(In)Convenience Store Chapter 1, a merlin fanfic

Notes: So, in a moment of madness, I signed up as a pinch-hitter in the Merlin Reverse Big Bang, and had the great privilege of being paired with texasislandr (archiveofourown users / texasislandr). My other fic, Something Borrowed, was done in plenty of time for my posting deadline, but this...This took a bit longer (like, a month and a half past my deadline longer). Please check out the fantabulous art by texas (archiveofourown works / 1452061) and tell her how incredible she is, because, seriously, she deserves it.

(In)Convenience Store

Part I

What is this?" Uther asks, not cold but cool, dismissive, like she doesn't even merit the breath he puts behind the words. "This is worthless, Nimueh."

She looks at him, then back down to the papers he's scattered carelessly across the desk, her best work, the most important thing she's ever achieved. "I wouldn't expect you to understand," she says, and she has no idea how he does it, how he manages to sound disinterested when all she can ever seem to be is furious.

"I understand perfectly. You may have been friends with my wife, but that doesn't mean I am willing to accept things like this."

"This is…" she starts, trailing off because she doesn't have the words to talk about it, to express just how essential what she has given him is. "This is lives," she manages eventually. "This could make Pendragon Pharmaceuticals."

"This will be made meaningless as soon as Balinor Emrys' next paper is published," he says, still utterly dispassionate, sliding an advance issue of one of the many medical journals he subscribes to across the desk. "Bring me something useful, and then we'll talk about a job."

"But-"

"That will be all, Nimueh."

She stands, hating him, hating the promise she made to Ygraine in her last days, the promise to keep an eye on her son, keep him safe, not leave him alone with his philandering bastard of a father, without another source of morality and guidance. The promise that means she needs to get a job here.

"Thank you," she says, though it galls her to do so, sliding her chair back under the desk. "I'll be back."

It is a terrible feeling, being forced to stand and watch as a stranger boxes up and takes away your possessions, the things that make up your home and your life. It is terrible, and even worse to know that it is your fault.

"It's okay," Hunith said, the first time he came home and told his wife about the paperwork his intern had misplaced, the facts and figures and formulas he needed to file with the backers to prove the worth of their investment. "They'll turn up," she said, and Balinor let himself believe her. "These things always do."

He let himself believe, and he searched, dragged his new intern into helping him, keeping her in the lab until almost midnight three days in a row as they tore the place apart and put it back together again; by the time he gave up, the deadline his backers had set for receiving the paperwork was less than a week away, barely enough time for him to recreate the evidence of the experiment and tidy it up, if everything went well.

Only, it didn't.

His electron microscope broke barely hours in, the cells in the slides corrupted, and then, when he finally seemed to have got the basics down again, the virus protection on the computer he used for the analysis gave up. The replacement he bought with his and Hunith's last scraps of money screwed him over too, and when he went to his financiers in a last-ditch attempt to save the project and his family, they asked for evidence that their investment was worth something.

Only, that wasn't something he couldn't give, and they aren't the sort of people who would forgive that.

The house isn't enough to cover what he owes, they say, and the few possessions of value that he and Hunith have don't help much.

"It's okay," Hunith says, sliding her hand into his, the other holding tightly to Merlin, keeping him beside them in an attempt to stop him assaulting the removal men.

"How?" Balinor asks, and even if he wants to pull away, even if he knows his stupidity means he doesn't merit the comfort, he can't make himself resist it. "We've got nothing left! How is it okay?"

"We've got somewhere to go," she says. "We've got Merlin and each other, the baby in a few months. We've got the things that matter." Her hand tightens on his, holding him down, grounded and safe. "Everything else is just stuff. We can rebuild that."

"I love you," Balinor tells her, the only words he can think of that possibly come close to expressing his gratitude.

Beside his wife, their son pouts, clinging desperately to the stuffed dragon in his hands, ratty and old, the only thing valueless enough for them to be allowed to keep.

"You're late," Sophia pouts, leaning her elbows on the counter, a nail file in one hand.

"So report me," Merlin tells her, not pausing on his way to stow his backpack in the storeroom at the back of the shop. He digs his uniform shirt out of his bag, pulling it on over his long-sleeved t-shirt, then heads back into the shop.

Sophia looks even more pissed when he flips up the counter to join her on the other side of it. "God," she says, grabbing her purse from the shelf under the cash register. "Wouldn't it be great if we could all work for a family friend and be allowed to show up whenever we wanted."

"God," Merlin mimics. "Wouldn't it be great if we could all have access to Daddy's sports car so that when class runs late and we miss our bus, we don't have to sprint to get to work."

Sophia glares at him, and it takes actual effort for Merlin to hold back all the other things he wants to say to her, mostly because the nail file in her hand is glass and probably sharp enough to function as a murder weapon if he pisses her off enough. "Whatever," she huffs, tucking her purse under her arm before flouncing off without a goodbye.

"Bitch," Merlin mutters to her back, then dumps his textbook on the counter and settles in for a long night of doing very little.

Arthur knows better than to ignore an email from his father, particularly one marked as being of high importance; it's true that his father's idea of highly important is not necessarily the same as his own, or that of anyone else, really, but that still doesn't entitle one to ignore him.

