Stranger Than…?

This is a story about a man named Arthur Pendragon and his wristwatch. Arthur Pendragon was a businessman who specialized in infinite numbers, endless calculations, and somehow, remarkably few words. As his father, Uther Pendragon, had said from birth, this was the Pendragon way, consistency and fairness, almost to the point of monotony. His wristwatch did not approve of the Pendragon way, but it kept silent.

Every weekday since primary school, Arthur would brush his thirty-two teeth, seventy-six times: thirty-eight times back and forth and thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday since primary school, whether for a uniform or an Armani suit, Arthur would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot, instead of a double, saving him up to 43 seconds. His wristwatch thought that the single knot made Arthur's neck look fat, but when it came to Arthur Pendragon, few people concentrated on his neckline before moving the rest of the way down his body.

Every weekday since primary school, Arthur would run at a rate of nearly fifty-seven steps per six blocks, barely catching the 7:17 bus to work. Arthur's wristwatch thought that with the amount of money the Pendragon family had amassed over the centuries, Arthur didn't need to catch the bus, but Uther knew that if his son wanted to inherit the company one day, he would need to know the common man. And what better way to get in touch with poor people than to ride the bus?

And every weekday since primary school, whether in the study at Pendragon Manor or on his own at the office, Arthur would review at least seven, but no more than nine business files for Pendragon Industries. When he became an official employee he would delegate tasks, answer questions, and give orders in a professional, succinct manner. He would take exactly forty-five minutes to eat lunch and allow five minutes to get a strong cup of tea to keep him going for the rest of the day. Beyond that, Arthur mainly lived a life of solitude. He would walk home alone. He would eat alone. And at precisely 11:43 every night, Arthur would sleep alone, placing his wristwatch on the nightstand beside him. That was, of course, before Wednesday night. On this particular Wednesday, Arthur's wristwatch changed everything.

Somewhere across town, a father presented his twelve year-old son, Max, with a brand new bicycle; an unemployed woman in her thirties named Sandra circled two ads in the classified section. Arthur Pendragon knew nothing of it.

If someone had asked Arthur, he would have said that this particular Wednesday was exactly like all of the Wednesdays prior. And he began it the same way he –

Arthur looked up at his ceiling and then around his bathroom. He stared at the extra large sink vanity, but saw nothing to indicate that anyone else was in the room. He checked on all sides of the silver Kohler sink, but still nothing. Arthur had definitely heard That Voice again.

"Hello?" he asked. Arthur kept on brushing after receiving no response, wondering if She (That Voice belonged to a woman, he was sure of it.) started talking again.

And he began it the same way he always did. When other's minds would –

Arthur glared at his toothbrush, but listened intently for any noise it could have made. Once again disappointed, he went back to brushing his teeth. His father would not tolerate lateness anymore than he would morning breath.

When other's minds would fantasize about their upcoming day or even try to grip onto the final moments of their dreams, Arthur just counted brushstrokes.

"All right, that's enough! Who just said, 'Arthur just counted brushstrokes?' And how do you even know I'm counting brushstrokes?" Arthur said angrily. He looked around the room, wondering if that new intern Gwaine had stolen into his apartment and planted some kind of weird talking device to drive Arthur mad. He could even have conned his assistant Leon into it, with some awful lie about wanting to learn more about the business. In any case, he needed to find out how to get Her out of his head or at least understand what she was. For now he gave up and went to get dressed for work.

It was remarkable how the simple, modest elements to Arthur's life, so often taken for granted would become the catalyst for an entirely new life. Arthur ran for the bus, his designer shoes completely silent against the asphalt.

Arthur stopped momentarily and looked down at his shoes. They really made no sound against the pavement as he walked. God, he really needed to find a way to get That Voice out of his before people started began to notice something off about him. He looked up to see the bus at the corner, getting ready to leave him.

And though today would be an extraordinary day, a day that Arthur would remember for the rest of his life, Arthur just thought it was just a Wednesday.

Arthur banged on the door of the bus as it drove off without him. He gave in and turned to the elderly woman beside him for confirmation.

"Excuse me," he said. "Did you hear that? Did you hear, "Arthur thought it was just a Wednesday?'"

