Hello I love you
Rating: M (on the safe side)for language, mature themes
Spoilers:none, totally AU
Characters: To be revealed, hints in the summary
Disclaimer: I fully disclaim. The title is the property of the Doors and Merlin is the property of the BBC/Shine.
All lyrics in bold italics
XX
This is an AU modern Merlin fic with some twists from what we usually get on the show, some familiar relationships, and some definitely new ones, plus lots of kooky coincidences.
I plan for chapters to be short and I would like to update regularly about every 2-3 days. I don't think this is going to be a very long story, but definitely intend to make it fun. So lots of lightness, modern romance and uh…got to have some surprises, right? Don't want to give it all away!
Small warning: language because it's modern and uh…I'm not much of a swearing person, but fits the story's tone a bit so there will be some of that. And mature relationships.
Inspiration (Multiple)
1. A day spent in the city (you'll get what city soon) leading to the writing vibes spinning
2. Can never write just one genre, need along with the angst I've been writing lately to have something much lighter
3. Some prompted stories not getting any notice by those who prompted them or much feedback at all, making me kind of sad
4. Being a Leo, first I'm sad, then I'm motivated, hee.
5. Making the decision to write a story prompted by me, an idea I find kind of delicious to write…and cool if it is to read too!
6. Note that I am entirely grateful to those who have prompted and left feedback and all of those who have commented. THANK YOU.
7. The most important motivation: The Doors song Hello I love you the classic version (also Finn version on Glee) used even as the title of the story…
And with all of that…
How about we get on with the story and I stop rambling?
So…
Reach for a chilled refreshing drink to ward off that summer heat, sit back, relax, hear the hypnotic harmonica/guitar/beating drum sounds of the Genius Doors…
And travel far away from Legendary Camelot
And…
The Medieval Ages
Time to enter another Fantasy Land…
San Francisco Haight Ashbury District…
2010 (Will that be debit or credit Ages)
Where Arthur's far from being a prince…
XX
Chapter 1: Lovesick Hippy-land Puppy
XX
"Hello I love you
Let me jump in your game..."
It's been two months or so now that it's been happening. He's timed it down to a perfect minute or two apart. He can practically hear the slide tip tap of those spiked nail-driving heels even before she saunters into the place. It always brings his head up and away from whatever he's doing, causing sometimes disgruntled reactions.
He doesn't care though.
Leaning back against the sometimes sticky counter, that he's yet to wipe down, he coolly watches, at least trying to make up that pretense.
"She's walking down the street
Blind to every eye she meets…"
It's with a wicked stroll always that she enters, a stroll that has already entertained all the way down the hot cracked sidewalk.
"She holds her head so high
Like a statue in the sky…"
Usually behind jeweled framed tinted glasses, she is oblivious to every stare or admiring look she gets. In fact she probably has the ability to shoot them all down, her head held ominously high. Smirking jerking smiles of men that really need to get some, and audacious silent sex codes, she ignores it all, her attitude of one who could…
Fucking care less.
She's better than all that.
Eyes hard on her movements, he can't help the shaking sometimes that infuriates his usually cool stance as the door slides open. Her sexy front heel nudges through the crack, its accompanying song the colorful tacky wind chimes that hang from the metal upper frame.
She dresses better than the entire surroundings. A woman like her probably doesn't even belong in a place like this, but he'd never complain that she frequently, regularly, honors them with her presence.
Someone else is though over at table 5, complaining that is.
He ignores it, continuing to watch, hoping not to be caught.
She's in the long line at the left, all three registers open, and yet still there's a considerable crowd. She has good taste definitely, even if the modest establishment's physical setting is meagerly obscene with wobbling black Formica topped tables and cheap wooden chairs. Its product is extraordinary and its quick efficient service (except when she walks in count him in that outstanding category) outshines any of those Starbucks conglomerates.
Most even say it has its own personal Bohemian 60's charm, adorned by psychedelic painted mural walls that can sometimes be a bit…dizzying (unless you're on something, in that case making you feel that you're a passenger on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride about to be swallowed up by a super size purple-blue rat…okay, so he came to work completely wasted one time). The style fits in perfectly though with the surrounding area of used record warehouse-basements and piled-to-the-rafters bookstores.
Sure, they may be on the dusty corner where homeless roam, and long gone hippies of another era still dress their outlandish ways, but they also are best in the district, hell, the city the way he sees it. That's why the line always meets the door or trails out it. That's probably why she's here, every day, same approximate time, enduring the wait. She's not like most other high class snobs in that way, he imagines.
She knows what's good and will cross any dirty pan handler to get it.
Eight times out of ten, he counts, she slaps her tongue past her teeth when she's annoyed by the line's length, not realizing that all those of the male persuasion staring at her start salivating, sweating and smoothly moving their hands down in ways that make other women look away with disgust.
Five times out of ten, this song just happens to be playing, but probably should mention it's a retro station, always on in the back room blaring out of the cracked speakers, that mainly plays the top hits of the 60's decade, preferred by their manager of the Hair (Dawning of Aquarius anyone?) Generation. And the song just happens to be a favorite of the DJ with the snaky voice, who's on right now a couple of hours past the regular lunch hour.
