distance, but the proximity was still close. Arthur tensed, until he looked over and saw Merlin's expression. There was remorse in it that spelt out sorrow, but there was no regret. He'd do it all again, Arthur knew, if it meant Arthur was safe.
What a creature love is. What monsters it makes.
"You shouldn't be so close to the window," Arthur advised. "Someone got away. He'll have told Cenred that you killed Kanen. The Bandits will comb the city looking for you." Arthur glanced out of the window again, just to make sure the street was empty. Merlin looked, too.
"You'll stay here," Arthur decided, "until I figure out what to do with you."
"You're not going to kill me?"
"Don't be so sure. I haven't made up my mind yet." The snippiness in his voice was as false as his words. Arthur didn't have it in him to kill Merlin.
"He'll want your head, too," Merlin whispered. "You could take out all the Bandits in New York, but the Black Kings have men in every major city in North America and Britain. Cenred will fight to the last of them if he needs to."
It was needless. Arthur already knew the consequences of his actions. He'd acted rashly. He had every gang in New York City on his side, but maybe that wasn't enough. Arthur hadn't exactly been in his right mind when he'd concocted the plan, and the rest of the bosses were fed up enough with the Kings to try anything.
"What do you suggest, Merlin? I kill a man in cold blood?" It wouldn't be the first time it happened. And, after all, Cenred tried to do it to Arthur. But Arthur wouldn't stoop to that level. He couldn't. There had to be another way out, or else he'd be as bad as Cenred.
"I didn't say that," Merlin protested. But he hadn't not said it, either. Perhaps because he sensed how Arthur felt about it. If Arthur were a different man, he wondered, would Merlin suggest it?
"No, there's got to be a way to end this," Arthur mused. "Cenred doesn't want a fight, either, I know it. He said it himself." He said it before the fighting really even started. Arthur was just too proud to take him up on the offer.
Arthur scrubbed his face in frustration. There was a solution here, he just couldn't see it. But it had to present itself eventually, now that he was in his right mind.
"I need to think!"
He felt Merlin's eyes on his profile. Merlin wanted to say something, but he hesitated. Arthur wished he would just get it out.
As though he'd read Arthur's mind, Merlin asked, "Will you think aloud?"
Arthur paused. He had to come up with a plan; he didn't have to come up with it alone.
"Will you?"
The corners of Merlin's lips trembled as he bit back a smile that would have been entirely inappropriate for the situation. Arthur respected his tact, even though Merlin wasn't as good at hiding the relief in his posture and the emotion glimmering in his eyes.
Merlin nodded dutifully.
They stayed up all night coming up with a plan. In the beginning, Merlin skated carefully on the precipice of Arthur's nerves. He didn't want to fall over the edge out of fear that Arthur would change his mind and send him away. It was probably tiring work, and it only frustrated Arthur more. He needed Merlin to focus, to use his brainpower on the situation at hand.
As the night went on, as they made headway with the plan, Arthur's nerves diminished and Merlin's fears faded away. Something Arthur said would sidetrack them. Or they'd laugh over a new insulting name that Merlin seemingly created off the cuff. One tangent would lead to another, one story to another. Merlin told Arthur about his mother and his uncle, about Cardiff, about Balinor. The memories he shared sounded like stories he'd never told anyone before.
Sometime before dawn, Merlin drifted to sleep. They'd been on the floor, Arthur sprawled out on the carpet and Merlin propped up against the armchair. His arms were folded on top of the cushion, and his head rested on them like a pillow. Arthur hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep until he noticed Merlin's breathing pattern had changed.
It was a breathing pattern he'd heard many times. He hadn't known how much he longed to hear it again until that moment. It was safe and predictable. It was familiar. A similarity between this Merlin and the old one.
Arthur was exhausted. He wanted to sleep, too, but he hadn't the heart to leave Merlin in that position.
He scooped Merlin up. Merlin certainly wasn't light as a feather, but his weight in Arthur's arms had always been less than it should be. Merlin grunted and twitched in sleep before he settled against Arthur's chest.
Arthur brought him to their bed. Their bed. Arthur had never stopped referring to it as that.
He placed Merlin down on the side of the mattress Merlin had silently claimed for himself. Merlin nuzzled in like he'd never left, like his indent was still warped into the bedsprings. And Arthur laid down beside him.
Familiar familiar familiar, Arthur thought.
How long could he wear black in honor of man whose chest rose and fell soundly beside him?
Chapter Text
Merlin hadn't fallen asleep in a bed. He was sure of it, even though he didn't actually remember falling asleep at all.
He'd been sitting on the floor, watching Arthur lying on his back on the rug. Arthur's knees were propped up and knocking into each other as he swung them, and his fingers were tapping rhythmically on his stomach. He'd been deep in thought. Merlin had been pretending to think, too, but all of Arthur's tiny movements distracted him.
Merlin had been warm and content. For the first time in weeks, he could not feel rottenness, the disease, of his core. He wondered, if he tried it, whether or not Arthur would kiss him back. But he didn't try it.
And now Merlin thought maybe the previous night had been a dream. The thought dropped deep into him and echoed as it sunk, like a rock tossed into a black well. Kanen was still alive. Arthur still hated Merlin. Merlin was still banished.
Only, the softness beneath him felt nothing like Freya's floor. And he was aware of someone snoring next to him—and Freya didn't snore.
Merlin blinked at the golden and red striped wallpaper, at the daylight coming through the windows, at the nightstand with the radio, and at the desk piled with paperwork and a telephone. It struck him how right it all was. It was a sight Merlin had awoken to many times, and one he realized he'd taken for granted.
Arthur hadn't changed anything. At all. It wasn't lost on Merlin that his things were still in the drawers, and his pillow was still on the bed. He nuzzled into it, his cheek sinking between the lumps and feathers.
And then there was Arthur. He was still sound asleep, and Merlin turned over as stealthy as he could to not wake him. Arthur always looked so relaxed when he slept—and he slept deeply. His face was unlined and the muscles in his shoulders carefree, his pink chest exposed and vulnerable, and his eyes flittering back and forth beneath his lips in a dream he wouldn't remember.
Merlin probably didn't have to be stealthy. It was an easier task to wake the dead than Arthur Pendragon.
But Merlin treaded carefully. He wanted to run his fingers along Arthur's cheek, just to convince himself he wasn't, in fact, dreaming. He contained himself. It would be worse if he disturbed Arthur's sleep, and Arthur regretted allowing Merlin stay the night.
Would he regret it?
Merlin closed his eyes to listen to Arthur's shallow breathing. That had always been his favorite part of waking up. He could measure time by the pauses between Arthur's inhales and exhales; he could live his life in the spaces between Arthur's breaths.
After a while, he realized Arthur was waking up. Merlin's lashes fluttered open. He knew he should get out of bed before Arthur became conscious. He didn't want to push his luck or overstay his welcome. But he couldn't bring himself to move. He wanted to pretend, just for a moment longer.
When Arthur stretched and grunted in wakefulness, Merlin pretended to be asleep.
Arthur shuffled. There was a long pause, and then, "I know you're awake, Merlin."
There was no point denying it. Merlin opened his eyes again and tried to look innocent. At some point, Arthur had rolled onto his side to face him. He looked startled at first, not that Merlin had actually been awake, but that Merlin was really there at all. As though the fact of Merlin's presence hadn't really hit him until that moment.
Merlin wanted to kiss him so badly.
Arthur didn't know what he wanted. He'd probably let Merlin do it, too. It would escalate. It would become like any other morning, like they'd never been apart. All Merlin had to do was lean into him.
The temptation became even harder to resist when Arthur reached for him. He didn't make contact at first, but let his palm hover over Merlin like he couldn't remember what he wanted to do with it—to caress or to throttle.
I wouldn't be able to stop if I started, Arthur's eyes said.
Caress or throttle.
It should have mattered which.
It didn't matter which.
Merlin would let him do either.
Arthur stroked his palm along Merlin's throat. It sent a chill through Merlin's bones at first. His muscles tensed in preparation for pain, but his skin prickled in response to pleasure. He remained still, not even daring to breathe, as Arthur traced the hook of his jaw and roamed up and down the incline of his Adam's apple.
Arthur's touch was tantalizing. It wasn't fair. Merlin wanted more than to be touched. He wanted to touch in return.
Kiss him.
Merlin's breath hitched. He wanted to cry.
Arthur flatted his palm across Merlin's cheek.
Kiss me.
Merlin leaned into his fingers. He kissed Arthur's wrist. Arthur let him, so he did it again and again. He didn't notice that Arthur had frozen. He studied Merlin, as though wondering how far Merlin would take it.
Finally, he drew away, expression pained. Merlin felt empty again, all at once. His eyes sparkled as much as his lips, and were as red as the patch Merlin sucked into Arthur's wrist. The space between them on the mattress might as well have been a vast, treacherous ocean. He was on an isolated isle in the middle of it.
"No, Merlin," Arthur whispered apologetically. It wasn't fair. He'd started it. Merlin was starved, but he was too weak to argue.
"I have to find Cenred," Arthur continued. Merlin didn't know if he was using it as an excuse or if he was changing the subject completely.
Merlin's gut wrenched as he remembered the plan they'd come up with the night before. It was a stupid plan. He'd said it then, and he said it again.
Arthur swallowed hard. "Maybe. But it's the right thing to do. It'll work."