She moved slowly to look at him and Arthur saw that she had too many problems to care about whether or not a voice had said that it was Wednesday. She wore extremely plain clothes, with a bag in her should that even he could tell was a complete knock-off designer brand. Arthur could also tell that she had not noticed his impatience at all when she hastily said, "Yes, sir, it is Wednesday."

"No, I mean, did you hear, "Arthur thought it was just a Wednesday?'" he tried.

"Who's Arthur?" she said, completely relaxed. This woman clearly did not care about getting to her destination by a certain time nor potentially psychotic businessmen.

"Me, that's me, I'm Arthur," he said exasperated.

"Yes, you are right. It is Wednesday. Good boy," she replied, patting him gently on the shoulder and possibly staining his suit. He looked at this watch in despair, wondering why it had chosen to stop working now.

"Could you at least tell me what time it is, ma'am?"

"It is 7:20 in the morning, boy. The bus left early today."

As Arthur adjusted the time on his watch, little did he know, that this seemingly innocuous act would lead to his imminent death.
Arthur had never worried that much about That Voice in his head. Not until now.

Arthur couldn't concentrate on his work. His thoughts were scattered, his mind elsewhere. He ignored questions from his co-workers, he didn't speak to any of his employees, and tried as hard as he could to lock himself in his office with claims of being busy.

He had tried so hard to ignore Her, but this bitch would not get out of his head. Arthur couldn't even micromanage properly, a task he prided himself on, when all he heard were this woman's words all day long. He completely missed Gwaine drag the latest giggling secretary into the break room and saw nothing remiss when he glimpsed Leon helping one of the interns because Vivian had gone to get her nails done in the middle of the day. Even worse, he had failed to finish preparing files for the merger so that Percy could look them over before his meeting with Camelot Inc.

Leon walked into Arthur's office around midday to ascertain what could have him so distracted. At first he didn't speak, just closed the door and leaned against it. Leon knew that he should only enter unannounced with urgent business and that he definitely should not stand around like the two were old friends, having a chat. Which was why Arthur threw down his pen and put his head in his hands when Leon said, "Arthur, the entire floor is going to hell. What's up?"

Arthur knew that he should have snapped into Pendragon mode and done something, but he only managed, "Leon, I think I'm being followed and they're trying to kill me."
"Do you think it's someone from another company? Is there anyone who'd want to hurt you or your father?" Arthur had to pride Leon on some things. He was loyal to a fault, even when Arthur thought that he might be going mad.

"No, I mean, I keep hearing this voice and She keeps narrating parts of my life – mundane ones as of now – but the point is that I keep hearing her and I need to stop before it gets out of hand."

Arthur searched the other man's face for some sign of belief or denial before Leon said, "Arthur, you're sitting at a desk, typing up reports, what on Earth could she narrate?"

"No, watch this," Arthur said before going back to his work. As he typed That Voice stated:

When his fingers moved across the keyboard, Arthur could almost imagine the sound of his father's footsteps on the stairs, signaling that he was home from work. It reminded Arthur of those rare days when he stayed up long enough to hear his father enter the house and check on him at night. Truthfully, though Arthur would never admit it to himself, if he typed quickly enough, he could hear the continuous sound of footsteps, as though Uther actually spent an adequate amount of time at home, being the father that his son deserved.

"Oh, God, Leon, now she's making me think about my bloody feelings. I have to make this stop," Arthur said angrily. "Except the worst part is that sometimes I do wish - "

Arthur stopped himself before uttering something that might suggest an emotional breakdown. Even so, Leon looked like Arthur had just grown another head in the shape of a peacock.

"Right, well, in that case, let's get you out of the office then," he sputtered. "I just got a new case with a baker right downtown. Accounting says that he hasn't been paying off the loan we gave him to start his bakery, which is a direct breach of contract. I'd do it myself, but it looks like you need some time off."

Arthur fully agreed with the need to do something out of his routine, but he didn't understand how seeing some poor, delinquent, baker would help him.

"Leon, I'm not sure if –"

"Arthur, and I mean this in the kindest way possible, you're a bit useless today. You can go downtown, turn on the Pendragon scowl, and put this baker in his place."

Arthur knew that Leon was playing up to his ego and it worked. With that, Arthur picked up his coat and his briefcase, leaving Pendragon Industries, but absolutely taking the company car to wherever this bakery was.