Thus, when the email arrives in Arthur's inbox at 8:03 on Monday morning - 27 minutes before his official starting time, not that Uther Pendragon has ever been bothered with such petty concerns - he opens it immediately, if only because he hopes that if the day starts off unhappily, the only way to go is up.

The message he reads is brutally succinct, and unpleasant enough Arthur feels obliged to let loose a string of curses that would make his sister proud (he learnt them all from her, because - Morgana says - what else are big sisters for), even if it is now only 8:05.

Whatever he may have thought two minutes ago, Arthur is suddenly very sure that the moment when some inconsiderate git drove through the puddle outside the main entrance of Pendragon Pharmaceuticals and soaked him was probably the highlight of his day.

On the dot of eight thirty - Uther may arrive in the office at the arse-crack of dawn, but god forbid anyone interrupt him before his first coffee at work - Arthur is waiting outside his father's office, trying not to gnash his teeth; his dentist has told him, more than once, how much damage grinding his teeth is doing.

"Come in, Arthur," Uther calls, before Arthur knocks on the door.

"Thank you, sir," Arthur answers, closing the door behind him; Uther may permit Father at home, very occasionally Dad, but at work he is always sir, even if it's his children - child, ever since Morgana left the company and their father's life - he's talking to.

Before entering the office, Arthur had been certain of what he was going to say, and he'd been largely sure it was going to be the kind of expletives he wouldn't dream of saying to his father under any other circumstances. Now, when he has both the opportunity and the occasion to say it, is apparently no different, since all Arthur can do is stand before his father's desk, borderline looming.

"Really, Arthur," Uther says, sounding as bland as he ever does (bland or furious; his father's two main settings). "I am a rather busy man, and I do not have time for your antics."

Antics, Arthur thinks, trying not to lose his temper with his father just yet; expecting to speak with his father/managing director (and if Arthur had been as smart as he liked to think he was, he'd have gone to work for a company run by someone who has never had to ground him for missing curfew or fighting with his half-sister) about the distressing email he received this morning hardly counts as an antic. "Sir," he starts, then figures this is probably an appropriate time to remind his father of their shared genetics. "Father. Do you really think this is the best course of action for the company?"

"You are sorely lacking in practical management experience, Arthur," Uther argues, although Arthur hadn't actually realised it was an argument. "This is an excellent opportunity for you to change that."

"But-"

"Really, Arthur," his father says a second time, changing bland for borderline exasperated (perhaps considering his father a man of two settings was a little short sighted of him). "There is a vacancy open, and you should consider it a privilege that I wish you to fill it. Many people in your position would kill for the chance I'm offering you."

Then offer it to them, Arthur thinks, but - in a moment of unparalleled wisdom, he thinks - decides against saying it. He decides against saying anything, actually, because any words he does manage will only fall on deaf ears; even the most rational argument will have little impact on his father when his mind is made up, and silence requires far less effort.

"I think you're making a mistake," Arthur says eventually, in his father's apparent absence of words.

"I understand that," Uther answers, but Arthur is far too intelligent to think that that means his father is giving in. "I have purchased a flat for you, just down the road from the New York office. Your flight leaves early on Friday morning; I thought you might like the weekend to settle in and adjust to the time difference before starting work."

That, Arthur knows, is both a dismissal and the closest thing his father can get to compassion.

"I mean," Arthur says, talking more to Gwen and Lance, since his ranting is only getting him eyerolls from Morgana. "Can you actually believe him? He's given me less than a week to pack up my whole life and move halfway across the world, and he's acting like I'm a spoilt brat by not wanting to go!"

Morgana scoffs, but then Arthur is fairly sure that's her automatic reaction to him opening his mouth, the cow. Gwen, on the other hand, manages to be sympathetic for all of a few seconds.

"It does seem rather sudden," she says, sounding dubious, then follows it up with what is probably Arthur's least favourite word ever. "But-"

"No!" Arthur snaps, probably less gently than Gwen deserves, but after his father's complete failure to listen to reason over the course of the day, his patience is running fairly thin. "There are no buts."

"Fine," she says, then smirks in a distressingly Morgana-ish way. "America!"

"America," Arthur argues, with considerable more disdain than Gwen, not to mention way, way less enthusiasm.

"New York!"

"Traffic jams."

"Broadway," she says, so much enthusiasm to it, like she's hoping her excitement will be contagious. "The shows."

"The shopping," Morgana chimes in, then glares at Lancelot.

"The museums," Lance says, visibly reluctant to join in, but that isn't enough to stop Arthur.

"Traitor!" he snaps. "All of you. You're all on his side."

Morgana downs her drink, then uses the stupid paper umbrella to impale an olive from the bowl in the middle of their table, her manner deeply threatening. "Never," she says, pausing to catch the olive in her teeth before offering Arthur what is less a smile and more a savage baring of teeth, then continuing, "accuse me of being on Uther's side."