Hot, still unfortunately nameless, woman's heels slap the floor in irritation, a reaction to the warm dry wind coasting through the open windows, no air conditioning in this tiny establishment. Summer at its middle peak in the bay area, the sun today has caught the hillsof the Haight Ashbury district, as the lower coast remains pretty well cooled.
For those not familiar with the city, it's an intricate geometric puzzle of streets that dip and roll, making it supremely dangerous for unknowing tourists who sometimes naively think they can handle it with ease.
As for the weather, the coastal area including Fisherman's Wharf and its nearby piers, usually are cooled down by the bay (up that to about five degrees during heavy tourist seasons…ten during Fleet week…ha…). Meanwhile, the concrete jungle, the mostly flat area of the city exhibiting the sky scraping buildings, namely the financial district of Market Street and such, can actually trap the heat in horribly disgusting ways. Last of all, the hills where he lives and labors, it's about an even middle. Although it's not as heat trapping as the Market district, it's also not as cool as the beach/coastal area.
The disgruntled customer is waving his arms frantically.
He still doesn't move. He has no fear he'll be fired. The hippy manager only hires the best, which he vainly, but mostly with utmost confidence, is.
He'll make it up, the wait, put something extra special in their drink, plus he's sure that all the cute girls sitting over there at table 5 will temper down their boyfriends.
Hah.
The heels are nothing weak, a climb up to four or five inches just about every time. But she's not like the majority of women, wobbling all about on them like some flopping around penguin.
No, even at what seems a petite height, she wears those heels like she was born with them on, and her toned tanned legs all the way down to her tempting ankles, look smokin' in them.
He's got to grip the counter sometimes, get a hold of himself, remember where he is, contain his reaction.
Yes it's lame. He's well aware of it.
It's not like he's homely.
Beautiful women come on to him practically every day of work, and yes, okay, sometimes freakishly enough guys from the Castro. Living in the city, especially in the surreal Haight, he's gotten it from all directions, and knows how to deal with it. The guys, he gives a cool smirk to before informing…not his thing. The women, well it depends. If she fits in his category of…desirable, he meets with her after work. If not, he mostly politely, but a bit dismissively perhaps, gives the shrug-off.
Yet with all that to show that he can actually get a date, that he is okay looking at the least, it still happens.
He feels tongue tied the moment she walks through the door. His hands disgustingly go all clammy, mixing in with the stickiness of drinks prepped minutes before against the steel counter.
"Do you hope to make her see you fool?"
Really, women are usually easy to deal with. He makes sure he's gotten to know them intellectually, personally some at least, before he takes them home. And extending the foreplay is actually something most women fawn over him for. He gets the romance of it all really.
When he talks to a woman, he has no problem saying just about all the right things.
He knows his looks appeal to them too, waving hair that is like the sand on the city's best golden beachfront, eyes that flash appealing blue, and lips that know how to pout seductively.
Okay, before you think he's that frighteningly into himself, a woman he was having a nice friends-with-benefits relationship with once told him all that.
Let it just be said, he's aware that his physicality is desirable, including his 'toned chest' (also mentioned by a woman).
He wouldn't call himself exactly loose either. He's definitely not as tuned into the just need a good lay lifestyle like some of his mates ('mate' term left over from his birthplace, heard his dad use it a lot) can be. When he does move into pure relationship areas, he is exclusive about it. Still, none of them have ever really lasted.
All of them have fizzled out somewhere, especially when the woman starts gesturing towards the bridal get-up at the fabric store three blocks down. That kind of commitment goes too far, scares the shit out of him. So it's the perfect stalemate always to make him say…
See ya.
Thanks for a good…
Time.
NEXT
Okay. He's not that heartless about it, but that's basically how those kinds of relationships end, roughly anyway.
The customer looks like he's getting ready to stand on his head.
He notices it with mild amusement before all his attention is once again on…
Queen of the Angels.
Hell no, this is not Los Angeles Disneyland.
Frisco fog over LA smog any day.
But…she can still be queen of the angels of Frisco.
All six feet of her.
"Her legs are long…"
In those heels you would think she was 6 feet tall, but in reality it's just a fooling deception. Her legs are definitely not as long as in the song, that seems to be her café movie theme, suggests, but that little fact takes nothing away from the savoring sexiness of them.
It's all enhanced by those sometimes tight dresses, or flaring skirts, she wears.
Take that to the mess of dark hair above her head, no real insult intended. It's a wicked mess of tangles forming into the tiniest little curls that make him sometimes grip the counter harder than he embarrassingly should.
Yes, this is as sick as a school boy crush, but what he's feeling has nothing to do with any schoolyard fawning. At least he tells himself that because she's certainly not a little pigtailed girl and he's definitely not a wet dream boy.
It's pitiful, the way he's unable to move now, but in his limited favor, he's never reacted before to a woman like this.