Arthur walked into this bakery, thinking that this would be an in and out case like the rest of them. A bell rang when he opened the door, alerting the patrons to his entrance. They knew instantly that he didn't belong here. Their eyes raked over his suit and judged his polished loafers, before turning away in dismissal. Arthur looked around and saw a set up of vintage tables, chairs, and small church pews that were most likely meant to look artsy, but came off as though someone had shaken up an Ikea and thrown it on the floor.

His eyes moved to the counter and the ceiling to floor ovens behind it that contained all manner of breads and pastries. There were no pictures on the walls, but someone had painted landscapes directly on them. Overall, Arthur thought that this place was just like any wretched run of the mill bakery: a teaspoon of individuality drowned in

It only took him a moment to realize that he had gotten more than he had bargained for. He had not expected to meet the owner of Balinor's Bakery – called Balinor's by the locals - nor had he expected the owner to be a young, gangly man whose ears stuck out at all angles and whose hair curled slightly at the edges. He had not expected this owner to ignore him from the moment he walked through the door for seemingly no reason at all, purely on principle. But, most of all, Arthur had not expected the owner not to care.

"Mr. Emrys," he tried again. "Two years ago, Pendragon Industries granted Balinor's a small business loan as a part of our outreach program. We told you that you had to start paying us back monthly or we would take the money in full. If you don't start paying us back, we'll buy out your business and sell it to someone else."

Mr. Emrys kneaded a wad of dough with focus, the heels of his hands pounding it over and over again onto the countertop, paying Arthur no mind.

"Mr. Emrys, are you listening to me?" Arthur tried.

Suddenly, the bell above the door rang again, signaling a new patron. As a timid-looking, redhead made her way to the front of the store, Arthur watched Mr. Emrys rest his hands and look up at her with gleaming eyes.

"I'm just finishing your dough, Freya. If you stick around I can have these buns ready in half an hour," Mr. Emrys said, sweetly. The redhead nodded her approval.

"It's no problem, Merlin. I love watching you work. Take as long as you need," she replied. Freya smiled brightly while Merlin's sure fingers went back to work. Arthur felt something akin to jealousy watching the two of them. No one looked at him with such assurance. Everyone's eyes asked him a question: Could he handle all of the responsibilities of is job? Would he be able to inherit the company and keep it moving forward? And, most importantly, could he ever be as successful his father in business? However, when Merlin's customers looked at him all they saw was pure assurance and warmth. Uther had trained Arthur in identifying a person's strengths and weaknesses. It was no mystery that this man's strength lay in his ability to make his customers happy.

"Are you ignoring me?" Arthur said, curiously. No one ever ignored a Pendragon, but this man…this man was something that he had never encountered before.

"Sorry, didn't see you standing there. Can I get you something?"

"No, you can't. Besides, shouldn't you be doing that kind of work in the back, Mr. Emrys?" he said, thoroughly irritated.

"Uh…I'm sorry, do I know you?"

Arthur really couldn't take this man anymore. This baker had to be playing him or was just plain stupid.

"I'm Arthur Pendragon from Pendragon Industries. We gave you a loan as a part of our "Get What You Give" Program to help the community. You got two years to start your business and you were supposed to start paying us twelve months ago, but you haven't. Does any of this sound familiar?" Arthur took a step forward so that he could place his hands on the counter.

"Of course it does. Did you really think I had no idea who you were Pratdragon? How many blond-haired boys, dressed in Armani do you think walk through here like they own the world?"

The baker looked up momentarily to flash a sly grin Arthur's way before grabbing a rolling pin to flatten his mound of dough.

Arthur put his briefcase down by his feet and straightened the lapels on his suit jacket. He would need total concentration to take on this baker.

Just then, another man emerged from what had to be the kitchen with a large tray full of freshly baked muffins and started to restock the display.

"We got a problem, Merlin?" the other employee asked, looking up.

"No, Will, remember when we were in a pinch a few years ago because the banks wouldn't lend and Mom applied for that loan without telling us? A guy from Pendragon Industries is here to collect. Took you long enough, eh?" Mr. Emrys – Merlin? – said.

"See what I told you? If it took them three years to notice that you hadn't paid up, how much will a measly eighty thousand do them at all?" Will clapped Merlin on the back as he walked by to get more food for the display.