"If Cenred doesn't kill you before you can even ask him," Merlin reminded him. Remnants of hatred and anger lined his tone, but really it was just fear. Merlin couldn't lose Arthur again. He hadn't even properly gotten him back yet. "Promise me you won't go alone."
Arthur snorted like the idea was ridiculous. "If I don't, Cenred will see it as an affront. And he'll definitely kill me."
"Then, take me."
Merlin hadn't been able to look at Arthur when he begged it. He couldn't see Arthur's face harden.
"Then, he'll kill us both," Arthur said with an edge to his tone to hide his true feelings on the matter. Whatever he was feeling, his logic was sound. Merlin couldn't risk following Arthur. If he were caught, it would be the end for both of them. The plan had to go perfectly.
Merlin took in a breath, trying not to emote. He had to accept it. "He once mentioned his hotel overlooked Central Park," he remembered, trying to be helpful. "It's probably on the Upper East Side. Start your search there." If all went smoothly, Arthur would be meeting Cenred by lunchtime.
Arthur nodded briskly before sitting up and kicking his feet off the side of the bed. Merlin did the same on the opposite side, because he was having trouble schooling his emotions and he didn't want Arthur to see. Neither of them stood.
"Stay here until I get back," Arthur told him. He probably meant it as an order, but his tone was too soft for it.
Merlin scoffed in protest. He couldn't bear to wait around all day, staring at the walls and wringing his hands until Arthur returned. He needed to do something useful. At the very least, he had to find a way to let Freya know he was still alive. She was probably worried sick.
"What am I supposed to do all day?" Merlin argued.
"Not my problem." Arthur's tone was suddenly biting.
Merlin dropped his shoulders. If he refused any more, Arthur would probably chain him up like a proper jailer. Or worse, he'd wash his hands of Merlin and kick him out. Merlin didn't want either.
"What if I get hungry?"
Arthur groaned and scrubbed his face. "Fine. I'll stop by the deli and bring you something before I go the Camelot. You still like tuna salad, don't you?" He said it like he was accusing Merlin of lying about something as silly as a sandwich preference. It stung.
Merlin fought through it and nodded. His back was turned, but he was sure Arthur got the message.
"Fine," Arthur said again. The bed shook a little when he stood up. He was halfway to the bathroom when he paused again.
"You will be here when I get back?" It wasn't an order this time. It hadn't even been a question. It was a plea. Merlin couldn't refuse him.
He nodded again, softer this time.
Arthur closed the bathroom door behind him.
A little before noon, a snitch located Cenred at the Plaza Hotel in Midtown. When Arthur had informed those who needed to know what he was planning, the general consensus was that he'd lost his mind. In truth, he'd never thought so clearly before. He'd never been so sure of his actions.
Morgana phoned the Plaza in advance to pass along a message to Cenred, inquiring a meeting. A half hour later, a hotel clerk called back to accept on Cenred's behalf. Arthur arrived at the hotel a few minutes early and left Percy and Elyan to wait in the extravagant lobby as he alone was led to Cenred's suite. He in no way wanted Cenred to think this was an ambush. That would only get them off on the wrong foot, as though they hadn't already.
The bellboy knocked on the door with a white-gloved hand, and promptly left after Arthur tipped him. Before he reached the elevator, the suite's door swung open. A large muscular man filled in the threshold. Arthur had to look up to meet his eyes, and he tried not to feel too weak in his presence.
"I'm here for Cenred," Arthur told the goon.
The goon grunted and stepped aside.
Inside, the suite was the very picture of high living. Lavish furniture was lined up on an antique carpet in front of a marble fireplace. A grand piano, with a vase of white roses on top, sat in the corner. The velvet curtains were drawn to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the frozen Central Park. A four-poster bed, raised on a platform, was on the very far side of the room.
It wasn't at all what Arthur expected of Cenred from reputation. It was almost as though Cenred had booked the room to impress someone.
Cenred, looking for all the world like royalty, sat on one of the sofas, in front of a hor d'oeuvres spread on the glass coffee table. He fed cheese and grapes to the woman sitting next to him. Arthur assumed she was his wife, Morgause. There was a wretchedness to her beauty, like watching from afar as bolts of lightening struck the earth.
They both turned their black stares onto Arthur as the goon led him into the room. "Arthur Pendragon, as I live and breathe," Cenred said, almost mockingly. He stood up to offer his hand. Arthur shook it firmly. Cenred's grip tightened, like the handshake was a competition.
"Allow me to introduce my better half, Morgause," Cenred continued, gesturing towards his wife, who remained seated and glaring at Arthur like she could kill him with her eyes alone. Actually, she might have been able to.
"Charmed," Arthur said, extending his hand to her. He knew at once that, in order to strike a deal with Cenred, he'd have to get in Morgause's good graces—or, at the very least, mildly impress her. However, she did not take his hand, and remained indifferent when he dropped his arm to his side in defeat.
"Wait outside," Cenred told the goon. The goon did as he was told. Arthur reminded himself that his men were in the lobby should he need them. The lobby—eighteen floors beneath his feet. Cenred's man was just outside the door, and there were probably at least a dozen others sulking around.
"To what do I owe the honor?" Cenred sat down again, indicating that it was okay for Arthur to do the same. Arthur briefly looked at the food, awkwardly wondering if he was expected to eat it or if he was intruding on their lunch. The couple no doubt picked up on his trepidation, but they did not instruct him either way. Obviously, they liked to play games.
"The honor?" Arthur echoed unsurely.
"Indeed," said Cenred. "I must say, I've never seen so many people flock to one man in such numbers. With those leadership qualities, you could start your own religion." He plopped a grape into his mouth and smiled pleasantly as he chewed around it.
"We needn't remind you what the Romans did to Jesus," Morgause said quite pointedly. Her voice dropped the temperature in the room to below freezing.
Arthur reminded himself to not let the threat get under his skin.
"Which is why I'm here," he began after clearing his throat. "I don't believe anyone else has to die because we can't see eye-to-eye. This war has already gone far enough."
"After last night, I'm inclined to agree," Cenred said. He didn't exactly snip out the words, but he sounded testy and accusatory. It made Arthur shuffle slightly to regain composure.
"Last night was . . . unfortunate," he answered politically, "but there have been acts of aggression on both sides. And now you know our strength when tested."
Morgause still seemed uninterested. Cenred, however, looked humored. "Yes, you've certainly proved your mettle, Arthur, but I have forces in every corner of this country and beyond. With a few phone calls, I can have them all in New York by this time tomorrow. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't bring them here?"
Cenred had ample time to amass his army, but he hadn't. It gave Arthur hope that this plan would work in his favor, after all.
"I don't need to give you a reason," said Arthur, "because you haven't phoned them yet."
Morgause tilted her head to the side and regarded Arthur like he may have been worth an iota of her time.
Arthur leaned forward to keep their attention. "You said it yourself, you're a soldier. You don't want a fight. You don't want to risk your people's lives if this can be settled in another way."
"And what way do you propose?" asked Morgause.
Arthur had to fight back a smirk of victory. He had her ear, which meant Cenred was listening, too.
"A boxing match," he said with conviction. It would have sounded silly had he been anything but confident.
Apparently, it sounded silly anyway. Both Cenred and Morgause sniggered.
"You're new to war," Morgause dismissed.
Cenred ate another grape and shook his head.
"Maybe," said Arthur forcefully. He needed to get the situation back under his control. "But I'm not new to gambling. The winner will decide the outcome of the truce."
This seemed to recapture their interest. "A truce?" Cenred repeated, nonplussed.
Arthur took a heavy breath. "I know we'll never be allies," he leveled, "but there's been bloodshed enough. It would be in both our interests to stay out of each other's way."
Cenred and Morgause shared a look. Then, they looked back at Arthur.
"Very well, Arthur. State your terms," Cenred prompted.
Arthur didn't know if he was humoring him or if Cenred really wanted to deal. Trying to remain optimistic, he said, "If you win, my Knights and I will leave New York. We'll close down the Camelot and head back to London. Everything goes back to the way it was before we came here."
There would be some aggression from the other gangs, but the Kings would be able to squash them easily, as they always had. The alliance would fall to nothing without the glue that held them together. Everyone present knew that.
"And if I win, this war ends," he continued. "We'll stay in the West, and the Kings stay in the East—only the Lower East Side. The rest of New York is off limits. Encroaching on others' territories will no longer be tolerated."
It was simple. Straight forward. It was fair and honorable, and Cenred had just as much to gain as he did to lose.
"Is that all?" Arthur looked to Morgause after she'd posed the question. She was raising a thin, manicured brow in speculation. In knowing.
Arthur's heart sank. There was more for him to lose than there was for Cenred. Arthur could lose everything.
"Merlin," he said. This breath tripped as it expelled the word. "Merlin isn't punished for his actions. He goes free."
They had to say yes. Arthur couldn't let any harm come to Merlin. He couldn't hand Merlin over like he was a prisoner of war. They'd just found each other again—completely, honestly. They could love each other again.
They had to say yes, but Arthur prepared himself for a no. He had to close himself off to emotions, to remain logical. He had to take the deal that was best for everyone's safety, not just Merlin's. He had to let himself suffer if it meant an end to the fighting.
He was ready for a no. It's why he'd stopped himself that morning before things got too far with Merlin. He'd never be able to think logically in the recent memory of Merlin so close to his skin.