Gwen makes a hurried attempt to look busy, folding her napkin in half, then again, and a third time, her eyes on her hands, while Lancelot looks halfway tempted to spill his pint on himself just so he has a reason to leave the table. Hell, Arthur considers it himself, but Morgana would probably only follow him into the men's loo in order to make sure her point was made.

"Sorry," he says, since he knows very well when he's beaten. "I didn't mean it like that, 'Gana."

"I know," she answers, which almost counts as a concession coming from her; his sister, always fierce, has only become more so since the appearance of her not-half-sister made his father come clean about Morgana's parentage. "You can't deny that it's a hell of an opportunity, though. Not just the job, but the move; you can be whoever and whatever you want, without your father looming over everything."

Our father, Arthur thinks, even if he's not moronic enough to say it. "Riiiiight," he agrees, dubious.

"I'm not saying to look forward to it, bro," she says, like that's meant to be comforting. "Just that it might turn out better than you think."

She smiles her I'm so mysterious smile, the bitch, and Arthur knows that if his sister and his father are united in this, there's fuck all chance of him getting out of it.

"Bollocks," he says, drinking down the dregs of his pint. "I'm going to New York, aren't I?"

"Chin up," Gwen says, although unlike his sister she at least has the good manners to try keep her smile hidden. "We'll buy you another drink before you go."

The New York traffic is just as bad as TV always makes it out to be, though since Arthur's new flat - apartment, corrected Vivian, his new secretary, when she met him at the airport and took him to the fully furnished place that he is apparently supposed to be calling home - is within walking distance of both his office and an all-night pizza place, it hardly matters. His car is at home, too, left in Gwen's capable hands along with strict instructions against letting Morgana anywhere near it, so even if the road traffic was moving at something faster than walking speed, Arthur wouldn't be driving.

And, as Morgana told him when he mused briefly on the logistics of getting his car all the way over there, no one drives in New York, Arthur, which may or may not have had something to do with his making Gwen promise not to let her touch it.

As it happens, though, the absence of a car makes food shopping a tad tricky; Arthur knows some of the guys in his halls of residence back when he was a student used to walk to the closest supermarket and share a taxi back with all their shopping. He finds the idea distinctly unappealing, though, particularly since his neighbourhood is decidedly lacking in anything even vaguely resembling the Waitrose he shops in at home and, whatever Vivian said about the Avalon convenience store fifty metres down the road from his building, Arthur doesn't want to be going there.

If only he hadn't told his housekeeper she could have the weekend off.

Quite honestly, Merlin has had a shit day. His head is pounding so hard it beggars belief, he's fairly sure he flunked the exam he had this afternoon, and all he really wanted to do after school was go home and hide until the world started looking a whole lot less bleak.

Sadly, he's one skipped shift away from not making rent this month, and after the knockdown drag-out he had with his dad about moving out to go to school, he's damn well not going to go crawling back there asking them to put a roof over his head again, not when money is already so tight back home.

At least there's Gwaine in tonight, he tells himself, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other and pushing himself from a quick walk to a run (because he's late again, thanks to the fucking unreliabity of New York's mass transit). Gwaine, unlike some people he could mention, is actually capable of treating Merlin like a human being, and has also been known to stick around a while after his shift ends, keeping Merlin company. He's a good guy, which is why Merlin tries not to bitch too much about the fact that Gwaine flirts with everyone and their mother, no regard for whether a person is taken or even whether their other half is in the room with them (and the fact that Merlin's dad nearly decked him the one and only time Gwaine met Merlin's parents hasn't changed a thing).

He's a good guy, and if Merlin asks, Gwaine will hang around after his shift ends and listen to Merlin whine.

Somehow – and Merlin isn't sure of the progression of events, never is where Gwaine is concerned – whining turns into a war with the pricing guns as weapons, and Merlin isn't anywhere close to winning.

Right, Arthur tells himself. He needs bread, milk, and whatever passes for tea in this stupid country. Five minutes down to Avalon, maybe two minutes to find the things he's after, and another five back. Fifteen minutes at most, and then he can spend the rest of the weekend safely in his flat, eating toast and jam and not seeing anyone he doesn't want to; if that means not seeing anyone at all, so be it.

Fifteen minutes, that's it.

He takes the stairs out of the building – Arthur has never been fond of lifts, and since he pretty much has to take one on a daily basis to get to his thirty-third floor office, he'd rather walk when he has the chance – then makes his way down the almost empty street to the store, pushing the door open with a tad more force than necessary.

The bell chimes annoyingly, although not quite as much as the yelp that follows it.

"Ow!" says the guy standing in front of him, holding a hand to his nose, and glaring balefully at Arthur. "Would it kill you to look where you're going?"

Arthur steps back, almost turns and leaves then and there, but hasn't had a decent cup of tea since he got here and there has to be something better than the shit they have in his office. "Well," he says, taking two steps forwards to compensate for the one he just retreated. "Doors do open, sometimes; if you stand in front of them, you're only going to get what you deserve."

The man, probably a few years younger than Arthur, offers him a startled blink, then falls back. "Of course," he says, finally lowering his hand so that Arthur can see his sarcastic smile. "By all means, come on in. Is there anything I can help you find, or do you just want a handful more strangers to bruise?"