"Excuse me?" Arthur asked. This man seemed not to know what position he was in. "I don't even need to be here. I can buy your bakery out from under you right this second for defaulting on a loan. In case you're too dim to understand, I own you."

Arthur's tone of voice had made everyone in the store turn to stare at their altercation. An absurdly cute couple with a small, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY cake, paused with their forks halfway to each other's mouths and the resident homeless man in the corner looked out sheepishly from under his eyelids.

That sentence sealed his fate. Merlin Emrys bored into him with lethal blue eyes, a smirk from the deepest depths of hell, and hidden muscles that flexed under his uniform while he kneaded.

"You own me?" Emrys challenged. "From the looks of it, I own you. What happens if business goes south and everybody defaults on their loans? Pratdragon Industries goes under and anarchy wins the day." A cheer erupted from the patrons at Balinor's.

Arthur couldn't imagine Mr. Emrys as an anarchist.

"Why now, of all times?" Arthur lamented. Arthur needed to be strong for his company. He needed to be assertive and ruthless, the way his father taught him. He needed to show this man who thought that he was Arthur's equal the way that things would be when he tried to go up against his father's multi-billion dollar corporation. He didn't need Her in his head.

Arthur couldn't see Mr. Emrys' flour-covered hands holding signs in front of Pendragon Industries or shouting obscenities at big businesses. He couldn't imagine Mr. Emrys' long, thin legs running from tear gas or guards with dogs. For some reason, all Arthur could imagine were his fingers making their way up Mr. Emrys' jaw, Arthur's legs parting his thighs, and those wonderfully pouty lips screaming Arthur's name while he –

"Hey, Pratdragon?" Mr. Emrys said for – judging by his tone – at least the third or fourth time.

"Yes," Arthur managed.

"I told you to fuck off, but you keep staring at my ears."

"I'm what?" Arthur said indignantly. "I did no such thing. And if I did, it was merely because your ears are large and in the way. It simply couldn't be helped. You have thirty days to pay up, Mr. Emrys. I'll be back next week if you don't."

Arthur truly planned on coming back himself next week. No one had ever talked to Arthur like an equal before, much less like a lesser being. He needed to show this baker exactly where he stood in this situation. Arthur left Balinor's with patrons shouting obscenities at him and 'accidentally' spilling coffee on his pants, in the hopes that Mr. Emrys wouldn't pay back a cent.

That night, after Arthur Pendragon Arthur had brushed his thirty-two teeth, seventy-six times, he dreamt of long fingers kneading dough and the smell of muffins fresh, out of the oven.

Sandra, the unemployed woman, had dressed smartly for her interview today. She wore a cream pantsuit that perfectly complemented her mocha skin. With her matching purse and heels, she set off to look for 3749 W. Kipler St, but for some reason she kept circling between 3736 and 3751. Sandra stepped forward to ask for directions just as Max swerved by on his new bicycle, hitting a man cleaning the streets with a hose. Without its master, the hose writhed on the ground and sprayed water all over Sandra's lovely cream shoes.

"Hey, watch it!" Sandra exclaimed, before moving on to ask for directions on a drier street corner.

Morgana LeFray did not have writer's block. She had simply given up on her literature for a few years and now that she wanted to get back to her craft, her muse needed a little coaxing. She couldn't blame the little devil. After ten years of nothing, she hadn't expected it to be easy to get her muse – nor herself – back on track. However, she hadn't thought it impossible either.

Thus, Morgana had kicked off her designer red pumps and climbed on top of her desk to imagine how her main character would die. She finished smoking her sixth cigarette of the morning and stubbed it out in her crystal ashtray. She tied up her wavy, black hair so that it wouldn't get in the way and prepared to leap.

She closed her eyes and imagined her desk as the Empire State Building. She imagined all of the cars, bikes, and taxis below her and whether these people would be more concerned that someone had died or that they would be late for work. She took a deep breath and imagined how frightened she would be, how she would squash that fear, and what her last thoughts would be. Without any cushion underneath her, Morgana prepared to jump as she heard the door open.

"Excuse me," someone asked. "Excuse me, are you Morgana LeFray?"

Morgana turned ready to unleash hellfire on her intruder. She found herself looking into the eyes of a small, black woman with curly brown hair. She had dressed in a colorful dress with pastel shoes and a faux pearl necklace.