It turned out, it didn't matter, anyway. Merlin was already closer than Arthur's skin. He was a part of Arthur, in his bones.
But, surely enough, Cenred's expression darkened.
Morgause scowled. "He killed one of his own."
"I know," Arthur said hurriedly. "But Kanen was going to kill me if Merlin hadn't stopped him. If I'd died, the fighting would continue. Merlin was preventing this war from getting—"
"Merlin wasn't thinking about stopping this war when he pulled the trigger," Cenred interrupted. "We both know that."
Arthur fell silent. He looked away, trying to come up with another way to convince them. He came up empty.
"Merlin is not part of this negotiation," Cenred said with finality. "I will do with him what I see fit. He is not your concern."
He was. But he was not Arthur's only concern. He wasn't even the most important, but he was the dearest. Arthur reminded himself not to be emotional.
"As you wish," he conceded, hating himself for it. He would find another way of protecting Merlin. He had no choice. "Do we have a deal?"
Cenred sat back and appeared to think. His eyes flickered to Morgause. She smirked slyly and nodded sternly.
"It appears we do," said Cenred, standing up. Arthur did the same. "Let's say, dawn tomorrow? We can use your ring at the Camelot."
"I look forward to it," Arthur agreed.
They shook on it, keeping each other's gaze. There was something malicious lurking in Cenred's eyes.
A key was turning in the door. Merlin jolted to a sitting position on the bed. His pulse hammered as he watched the lock turn at an impossibly slow speed. Every sound was blaring in the way only noises could after dark.
The sun had set nearly an hour ago, and there was still no sign of Arthur. Merlin had been on pins and needles the entire day waiting for him to come back. He couldn't stand the four walls of the apartment for a minute longer. He did little but pace or sit at the desk and tap his fingers.
At multiple points, he seriously considered taking a walk outside. He didn't care about the risk of being seen. He just couldn't be cooped up anymore. His worry over Arthur wouldn't fade, but at least he'd have fresh air and the ability to stretch his legs. At least he'd be doing something!
But, every time he got up the courage to leave, he wondered what Arthur might think if he returned to an empty apartment. So, he remained, and the cycle began again.
And Arthur really should have been back by now. Merlin convinced himself this was some kind of cruel and unusual punishment—because, if he didn't, he'd be convinced that Arthur was dead. Even now, he got a sinking feeling that it was Morgana at the door to tell Merlin the horrible news.
However, when the door swung open, Arthur was standing in the threshold. Merlin breathed, and then he shot Arthur a death glare.
"Have you been sucking on a lemon?" Arthur goaded after the look.
"Where have you been all day?" Merlin yelled.
As Arthur closed the door, he raised his brows like he'd been taken aback. "At the Camelot," he said in a tone that reminded Merlin he was only there because Arthur allowed him to be. Arthur shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack. "We've been preparing for tomorrow. Cenred agreed to my terms."
It didn't relieve Merlin any. He huffed. "I still don't like this plan."
"It was your idea."
This wasn't completely untrue. Granted, Merlin had offered the idea sarcastically. He didn't actually expect Arthur to run with it. Then again, he probably should have. The noble git . . .
"Not seriously," Merlin protested.
"If you weren't serious, maybe you should have kept your big mouth shut, Merlin."
Scandalized, Merlin opened his big mouth to argue. That was until he noticed the laughing smirk pinching Arthur's cheeks. Merlin shut his big mouth.
Arthur paced further into the room, his arms folded across his chest. His cheeks were still flushed with cold. Merlin got the urge to warm them up, so he looked away.
"Cenred's not like you," he said instead, getting the conversation back on track. "He won't honor the deal you struck. He'll do anything to win." Merlin knew that all too well. Cenred and Morgause were power-hungry, ruthless. They had to be ruthless in return.
He didn't voice it. Arthur wouldn't have listened.
"He'll try to kill you," Merlin told him. "If he wasn't afraid of you before, he is now. You took an entire city that had been fighting against itself for decades, and united it in a matter of days."
Arthur rolled his eyes modestly. "It was more like a week," he corrected.
"Oh, you're right! That's so much more time! In that case, there's no way Cenred sees you as threat."
He forced himself to make eye contact with Arthur again, so he knew his point had gotten across. Arthur respected the gravity of the situation, but he didn't speak. Merlin filled the silence with, "If he doesn't kill you in the ring, he'll do it after! He'll probably make it look like an accident of some kind. It won't even matter if he wins or loses! You'll just be walking down the street and an ice sickle will fall on your head or a sanitation truck will run you over or—or—"
"You know, I'd really hoped the rambling had been part of your act," Arthur interrupted. He'd been biting back another smirk.
Merlin shut up and sat back against the headboard with a huff.
Arthur sat down at the bottom of the bed and fixed Merlin with a stern look. "You may be right. Cenred could go back on his word—but he may not."
Merlin scoffed. Arthur could be so naïve sometimes.
Not everyone is a bloody knight in shining armor, Merlin wanted to scream.
As though anticipating it, Arthur's voice rose slightly to talk over the argument still in Merlin's throat. "But—I have to try to settle this before anyone else gets killed. I have to do this in my own way, and this is the only way I know how."
Merlin looked to his lap. There was no way he could argue against that. Even if he could, he wouldn't. It was just so Arthur.
"And, if all goes according to plan, I know my friends will be safe—whatever the outcome," Arthur added, but it wasn't an afterthought. It was the force that drove him. The safety of those in his charge came before his own self-interest, which is exactly why he needed Merlin to look out for him.
"I can't promise the same for you," Arthur whispered sadly.
Merlin pulled his brows together.
"I tried to make you part of the deal," Arthur explained. "I tried to get you a pardon, but Cenred wouldn't allow it."
Merlin hadn't expected it. Honestly, he hadn't given much thought to what would happen when all this was over. He figured it he would deal with the future when it came. Right now, he had to focus on Arthur. Later, if Merlin had to pay for what he did to Kanen—Well, that was later's problem.
He never expected Arthur to think that far in advance. He didn't expect Arthur to fight to for him after everything he'd done. Perhaps it wasn't out of caring. Perhaps Arthur wanted to settle the score between them. He didn't want to be indebted to Merlin for saving his life. Merlin didn't want him to feel that way.
"Arthur, you don't owe me anything—," he tried to say, but Arthur shook his head vigorously at the bed sheets.
"That's not why I did it." When his eyes swept up to Merlin's again, his face was soft. Merlin didn't want to think about what that could mean. He didn't want to give himself hope only to have it squandered again. It would tear him apart.
"You should leave," Arthur said at once. It threw Merlin for a loop. He realized he had given himself hope, and it had been squandered. Arthur wanted him gone. Arthur was casting him out.
But, before Merlin's heart fully disintegrated in his chest, Arthur went on, "You have to. You can go anywhere, start over—some place Cenred will never find you."
Oh.
Somehow, that was worse than Arthur rejecting him. The world had never seemed so big. Whoever said it was small had obviously never been in love.
Merlin found himself shaking his head. "No! I'm not going anywhere."
"Merlin, he will kill you if you stay!" Arthur emphasized through his teeth.
"So, what?"
"How can you even say that?" Arthur was yelling now. "Don't you care what happens to you?"
Not really, Merlin almost said, but he didn't want to make it about himself. It was too selfish. "Don't worry about me!"
Arthur laughed bitterly. "So, you're the only one allowed to worry?"
Selfish, Merlin scolded himself. He dropped his voice to normal level again. "I just meant . . . You have more important things on your mind right now."
Arthur remained eerily still. He glared at Merlin like Merlin was a hostile intruder, one that Arthur had never seen before and couldn't quite categorize. Finally, he blinked, and he didn't look so much like a statue anymore.
"You're an idiot," he told Merlin with venom.
Merlin took it in stride. He leaned off the bed frame and edged closer to Arthur—as close as he dared. He ended up in the middle of the mattress before deciding he couldn't risk another inch.
"Tomorrow, I will be at the fight to make sure Cenred doesn't try anything," he told Arthur clearly. There was no chance of him being talked out of it. No force on Earth would prevent him. He lifted a challenging brow. "I'm going to be at your side. If Cenred wants to kill both of us, let him try."
Arthur held his stare in silence for a few seconds. Neither of them wanted to be the one to blink first. But, finally, Arthur backed down.
He looked to the window in thought, his eyes blurred and gazing somewhere far off, somewhere beyond the room.
"There's another option," he said slowly, his tone dreamlike. "We could leave together."
Merlin blinked. He wasn't entirely certain he hadn't imagined Arthur's words.
"We'll pack up and go tonight," Arthur said, looking back to Merlin. His eyes were wild with the possibility. It caused something in Merlin to soar.
The world had never seemed so big.
But then whatever took flight in Merlin crashed prematurely. He wouldn't allow Arthur to throw away everything for him. It was just a dream.
"You would never do that," Merlin told him. Arthur would never forgive himself if he left now. Merlin would never forgive himself, either.
Arthur nodded sadly, like he knew. "Would you ask?"
He already knew the answer.
"There are things you have to do," said Merlin. "There are people who need you." Arthur needed them, too.
Arthur swallowed hard. "What if I fail them?" he feared.
It was the stupidest question ever posed.
"You won't."