So…frozen in place, needing…
"Like a dog who begs for something sweet…"
The song reminds him of the futility of it all.
Oh frickin' man…so lame.
He can't help it though.
His customer is presently glaring bullets, but he just can't ignore her.
That mess, you know the hair…on her head…gets worn in various ways. Lots of times, uh, maybe three times out of the week, she buns it up tight. He's not as crazy for that look, but perhaps the reason why she does so is prevalent in when she lets it down.
Lots of the female half, have long tamed hair.
There is nothing tame though about this woman's hair.
He's seen on the few days she chooses to wear it down, or basically has no choice because he supposes limits of time, that she's constantly brushing it back from her face, but the corkscrew little curls seems to laugh as they flare in front of it, slapping at her cheeks, full, round, Rainier cheeks.
Understand, Rainier cherries are his favorite. Expensive, rare, vastly colored, and thick, they outshine plain red ones…like how she outshines…
Oh man.
Those Rainier cheeks.
Oh no, the angry customer at table # 5 can no longer be ignored. He better give up this staring game fast.
She's nearly at the register anyway.
Plus…
Remember…he's not a desperate guy who can't get a date.
Just a desperate guy who stares every day at the exact same time at the exact same woman…
And never makes a move with it being two months at least already now.
Crap.
He is lame city.
But she's hot, oozes class, confidence and…he can't get her out of his mind, out of his…
He certainly knows how to pick them.
Or at least most of his anatomy does.
It's not just physical though, is it?
He hasn't even talked to her, but…there's just something about this woman. He wants to get to know her.
Shit.
Better get back to work.
Oh man.
There she goes, brushing one of those stocking-less ankles against its partner shin, raising her skirt just enough to…
"When she moves
My brain screams out this song…"
He goes fully behind the busy counter and reaches for the cup, preps the drink, mixes all the ingredients up with expertise, not lifting his head. If he sees her he'll spill it all over the counter probably.
Stupid weakness. One he's so not accustomed to.
He's a cool headed Brit-American, not some nervous loser.
And yet...
"Like a statue in the sky…"
Yes, he realizes that if the song is prophetic…
"Do you think you'll be the guy…"
He has nary a chance in hell…
"Hello I love you
Won't you tell me your name?"
Of ever finding out what to call her.
But before he appears as a simple hopeless sap…
Heed this.
His name isn't Arthur
"Hello!"
Yes…
(That of the legendary kick-ass king)
"I want you…"
For frickin' nothing.
He's determined to find it out, her name.
All of it.
He wants to understand her game.
To be at its middle.
To get why she barely gives anyone a glance.
To understand her love of heels.
To experience what the bare skin of her legs feels like against his tantalized fingers.
To be up close as she slaps that surprisingly long narrow tongue against her sparkling pearl teeth.
To get her.
"I need
My baby…"
To…
Well better to not bite off way more than can be chewed.
Just a little more than can be chewed.
Because he never settles for the least bit.
Always the more.
And yes, begrudgingly, going past all that,
He's a lovesick puppy.
Bad bad bad.
Got it bad.
And that's new for him.
Embarrassingly new.
But maybe once again it's like the song says.
"…be the guy
To make the queen of the angels sigh?"
So if, since, she's a queen…
Well then…
In the legend of his namesake Arthur was the valedictory king.
Just there better not fucking be any Lancelot getting ready to destroy the story's end.
Don't need any stiff competition.
He steps away from the counter with the fully prepared drink for customer at table # 5, moves around where she stands, still waiting, still clicking those heels, still coolly oblivious…
Definitely he can do without any adversary from long ago wildly tangled legend of green knights and black knights and…red knights?
Okay, so he isn't up to speed on his Thomas Malory and it's been about three years since he visited his birthplace last, which was definitely no castle. His parents were not anything near royalty. He's the one serving, not being served. He's allergic to horses, makes him sneeze crazily when he gets too close. Living in the states almost all his life, he has next to no accent and has no idea what a king would say in such situation. He's never watched the series Merlin even though he'd been repeatedly told he looks just like that English guy playing his namesake.
He's never even held a sword in his life, nor pulled it out of any happen-to-be-there stone.
But he knows what he likes and always sets out to get it. He can adopt the accent pretty impressively on returned visits after spending just a few days in the city of London. He saw a picture of the guy and yes, okay, he does look freakishly like him, even though he likes to vainly argue that he's bigger, plus he swears his hair is a bit darker than actor guy on TV.
Oh and last of all, note to adulterous fantasy guy who helps the king's wife cheat, even if he's not a swordsman, he's a mean bulls-eye archer who can impressively stop a foe in his tracks with arrow driving expertise.
Hah.
Okay, he's determined now. Enough of this. Doesn't suit him at all!
He's been stupidly weak about it so far, but he's going to bone up and just walk up to her, get her to notice him, and start a conversation. She can see then how…amazing they could be together. How he could be the guy to...
"To pluck this dusky-
"What are you smirking about?"
Oh brother.
Literally.
He's caught.
XX
Hello I love you credit: The Doors
Catch you next time…