"Yes, of course I'm Morgana LeFray," she responded.

Morgana made a sweeping gesture with her hand before saying, "Research."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting you?" This woman worried at her lip for a moment, looking torn between instinct and obligation. "My name is Guinevere Smith. I'm the assistant that your publishers hired. You can call me Gwen."

Morgana crouched down on her desk and leaned in.

"You're the spy?" she said with a mischievous glint in her. "You're the one that Random House sent because they don't think I can finish my book by the deadline?"

"Ms. LeFray, I assure you that I provide the same services as a secretary. I'm here to help."

She scrambled to find some way to be useful before resting her eyes at Morgana's feet. She walked fully into the room to run her fingers across numerous pages written in different hands, some recent and some from years past.

"Like with these. Are they pages?" she asked, looking up.

"No, they're letters," Morgana answered. "My fans send me letters. Sometimes I read them, but I never respond." She saw Gwen's face frown slightly on her way to the other side of the table. "But why are you really here Gwen? When you say 'help me,' does that mean help me if I get distracted because the publishers think I have writer's block?"

Morgana came down from her desk to put on her heels from where she'd left them. Gwen stayed next to the desk that Morgana had abandoned.

"Do you have writer's block, Ms. LeFray?"

Morgana looked out a window, her mind in a different place entirely. "Gwen, what do you think about leaping off of a building?"

"Oh, no I don't think of – "

"You've never thought of committing suicide?"

"No, of course not. I'm not going to do that so why think about it?"

"Everyone thinks about it."

"Well, I don't," Gwen smiled in a way that made Morgana understand why she'd never thought about leaping off a building. She wondered if she had ever written a smile like that, but doubted it.

"Then how are you going to help me, Guinevere? If you've never thought of leaping off of a building, how will you help me decide how to kill Arthur Pendragon? As much as I would like to, I can't just throw him off of a building. He could get shot, stabbed, or poisoned in a ploy to destroy the company, but that would be too obvious and too crude."

Morgana picked up cigarette number seven and fished under the letters for her lighter. Gwen found it first, but when Morgana reached out to take it, she held it back.

"Ms. LeFray - " Gwen shook her head and tried again. "Morgana. I've been doing this professionally for over 10 years and unprofessionally, my entire life. My mother was a writer and I helped her finish books all the time. I've helped more than 20 authors complete more than 35 books and I've never gone back to ask for more time. I'll be here to help you every day so that you can choose how to kill Arthur Pendragon. Okay?"

Gwen held the lighter out as a verbal contract. If Morgana took it, it would mean accepting Gwen's help and if she didn't, it would mean the start of more arguments. She looked from Gwen's palm to her writing laptop and back again.

"Okay," she said.

No accounting classes or business lectures could have prepared him for what he had found in a box that Arthur had affectionately named The Void. To Arthur's despair, Merlin Emrys had successfully stuffed every piece of paper he could find into this thing even a few that looked like they had come directly off the floor. He had spent the last nine hours – with a fifty-four lunch break – distinguishing between invoices, smeared with dried batter, and phone numbers, stained with old beer.

Even so, what had kept him even more distracted from his fate were the contents of this back room. For one thing, it could barely hold the desk, chair, cabinet, and bookshelf used to furnish it, let alone Arthur and the tax files.

By the end of the day, Arthur was so hungry and bored from looking at an endless stream of numbers on a page, he picked up his briefcase and walked back into the kitchen in time to see Merlin grabbing the last pan of something out of the oven. He had swapped the sweatpants from this morning for jeans, but had thrown on a plaid button-up in an attempt to cover up that awful black shirt.

Arthur didn't say anything at first, simply let Merlin walk to the counter, gently sliding one pastry after another of the pan with a plastic spatula. His eyebrows were wrinkled in concentration, but Arthur could hear Merlin muttering softly to his baked goods, telling them to slide nicely and not to be stubborn like some blond businessmen he knew.

"Excuse me?" he asked. "Are you talking to inanimate objects?"

"All the time," he uttered, not missing a beat. "You should fear for my sanity."

Arthur's face fell at that. His closed his eyes in defeat, letting his suitcase sag to the ground. He was so done with wondering whether or no he was crazy, whether or not he was going to die.