Arthur wasn't convinced. He looked down again. "We should have never left that cabin, Merlin," he said softly.
It was a nice thought, but that's all it was.
"It wouldn't have changed anything," Merlin reasoned. He let himself ponder aloud, "But maybe we could have pretended."
Arthur's head snapped back up instantly. "I don't want you to pretend." His tone was still low, but there was heat behind it. "I want you."
Arthur's ability to surprise Merlin always floored him. It rendered him speechless every time. He couldn't think of a single thing to say in return, so he fell back on the familiar.
"You've got me."
Neither of them could hold it in for any longer. They crashed into each other. Maybe the collision was the birth of a star, or maybe it was a car crash. It could create or destroy. Only time would tell.
The only thing that was important to Merlin now was Arthur's body against his, and the friction and the heat it caused all in the right places. All that mattered was that Arthur, like Merlin, had been on the edge of his sanity since the moment they saw each other again. He'd been repressing and just barely containing himself, too.
Arthur's hands were frantic. They skidded beneath Merlin's clothes in a desperate attempt to feel every piece of him at once. Merlin blindly grabbed on to anything he could—Arthur clothes, his hair, his hips, his shoulders. Merlin wanted to explore everything, relearn everything.
Every kiss was an apology.
Every kiss was forgiveness.
"Make yourself useful and take your trousers off," Arthur ordered into Merlin's hair. But he didn't give Merlin any room to do so. He stayed on top of him, sucking Merlin's neck in a line down the tendon and fighting off his own shoes. One dropped to the floor with a thud.
Merlin snaked his fingers down the back of Arthur's trousers and pressed him in closer. Arthur rolled his hips to oblige.
All the right places. All the right places.
"Someone's in a rush," Merlin teased. He was happy for this to never end, and at the same time too eager for his own good. But he was always better at playing it cool than Arthur was.
Arthur propped himself up to give Merlin an offended look. "It's been too long!" he defended. Merlin didn't know if he was talking about sex with Merlin or sex in general. He didn't want to ask how Arthur coped with his betrayal. He didn't want to know.
Either way, it hadn't been that long.
"It's been three weeks!" Merlin shot back. It seemed so much longer than that. It seemed like years.
"Too long," Arthur repeated, unwavering.
Merlin lifted his head off the pillow and stressed, "You're a prat."
"And you're a fiend," Arthur returned, probably because he'd already called him an idiot and he wanted some variety. He'd gotten right into Merlin's face. "Now, take off your clothes!"
"Take them off for me!"
Arthur smashed their lips together again to cut short Merlin's laughter, but not his grin. He reached between them and worked on unfastening Merlin's belt.
"You had all day to get undressed," Arthur reproved when Merlin trailed away from his lips to kiss his cheeks and hairline. "Do you know what that makes you?"
"Useless?"
"Useless!"
Merlin nibbled at Arthur's jaw. Arthur groaned.
"Not entirely useless," he amended into an exhale. His fumbling fingers finally managed to pull Merlin's trousers off.
Meanwhile, Merlin unbuttoned Arthur's shirt. He hooked his knee around Arthur for leverage and rolled them over. He liked being on top. It gave him more access to move. It allowed him to command all of Arthur's senses.
Arthur squirmed a little beneath him. His hands flew down to his own belt. Merlin caught them at the wrist.
"Let me get that for you," he offered, and he kissed down Arthur's stomach, lower and lower and lower . . .
Arthur couldn't sleep a wink.
He'd tossed and turned for hours, chasing after unconsciousness that always seemed to roll to the opposite side of the bed with his every move. It didn't help that he couldn't get comfortable, either. The bed linens had been damp and balmy with sweat, evidence of his reunion with Merlin. And their second reunion. And their third.
And, really, Arthur should have been more tired.
Finally, after endlessly alternating between tucking himself beneath the humid covers and kicking them away into the cold, Arthur got out of bed completely.
He went to the bathroom to splash water on his face, but then lost track of time watching the running water disappear into the drain in the basin. The rushing sound calmed him somewhat, as though it channeled his thoughts into a stream as steady as the water.
He gripped the edge of the porcelain sink as he looked at himself hard in the mirror. His complexion was pale. He thought about the match in just a few hours' time. So much depended on his victory. If he lost, everything they achieved in New York would be for naught. He'd have to leave the city. He'd have to go back to London. In that moment, he couldn't think of any fate worse.
He didn't even want to think about what would happen to the other gangs. They wouldn't band together forever. A common enemy wouldn't be enough when they fell back into their own wars. They needed a common ally. They needed someone to guide them.
Arthur regretted taking that responsibility on himself, but someone had to do it. They were stronger together.
Arthur had to win, but he would do it fairly. He had to be an example to his allies.
But that didn't mean Cenred would feel the same way. He would cheat; Arthur was sure of it. He might win. He might make Arthur an example.
And then there was the other concern that swam around Arthur's head. It regarded the man sleeping in their bed.
Arthur shut the faucet off and peered into the room. In the light streaming through from the bathroom, Merlin was still a lump on the mattress. His back, painted with a constellation of freckles and grooved with the rises and dips of lean muscles, was facing Arthur.
Merlin would be at the fight tomorrow. There was no stopping him, so there was no point trying. And besides, Arthur wanted him there. Arthur needed him there. But it was already such a delicate situation without Merlin having to stare Cenred and the Bandits in the eyes. They could kill him on the spot, and Arthur would forget all about the truce on impulse, feral and outside the realm of reason.
Like he'd been before.
He just got Merlin back. He couldn't give him up again. Even the notion of his absence was unthinkable.
Arthur leaned against the doorway, watching Merlin's shoulders breathe.
It was so much easier to fit this new Merlin into the place of the old one when he was like this. There were so many similarities between the two, Arthur realized, similarities that were unspoken and unknown unless you looked for them. Perhaps Merlin didn't even know them himself, so they were traits he was unable to hide. They were inherent and natural to him.
His facial quirks. His habit of playing with his fingers as he thought deeply. His worried nature. The way his eyes brightened right before he smiled. The way his cheeks reddened, warning tears. His bad posture and clumsy limbs. The way he sighed into Arthur's skin and the way his shoulders arched when he was touched. The sounds he made, his scent, his stubbornness, even his speech pattern, minus the accent.
This, and so much more, was Merlin. They were little things, all of them still as much of a shock to the senses as they were the day they met. Arthur trusted them all.
Of course, he knew now that there was more to Merlin than meets the eye. There was darkness in him, too. There were shadowed alleyways that most men would shy passed, ducking their heads and watching the blackness out of the corners of their eyes until they were safe on the other side. No matter how much their hearts pounded with fright, they would deny the existence of the dragons and vermin and filth within, just for their own peace of mind.
Arthur always prided himself on being a courageous man. He did not fear dragons. He would navigate the labyrinth inside of Merlin until he reached the heart of it, mending the broken branches of its tall hedges along the way. He would get lost in it, until he forgot what life was like outside the maze.
It was, after all, the least he could do after what Merlin had done to him. Not his deceit—beyond it.
Arthur thought of the man he was when he first stepped off the Ocean Liner into Manhattan. Merlin had taken all Arthur's broken layers and shattered them, only to reconstruct them into something more complete. All Arthur pieces fit together better than they had before Merlin.
Arthur mustn't lose that again.
The thought of leaving together was even more inciting. It would just be the two of them, and Merlin could sink his fingers further into Arthur to mold and create and build up. He could be an architect, a sculptor. Arthur could be his masterpiece.
But leaving now would be asking Merlin to dismantle the work he'd put in thus far. It would be forcing him to rip up the blueprints and scatter his sketchbook. It would be telling him to disregard the pieces that Arthur had given him to work with in the first place. The current work was imperfect, Arthur knew, but he also knew it was unfinished.
He could be more. He could do more.
But he'd be damned if Merlin weren't there to refine his edges.
They both needed to stay. They were staying. Anything else was out of the question.
Merlin stirred, like he knew by some sixth sense that he was being watched. He took a sharp breath in through his nose and looked over his shoulder, suddenly alert. The tension in his brow softened when he spotted Arthur in the bathroom door. He squinted in the light.
He thought I left him, Arthur realized. He turned off the bathroom light and walked into the room to assure Merlin that he wasn't going anywhere.
"Is it dawn?" Merlin asked, sounding concerned, but mostly groggy.
"We still have a few hours left," Arthur informed him.
Merlin shifted and propped himself up as Arthur sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "You should get some sleep," he advised.
Arthur rolled his eyes at the obvious. He said dryly, "Really, Merlin? I hadn't thought of that. What a novel idea."
Merlin pressed his lips together in annoyance, but didn't say anything. His expression flickered after he got a good look at Arthur. "Are you nervous?"
"Not for myself." If Arthur lost the fight, it meant Cenred probably cheated; and, if Cenred cheated, that meant Arthur was probably dead. There was no use in being nervous about that. Those who were left behind would be the ones stuck with the mess.
Merlin dropped his shoulders in a thoughtful exhale. "Don't be," he said like it was so simple. "Tomorrow, you're going to get into the ring and you're going to win, like you always do. And all of New York will be on the sidelines cheering you on."
He said it like he was certain of what would happen, like he could see the future. Arthur wanted to believe him.
"And I'll be there to make sure Cenred doesn't try anything," he added, leaning in to fish for Arthur's eyes.