"Milk," Arthur answers, deciding to take his response at face value. "Bread, and if you've got any brand of tea that's actually drinkable, I'll have that, too."

Shop-guy, who Arthur is only just noticing has a price sticker stuck to his right cheek, not to mention a number in his hair and a hell of a lot across his blue uniform shirt, doesn't say anything, just points wordlessly at the back of the store. Arthur finds the fridges there, then paces the few aisles until he works out where the bread is hidden. There's no sign of anything even vaguely resembling the sort of tea he drinks at home, and Arthur isn't particularly inclined to give the nametag-less bloke working here anymore of his money than the milk and bread will cost; he gives up, heading to the front of the store just as the bell above the door chimes again and a guy in a similar blue shirt, possibly the cause of the stickers all over Arthur's accidental victim, walks out.

It's none of Arthur's business what the two of them get up to on their shift, though; he's not their employer, and even if he was he probably wouldn't give a shit at this time of night, as long as they're not dumb enough to be stealing from the till.

The nameless (and now stickerless) shop employee looks a little less offended by the time Arthur gets to the counter and places his purchases before him. In fact, he's grinning, with such blinding intensity that Arthur finds it hard not to respond in kind. He doesn't, because smiling like an idiot at a complete stranger is something he's never done in the past and has no intention of starting to do now, but that doesn't mean it doesn't take effort.

"Sorry, man," he says, so sincere it's probably contributing to New York's air pollution somehow. "You caught me off-guard, might have overreacted a bit."

Mate? Arthur thinks, and since even his thoughts sound disdainful it's probably a good thing he doesn't say it. "Just these," he says, then tacks on a reluctant, "please."

If anything, No-Name's grin gets even bigger, and he's not conventionally good-looking, maybe, but there's definitely something to the smile and the cheekbones and even the ears, for God's sake. "Not a problem," he tells Arthur, turning the bread until a sticker a lot like those that coated him a few minutes ago is visible. "You're English, yeah?" he continues, and Arthur has never understood the strange obsession some cashiers have with making conversation, but it's most definitely the reason he chooses to use the self-service machines whenever the supermarket he's in has them. "Been in town long?"

"A week," Arthur says, then, somewhat mystified by the fact that he's actually answered the question, feels compelled to add, "not that it's any of your business, but I live here."

No-Name nods like Arthur has said something particularly wise rather than just unnecessarily hostile, holding his gaze in a way that on a more muscular bloke would be intimidating rather than intimate. "What brings you here, Business or pleasure?"

Arthur smothers a laugh - if there's one tiny, tiny, good thing about his father shipping him over here, it's that he's no longer being nagged at to bring a girl around for dinner some evening - and takes a second to calm his expression before answering. "Work," he says, not quite sure why he's sharing this but at least managing to prevent himself from coming out to a complete stranger; only three people know that so far and he's not having some guy working at a corner shop in the middle of the night be the fourth, no matter how sharp his cheekbones are.

"How much do I owe you?" he asks, hoping to remind both of them why he's here.

"Call it six," No-Name answers, and Arthur fights the urge to ask if that's how much it actually is, if only because he'd probably deserve whatever obnoxious response that got him.

He digs the right amount out of his wallet, plonks it on the counter before him and scoops up his purchases, forcing himself not to answer when No-Name smiles again and says, "see you around, blondie."

It doesn't matter, anyway. He's just some guy who works in a shop, and Arthur isn't going to see him again.

"Back again?" Merlin asks, when the door chime rings at precisely six minutes after eleven for the third night in the row. He doesn't need to look up to know that it's the blond guy, the one who first appeared on Friday and has appeared at the same time every weeknight since then. Tall, blond, English (and yes, Merlin knows he shouldn't find that quite so appealing, since he technically is as well, but that's really not the point), an almost complete lack of manners, and apparently incapable of buying his groceries from anywhere other than Avalon.

Not that Merlin is complaining about that last part, really.

"You know," says the irksome, perpetually nameless shop assistant on Arthur's fourth visit there. "You might want to try some fruit sometime. I hear it's good for you."

"And you might want to try getting some real chocolate," Arthur answers, giving the Hershey's bar in his hands a disdainful look.

No-Name grins, like he thinks Arthur is trying to be funny, and that, that, is why he is so bloody irritating. No matter how crap a day Arthur has had, this bloke has the gall to look cheerful and amused, and, to be totally honest, Arthur really rather misses being in a country where cashiers and shelf-stackers at least have the good manners to look dissatisfied with their lot in life.

"What," says the blond guy, peering into the brown bag Merlin hands him along with his usual daily purchase of cookies and chips, "is that?"

"Apples," Merlin answers, and he tries to end that reply where it is, he really does. "You know, it explains an awful lot that you don't recognise them on sight. Is that why all Brits are supposed to have terrible teeth, because I know it's not genetic."

"There is nothing wrong with my teeth," his customer says, just a tad defensive, and Merlin has to wonder why someone who so obviously comes from money and has such a big chip on his shoulder hasn't just had his crooked teeth fixed. "And, obviously, I know what they are. What I don't know is why they're here."