The heir of a multi-billion dollar corporation and he hadn't even done anything that he could be proud of. He needed time. Just a little more time. He needed to make something of himself. Arthur refocused his attention back to Merlin. He had dropped the pan to meet Arthur's disturbed gaze with an equally concerned one.

"Maybe you should fear for mine," he said, still breathing hard. "I should go."

He pulled away reluctantly from Merlin's hand on him and tried to regain his composure. He glanced around for where his briefcase before spotting it in Merlin's hand. He stepped forward as his counterpart pulled back.

"Have a seat, Pendragon or I'll take this and roast it in the oven."

He didn't have the will to fight anymore. Arthur moved to a seat with Merlin on his heels. He slumped into a chair.

"What's this?"

"Chocolate chip cookies and milk. What does it look like?" Merlin sat down next to him, incredulous. "Have you never had cookies and milk?"

"Not often, no. Father never believed in anything as frivolous as desserts, especially not cookies."

Merlin turned to him, head had tilted to one side, eyes wary, but gentle. He hadn't moved since he'd put the cookies down, as though sitting meant conceding something.

"You might as well eat one then, especially since we seem to be on a first name basis." He pushed the plate a little closer.

Arthur Pendragon couldn't believe that he had slipped so much that now he was calling clients by their first names. Then again, he already had already missed work, gone out of his way to visit a baker that he didn't particularly like, and all but bitch slapped all protocol across the face. What harm could a few cookies cause?

"Right, well, since it's been a while, let me explain how you do it. First you pick up a cookie, then you dunk it in the milk, and – now listen, this is the important part – you eat it," Merlin instructed

Arthur shot Merlin a disapproving glare, but followed the directions exactly. The moment the cookie hit his tongue, it transported him back to childhood. He remembered running down the stairs of his large, empty mansion because he could smell the maid, Luisa, baking cookies while his father was away on business. He remembered tugging on her apron, jumping up and down, attempting to touch the pan as she removed it from the oven. He remembered the taste of the cookies, but most of all, he remembered the warmth. Warmth from the oven, from the cookies, from Luisa, who was the closest he would ever get to having a mother.

"What do you think?" Merlin asked. His face still maintained that natural defiance, but Arthur could see the same look that he gave himself at home in the mirror. He wanted Arthur to approve of his food.

"Eh...you could go a bit lighter on the cinnamon next time," he said. Merlin would have to a little more work for a compliment. "Didn't they teach you anything in college?"

Immediately, Merlin's face changed. He dropped his eyes, shifted his seat away from Arthur, and rubbed his hands back and forth on his jeans.

"They taught me a lot, but nothing about baking." He moved his right hand from his leg to the table and began drawing designs into the wood with his fingers.

"They didn't teach you anything in cooking school?" Arthur may have let his guard shatter to pieces, but he was still a businessman and he knew how to ask relevant questions.

"They might have, if I ever went," Merlin abruptly got out of the chair, went back behind the counter and grabbed the rest of the cookies from where he had abandoned them on the counter. He filled up a second plate, talking while he worked, but deliberately not looking at Arthur's face.

"I'm sorry; could we start this from the beginning, please?"

"Long story, short? I didn't go to culinary school. I went to Johns Hopkins Medical School for oncology."

Arthur's eyes bulged before he had time to collect himself. This idiotic, treacherous baker had gone to one of the best medical schools in the world and had somehow ended up selling pastries in a two-by-four property in the city? He cast his eyes downward, but not fast enough for Merlin to miss the look on his face.

"I was even more surprised than you are, believe me," he continued, bringing the second plate of cookies back to the table and giving them to Arthur.

"I barely got in, to be honesty. The only reason they even admitted me was because I wrote an essay about my dad, Balinor. He was your traditional man in almost every way, you know? Broad shoulders, deep voice, strong opinions, but he had a gigantic sweet tooth. Thing is, he was also a big smoker. He died from lung cancer before I turned thirteen."

Merlin's face lost a bit of his glow at that point and Arthur knew that the relationship between Merlin and Balinor was nothing like him and his father.

Arthur started on his second cookie, enraptured by the story. He didn't understand how someone who he barely knew could feel so at ease putting all of his emotions on the table. Then again, Arthur didn't understand how he could feel so at ease listening, when he had problems with hearing his staff talk about their vacations.