Arthur just wanted to skip ahead to the end of the fight. He wanted it to be over, whatever the outcome. At least, then, he'd be able to deal with whatever came next. He made his living off uncertainties, but he never took pleasure in them when the stakes were this high.
He groaned and touched his forehead to Merlin's. "Then can we run away together?" he begged. It didn't have to be forever. It just had to be the two of them. They deserved at least that.
Merlin let out a sound halfway to a chuckle. "Wherever you like."
"The Hamptons are supposed to be nice," Arthur considered.
Merlin nose wrinkled unhappily. "It's full of rich, pretentious bastards who think they're God's gift to humanity. Actually, you might fit in."
Arthur snorted and leaned back. "Somewhere warm, then." New York wasn't the only place in the world, after all, although sometimes Arthur forgot.
Merlin's smile grew as warm as the white sand of the tropics. "Anywhere," he said again.
Arthur kissed him to seal the deal.
He pulled away ever so slightly with a hum, letting the kiss vibrate on his lips. "If I told you I still love you," he mused, "would you leave again?"
Merlin's eyes fluttered open, but they looked as though he were dreaming. "If you told me that, I'd never leave your side again," he promised. Arthur believed him.
No more words on the matter were needed. The moment lingered. Neither of them wanted to ruin it by saying it out loud.
"Now, get some rest! Leave the worrying to me," Merlin ordered at last. He leaned back onto the pillows and dragged Arthur down with him. Arthur pressed his chest to Merlin's side and cupped his palm on his ribs, like the hollow space between them were made for Arthur's fingers to rest. He heard the steady thumps in Merlin's chest against his ear, and counted them out in a metronome.
Soon, his eyes drooped heavily. He hadn't known he'd fallen asleep until he woke up a few hours later.
The sky was a fiery hombre of reds and oranges. The orb of the sun, on the cusp of rousing, was still tucked away snugly behind the horizon. Factory smoke was puffing up towards the clouds, twinged pink by the morning light. The tall buildings of Midtown were sleepy silhouettes.
Merlin let out a deep breath, watching it fog in front of him. February wind blew off the Hudson as he and Arthur stood outside the entrance of the Camelot. They'd paused at the door to silently prepare for what they'd face on the other side.
Arthur's jaw was squared and strained. His shoulders were in knots. Merlin could practically feel the tension radiating off of him when he stood too close. But, then again, Merlin was a bundle of nerves himself. He felt frayed, and pulled in too many directions. He was concerned for Arthur's safety, and anxious about being face to face with the Bandits. His stomach sloshed, too, at the thought of the people currently standing on the other side of the door.
Would they accept him? Would they hate him? Would they try to kill him before the Bandits got the chance?
No. Arthur wouldn't allow that. But that didn't mean they wouldn't want to.
Arthur glanced at Merlin. Merlin steeled himself. They pushed through the door.
A group had amassed inside the ring. The Knights, Gwen, and Morgana were at the front. Kilgharrah and his men were there, as were Tristan and Isolde. Merlin recognized some other familiar faces—patrons like Mordred and Kara, boxers like Orn and Owaine, and employees. Then there were Arthur's allies, the gangs of New York. Each boss had brought with them a handful of their men.
They all stood to one side of the square circle, closest to the stairwell leading to the speakeasy, as though they had partitioned themselves off. The other side of the divide was reserved for the Bandits.
The room went silent as the main door swung closed. Bodies angled themselves to face Arthur, and Merlin just a step behind him, pacing further into the room. Necks swiveled towards them and eyes followed them. Sentences died mid-word.
Merlin suddenly felt very cold. There were too many eyes on him—staring, carving him up. He searched the faces before him, trying to find one that took pity on him. There were only a handful he truly cared for, and most of them seemed wary and unsure of what to do in Arthur's presence.
Externally, it was silent enough to hear a pin drop. Internally, Merlin's thoughts were raging. His pulse betrayed him.
It was Gwaine who broke the ice first. He stepped forward with a large grin. "Hey-hey, Merlin!" he sang, and wrapped his arms tightly around Merlin. He gave Merlin's back a few forceful but friendly thuds.
Merlin instantly crumpled into Gwaine. He let go of all his nerves in a heavy exhale. He embraced the man around him, and patted his back in return as Gwaine swayed him slightly from side to side.
Noises started up again—half a dozen voices at once. There was a handshake from Leon and a slap on the back from Percy. Elyan shook Merlin's shoulder. Morgana pinched his cheek, and Gwen excitedly pecked it. Lancelot hung back, the softest of smiles in his eyes, and offered Merlin a gentle nod. Merlin had a feeling that Lance had a major part to play in this warm welcome. He locked eyes with Lance and nodded back gratefully.
There were smiles and chatter all around him. He'd never been more relieved. He belonged there, amongst the people who did not abandon him, who knew he could never harm or betray them. Such warmth overcame him, Merlin felt as though he could melt into a puddle. There was an aching swell in his chest.
He looked to Arthur and noticed some of the tension in his back had dissolved. Of course, it came back in force the moment the door opened again. Cenred, Morgause on his arm, filled out the threshold. Behind them was a mass of shadows in the early glinting sunlight.
A second wave of silence fell.
There were too many men, more than anyone else had brought. It wasn't a good sign. It instantly made Merlin's hackles stand up and his fists tighten. He looked at Arthur to convey his unease. Arthur was experiencing the same thoughts.
The Bandits filed inside, gravitating toward the empty side of the ring. Cenred and Morgause, however, made right for Arthur and the Knights.
"Arthur, good to see you again," said Cenred loftily. He wore no sign that he'd lost any sleep the previous night.
"Cenred," Arthur said, shaking his hand. "Morgause, good morning."
"Yes, it is," she replied in a very self-satisfied way. Her eyes scanned everyone in the immediate vicinity.
Merlin did the same for the Bandits, and instantly realized something very peculiar. None of them were looking at him. In fact, they were very pointedly looking everywhere else but him—with the occasional glance out of the corner of an eye, only to quickly be ripped away. Merlin had expected glares and growls. He expected to be cursed and spit on.
He did not expect this.
His gaze latched onto Cenred again. He wondered what orders Cenred had given the Bandits regarding Merlin. Was Cenred trying to lower Merlin guard or put it on high alert? If it were the latter, it was working.
"Well, there's no point in delaying," Cenred told Arthur. "If you're quite ready, let's begin."
"Of course," said Arthur. His tones were strong, and his expression that of a man who knew he was doing the right thing. The confidence exuded masked the trepidation beneath. The future was unknown, and would be decided very soon. The weight of it all was resting on Arthur's shoulders, and Merlin wished he could carry some of the load.
He remembered the pistol hidden against the small of his back. He concentrated on the cold press of the metal, its weight and shape.
"But, first, let's remind everyone of the terms of our deal," Arthur went on. He wanted everything out in the open so Cenred couldn't back down.
Cenred waved it away in a blasé way. "Yes, yes. If I win, you all shove off to London; and, if you win, my men are exiled to the Lower East Side. I remember quite well."
Arthur bit back whatever he wanted to say in return. He forced a toothy smile. "A man's word is his honor," he stated curtly.
"Indeed," Cenred agreed. "Shall we?"
Arthur looked to Merlin, and Merlin instantly felt the weight of every gaze in the room on him as well. He only had eyes for Arthur.
"Merlin?"
It was now or never. Merlin nodded.
Arthur returned his focus to Cenred. "Ready."
They broke away, Cenred and Morgause returning to their men and Arthur spinning in place to regard everyone else.
"Remember," he said to the huddle, "you honor our terms no matter what happens here."
The Knights nodded their understanding.
Merlin looked over his shoulder. Cenred and Morgause were whispering to one another as Cenred stripped out of his jacket and shirt. Merlin narrowed his eyes and strained his ears to their conversation. It was too hushed for him to pick up on anything.
"You'd better win," Morgana was saying when Merlin returned his focus. "You do not want to spend a week with me on a ship back to England."
"No, I learned that lesson on the way here," said Arthur.
Gwen stepped forward, voicing what Morgana had really meant to say: "Good luck, Arthur." There was a moment between them—expressions of pride and humility, of support, of thanks.
Annis made her way to the front of the group. She was giving Arthur very stern eyes. "I hope you know what you're doing, Arthur Pendragon."
"You've trusted me in the past, Annis. I ask for it one more time," Arthur answered. He addressed the group as a whole, all the way to the back, to the last man. "I ask all of you."
There was only assent in response.
As the rest of the group fell back to form a circle around the mat, Merlin helped Arthur out of his jacket, shirt, and tie. The lightness he'd felt before was completely gone now. He was heavy with dread. A million disquieted thoughts swirled in his mind.
"Remember to swing for the face," he said, unbuttoning Arthur's shirt more slowly than usual.
Arthur pinched his face and puckered his lips. "Are you trying to tell me how to box, Merlin?"
"I don't want to take any chances. Everyone else may have faith in you, but they don't know how unimpressive you really are. You're all talk."
Arthur rolled his eyes. "At least I know the which end is my backside."
"Can't imagine how you tell the difference with your head stuck so far up your arse."
Merlin bundled the articles of clothing under his arm, not bothering to fold them first. A smirk was pressed to Arthur's lips as he regarded him. Merlin's gaze turned heavy; Arthur's jaw set into stone.