"They're a gift," Merlin tells him, matching the patronising tone as best he can.

"I'm not paying for them."

"They're a gift," Merlin repeats, this time with extra emphasis. "I wouldn't ask you to."

Blondie grunts at him, and Merlin decides to interpret it as gratitude. "You're welcome," he says, ringing up the things he actually expects his customer to pay for, and if his hand lingers a little too long when he passes over the change, that's no one's business but his and Blondie's.

"See you tomorrow," Merlin adds, as Blondie heads for the door, cookies and chips and a bag of apples in hand.

Arthur forces himself to keep his phone calls home at a maximum of one a fortnight, and even then, he's still not calling his father. He'll reply to his emails about work, because a refusal to do so means losing his job, but actually speaking to the man requires more self-control than Arthur has.

Morgana, on the other hand, is occasionally capable of human reactions, things like compassion and kindness; Arthur calls her from the office on Friday morning, the day after the apple thing, figuring it's probably late enough in the day that his sister is home from work, but early enough that she's yet to go out anywhere.

"This better be quick, Arthur," she says, clearly making an effort to sound exasperated, though since she actually answered his call rather than just leaving the phone ringing until voicemail kicked in, Arthur decides it doesn't matter. "You know I love you, but I have five minutes to finish my coffee before my date gets here."

"He insulted my teeth and gave me apples," Arthur answers, and it's almost certainly evidence of the bleakness that is his existence lately that Morgana doesn't ask what the hell he's talking about.

"Did you say remember to say thank you?"

"Morgana."

"You should give him your number, you know."

"He insulted my teeth," Arthur says a second time, because his sister knows how touchy he is about them, about the fact that his father thought it would be character building to have him grow up with such a visible, fixable flaw. "He's almost as annoying as you are."

"Don't give him your number, then," Morgana concedes, and Arthur doesn't have to hold his breath for very long while he waits for whatever amusing (or so she thinks) remark that he just knows is going to follow it. "It's not like you're pining, or anything."

"I hate you," Arthur tells her, pretty sure he can hear her answering smile just as much as he'd be able to see it if she were here in person.

"I hate you, too, Arthur," she says, and Arthur knows she means it just as little as he did. "I have to go now. Aunt Nimueh says to call her when you have a minute."

"Tell her-" Arthur starts, but his sister is gone before he gets out the words I'm busy. She's not really his aunt, anyway, and the arguments he's had with his father about Morgana and, more recently, moving here, have already driven enough of a wedge between them. There is nothing his mother's old friend can say that won't make things worse.

"Kill me," Merlin says, and if he's even later to work than usual, it's not at all because he doesn't want to see Blondie after his ridiculous behaviour yesterday. "Please, Gwaine, kill me now, before he gets here."

"Depends," Gwaine answers, looking like he's trying to make shit-eating grins into a form of art. "What did you do this time, Merls?"

Merlin can't make eye contact, because he knows exactly what Gwaine is going to say and he's just not brave enough to look at him as he does. "I gave him fruit."

"Him being your stalker, right?"

"No!" Merlin answers, then has to elaborate, even though there's a chance Gwaine might actually know what his rather loud no means. "I mean, yes, the blond guy who comes in here loads, but no, he's not stalking me."

Gwaine gives him a tolerant look, or what passes for tolerant where Gwaine is concerned. "Apart from the day he came in here and smacked you in the face with the door, I've never seen him. Also, just in case you've not noticed, eleven at night isn't exactly a normal time for someone to decide he needs cookies, particularly not every night in a row for three weeks."

"He's not stalking me," Merlin repeats. "He probably just works late."

Gwaine laughs, throwing an arm around Merlin's shoulder and hauling him into a headlock that Merlin can't get out of, however much he wriggles. "You're a great guy, Merls," Gwaine says, "but you aren't half stupid, sometimes."

"Says you," Merlin says, slamming an elbow backwards into Gwaine's gut, hitting hard enough that Gwaine lets him go.

"Yeah," Gwaine agrees. "Says me." He jabs a finger at Merlin's chest and grins like the crazy person he almost certainly is. "It's fine, though. You'll agree soon enough."

If he's totally honest, Arthur is surprised it takes his sister as long as two months to invite herself to come stay with him.

That in no way means he's happy about it, though.

Usually, Merlin's shifts are fairly silent, with the exception of HBA (Hot, blond and arrogant is too much of a mouthful, Gwaine argued, after the third week of Merlin mentioning him, and, unfortunately, the abbreviated nickname has stuck in Merlin's brain) and his obnoxious questions. Sure, this is NYC, but it's a pretty decent neighbourhood, full of semi-respectable business men who either keep reasonable hours or have the decency to be quiet as they slink home after meeting their mistresses and lying to their wives about working late.

Tonight, though, not so much; Merlin hears the couple approaching from a mile away, no consideration for the fact that it's almost two am.

"Are you sure about this place? It's a bit...grubby." The guy, apparently something of a gentleman, holds the door, which is how Merlin gets a perfect view of his girlfriend before he sees him. She's gorgeous, this woman, slim and pretty, paler than even Merlin, dark hair hanging most of the way to her butt which, for the record, looks incredible in a pair of skinny jeans, even if a girl's ass isn't exactly Merlin's thing.