"I kept my grades up to get into a great university and wrote an essay about how I would find cure so that no one else would have to go through that. Sounds pretty cliché, but I guess they bought it. After I got in, I found out that they made us do these mandatory study groups. Whenever we studied, everyone looked liked their lives depended on getting perfect grades, but all I thought of was how much Dad loved it when Mom baked for him, even after he got sick. I thought, 'If baking can give a dying man this much peace, why can't it help everyone?''" he paused for a moment to grab a cookie and take a bite. He made an unsatisfied face at the cookie, but kept eating.

"By the end of the semester I had twenty-seven study partners, a 3-inch binder full of recipes, and a D average, but I didn't care. Everyone else had A's because of my food and that made me happy," he finished.

"Wow," Arthur deadpanned. "And your family let you do that?"

"Quit med school? Of course, you see the walls?" Arthur took a real look at the landscapes painted directly on the two longer walls. On one side someone had created a coastal scene that began as waves crashing on the rocks, but gradually expanded into an entire ocean, complete with a fishing boat named Aberdeen, an oil rig floating in the sea. On the other wall, the artist had made a farmer's market, slowly morph into a castle, which, in turn, turned into a metropolitan skyline.

"That's Aberdeen, Scotland, where my family is from. Mom moved to the United States after Dad died so that we could have a better life. To show me that she wasn't disappointed, she painted them so that I could always have a piece of home. She said that even if I wasn't a doctor, none of it mattered as long as I remembered my father and where we came from," he stared at the walls fondly.

"You don't have an accent," Arthur speculated.

"I keep it in Scotland," he said, jokingly. "But, going back you your question, I'm sure you've made decisions that not everyone has agreed with," he said.

Arthur snorted, going for Cookie #3. "Like admitting that I can hear voices?"

"You what?" Arthur watched as Merlin took his turn to look baffled. He scrubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes and gave up all pretense of sanity.

"What would you do if your...friend heard a voice that was narrating your life and The Voice said that you were going to die…hypothetically," he added hastily.

"Well, I would thank my author for thinking that my life is interesting enough to make a story out of and then tell it to get the fuck out of my head and stop trying to kill me," he said finitely.

"Your author?" Arthur said quizzically. "Like, you're a character in a book?"

"Well, yeah. Why else would someone be narrating your friend?" Merlin said in disbelief. Arthur considered this, purposefully ignoring Merlin's piercing gaze. "I'd tell him to go see a literature specialist to see what kind of novel he's in. It makes a difference whether he's Romeo or Dracula. Either that or tell him to get some meds for schizophrenia."

Merlin took Arthur's plate and took it behind the counter and came back with his briefcase.

"Now go home. We closed an hour ago," he said with a faux seriousness that made Arthur chuckle.

That night, when he walked home, Arthur wondered what type of novel someone would write about him and why they would put him with an eccentric baker that he couldn't get out of his head.

Morgana backed out of her driveway in the pouring rain caused by Hurricane Carla, immersing herself in another idea. She checked herself in the mirror, rearranging her hair and spaghetti strap top. It was a rare occasion that Morgana left the house in a camisole and stretch pants, but she justified it today as a necessity. After making sure that no cars had decided to pull out unexpectedly, she drove until she reached a small bridge. Morgana frowned, wishing that she could get out of the car to feel the oil-slick roads beneath her, that she could lean down to touch and smell the metal, but she was in the business of killing others, not getting run over herself.

Sandra, the unemployed woman, now had a job as a bus driver for the local transportation authority and Morgana watched her pass on her left. Both vehicles were coming up to a bridge with a toll at the other end. Morgana felt her car dip as she crossed the road to the grid. Max, the twelve year-old boy, shouldn't have been riding his bike in the rain, let alone the across a bridge with drivers who could rival NASCAR professionals.

Max still hadn't quite conquered steering yet, and made a sharp turn off of the pavement and onto the bridge. Sandra gasped and stopped her bus to avoid collision, but it was already too late for Morgana. She had swerved too fiercely and felt the car slip out of her control. She braced herself against the steering wheel, waiting for the incident to unfold. She could not escape her car as it arched backward, her trunk hitting the rails first, tipping the hood upward.