And then Arthur disappeared towards the square circle. Merlin breathed. He put the clothes down by a beam before pushing towards the front of the crowd. By the time he got there, Cenred and Arthur were already on the mat, standing in their neutral corners.
Shortly, Lancelot sounded the bell, and the fight began.
It wasn't like any boxing match Merlin had ever seen before. Usually, the spectators whooped with energy. The prizefighters always responded with a certain amount of showmanship to egg the crowd on. Both parties fed off each other as audience and performers.
Now there was only silence, apart from the occasional gasp or grumble. Everyone watched in rapt attention, like any sound would break the focus of the man they'd put their money on. There was nothing but the thudding sounds of landed punches and the soles of shoes on the mat.
Arthur fought in the same style he always had—calculated and graceful. The arcs of his throws were elegant and his footwork refined. Even his ducks and stumbles were nimble.
Cenred was a different animal. He wasn't so much calculating as he was cunning. In the ring, he seemed to have picked up Morgause's omniscience. It allowed him to block most blows—more than that, he used them to his advantage while Arthur was distracted.
Every grunt out of Arthur's throat went right through Merlin.
Merlin tracked Cenred's hands, following every moment, no matter how miniscule. On the peripherals of his vision, he clocked Morgause and the Bandits. They all remained still, so Merlin didn't zero in on any of them. His focus was on the match. He scolded himself for even blinking when he had to do so.
The bell gonged again, startling Merlin slightly. The first round was over.
Cenred went to his corner, where Morgause was waiting on the other side of the ropes. He leaned over them to kiss her. Meanwhile, on the other side of the mat, Arthur was glowering down at Morgana. She and Leon were standing at the edge of the ropes, Morgana saying something that Merlin couldn't hear in the distance and Leon nodding his agreement.
"I know!" Merlin heard Arthur interrupt his sister. He sounded beyond frustrated. His posture was stiff as he wiped a bead of sweat from his hairline.
The next few rounds went on much the same as the first. There was a point, however, in the fourth round, when Arthur appeared to overpower Cenred. He had Cenred backed into a corner. Cenred blocked his face from Arthur's incessant jabs.
It could have been a TKO. It could have ended the match. But then Cenred managed to get a blow in. He unexpectedly elbowed Arthur in the nose, making Arthur fumble backwards and clutch his face.
Instantly, mixed shouts erupted into the air. The Bandits cheered; everyone else was angry.
"That's illegal!" someone shouted above the rest. It may have been Annis.
Merlin's heart skipped. He readied himself, and reached for the gun in his waistband by reflex. The bell gonged before he got the pistol out, and he forced himself to calm down.
Cenred corrected himself and merely shrugged off the insults hurled in his direction. He was grinning like they were praise.
A group had congregated around Arthur in hushed conversation. Gwen had handed him a towel, which he held to his nose to stop the bleeding, and a glass of water. Sarrum was saying something. Whatever it was, Arthur didn't like it. He shook his head resolutely.
Just before the next round began, Arthur made eye contact with Merlin. A bruise was darkening his left cheek. Merlin bit his tongue and frowned back severely.
From then on, Cenred didn't hold back. He fought with a disregard for the rules of the game, now that he knew Arthur would allow it. Usually, the dirtiest moves came right after Arthur got a hit in.
No matter how cheaply Cenred fought, Arthur never responded in kind. It was a one-sided fair fight. If Arthur threw out the rulebook and treated the match like a street fight, he could have ended it sooner. Merlin was sure of it. It would be a mess of blood and limbs—a death match rather than a grapple—but Merlin was certain Arthur would come out on top.
But he wouldn't dare do such a thing, not with so many eyes on him. Not ever. Once, that may have frustrated Merlin. Now, the only thing that made him frantic was his own anticipation.
Whatever Cenred was building up to, he wished he'd just try it already.
Merlin took to pacing a semi-circle around the mat. His eyes flickered to Morgause. She was watching just as avidly as he was, but with glee lining her face.
There was a jab. A right hook and a duck. Arthur was thrown against the ropes and bounced off. Cenred was knocked to the ground, only to roll back to his feet.
The inside of Merlin's cheek was raw from how much he'd been chewing it.
The bell dinged. The boxers went to their neutral corners. Arthur was rolling the kinks out of his neck and padding the sweat and grime from his forehead. Cenred and Morgause were kissing again, long and passionate.
Her hand had snaked itself up beneath the leg of his trouser. The motion was sneaky and purposeful, like she was tucking something into his sock. Merlin narrowed his eyes at it and tilted his head, trying to figure out what the hidden object was.
Whatever it was, he had to warn Arthur. His pulse leapt as the bell rang out.
"Arth—!" he tried, but the fight resumed.
Merlin cursed under his breath. There was no use kicking himself. He turned back to the fight, watching every move with renewed vigor. He stilled; even his heart slowed.
And then it happened. Cenred reeled his arm back and punched Arthur squarely in the chest. It elicited a groan that stoked a furnace inside Merlin. Sparks fired against his fingertips and toes in preparation. Before Arthur recovered, Cenred pressed into the bullet wound scar on his shoulder. Arthur shouted.
It seemed everyone in room took a step closer to the mat in expectation.
Arthur tried to swing. Cenred swooped down low to avoid it and, in one fluid motion, pulled a switchblade out from his sock.
"Arthur!" Merlin bellowed like the name was on fire.
Arthur understood the warning. He spotted the blade directed at his gut. Before Cenred could stand, Arthur kneed him the face and kicked him to the mat. The blade fell out of his hands and skidded towards the ropes.
All Arthur's honor was gone, all nobility forgotten, now that he had concrete proof of Cenred's subterfuge.
In the meantime, Merlin sprinted towards the ropes. He pulled the pistol out and tossed it to Arthur. In a moment flat, Arthur caught it, pulled back the hammer, and pointed it between Cenred's eyes.
It'd been their plan. Their failsafe key. Arthur had given Merlin his pistol before they left the apartment that morning.
At once, everyone else pulled out their weapons. There were a hundred clicks as the safeties were pulled back. And then there was nothing.
Everything froze. Everyone waited for someone else to make the first move.
Merlin remained still, in the center of the two armies, with Arthur and Cenred just a few feet away.
Arthur was a statue, expressionless as he held Cenred's stare. Cenred appeared to be in turmoil, weighing his options to find a way to turn the situation to his favor. Mostly, he did not look ready to die.
Then, Arthur shook himself awake. He glanced up, at the Black Kings training their weapons forward. He looked over his shoulder, at his men and his allies. At Gwen. At Morgana. Finally, he looked to Merlin.
Merlin didn't know what to tell him to do. If Arthur pulled the trigger, they'd all go down in a blaze. If he didn't, Cenred might try to kill him, and there'd be shootout, anyway.
Arthur and Merlin were in the middle of it all. They'd be the first to die.
Merlin thought nothing of it. He was willing to go along with whatever Arthur decided. He'd follow Arthur's lead. He'd follow Arthur to the mountains and the rivers, to England, to war, to death. He'd follow him anywhere.
They all would.
Arthur knew it, too.
He retrained his gaze on Cenred. He lowered his weapon.
"This is no way to achieve peace."
The words reverberated off the high ceilings.
Behind him, the Knights lowered their weapons. Kilgharrah's men followed. So did Tristan and Isolde, the patrons, the staff, the prizefighters. Slowly, one by one, the crime bosses did the same. Their men followed their lead.
Arthur held out his hand to help Cenred up.
Cenred's expression swam with emotion, ranging from failure to opportunity to the possibility of this being a trap. Finally, it rested on resolve. He turned his head towards his wife.
Morgause was seething. Her eyes told him that she would not stand for this kind of weakness.
Cenred looked behind her, at the Bandits. He grasped Arthur's hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.
The Bandits lowered their guns.
One side of the room exploded with applause. The other remained silent.
Merlin breathed deeply. He let the oxygen flow and fill him up, relaxing him.
When he opened his eyes again, he caught sight of Morgause furiously threading her way through the Bandits. She pushed towards the exit.
Arthur ducked out of the ring. He was immediately lost in the celebration that enveloped him. It seemed everyone wanted to touch him, if only with their fingertips. People mussed his hair or gripped his shoulder or thumped him. They reached for him in congratulations, their champion. It looked more like he was a messiah amongst his flock.
Morgana elbowed her way to him and threw her arms around his neck. It shocked him at first, but then he held her closely in return.
Merlin stood at the edge of the crowd, waiting for the excitement to die away. He glanced over his shoulder at the despondent Bandits. Cenred's back was turned to Merlin as he dressed.
He felt someone come up to him, and turned to find Arthur. His face was streaked, bruised, and dried with blood. His golden hair stood on all ends. His pink chest shimmered and heaved as it greedily drank in air. He looked exhausted, but content.
He smiled at Merlin, very softly. Merlin mirrored the expression. Arthur reached for him and cupped his hand behind Merlin's hair and gripped him tightly, inching him in closer.
Before much else could happen, Cenred approached them. A few Bandits flanked him on either side.
"Well, Arthur, it seems you have your truce," he said. Merlin had expected him to be more of a sore loser.
"I believe this will benefit us all," Arthur told him as they shook hands again.
"Some more than others," was the bitter response, despite the gentlemanly grin. "But, rest assured, I will honor the deal."
"Of course. We're all honorable men here."