She's gorgeous, and apparently a total bitch, if her initial opinion of his perfectly respectable store is anything to go by.

It's hardly a surprise that the guy who follows her in is Mr HBA himself, and clearly whatever Gwaine said about him being into Merlin is bull, because he's very definitely taken.

"Morgana!" Arthur hisses under his breath; certainly, he's had a few things to say about the shop, but he's not been ill-mannered enough to say them like this. "Shut it."

He glances at the clerk from the corner of his eye, but he seems pretty engrossed by whatever massive textbook it is he's reading tonight. Too engrossed to look up, at any rate, and Arthur tells himself he doesn't miss the smile he usually gets from him; it's a good thing, anyway, because his sister never misses a trick and she's already convinced he's completely in love with this guy.

"Really, darling," she answers; exhaustion always exacerbates her fondness for petnames. "Can you just get whatever we're here for and go, already? It's seven in the morning back home and I've yet to see a bed."

Arthur rolls his eyes, but makes his way to the fridges at the back anyway, grabbing the biggest container of milk they've got, then a box of eggs and a loaf of sliced bread; his sister might be a skinny bitch, but she loves her food, and god forbid he not have anything in the house when she wants breakfast.

Sadly, Morgana is not still lurking by the door when he returns with his stack of necessities (and thank god she decided to come with him rather than staying behind to root around in his fridge and cupboards), but instead is leaning against the counter, trying very hard to make eye contact with his - the - shop-assistant.

"Just these," he says brusquely, bumping his sister aside and dropping the milk and the bread on the countertop, only just remembering not to do the same with the eggs.

Shop-guy doesn't look up, instead dragging the highlighter in his hand across one more line of text before hitting what looks an awful lot like random keys on the till. "Eight forty," he says, and Arthur tells himself he doesn't miss the crooked grin and the, Alright, man? that usually greets him here, regardless of the time he chooses to show up at.

Arthur drops a handful of change on the counter, then finds himself waiting for some sort of reaction; that smile, maybe, or a chirpy, cheery, Come again soon. There's nothing, though, not even an offer of a bag to put his stuff in, so Arthur just turns, dragging Morgana out of there by the wrist when she hesitates a moment too long.

"You know," she says, when they're about halfway between Avalon and his flat, "I figured you were exaggerating how rude and obnoxious he is."

I was, Arthur thinks, but if his sister thinks he's right and she was wrong, he's not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing otherwise.

Morgana loves her brother, and she really wishes she could think that without having to follow it up with a but.

It's not like she doesn't have a whole variety to choose from, from the absurd (but the way he chews is really, really annoying) to the absurdly serious (but he thought that the best way to break it to her that Morgause, the woman she thought was her half-sister, is actually just a money-grabbing bitch with whom she has no blood ties whatsoever was to tell her that they share a father and that he's known this ever since the summer he spent with Nimueh when he was fifteen, and no, she's not still sore about that, honestly).

In this case, however…Morgana loves her brother, but she really wishes he'd honoured her visit by deciding to take maybe a couple of hours off work. Not a week, she's familiar enough with Arthur and his father to know that asking that is too much, as is expecting him to take a day, but it'd be nice if she wasn't going alone to see the sights, particularly when her brother has undoubtedly yet to make time for them.

She takes the lift to the top of the Empire State Building and mills around in the cold for a bit, looking at the city, but if she's totally honest, New York just looks like a city from this high up. Central Park is big and green, not so different from any of the parks in London other than that it's bigger, and even though she sticks to what look like the most travelled footpaths, Morgana expects to come across a dead body any minute. Likewise, the shops are also as supersized as everything else here, and for the first hour or two Morgana is entertained, but there's only so long a girl can try on outfits without a friend to tell her how good she looks in them, or without a potential beau to bully (it's a test, that, and Morgana has yet to find a man who'll put up with her shopping long enough for him to pass it).

Quite frankly, she'd rather be inside with a hot cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Unfortunately, Arthur's cupboards are as bare as the rest of the furnished-but-undecorated penthouse flat Uther got him, and after her morning shopping and carrying her own bags, she doesn't feel like going to look for somewhere selling something other than the instant swill Arthur drinks, even if the closest Starbucks is probably just around the corner.

And then she thinks of the shop Arthur took her to on her first night in the city, the one barely a hundred metres from the door with a reasonable selection and a clerk she's dead certain her brother has a crush on, even if his personality and idea of customer service are both completely shit. It's something to think about, anyway, and maybe if she can convince the shop-boy to remove the stick from his arse long enough to take care of Arthur's far larger one, her brother will deign to leave work early enough that she isn't forced to go to a show on her own.

It's worth a shot, at any rate.

Of course, the man she saw her first night in the city – the one her brother most definitely wants to get into bed with - isn't working, which rather complicates things. Instead of Arthur's skinny, cheekboned guy, the man standing behind the counter is older, shorter, and a whole lot more built; in short, much more Morgana's type.

"Hey, beautiful," he calls across to her. "Can I help you with anything, love?"