For one idiotic moment, Morgana thought she would survive this. Her car tilted upward and she saw a ray of sunlight peak out from behind the storm clouds, but she must have imagined it because in less time than it took her to realize her death, the sunlight disappeared. In less than a second, the car flipped over completely and hit the water below. Morgana watched the water form claws that reached threateningly into the air before wrapping themselves around her car in triumph. She closed her eyes, letting the claws envelope her in an icy embrace seeking entrance through the windows, through her clothes, through a warm touch on her shoulder.

"Ms. LeFray?" someone asked, still touching her.

She opened her eyes to find herself sitting on the sidewalk by the bridge, completely soaked through, her cigarette extinguished, and car parked a few blocks away. Morgana hated being called back to the present, especially when she had prepared herself to leave reality behind completely.

"Gwen, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you I don't need an assistant?" Morgana declared. In a certain way, she found it funny. Rarely could anything steal her from her own imagination, but Gwen was so warm, so radiant, that she could even make a fictional death seem peaceful.

"You keep saying that, Ms. LeFray, but you're out in the rain, sitting on the ground, wearing a tank top and sweatpants, getting drenched. God, now you're shivering. Get under here so that we can go back to the office and get you some clothes," Gwen offered.

Morgana turned to look at her properly for the first time. Gwen had switched from colorful dress to a pastel pink pantsuit and gestured with a yellow umbrella that could fit at least three people underneath it. Morgana looked down at herself and back at the road before she gave in to Gwen's demands.

"Fine, let's go," she conceded. "Did you bring your car?"

"Well, of course I did, but where's yours?"

"I left it home and walked here. I needed to feel the rain and be properly frozen to try and imagine Arthur's car wreck," Morgana said finitely. She tossed the cigarette on the ground and allowed Gwen to walk them both to her silver Prius that looked too small for her to lose control and drown in.

"So that's how you're doing it then? A car wreck?" Gwen inferred.

"No, I can't," Morgana said upon reaching the car. She waited until Gwen got in on the other side before she continued.

"Here," Gwen said, handing her a towel from the backseat and starting the car. "I had a feeling you would need this, so I brought it along. Put it between you and the seat, please."

Morgana did as she was told, while Gwen cranked up the heater. The moment of imagination had passed, in vain, leaving no need to remain wet and potentially hypothermic.

"First off, Arthur may like to drive fast, but I haven't mentioned that yet. As far as the reader knows he either catches the bus or has his driver take him places. Also, the crash didn't involve two minor characters that I've already introduced," she said.

"Can you take them out? Or maybe put them somewhere else in Arthur's life?"

"I'm writing a novel, Gwen, not rearranging the living room furniture. If I've already created and developed a character, I'm not going to just remove them because they're not cooperating. Besides, I couldn't really feel the scene they way I needed to, so I knew it wasn't right."

Morgana had disconnected herself from the crash once Max crossed her path. She could see the accident, but she couldn't feel anything. Fear hadn't arrested her heart at the thought of death by drowning. She hadn't screamed when the car flipped over, and more importantly, she didn't even know how much force it would take to get a car through the reinforcements of a bridge.

"In any case, I think you've got the 'properly frozen' part under control. You look like you're three steps away from catching pneumonia," Gwen assessed.

"Pneumonia?" Morgana contemplated. "Could I kill Arthur with pneumonia?" She shook her head in disbelief. "No…no, he would never let anyone get close enough to him to get pneumonia. Except maybe Merlin, but I wouldn't put that on his conscience. It's already bad enough that I'm killing him; Arthur shouldn't have to die by the hand of the person he's falling in love with."

"He's falling in love? I thought you said he was an arrogant prick who didn't care about anything but himself and his company." Gwen stopped at a yellow light, her driving more cautious than Morgana approved of.

"No, I said he's an arrogant prick who doesn't care about anything but himself and pleasing his father, which in turn means making his company as successful as possible. But he's turning into someone else now, and I don't think I can stop him. His feelings for Merlin are a little too much for either of us to handle,"

"Turning into? Can't your characters be anyone you need them to be?"

"Most times they are, but not this one. I knew Arthur would be stubborn, but he's doing everything all wrong. It's almost like he has a life of his own, like I can't control him, like I never did," she completed.

The two drove the rest of the way in silence, both of them considering how to finish a book that was rapidly spiraling out of control.