Cenred's posture stiffened at the slight. His eyes flashed briefly to Merlin. "Yes. It's only fair I carry out the terms we've agreed upon."
Merlin's stomach twisted. Arthur's eyes hardened.
Cenred was as smug as if he'd landed another blow. With a wave, he gestures for the Bandits to follow him out.
Arthur turned to Merlin, the line of his jaw already worried and possessive. Behind them, the celebration was continuing. Now was not the time to dwell on anything else but victory.
Later, Merlin silently urged.
Arthur didn't seem too happy about it, but he put a brave face forward. He turned back to his people.
Gwaine started singing out The Duke of York. Everyone else joined in. Percy and Elyan lifted Arthur onto their shoulders.
Merlin swallowed hard and watched the last of the Bandits leave. When the door closed on them, a hollowness overtook his chest. It was over. It was really over for him. He was no longer a Black King.
He should have been happier. He shouldn't have been this nostalgic, especially because he still had punishment coming his way. Cenred would find a way to get to Merlin; there was no question about it.
Merlin had to answer for what he did. And he would, gladly, so long as it meant Arthur was safe. Whatever his punishment was, it was worth it.
But that was a problem for the future. Today, Merlin shoved down the trepidation building in his stomach. He put on a grin and joined in the song.
Chapter 22
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Two days later, Merlin found a note slipped beneath the door of their apartment. It was a message from Cenred, and by some miracle, Merlin had been alone as he read it. Arthur hadn't left him on his own since the fight. He wouldn't even let Merlin take the garbage outside the Camelot without an escort. Arthur's protection was incessant and, to be perfectly frank, a little annoying.
It was nighttime when Merlin found the note, when Arthur was bathing. It was stuck halfway beneath the rug, and they must have trampled right over it on the way in.
In it, Cenred asked Merlin for a meeting the following morning.
Merlin hid the note beneath the mattress before Arthur emerged into the room. He didn't want to worry him. He alone was kept up all night weighing his options. It was possible Cenred wasn't trying to lure Merlin in to kill him. After all, who politely asked a sheep to the slaughter with a letter tucked inside a sealed envelope? If there were a hit out on Merlin, Cenred would probably use more illicit means to ensure Merlin's death. The Bandits, after all, still had many connections in the city.
Or it could be a trick. In that case, if Cenred did try to kill him, at least Merlin would be prepared for an attack. He might not get the same luxury in the future, and he couldn't possibly live the rest of his life with his eyes over his shoulder and one foot in the grave. (Well, perhaps Merlin could, but it would drive Arthur mad. His security measures would never give Merlin any freedom.)
More than anything, curiosity pecked at Merlin's mind like a famished crow. He decided some time in the night that he would see what Cenred had to say.
Arthur would go ballistic if he knew. He would want to go with him, and he'd probably bring the Knights, too. (That is, if he allowed Merlin to go at all.) There was an easy way to avoid this: Merlin did not tell him about it.
Arthur would be outraged when he found out, but Merlin would deal with that later—or, he'd be dead, in which case, Arthur's anger would be the least of his concerns.
So, before Arthur woke up, Merlin slipped out of the apartment and went the familiar route to Alphabet City. When he got there, the Lower East Side was in its transitional period between sleep and awake. The partygoers and drug dealers and prostitutes had stumbled home as the sun rose; and the postmen had already stuffed the mailboxes and the milk trucks had already replaced empty jugs with frothy, thick containers on the stoops.
Merlin headed for the garment factory. It was deserted inside, and it did not look like many people would be working in it any time soon. Most of the machinery was busted up from the shootout. Some of it was beyond repair, and would instead have to be replaced. It probably set the Bandits' production back a few hundred dollars.
The thought of it brought Merlin no pleasure whatsoever.
When he got to the office, the door was already open, and Cenred was inside at the desk. He looked up as Merlin shuffled warily through the door.
"Merlin, I was afraid you wouldn't come," he said with the handsome smile of a wolf. Merlin couldn't help but notice that Morgause wasn't there. He eyed every corner of the room, looking for a gun pointed at his head.
Maybe coming here was a bad idea, after all.
"Sit," Cenred offered, gesturing to the seat in front of him.
Merlin narrowed his eyes at him, wondering if the switchblade he'd tried to use on Arthur was anywhere in his arms' reach.
"There's no need to worry," said Cenred, but it didn't assure Merlin any. "In fact, I think I should be more wary of you, don't you think?"
At the moment, Merlin wasn't so sure, but he didn't want Cenred to pick up on his lack of confidence, so he sat down. "Why am I here?"
"I have a proposition for you," was the answer. Cenred stood up and walked to the other side of the desk. Towards Merlin's side, he perched himself on top. It went against all of Merlin's instincts not to flinch away, but he managed.
He raised a perplexed brow, but kept his tone even. "A proposition?"
"It's seems the Bandits lack a boss," said Cenred, "and I need someone to run the show in my absence."
The last bit was all Merlin heard, and it was like music to his ears. "You're leaving?" He'd tried not to sound too excited, but he thought Cenred got the message, anyway.
In any event, Cenred didn't seem too offended. "I'm needed back in Chicago. My train leaves in—," he checked his watch, "one hour. Morgause went ahead of me yesterday."
Merlin remembered how Morgause had stormed out of the Camelot after the fight. She hadn't seemed too happy that Arthur was still breathing and, more so, that Cenred hadn't killed him. Merlin wondered if their separation now was a coincidence, but Cenred gave nothing away.
He took the silence to continue, "And, with Kanen's . . . Let's say, untimely demise, and the death of his first officer—," he'd said it with a grin, like Kanen and Sigan had retired to Florida, and the fact that a replacement hadn't been lined up yet was a simple oversight, "the leadership position falls to you."
Merlin balked. There was no way he'd heard Cenred correctly. He must have been dreaming. Or perhaps he actually was dead and this was some kind of sick, twisted hell.
"Me?" Merlin parroted, at a loss. His brain seemed to have stopped working. It was as decimated as the machines on the production floor.
Cenred not only powered through Merlin's confusion, he seemed not to understand it. "Of course!"
"You do know I killed Kanen, right?"
It might have not been the wisest thing to bring up, but Cenred only laughed it off.
"Yes."
Merlin was even more baffled than before. "And so does everyone else! They'll never follow me!"
"Of course, they will! You're Balinor Emrys' son. He was their leader, which makes it your birthright," Cenred reminded him. He added with clear meaning in his tone, "And who could blame you for what you've done? You prevented a war, didn't you? And you settled an old score at the same time. Kanen's ghost will quickly lose the people's support once they find out what he did to your father."
Merlin gaped again. Nothing about this meeting was what he'd envisioned. "You—you knew about that?" Which meant Lot knew, and he still allowed Kanen to rule.
"My father had his suspicions," said Cenred with the air of a man enlightened. "He never liked Kanen, but the fact remained that he was good for business. The Bandits continued to thrive under his leadership. That doesn't mean he trusted Kanen, which is why we sent a spy to keep an eye on him. She's proved to be quite effective."
"She?" Merlin raised a brow.
Cenred hummed. "Freya appears to be so timid, and she was so young when she began working for us. No one ever expected her."
Again, Merlin was at a loss for words. He was pretty sure he looked ridiculous with his eyes bulging and his jaw slacked. Freya? It couldn't be! But somehow he knew it was true. He remembered how easily she'd helped Merlin come up with his fake identity for the Knights, and her tips about keeping his story straight and as close to the truth as possible. He thought about all the times she'd eavesdropped on Kanen's meetings, and how she always seemed to know everything before anyone else.
"She . . . she told me her parents died of consumption!" was all Merlin could say. He didn't know where else to start when everything could have been a fabrication.
"Oh, yes, that's true. But her family first settled in Chicago, not New York, when they immigrated," Cenred told him. "Her father worked in one of our factories before his death. He was always such a loyal man. We couldn't leave Freya on the streets, so we gave her a job. We must be loyal in return."
Later, Merlin would have to have a very long conversation with Freya. It might have been a bit hypocritical coming from him, but he thought he deserved the truth. Now, however, he had to focus on the offer set in front of him.
"Will you distrust me like you did Kanen?" he asked.
Cenred regarded him up and down for a long time, like he was assessing whether or not an investment would pay off. "Arthur trusts you," he said at last. The name made Merlin's defenses go up. He balled his fists at his side like he was ready to fend off an attack.
"We could use that to our advantage."
Merlin opened his mouth to protest. He wouldn't allow Arthur to be a pawn any longer, and Merlin certainly wasn't going to be the chess master. He was done lying to Arthur. However, before he could speak, Cenred raised his palm to stop him.
"I do not wish to be Arthur's enemy. Quite the opposite," he said candidly. "He will never see me as a friend, but you . . ." He did not have to say what Arthur saw Merlin as. "Arthur would be a strong ally. He has the qualities of a leader. Imagine what this city could be if the East and West Sides were united with the Black Kings and the Knights of the Round Table at the helm. Arthur has thought of it."
Merlin's eyes focused on the window behind Cenred, on the busy streets, the tall silver skyscrapers hitting the sunlight, and the choppy waves on the East River that flowed downstream to merge with the Hudson.
Cenred leaned into Merlin in question. "Have you?" It recaptured Merlin's attention.