"Actually," Morgana answers, not bothering to pick up anything on her way to the counter; she's not here to buy anything, and she doesn't see any point in pretending she is. "You can."

The bloke's smile grows at that, and he rests his elbows on the counter, leaning in in a way Morgana doesn't have any problem with mimicking. "So," she says, close enough that she can smell his aftershave (which, for the record, clearly wasn't applied after shaving). "I was here last night, and there was this guy working. Tall, dark hair, thin as a stick, cheekbones sharp enough to slice paper...?"

"Merlin," the bloke – Gwaine, his name badge says, the one the night shift guy never wears – says, half straightening up, and it's not vanity on Morgana's part to think he looks a tad disappointed. "Wouldn't have thought he was your sort. Hate to break it to you, love, but you're definitely not his."

Promising, Morgana thinks, though Gwaine could just mean that Merlin likes blondes, or girls with a bit more padding than she has. "Gay?" she asks, just to clarify.

"Just a bit," Gwaine answers. "Plus, there's a guy he's so gone on he ought to count as being taken, even if he isn't."

"Do tell," Morgana suggests, raising an eyebrow at him and hoping for good news. "He wouldn't happen to be blond, English, utterly insufferable, and prone to shopping just after eleven when security kicks him out of his office, would he?"

Gwaine straightens even further, then takes a step back. "And you'd be the girl who came in with him a couple of nights ago, the one Merlin hasn't stopped whining about since. You should probably lead with the fact that you have a boyfriend, sweetheart."

"If that was true, I might," Morgana tells him. "As it stands, what I have is a cheating git for a father. Arthur's the only half-sibling I know about, but we've not ruled out the possibility of there being more."

"In that case, my shift ends at nine. Let me buy you a drink, and we can talk about your brother and my best bud."

"Deal," Morgana agrees. "See you at nine."

If there's a little something extra to her walk as she heads for the door, no one but she and Gwaine will ever know.

Arthur is in a meeting with the head of sales and marketing when his mobile rings. He spares a glance for the screen, then hits the button to ignore the call; it's Morgana, and it's highly unlikely whatever she wants can't wait.

Sure enough, she doesn't call back, although a text appears a few seconds later.

Your single, gay shop-boy is called Merlin, it reads, because his sister has never been one to mince her words or mind her own business. I won't be in when you get home. Don't wait up.

"You can stop worrying," Gwaine says when Merlin walks into Avalon. "His name is Arthur, and the woman is his sister."

"Thanks," Merlin answers, trying to sound bland. "And you know this how?"

Gwaine grins, patting Merlin's shoulder as he passes him on the way to the door. "I have a date," he says, looking like the cat who got the canary. "Maybe you should ask him for one when he shows up later."

"Maybe you should focus on your own love life instead of mine, Gwaine," Merlin calls after him.

On the inside, though, his thoughts sound quite a lot like Arthur.

Arthur doesn't think much of the bloke that shoots him, before he pulls out the gun. Sure, he looks a bit dodgy, but it's a convenience store at one in the morning, so dodgy is hardly the sort of feature that makes someone stand out. In fact, at this time, Arthur is probably the one who looks more suspicious; he might not intentionally have been waiting up for Morgana, but he hasn't done much more in the way of getting ready for bed than take his tie off.

So no, he wasn't really paying all that much attention, before the shouting and the shooting. Someone enters the building, but it's a shop so that's sort of what's expected. Arthur glances up, sees the bandana and the arrogant swagger, then figures this isn't the sort of person he particularly wants to get caught staring at (and, really, no one shopping at this time is the sort of person one wants to get caught acknowledging, much less staring at); he lowers his eyes, returning to the deeply difficult matter of deciding between the white Hershey's kisses or the milk chocolate ones, not that anything in this country can hold a candle to a bar of Dairy Milk.

From the corner of his eye, he sees – not watches, because that requires far more attention than Arthur is prepared to give – the man approach the counter but, again, this is hardly out of the ordinary. The cigarettes are kept there, as are the scratch cards, and Arthur's stopped by here enough times in the middle of the night to know that most people out at this hour are after booze, fags or something to squander their meagre earnings on in the hope of winning enough to get out of their shitty lives.

Sure enough, he hears the man order a packet of Marlboro lights, then hears Merlin give a bright, breezy, What do you mean it's the middle of the night and I'm not supposed to sound this cheerful? sort of reply. It's nothing, he decides, finally settling on the white ones, then heads to the coolers at the back, trying to decide between a six pack of coke or Bud, and vaguely wondering how the hell his life came to be like this (which, actually, is usually what he wonders about now, what with seeing the gangly shop assistant with the big ears being pretty much the highlight of his day).

And then the bell over the door chimes again, and Merlin's breeziness turns a whole lot less genuine.

Since he does actually own and watch a TV sometimes, Merlin isn't new to guns, but he can count on one hand the number of times he's actually seen one in person, and this is definitely the first time one has been pointed at his person.

Still, he's a little ashamed to say that when he turns around with the guy's cigarettes in his hand and the price on the tip of his tongue, he freezes. Yes, he'd defy anyone else suddenly confronted with the muzzle of a gun in their previously safe, gun-free place of employment not to do the same, but that doesn't mean he's going to go around telling everyone that.

"My colleague emptied the cash register before my shift started," he says, quietly, his hands held at about shoulder-height, still trying to sound just as upbeat as he did a moment ago, because he saw Arthur come in some time ago and he wouldn't put it past the moron to do something stupid under the guise of being a hero. "There's only a few dollars here. Really not worth shooting me over, I promise."

"That's sweet," the guy says. "Pretending you don't know why we're here. Very cute."

Really not pretending, Merlin thinks, but since there's a gun trained somewhere in the region of his heart, now is probably not the best time for mouthing off; somewhat irreverently, he thinks of his mother, and how if she knew holding him at gunpoint was an effective way of getting him to shut up, she'd probably have tried it before he turned four. "We?" He asks instead, figuring that to be a tad safer, then winces as his mouth goes and ruins any chance of his getting out of this alive. "You and your invisible friends, is it?"

He braces himself for the shot, not that it'll do any damn good at all.

It never comes, though, and Merlin finds his sass met with laughter as opposed to fury. "Actually," the guy says, waving a hand at the window, "it'd be me and my seven foot tall minion, kid. Sorry, if that's not what you were hoping for."

The man who walks through the door following his words could probably find work as a Hulk stunt double, if his expression didn't suggest that he preferred his violence a little more real than Hollywood was fond of; Merlin, pointless as it is, takes a step back as Hulk approaches the counter, knocking into the cigarette display behind him, sending a rainstorm of boxes to the floor.

"Erm," he says, though his thoughts are tending more towards a stream of profanities imaginative enough that Gwaine would be proud to come out with them; that, and desperately hoping Arthur has the sense to keep his head down, or maybe call the cops while Merlin is keeping the nutjobs with guns distracted. "There really is nothing here worth taking. I can open the register if you want, let you see."

"And get close enough to hit the panic button?" Hulk grunts. "How fucking dumb do you think we are?"

"That hadn't even occurred to me," Merlin confesses, although it really should have done, he thinks; as far as plans go, that one is definitely better than any of the thousand he's come up with and dismissed since the first guy pulled the gun on him.

"Sure it hadn't," Gunpoint drawls. "We've got a message for your father, Merlin," he continues, and that, more than anything else, scares the shit out of Merlin; once again, he's forgotten his name tag, which makes this more than a random holdup. This makes it personal, which pretty much means that Merlin is fucked.

"I'll be glad to pass it on to him," he says, even though he's pretty sure it's the sort of message that ends with him beaten if he's lucky and dead if he's not, and he knows they left England with a dark cloud over their heads, but he had no idea whatever his dad was into was this bad. "I'm sure you'll be way more likely to get what you want if I'm unharmed."

"Cute, kid," Gunpoint says, and if it wasn't a life or death situation Merlin would be pointing out how tired he is of being called those two things. "Unlucky for you, the message sort of means harming you. We've got orders not to do too much damage, but Benjy here doesn't much like orders, and very much likes hurting people, so you might want to do what we tell you to."

Great, Merlin thinks; he's going to be pounded to a bloody pulp by a thug called Benjy, and, really, the name of the guy beating the shit out of him doesn't matter too much, but couldn't he at least have the decency to have a good thug name? Rex, maybe, or Iago, or even Hitty McHitsALot, but Benjy? Benjy belongs to a chubby, blond first-grader, not the bloke about to put Merlin in the hospital.

Benjy the Hulk lifts the counter, gesturing for Merlin to join them on the other side of it and, much as Merlin wants to make a smart-ass remark about being much more comfortable where he is, thanks, he thinks obeying will probably hurt a whole lot less than pissing the bloke off. He takes a step towards them when Gunpoint gestures at him to move with his weapon, hoping against hope that the first blow will be enough to knock him unconscious, because he really doesn't want to be awake for the severe beating that is about to happen to him.

He takes another step forwards, then a third, pausing briefly when he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, in the mirror placed to let him see what's happening down the back of the shop. His fourth step is quicker, to cover up his momentary pause, because what he saw is Arthur, putting his phone down on a shelf, screen still lit, and advancing slowly on the thugs.

Please, Merlin thinks with a desperation that is truly foreign to him. Please don't do anything stupid. Please don't get me killed.

He can't resist a second glance up, even though he knows it's just as dumb as Arthur's attempt to play the hero. Arthur is still moving, slowly, carefully, as close to silent as any person can move.

It's not close enough, though; Arthur's shoe squeaks on the shabby plastic tiles, and Merlin launches into a coughing fit, hoping to cover it up. Too late; Benjy lunges for Merlin, wrapping an oversized arm around his throat and dragging him over the counter rather than through the open gap in it, and before Merlin can start struggling, there is a loud crack, undoubtedly that of gunfire.

Merlin freezes, unable to take his eyes from Arthur as he falls to his knees, blood blooming on his shirt. Arthur's eyes meet his, holding them, his expression equal parts pain and a brutal, desperate concern, and please, Merlin thinks, his vision starting to fuzz at the edges, please.