Cenred didn't see Merlin as a spy or an assassin. He saw Merlin as a loophole. Instead of being against the united gangs of New York, the Bandits would be a one of them. More than that, they'd be Arthur's most trusted ally. Arthur wouldn't hold the Bandits to the deal he and Cenred had struck if Merlin led them. The city would be open to them, and the gang would continue to prosper as it always had—better than it had, in fact.
It was a sneaky move, and Merlin should have said no on principle. But then Cenred would only find another way to break the deal, which could eventually lead to another war. Arthur's dream of peace would be shattered.
And Arthur could use the Bandits' connections in New York. Their influence over the authorities would secure Arthur's position in the city.
Both gangs needed the other to survive.
"Arthur will require your help again very soon," Kilgharrah had told Merlin. "When that opportunity arises, I recommend you seize it."
Between them, Cenred held out his palm. Merlin thought carefully, but it only took a slight hesitation to make up his mind. He shook Cenred's hand firmly.
"Excellent, then I shall leave you to redecorate your new office," Cenred said, gesturing around, after they released each other. He placed his hat on his head and folded his jacket over his arm. "I'll be in touch," he promised with an air of finality. And he left, closing the door behind him.
Merlin wasn't sure what he was supposed to do next, or where to begin. He looked at the desk—his father's desk—his desk. Paperwork was stacked on top of it, and Kanen's ledgers and journals would be inside the drawers. There'd be bills and notices and stock forms. The Essetir would have to be repaired after the fight, as would the machinery broken in the factory. People would need to be paid, and more would need to be hired . . .
The office was suddenly overwhelming and incredibly musty, and offered Merlin a complete lack of the anonymity he'd always relied on. Outside, the river glinted enticingly, and Merlin would rather be lounging along the banks than be cooped up inside all day.
He scrunched his nose at the office as a whole. It would be good for meetings but, other than that, he wasn't sure how much he'd actually use it.
Six Weeks Later.
Arthur watched the tugboats and ferries trudge along the Hudson. Their yellow lights ebbed and bobbed with the slow current of the cool April night. Lady Liberty's torch reflected off the water.
It had been a year since the Ocean Liner carried him from England into the Hudson Bay. A year since he'd last stepped foot in London. A year since the Camelot had opened, and Kanen sent his men to scare Arthur off.
A year in New York. It felt like a lifetime. He couldn't imagine being anywhere else.
He was standing on the roof of the newly built Albion Club on the tip of Downtown. Behind him, the employees were putting the finishing touches on the table centerpieces in the overgrown garden. Inside the pergola, with tangled blooming vines twisting around the white beams, the dealers were setting up the craps and blackjack tables.
Arthur looked down at the mass of people below, waiting to get inside. Some of them had been loitering there for hours. He took a breath, cast one more glance to the mirrored black water, and turned away. He surveyed the employee's progress as he walked across the patio.
Inside, on the top level of the club, the bar was buzzing with frantic anticipation. The deep emerald-colored walls darkened the copper furniture and the gold plated frames of the hanging artwork. Beneath his shoes, the carpeted floor was of the same gold, and the planks on the dance floor were so mahogany that they were almost black.
Gwen and the orchestra were already on stage. They'd been prepared for hours. They always flourished under the hot white lights that radiated in the sheen of their polished instruments. Arthur offered Gwen a smile, which she returned.
Behind the bar, stocked with Tristan and Isolde's finest liquors, a mousey, but pretty brunette was cutting garnishes. She was still a little shy around Arthur, and he prayed she wouldn't be so sheepish with the customers. But she did, after all, come highly recommended.
"All set, Freya?" Arthur called.
She looked up with anxious eyes that soon softened. "Almost!" she promised. He decided to leave her to it. He jounced down the steps to the ground level.
A large, blue-matted square circle sat in the dead center of the room, haloed with light from the chandelier above. It was surrounded on three sides by tables and chairs, booths for the VIP members, and benches. The wall along the entrance to the club had multiple stands for customers to place bets. The bar had been placed between the ring and the rooftop garden by design, to remind the customers how thirsty they were in between gambling. It had been Morgana's idea.
"No, no! Say it with more gusto!" Kilgharrah, standing just outside the square circle, scolded Lancelot, who was holding the microphone in the middle of the mat. Lance would be announcing the fighters, and apparently his kindly tones weren't groundbreaking enough for Kilgharrah's liking.
"Again! Do it again!"
Kilgharrah let out a large puff of cigar smoke through his nostrils. The smoke wafted upwards to join the gray cloud collecting around the light bulbs. Lance caught Arthur's gaze and gave him an exasperated look. Arthur raised his brows in sympathy.
The door to the narrow hallway leading to the kitchens, storeroom, and the boxers' locker room burst open. Leon, Elyan, Gwaine bustled through, chatting about the night ahead.
"We better have an ambulance on hand for the fight," Gwaine laughed jovially. "I'm tellin' ya—you should see the size of this bloke. Mordred's back there now just to make sure he won't pick a fight with the cement wall."
Elyan snorted. "What's Mordred going to do to stop him?"
Gwaine shrugged with disingenuous sarcasm. "Don't know. Get punched? Better him than me. Newbie needs to get his first bruises somehow now that he's officially one of us."
The three of them chuckled at the hazing ritual, but as soon as they caught sight of Arthur, Leon's expression turned dutiful. "Everything's in order in the kitchens," he reported after making his way to Arthur. "And Annis phoned to say she'd be running late. Everyone else is set to arrive on time. I'll have the waitresses come out to their booths as soon as the fight starts."
Arthur often wished Leon wasn't so uptight, but he supposed one of them had to be responsible. Half teasing and half concerned, Arthur asked, "And you've ensured Alined and Sarrum's tables are far enough away from each other?"
Again, Leon cracked a smile. "Of course. The only fighting we want tonight is in the ring."
Arthur patted him on the shoulder in good humor. "Exactly. Now, go outside and give Percy a hand. He'll need help controlling the crowds once we open the doors."
Leon nodded once, so low that it might have been a bow. He disappeared towards the entrance.
When Arthur descended the steps into the basement, the only sounds he heard were the muffled clatter and footsteps from upstairs. He walked down the corridor, passing a few doors before opening one. For now, the room was barebones—just a desk with some bills and papers scattered on top, a lamp, and a bookshelf with nothing on it but a radio.
Arthur closed his eyes, enjoying the last moment of quiet. It felt like the breath between a flash of lightening and a crack of thunder.
It felt like a beginning.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked. Arthur looked over his shoulder in time to see Merlin walk through the threshold. He never did learn how to knock.
"What are you doing in my office?" Arthur chided. After all, Merlin had his own office the next door over.
Merlin smirked, folded his arms behind his back, and paced further inside. Arthur watched him. He was dressed in black from top to toe, contrasting his fair skin. Arthur didn't know who had picked out the suit for Merlin, but it looked outrageously expensive, so he had a guess.
"I can be wherever I want," Merlin answered smartly. "Let's not forget who paid for half the cost of this place. The Albion is just as much mine as it is yours."
Arthur couldn't argue. He huffed and perched himself on the edge of his desk. "I guess I can live with that," he admitted as Merlin sat on the desk next to him, "just so long as you're mine."
To this, Merlin's smile softened. He looked to his polished shoes and shrugged in a pathetic attempt at apathy. He looked more coy than he did anything else. "You won't have to worry about that," he whispered.
When his star-speckled blue gaze swooped back up to meet Arthur's, Arthur couldn't resist him. He leaned in, closing the space between them. Merlin hummed into his mouth, and carded his quick fingers through Arthur's hair.
Merlin tasted like sweet spring air and fresh forest moss, smoky campfires, and ripples in lake water from cool rain showers. Arthur couldn't wait to return to their recently acquired getaway in the Catskills, but that night there was too much else to think about. They had a city to run: the ferry lights on the Hudson, the dens in lower Manhattan, the police, the politicians, the businessmen in their skyscrapers, the smugglers, and every footstep pounding down the sidewalks.
Their empire bustled above their heads.
"Oh, for god's sake, you two," Morgana's voice reproved. The kiss broke and they saw her standing with her manicured fingers drumming her sequined hips and her tall heels tapping the floor. "We're about to open the doors! Do you want to come to opening night or do you want to stay down here fucking?"
Merlin hummed again from deep in his throat in a way that made Arthur twitch. "Don't tempt him," he told Morgana, but his voice was low and hoarse and he was eyeing Arthur as he said it.
Morgana rolled her eyes. "Well, at least make it quick, or we'll start without you." Her shoes clacked on the wood as she left.
When the noise disappeared, Arthur stood up. Morgana was right: they shouldn't keep their patrons waiting any longer. The Albion was open for business. It should have made Arthur nervous, like he was on the Camelot's first night in business. But the butterflies in his stomach remained dormant, and the ghost of Merlin's touch kept him grounded.
Arthur reached into the jacket pocket of his three-piece suit. He lit a cigarette with his golden lighter, took a puff, and offered it to Merlin. The smoke filtered between Merlin's lips and lingered around them like a kiss before reluctantly fading to nothing.
"Let's go cause a scene," said Arthur.
Merlin gestured towards the door. After you.
END.
Notes:
Thanks for reading, everyone! And, I can never possibly say this enough, my eternal thanks to Jackie (thewinchesterswagger) for never failing to be the best beta-reader/supporter/therapist I have ever had the pleasure of collaborating with. As always, Jackie, you are my rock.
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